She brought a hand to her throat and it came away wet. She glanced at Tak, snoring in the bed, the razored edges of his hair sweeping his face. In her dreams, those locks had swept her body as he hovered over her, had his way with her, kissing, teasing and pleasing.
She wanted so badly to touch him. She always had. But it was the voice of her grandfather that maimed her desire.
“The Lord God created the races and separated us by water, by appearance and by language.” It was a cautionary tale about life, and the reason Deena should’ve never existed. Her parents had been a brazen affront to God, and she was the byproduct of their disobedience. And in the past, his voice had been enough. When no other reason seemed compelling enough, the voice always was. It stopped her from clasping Tak’s hand a moment longer or holding his embrace a second more. But the voice was losing its luster. No longer was it the loudest or the most insistent. No longer was it invincible.
A morning at the museum, an afternoon on Lake Michigan, an evening of Chicago blues. Day one was done, and for another day, another round of delights. Sunrise on the balcony with mimosas in tow, sunset on the Sears Tower with a view of four states, and jammed between it all was a dizzying array of artwork and architecture, good food and great music.
Chicago was a complicated city. Ten million people comprised the metro area, three million in the city proper. It was a place where towering high rises met natural beauty, and where a segregated past battled an inclusive future. It was where a Jewish synagogue could stand three blocks from an Islamic mosque, yet ethnicities could cling to neighborhoods as if gentrified by law.
Nowhere did Deena’s increasingly contrary life seem more illuminated than in Chicago. Raised by a family that subscribed to voluntary segregation, she found herself in perpetual violation of this tenet. She spent her days in Tak’s company and her dreams in his arms, all the while leading her family to believe she was in the company of a girlfriend from college. A black girlfriend at that.
She and the Windy City were of a common variety, clinging to the past out of habit, aware that it hindered and not helped. Deena’s gaze swept the steel mountains of Chicago as color and creed, race and religion pressed one upon another in the landscape below. She knew that practicality would eventually force change, in Chicago and in her. But as she stood next to Tak with all the hues of ethnicity beneath her, she wondered. Wondered if she and the city could change together, or if fear would force it to go alone.
On their final night in the city, they visited an old friend of Tak’s. His college roommate, Eddie Spruce, was a fledgling artist with a grunge-like appearance who lived in Wicker Park. He was an enthusiastic sculptor and aficionado of graffiti who boasted that he could down six shots of Tequila, all without flinching.
“Eddie’s an enthusiastic guy,” Tak said as he slowed at a red light. “He means well, but his personality can be kinda strong.”
“I hope we like each other. Do you think he’ll like me?”
He glanced at her, surprised. “Yeah. I’m sure of it.” He gave the steering wheel a nervous tap. “And you’re okay with spending the night here? Instead of a hotel?”
Deena shrugged. “I guess so. I mean, it’s a practical idea. And people do that all the time, don’t they? Stay with their friends when they visit?” She paused. “Anyway, I’m looking forward to meeting him.” She was secretly thrilled that he would reach into the furthest corners of his life and include her.
When Eddie opened the door that evening, he was clad in a pair of ripped jeans and a T-shirt that proclaimed, “Art is Dead”. His greasy red curls were shorn short and tucked behind his ears, his green eyes glassy, no doubt from the alcohol Deena smelled.
“Tak-man!”
Eddie clapped his old roommate on the back before sweeping him into his arms. Behind Eddie was a slender blonde seated on the couch.
“What’s happening, Spruce?” Tak said.
Eddie grinned. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” He turned to Deena with interest. “This her?”
Tak nodded. “Yeah. This is Deena.”
“Sweet!” Eddie snatched her into a hug. When he released her, Deena was breathless.
“Man! I feel like I already know you! Tak-man here talks about you all the time.”
“He does?” Deena whispered, wide-eyed.
Eddie grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Tak gave Eddie’s chest a shove. “Let us in already.”
“Yeah, sure thing. Anyway, I want you guys to meet my girl.” He shot two trigger fingers at the blonde on the couch. “Nan, this is the old roommate I’m always talking about. The Tak-man. And this hot tamale with him here is Deena. Deena, Tak, this is my girl Nancy.”
To Deena, Nancy looked like the sort of girl whose family owned property on the lake, whose father had a flourishing law practice handed down to him from his father, and his father’s father, all of whom sipped martinis before dinner each night.
As Nancy smiled, soft, blonde curls framed her doll face, offset by sea green eyes. She wore a navy button-up and smart gray slacks with a charm bracelet from Tiffany’s.
She extended a hand to Tak. “I’m assuming no one else calls you Tak-man but Eddie.”
“You’d assume right.”
Eddie inserted a head between the two, a hand at each of their backs. “Nan went to Northwestern, Tak-man. Majored in Psych so don’t talk to her too long or she’ll weave you into her web of psychobabble.”
Tak laughed.
Forty-five minutes later the four sat around a deep-dish veggie pizza, each with a glass of rum and coke in hand. They learned that Nancy enjoyed horseback riding and golf, was getting her Masters in Clinical Psychology from the University of Chicago, and that her family preferred to summer in the Hamptons or Martha’s Vineyard.
Eddie, on the other hand, was in his fourth year of a two-year Master’s degree in Art Therapy. In his free time, he preferred to veg out in front of whatever happened to be on M.T.V., protest the establishment, or play his guitar to drum up a little cash.
The four downed a bottle of dark rum as Tak and Eddie interspersed memories of college with good natured banter, updates on old friends, and UCLA prospects for the upcoming year.
“So Deena,” Eddie said, as he topped off her glass despite her protests. “Tak-man tells me you’re an architect.”
Deena nodded. “I, uh, work for his father.” She took a polite sip, her thoughts staggered by liquor. She looked at the others and noticed they were all faring better.
“Yeah, well, I met Daichi once. Definitely hardcore.”
Eddie refilled his glass before turning to Tak with a grin. “What was it he called me?”
Tak smirked. “I believe it was ‘a feebleminded burden to society’.”
“That was it!” Eddie hooted. “Your old man is fucking hardcore. Hardcore.” He shook his head. “I tell ya, they don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”
Deena shrugged. “Daichi’s a serious man. With a low threshold for—for—”
She fell short of saying foolishness, opting instead to fade into silence.
Tak jerked a thumb at her. “You’re talking to the wrong one. She drank the Kool Aid a long time ago.”
Deena turned to him and stuck out her tongue. Tak grinned.
When Tak and Deena lay side by side on the couch’s fold out bed later, darkness, silence and half a foot of mattress separated them.
“So,” Tak began. “What did you think of Eddie?”
Deena cleared her throat. “He was…lively.”
“You don’t like him.”
Deena turned to face him. “I didn’t say that. Of course I like him. He’s your friend. He’s important to you. Anyone who’s important to you is…”
Tak held his breath. “Is what?”
“Is…an important person,” Deena mumbled.
Tak sighed. An awkward silence floated between them, penetrated only when he wished her good night.
The quiet
lasted for five minutes before a violent slam of wood against wall pierced the night. Faint at first, and then with insistence, a headboard banged out a rhythmic tune. Nancy’s cries and Eddie’s moans meshed and lingered. With brutal clarity, she demanded he fuck her, and apparently, he did.
Tak groaned. He tossed covers over his head as, next to him, beads of sweat pricked Deena’s face.
Nancy was screaming now.
“Jesus,” Tak said. “Am I supposed to—?”
“You want to go for a walk?” Deena blurted.
“What?”
“I could use a walk. Do you want to come?”
Tak sat up and flipped on a lamp. Her face flushed.
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go.”
WITH THE CHICAGO River to the east and Bloomingdale Ave to the north, Tak and Deena strolled the streets of wind-whipped Wicker Park. One of the oldest communities in Chicago, Wicker Park was home to a horde of artists and musicians, and as Deena passed the two and three-story brick lofts, she could see how the neighborhood had earned its trendy and bohemian name.
“They’re an odd couple,” Deena said suddenly.
Conversations began that way with them; an internal dialogue hurdled in the recesses of one mind and tossed out mid-thought to the other.
“Yeah,” Tak said, “but they make it work.”
He slipped hands into the pockets of his ripped jeans. “A relationship worth anything takes work.”
“People must stare.”
Tak shrugged. “Any time something isn’t what people expect, they stare. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Deena frowned at her feet, clad in a pair of white Reeboks. “I wonder what her family thinks.”
The two approached a broad white fountain, an oasis in a concrete desert. There was no need to ask if she could stop; instinctively he headed in its direction, knowing she would want to.
“I don’t know what her family thinks, Dee, and I’m not sure it matters. He loves her, so if she loves him, then that should be enough.”
“She loves him, it’s just…”
“Just?”
“Well, he’s asking a lot of her. How is she supposed to know whether it’s worth it?”
Tak paused. “She couldn’t. Not without taking a chance.”
They walked in silence.
“Eddie tells me that she’s a private girl. Her family is kind of on a need-to-know basis.” Tak took a seat on the fountain’s broad edge, slipped a hand into the water, and watched it submerge. “So, she’ll tell them when she’s ready.”
Deena stared, wide-eyed. “And how does he feel about that? Is he okay with it?”
Tak frowned at the water and withdrew his hand. “I don’t know. Maybe. Point is, he’s willing to try.”
THE NEXT AFTERNOON Tak and Deena began the thirteen-hour trek to New York. They spent the evening in Cleveland, grabbing a late-night meal of pierogies, boiled dumplings stuffed with jalapenos and chicken, before passing out for the night. They woke before checkout, grabbed Dim Sum in Asia Town and continued on their journey. Tak ripped through Pennsylvania and Jersey before arriving in New York at close to nine p.m., some six hours after their Cleveland departure.
The Statue of Liberty. The Empire State Building. Times Square. Deena had all the giddiness of a girl stepping into the hub of the cosmopolitan world for the first time. Her heart was palpitating and her palms were sweaty, and more importantly, she felt a constant need to grab Tak’s sleeve to point out one landmark after another. She wanted a show on Broadway. Pizza in Brooklyn. A glimpse of the Apollo Theater. And she refused to wait another minute. At twenty-five, she’d waited long enough.
Tak’s silver Ferrari crawled along the theatre district, stopping and starting on Deena’s whim, as he attempted to find a hotel. Up and down the streets of Manhattan they staggered, until finally, he made a turn on 8th and another on 42nd. Deena screeched for him to stop.
“That one. That one there.” Deena jabbed a finger at a single soaring hotel.
It was the Westin. A towering prism split by a curved beam of light and sheathed in multi-colored glass, the hotel’s mirrored surface shimmered with the reflection of yellow cabs and dashing pedestrians.
She turned to Tak. “Please.”
He killed the engine. Tak rolled down his window, handed the curbside valet his keys, and climbed out of the car. By now, he’d grown used to his automated indulgence.
They were forced to take a suite on one of the lower floors, as the closing of some Broadway show had the hotel inching towards capacity. One look at her face as they entered the room, however, told Tak that Deena was far from disappointed.
The room ran a gamut of earthy tones offset with a splash of red. Thick chocolate carpeting and textured ecru walls complimented two broad platform beds with plush white bedding. A dash of red from an armchair, decorative pillows, and a seascape painting all lent to serenity. But they would have to save their appreciation for another day. Exhausted from the non-stop trek from Cleveland, Tak and Deena skipped dinner and bid each other good night.
When Deena woke in the morning, she was alone. The bedside clock told her it was ten a.m., and briefly, she wondered why Tak would let her sleep in so late. Deena showered and dressed, figured he was at the gym, and decided to wait for his return.
The Weather Channel said it was a pleasant sixty, considerably warmer than a traditional March in New York. Excited by the news, she dug out a flirty blue blouse with a low-scooped neckline and paired it with a linen skirt. They were the latest additions to her newly emerging casual wardrobe, compliments, of course, of Chicago and Michigan Avenue.
Deena waited for an hour, but there was no Tak. Yesterday’s decision to skip dinner was now haunting her. She glanced at the clock and decided to wait a little longer.
At a quarter to noon, she dialed Tak’s cell. Met with his voicemail, she made up her mind that hunger couldn’t wait. Deena rose, slipped her room key and a few dollars into her skirt’s hidden pocket, and made for the door. New York was waiting.
Deena headed east on 42nd towards Broadway and the Times Square building, keeping her eyes peeled for restaurants all the while. She was wary of the overcast sky but certain she’d find something soon.
Wedged between the Bank of America Tower and Conde Nast was the Garden of Eden, an eclectic restaurant that bordered on blasphemous with its claim to be the favorite dining locale of Adam and Eve. She stopped to view the posted menu. An apple pie à la mode that promised to be sinfully sweet. A chocolate cake stacked like the Tower of Babel. Adam’s ribs, slow cooked and braised to buttery perfection. She liked the presumptuousness of such a place. She would save it for later. Save it for Tak. It was just his style.
As Deena turned to leave, she froze at the sight of him. Third table from the back, head lowered, reading a menu. The man who’d made her smile in her grief, who made love to her in her dreams. He was with another woman.
She’d been a fool.
He looked up and their eyes met. Deena backed away from the window, turned, and fled. The tears came hot and fast, faster than she’d ever thought possible. Her breathing was staggered and painful, her heart broken. She barreled down the street and through the crowds, intent on losing him in the press of Times Square.
He’d given her no reason to behave this way. No reason for jealousy. To have laid claim to him. Never in her waking hours had he kissed her or whispered words of love in her ear, and yet, she had felt them all the same. It hurt no less.
She was a fool. Infusing his every word with innuendo, his every touch with fire, all the while believing that it alone could satisfy her.
Raindrops began to fall. Fat and mocking, they pelted her, plastering her toffee coils to her face and her blouse to her body. In an instant, she was drenched.
When Deena reached the Westin, she tore across the lobby in slippery sandals, nearly plummeting in her distress. At the elevator she jabbed the up button, caught sight of Tak, and dashed for the stai
rs.
“Deena! Deena, please! Would you wait?”
The sound of his voice only fueled her hysteria. She burst into the stairwell, gut-wrenching sobs seizing her like violent gusts of wind. Up three flights they went, as her hair, her nose, her lips dripped with rain and tears. Her vision blurred, as behind her, Tak’s footsteps thundered. She reached their floor, their door, and fumbled to unlock it.
“Deena, please. Listen to me.”
He was there, beside her, as she trembled with hysteria. He reached for her and she recoiled.
“Don’t. Don’t make it any worse.”
She returned to the door, fumbling.
“God, would you listen—”
“I’m so stupid. I had no reason to think you loved me. No reason to hope. I just—”
She dashed away tears.
“She’s my agent, Deena. That’s all.” He reached for her face and she went still. “Now, are we done playing games?”
She closed her eyes and swallowed. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Something in her burned with the lie.
“No?”
Tak snatched her and brought his mouth down hard on hers. She opened to meet him, willing, and let a moan escape. When he finally withdrew, he was smiling.
“That’s what I mean.”
He returned to her mouth, his kisses demanding, impatient. His hands found her back, her waist, her ass in greed. Deena was breathless with fear, anticipation and arousal as her body told her what her mind had feared—that it was his. That it always had been his.
Blindly, he opened the door and backed her into the suite. She clung to him, whimpering as his tongue ravished her mouth.
He ripped away her blouse, exposing two bronzed breasts, clad in frilly white.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
His mouth came down on hers again, swallowing, consuming her whole.
He fumbled with her skirt and tossed it to the floor before undressing himself. She helped him, trembling fingers at the button of his shirt, near desperate to feel him despite the nervousness.
When Tak lifted her, instinctively Deena’s legs wrapped his waist. Their mouths met with abandon as he lowered her onto the bed.
Crimson Footprints Page 10
