Erica was iced to her seat. It was like seeing and hearing him play for the first time. Goose bumps prickled her arms, and she reached for her martini in an attempt to cool herself. Damn he looked good. Her insides did a push-and-pull. She loved him, no she hated him.
Always a master at his craft, Warren took his time playing and riffing his notes with an intensity that seduced Erica beyond her will. The rhythm synced with her breathing and within seconds she was inside of the melody. Even though she tried fighting the feeling, Warren’s horn knew her well and pulled on her vulnerabilities, smothering her between its clutches. It seemed like the two of them were in the room alone, and each chord he crooned reached the shadows of her pain. The sound of his healing made Erica feel like she could stay in that space forever, and she closed her eyes and allowed the power of his music to possess her.
Moments later James interrupted her drift by ramming his sticks into his drum and picking up the pace. He played on top of the beat while the bass took a walk and kept time. The melody ran across the range of instruments, giving the tone a light and happy feel. Each musician had a chance to strut his stuff and solo before the quintet rejoined in a faded tune that was as soft as bare feet, tiptoeing across a bed of tulips. Warren blew into his horn even slower, and it felt like Erica could feel his mouth on her chin. The other musicians made their instruments whisper, as the song ended almost like it began, in a series of cries, each one more piercing than the previous.
The crowd went berserk. Warren waited a beat and then brought the microphone to his thick lips. The trumpet dangled from his left hand and he looked so happy.
“Love Burdened Eyes,” he announced, and the magnitude of the words hit Erica as their eyes met and embraced.
It has been said that body language is subject to interpretation. But, if someone had asked Erica what happened in that moment that passed between them when the rest of the room seemed to disappear, she would have said that Warren reached for her face and kissed her full on the mouth, resting his tongue against hers, breathing into her body with urgent regrets.
Warren couldn’t believe Erica was in the audience. But who was the dude sitting next to her?
A classic jazz standard played in the background, and the audience moved around for smoke breaks, bathroom visits, and phone calls, while the waitresses brought drinks before the next set.
“Who’s that?” Tess snuck up beside her, and Erica mumbled out of the crook of her mouth that he was the author she had been telling her about. She wanted to scream at Tess for not telling her that Warren would be there, but Tess was already extending her hand flirtatiously to LaVal. They exchanged pleasantries before Tess was pulled by an admirer in the opposite direction.
“This place is hot,” LaVal tapped the table with his fingertips, and Erica wondered if it was the club or Tess that he was talking about. It didn’t matter because she needed to leave. She couldn’t bear sharing the room with Warren, and just as she turned to tell LaVal, a tickling sensation breezed through her reddish hair. Erica felt Warren before his fingers touched the exposed skin above her shoulder. All of her anger was lost in the shuffling of her feet as she turned his way. Warren’s beard had grown thick like vines, and he seemed taller, or lighter, definitely different, and when he opened his arms smiling his crooked grin her feet carried her right in. She was such a nut, she thought to herself.
Warren’s shirt was damp and smelled of frankincense.
“Great title,” she raised her eyes.
“Yeah, you were awesome,” LaVal interrupted the union by holding out his hand to Warren. The two shook hands and Erica could feel the men sizing each other up like boxers in a ring. She started to clarify, but enjoyed the wonder in Warren’s eyes.
“Erica, can I talk to you for a minute?”
“I was just headed to the ladies room,” she fumbled with her purse and excused herself in the opposite direction. The nerves in her body seemed to have congregated in her stomach, and she really wished they would move down to her feet.
Once she was in the sea of women fighting for mirror space, she spotted Tess, and turned an evil eye in her direction. “How come you didn’t tell me Warren was going to be here?”
“Sugar, I didn’t see him until I was halfway on stage.”
“If I had known I wouldn’t have…”
“Brought LaVal? I’m glad you did. Makes it look like you’re not sitting around waiting on him. He broke up with you, remember?” She dropped her brush in her purse.
“The song was about me,” Erica said and then explained.
“So you have a chance if you want one.”
“What about Blanche?”
“For the umpteenth time, stop worrying about her.” Tess started for the door. “You staying for the second set?”
Erica said no. She needed to get away from Warren. Being this close had hindered her ability to think. They agreed to meet outside in five and share a cab back to the house. LaVal was waiting for her at the table.
“I need to go,” she leaned in over the music.
“You can’t stay for the last set?”
Erica shook her head, and LaVal got to his feet, helping her into her coat. With his hand resting on the small of her back, they parted the crowd and headed for the front door. Erica searched the room for a glimpse of Warren and didn’t see him.
But he saw her, leaving with the next motherfucker, and it took all his control not to stop them.
Chapter Forty-Two
A Can of Whoop-Ass
Erica had been tossing and turning since she crawled into bed, so when her buzzer rang she was only half asleep. She opened her eyes but didn’t move, wanting to make sure she wasn’t dreaming first. The buzzer rang again, longer this time. Annoyed, she slid from the warmth of her goose comforter and pillow-top bed and shuffled across the cold, hardwood floor. If it was someone looking for her neighbor Lula from the second floor, Erica was going to lose it. Lula’s guests had a habit of touching the wrong bell.
“Who is it?” she barked into the intercom, but heard nothing. Just when she was about to give up, she heard him.
“It’s me.”
The sound of Warren’s voice went straight into her chest, pumping her blood so fast she felt light-headed. What was he doing here? Her hands shook against her head scarf as she pulled it down and fingered out her hair. The apartment was a mess, but she knew he hadn’t come for the décor. Just that thought alone dampened the seams of her shorts.
Warren waited in the hallway for Erica, asking himself again why he was there. He had gone back to the hotel with the other guys but couldn’t sleep. He raided the wet bar and took a few shots, but even that didn’t settle him. He couldn’t stop picturing Erica with Dude, and needed to know the score.
“You do realize what time it is?” Erica wore only a camisole and a pair of satin sleep shorts that displayed her pretty legs. She was a timeless beauty, never needing hair, make-up or clothes. Beauty belonged to her in the raw sense. Her look was delicate and exotic, like a bird of paradise at the height of bloom. Her buttery skin looked supple, and her eyes were so tender that he wanted to lay down in them and rest his head.
This was Warren’s favorite time to catch her, right after she had been sleeping, and he was tempted to kiss her, but not yet. He needed to know if she had moved on first. Just one sniff in her bedroom would let him know if they had boned, and although it would crush him, he had to know. Erica motioned him in. The living room was cluttered with used cartons of takeout, bottled drinks, papers and clothes. Erica was never as neat as he was but this was ridiculous. He stepped into the entranceway of her bedroom and stuck his head in.
“Excuse you,” she stood behind him.
Three quick sniffs only revealed weeks of dirty laundry and salt-and-vinegar potato chips, her favorite.
“Just trying to see what you’ve done with the place.”
“Can’t you see it’s a mess?” she said, and as he looked into her face, her cheeks r
eddened. Warren’s eyes darted around searching for a sock,T-shirt, something to confirm his suspicions. He knew he had asked for space, but he just needed to sort some things out. They were sorted now and he hadn’t expected Erica to be on to the next man so soon, it had only been a month.
“Can I use your bathroom?” He could feel the Scotch working through his bloodstream.
“You know where it is.”
Warren strolled into the bathroom and closed the door. The metal hinges squeaked. The WD40 that he’d put on must have worn off. Dude wasn’t even doing his job. What was she keeping him around for if he wasn’t even useful? Warren flushed the toilet to mask the sound of him snooping in the cabinets and drawers. All of Erica’s familiars greeted him like an old friend. Nothing. He opened the door and walked into the kitchen.
“Do you still have that WD40 that I bought you? Your bathroom door is squeaking,” he said, leaning against the counter. He could smell rotten broccoli and something that smelled like old milk coming from the sink. Maybe they had done it in Dude’s apartment, but tomorrow was Sunday and Erica would have wanted to spend the night and cuddle. Unless she was just fucking him with no strings attached. She had never been casual with him. But people change. She pointed to the cabinet under the sink. The kitchen was barely big enough for two people, and as she moved for the stove and Warren towards the sink, her breast grazed his wrist. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and the thought of her nakedness went straight to his manhood.
“I’m making tea, you want?”
He nodded, and left to fix the door. She was sitting on the sofa when he finished, and he sat two seats away from her. Even with the distance between them, the heat from her body still reached him.
“Thanks for fixing the door,” she folded her legs under her, pushing her hair from her face.
“Why did you bring that guy with you to the club?”
The teakettle whistled.
“Excuse me?”
“He had his hands all over you,” came out sounding more envious than Warren intended, but it was the truth.
Erica stood and moved towards the kitchen. “You jealous?”
Warren followed. “I’m just saying.”
They were only a few feet apart.
“We came to hear Tess. I didn’t even know you were going to be there.” She poured hot water into the mugs.
“You would if you had returned my calls. That’s our club.”
“You left me. Remember?” Anger flashed across her face. The kitchen was hot. “Why are you here?”
“Are you with him?” He ran his teeth over his bottom lip. “Just tell me. Were you sleeping with him all along?”
“Like you and Blanche,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Huh?” Whoa. Where did that come from?
“I know all about it,” she placed her hands on her hips, war posing. “Just get out?”
A wave of panic crossed through Warren. It was one thing to accuse her of messing around, another for her to accuse him. It had only been the one time with Blanche and Erica had no way of knowing. He decided to play the bluff.
“Why do you always bring her up? We work together.”
“Just go, please.”
“Why can’t we talk about this?”
“Because you’re a lying asshole.” She moved in close, pressing her fingers into his chest until he was backing towards the front door. The anger had frenzied her in such a way that he could smell her. He touched her face and she batted his hand away.
“Fuck you, Warren,” her mouth said, but he knew from past fights that her body didn’t agree. Warren mashed his lips against hers, forcing her mouth open with his tongue. The kiss tasted like toffee, until Erica shoved back, panting hard.
“Did Blanche tell you that I stopped by?”
Warren’s eyes blinked several times. “Wha…what’re you talking about?”
“The day she came over in the trench and heels?” Erica closed her eyes, and it only took a few seconds for the memory of her showdown with Blanche to stretch across her face. “How long have you been fucking her?”
Warren watched the rage bubbling through Erica but stood there without answering. How could he? He was damned either way. Erica was shouting at him, and then out of nowhere came the sucker punch. It hit him smack on the jaw.
“Damn it,” Warren said, caught off guard, but Erica wasn’t finished.
“How-dare-you-cheat-on-me-when-I-was-nothing-but-good-to-you?” she said, accenting each word with landing fists. Upper cuts, jabs and then she came at him with the windmill.
“I should have known. I should have known, I should have known,” she said over and over again, and now she was kicking him in the knee, the thigh, the foot. Warren was double Erica’s size and could have stopped her if he wanted, but it was clear to him that she needed to get her feelings out, so he stood there like a punching bag, protecting only his face.
“I…trusted you,” she was out of breath, and then for good measure sent one more blow to the chest. Exhausted, she stopped. Leaning her butt on the arm of the futon she told him again to get out. Warren came towards her.
Even though her mouth was telling him to go, she wanted him to stay, and these conflicting feelings were pissing her off. Warren had turned her from a woman of strength to a watery bowl of chicken noodle soup. Why was his hand on her, circling her wrist then moving up her arms? It was such a simple touch and her pressure seesawed.
“Stop,” she batted him away. But by then his lips were on hers and they were kissing. A wet open-mouth kiss that never felt so honest, deliberate, vital in all of Erica’s life. And she kissed back like the world was ending in thirty seconds and this was her last shot at passion. Warren folded her into his big arms and pressed his fingertips into the small of her back. Damn, she loved him. His hands were on her camisole. Don’t let him, her mind whined, but Warren did, taking a breast in each hand, and doing that thing she liked with the tips of his fingers. The fever for him was overwhelming as he nibbled on her neck, ear, throat, and kissed both eyelids. The hardness had swollen against Warren’s thigh and without thinking she was up on it. Her body was getting away from her, betraying her honest-to-God feelings.
“No,” escaped from her lips. The fantasy of everything being well and right between them was so easy to get lost in, as his tongue touched that special spot on her collarbone that always sent her to the place of no return. But she couldn’t.
“No, don’t,” she said again, shaking herself from the trance. Erica had never been a cheap screw, and she wouldn’t be one now. Pulling away and breathing hard, she mumbled. “You really need to go.”
Warren looked confused. “Serious?”
How could everything be so wrong but feel so necessary? Erica needed to think and moved out of his reach.
Warren had always been a gentleman and she knew he wouldn’t ask again. Why was she doing this? What did Erica have to prove? Tess would have bedded this fine stallion with strong history an hour ago. But Erica was not one to blur the lines. He left her, probably for another woman. He should go. Not trusting her voice, she shook her head.
This time, she didn’t run after him.
PART 3
We’re living in an age where people need to talk.They don’t communicate.
Queen Latifah
Chapter Forty-Three
The Legacy
Most of the women in Erica’s family had mastered the government’s welfare system by the age of sixteen and were generally grandmothers before thirty-six. During tax season, these women wouldn’t hesitate to let someone else claim their children, as long as the payoff was profitable. If they worked, it was at jobs that didn’t require much education: managing fast food, filing charts in the doctor’s office, and ringing up items at retail stores.
They only knew single-parent homes, and that’s what they offered their offspring. Men came into their lives, but never stayed. Along the way, some of Erica’s aunts and cousins fell victim to the streets,
developing drug habits, an unhealthy taste for alcohol, and an affinity for prescription drugs. As the years passed, their overweight bodies wore down from disease: hypertension, diabetes, arthritis, anxiety, and always depression.
This was the legacy of poverty that was predetermined for Erica before she was born, bequeathed like a family’s coveted christening dress, passed from one daughter to the next. But at an early age, Erica decided that she didn’t want to be the next woman in line and turned her back against the looming family baton. These thoughts wandered through her mind as she walked to the diner two blocks from her job. Her mother had called that morning and asked if they could meet. They hadn’t seen or talked to each other in two weeks, since the Bonnie incident. Erica knew her mother had waited until it seemed that all had been forgotten. Such was her way.
The lunch crowd was heavy, and the waitresses slung heaping plates and icy drinks through the thick aroma of cheeseburgers and gravy. Erica glanced at the specials written on the glass board behind the counter while working her way to the table where her mother sat. Gweny was using the window as a mirror to apply a coat of worn-down burgundy lipstick.
“You got some on your teeth,” Erica offered, removing her sunglasses.
Her mother swished her tongue around, and then opened her lips wide to confirm that the spot was gone. Erica nodded yes.
“How you been, Slim?”
Erica could tell that she had put effort into her appearance. The lipstick suited her, as did the navy wool sweater. Soft rolled curls hung damply against her forehead. It was a glimpse of the mommy she had loved without inhibition, and the thought burned her throat.
“I haven’t had a drink in three days,” her mother said, trying to catch her daughter’s eye, but Erica kept her gaze on the checkerboard table and waited for their Pepsis. She was tired of throwing her pom poms in the air. They were mired in disappointment.
“What you thinking?” her mother asked after a long bout of silence, but Erica didn’t speak.
Love in a Carry-On Bag Page 22
