Fiona Love

by Sherrod Story

  He laughed, spewing smoke like a dragon. “Right!”

  “And I point to it, like, ‘hey, look what I did. Ain’t I smart?” She hit the joint. “This fool says, ‘I already told you you’re gorgeous. Whaddya want?”

  Natty’s eyes squinted as he shook his head. “Whatchu’ do?”

  “I just looked at him. I think I hit the joint,” she said, and he laughed softly and pulled her into his arms. “Then I explained, and he felt stupid.” Fiona propped her chin on her hands on his chest. “I told myself that was the last time I’d ever apologize for or explain my behavior. That would be the last time a man would make me feel bad for looking like I do. And for the most part I’ve kept my word.”

  She smoked silently for a moment. “That ugly, skinny bitch swore up and down he loved me. He even got on momma’s good side! She ran her fuckin’ mouth and ran it and ran it. Come to find out he was a pathological liar, and he tricked her into telling him some really personal shit about me. I snapped. I’d warned her about all that loose ass conversation. I begged her, shut up telling people every fuckin’ thing you know, every fuckin’ little thing from my past. That’s my business. Let me tell it if I want to. Stop using real shit, my shit, to make a fuckin’ point.”

  Natty pinched the joint from her fingers and took a hit, exhaled a few smoke rings. “You don’t talk to her much.”

  Fiona shook her head. “Can’t trust her. I can trust her with Flora, but not with me. Not anymore. Now, when people do stupid shit, or say stupid things, I give ’em the business in a real sweet, sexy voice. A voice so low, they have to lean forward to hear it. I set ‘em up with their own shit, and I watch ‘em snap back when I flip their compliments that sound like insults back in their faces. I like the smart ones. The ones who realize they’ve been played, that the beauty they can’t keep their filthy mouths shut about ain’t all there is. That I can be as ugly as they do and still look good.”

  Fiona laughed softly. “People would have you believe that beauty is a gift. I suppose it can be, but no one talks as much about the abuse you have to take. Either people are jealous and want to make you ugly, or they want to fuck you over, or use you, and then make you ugly.”

  “No one can make you anything unless you let them.”

  Fiona laughed again, louder, and Natty wanted to shut his eyes to block out the cruel glitter that appeared in his lover’s eyes.

  “You right! Ain’t nobody gon’ make me ugly. They tried, but I ain’t weak. A weak woman would do like they say. She’d get fat and slovenly, hunch her shoulders and walk with her head down, eyes averted. She’d wear drab clothes so she could escape notice and blend in. A strong woman will take all that shit, every smudge, every smear, every semi-literate judgment and use it as fuel to make things work in her favor.”

  Natty gave her a chaste kiss on the lips, a small but noticeable squeeze, then sighed lustily and pouted.

  He’d quickly discovered the childish maneuver worked wonders to soften her in his favor. Sure enough, she cooed at him like any woman who liked to see a man’s vulnerability. She nipped gleefully at the full curve of his poked out bottom lip.

  “It’s only that beauty that keeps me with you at all, you know. And it’s causing me quite a bit of trouble, these constant crying fits when I leave you during the day. The way you insist on clinging to my arm when we part on the street has led to no end of embarrassment,” he said in a prissy faux English accent, and she laughed as he’d meant her to.

  “I’m sorry, Natty, my love,” she whispered, voice husky from the smoke and from singing her heart out all day. She took a deep, audible breath. “It’s just that I love you so. I think of you,” she said softly, reaching down to squeeze his sensitive male flesh roughly and make him gasp, “Here, naked in my arms, and I melt with longing.” She shifted, thrusting her hips gently as she felt his dick begin to grow. “I can’t keep my hands off you.’

  He turned, maneuvering her easily until she lay beneath him. He meandered his way between her legs and into her body. “Thank God,” he whispered against her lips.

  Chapter fourteen

  “We gotta go to New York,” Cleo told her the next morning.

  Fiona rolled over and blinked sleepily at her cousin. “What?” she rasped. “Letterman’s not for – Is that for me?”

  Cleo handed her a mug of gently steaming tea and shook her head. “It’s not Letterman. I got the fucking perfume meeting set up,” she said, grinning proudly. “I was talking to France at 2 o’clock in the morning!”

  She didn’t look like it. Cleo was practically vibrating energy in a black silk robe that elegantly swallowed her petite figure.

  “We got flights?”

  “Yep. We leave at 2.”

  “We need Sugar and Netty.”

  “They’re in a row right next to us. I even got them upgraded to first class for free when they found out it was you. Security, you know.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Okay, Andrea did that part, but it was my suggestion.”

  “My girl.”

  Cleo’s eyes narrowed as she looked at her cousin. “Are you sick? You look puffy.”

  Fiona’s face was a little puffy. She was bloated everywhere in fact. And no sooner than the word puffy left her cousin’s lips, she got her period. Netty, in an absolute panic, decided to do an all black wardrobe, a la Parisian, she said. This would guard against any accidents, disguise the bloating, and, she reasoned, impress the chic French man Fiona was meeting with.

  The black decided, Netty contented her usually brightly colored taste with rich accessories. She packed chunky necklaces, the ever present hoops, large stones in two knuckleduster rings, one on each hand. Then there were the snake skin pumps and distressed leather handbags, all heavily accented by something, patches, fringe, even a zipper on a long, patent leather clutch.

  “You look great,” Cleo told her visibly sweating cousin in the airport lounge and meant it. Fiona appeared dewy at best and vulnerably solemn in her black velvet lounge suit.

  “Yeah? I feel like shit.”

  “Oh, fuck,” Cleo hissed, eyeing her cousin who was shifting gingerly in her seat. “You’re having a bad one aren’t you?”

  Yes. Fiona was having a bad period. She’d thought after giving birth to Flora the bad periods would stop. Her mother said that’s what happened with her, though they had come back two years after Fiona was born. Not as bad though, that lady had said. Flora wasn’t even a year old yet. Surely she had a little more reprieve left? But she didn’t. By the time they were on the plane she was quietly suffering.

  Sugar, who was completely unfamiliar with the sight, seemed to feel the pain a little herself, wincing as she watched Fiona riding it out. She misted her boss with an atomizer of chamomile and aloe she’d whipped up with a few other things to sooth travel-irritated skin. It felt good, and Fiona leaned into the spray with a moan, but when Sugar began to dab her damp face she swatted her away.

  “I can’t take it!”

  “Be quiet,” Cleo hissed. “We’re in first class, but this is still a commercial flight.”

  Fiona just shook her head, hands gripping the arm rest.

  “Jesus,” Cleo muttered, scrabbling around in her purse. She extracted three pills from a small, label-less white bottle. “Take these. Pain killers and Ambien.”

  Fiona took the pills and forty minutes later actually smiled. She even joined in their conversation, not saying much, just nodding or laughing. When she fell asleep, they all breathed a big sigh of relief, and spent the rest of the flight mute and glaring at other passengers to avoid waking her.

  They made it to Boomer’s crib by dinner time, and Cleo ordered Chinese from one of the menu’s he kept in a drawer.

  Fiona took two more painkillers while Netty and the girls organized the house. Then she ate dinner, took a quick shower and went to bed with one of Sugar’s nighttime concoctions on her face to ward off any period pimples. She slept deeply on the towels she’d put under her
self to protect Boomer’s 1,000 thread count bachelor sheets. But in the morning she woke up on fire.

  “Rise and shine,” Netty sang, only to find Fiona already sitting up silently. She got her the same winning combination of pills they’d given her on the flight, tea, and a few crackers to stave off nausea. “Why didn’t you call out for me?” she asked when the tears had stopped rolling.

  “Too much pressure on my belly.”

  Netty sighed. She wondered how many pills Cleo had left.

  “If she keeps this up, I got enough for two more doses, and then two more painkillers after that. I didn’t get that shit prescription. I only had a few somebody gave me when I got drunk and fell and hurt my shoulder that time.”

  “You know a doctor out here?”

  “I got no connects out here at all. Fiona used to know this shrink, but we had to put him out the tip one night, and he probably still got an attitude.”

  “Another one?”

  Cleo humpphhed. “Why you think I keep Barney’s big head ass around? This screwball saw Fiona twice when she was rehearsing for that thriller. What was the name? The Bootman. Then he tells her he has to confess a crush. He was hot and so they make out. He gives her a fuckin’ purse full of Xanax and then thought it was cool to show up unannounced drunk at 2 in the morning, batting his big brown eyes and expecting to get laid. Only our girl checks his ass and politely calls him a cab.”

  “What is it about these fools they think a wink or a nudge equals a fuck?” Netty asked, shaking her head in disgust. “Nobody even pretends to try to get to know you. They just want to rush to the nut and get the hell out. I think half of ‘em give you some funky ass little gift just so they’ll have something to hold over you. What we gon’ do when we run out?”

  Cleo shrugged. “Give her Tylenol, I guess. What choice have we got?”

  The next morning was the perfume meeting. They managed to get Fiona dressed without incident, and she looked gorgeous in a black boucle knit wrap dress. Netty hung a gold chain with a lion’s head pendant on her, and it nestled atop a discreet but noteworthy patch of bosom.

  “I can’t face those tight ass stockings,” Fiona told Netty, who frowned but nodded.

  Sugar had planned to visit a beauty store after she did her boss’s makeup. She wanted to cancel but Fiona convinced her to go ahead. Once into the city, Netty removed the black slippers they’d let her wear out of the house then put her friend’s heels on and strapped them in place. It wasn’t immediately apparent the way they were walking, but Fiona was leaning on Netty hard by the time they made it to the elevator. She began to sweat as they ascended to the 36th floor.

  “Christ,” Cleo hissed, whipping out a handkerchief to blot Fiona’s face.

  Netty picked up the clutch when Fiona dropped it and began to slide down the elevator wall. “No, Feef! Just hold on ‘til we get you to a chair, all right?” she begged.

  The elevator doors opened, and a smiling receptionist met them. The woman’s grin faded as she eyed them, and her eyes widened comically when Cleo said, “Shit!” because she knew that look. Fiona’s face always seemed waxy and dry right before – “She’s gonna puke! Where’s the john?”

  “This is the executive suite,” the woman cried. “The employee bathroom is down the hall!”

  “We’re not gonna make it,” Netty said grimly.

  A door opened ahead of them and a man motioned them over. “In here, please. Hurry.”

  They made it just in time. Fiona collapsed in front of a very smart-looking white Kohler toilet and wretched as though the world were ending. Netty cursed even as she knelt beside her friend doing what she could to help Fiona upchuck two crustless pieces of toast with jam, no butter, and the last of the pills.

  “I’m so sorry, Monsieur,” Cleo was apologizing in the next room. “Fiona isn’t feeling well, I’m afraid. It came upon her suddenly yesterday, but she really thought she could make the meeting. She wanted to speak with you so badly.”

  Gilbert Fouberge was a handsome man of about 5’9”, with the typical chocolate brown eyes and hair of the French. A few years shy of 40, but appearing years younger, he was also impossibly chic, a third generation perfumerier. His father had created one of Elizabeth Taylor’s signature scents. Despite his consequence he seemed sympathetic.

  “A stomach upset was it? Something she ate?”

  Cleo hesitated. She hated telling lies. You never knew when one would come back and bite you in the ass, but she didn’t want to tell this elegantly turned out European that Fiona’s period had floored her.

  “Cramps?” he suggested gently, and she grinned ruefully. “My sister suffers from that, poor thing. It’s a miserable condition. Do not worry. We will meet in a few days when she is feeling better, yes?”

  He insisted they take his car home when he found out they had let their driver go. Fiona was a mess. She was sweaty and limp, her makeup long gone. Her normally pink lips looked pale. She lay with her head back moving restlessly against the seat, digging her bare heels into the floor.

  “What we gon’ do?” Netty asked Cleo.

  “We need help. But I can’t think of anybody to go to here in a crisis. Boomer’s on some fuckin’ island fishing. He’s not answering his cell ‘til like a week from now, and Natty’s got a message on his phone sayin’ he’s locked in the study, leave a message.”

  They pondered solutions, running through person after person for one reason or another. After a while Netty shrugged and threw up her hands. “We gon’ have to call Daney.”

  Cleo shook her head, but she knew Netty was right.

  An hour later they had Fiona out of her clothes and in bed. She’d get a respite, sometimes a long one. Then a spate of cramps would hit, and she just seemed to wilt. They’d offered Tylenol but these were thrown away like the last batch of pills, involuntarily into the toilet. They bathed her brow, tried to massage her tense limbs and shoulders, but Fiona pushed them away.

  “Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” she cried, her voice hoarse from upset and choked tears.

  Thirty minutes later she gave up trying to fight the pain and just broke down crying. Cleo showered her with kisses, muttering nonsense, anything to make her cousin feel better.

  The doorbell rang.

  “It’s him!” Netty yelled, leaping to her feet and running from the room.

  Daney had arrived, and he’d brought a doctor.

  “How is she?” he wanted to know, striding through Boomer’s dining room to the back bedroom where Fiona lay weeping. “Hey, now,” he said, in his low sexy drawl. “My girl’s not feelin’ too good, huh?”

  Curled up on her side, Fiona just cried harder, but she clutched his hand to her cheek and allowed him to gently stroke her side.

  “I brought a friend to see you. His name’s Dr. Neill. He has something to make you feel better, okay?”

  Fiona tried to muffle her sobs and lifted her head.

  Dr. Alfred Neill smiled and moved forward into her line of sight. He wasn’t terribly tall, only a little taller than Netty who stood near 5’7”, but he was a much sought after physician. His sweetheart bedside manner was his stock in trade, and he had been friends with Daney since they were kids growing up in the neighborhood.

  “Hi, Fiona. Call me Fred,” he said, smiling gently at her. He laid his palm against the side of her neck. “You’re a little warm, huh? Cramps really bad?”

  Fresh tears were his answer as Cleo quickly but succinctly ran down their efforts to curtail the pain since it began.

  “When was the last time she was sick?” he wanted to know.

  “Almost two hours ago,” Netty said. “We ran out of pills.”

  “Fiona,” he said, gently uncurling her so he could examine her. “Come on, love. That’s your last name too, isn’t it? Straighten for me, okay? I know it hurts, brave girl.” He crooned, and Daney marveled at this side of his friend who’d once been so cruel to another boy, the kid actually cried.

  Dr. Neill banished all o
f them while he examined Fiona. When he finished he gave her a shot that leeched the tension from her body and put her to sleep in minutes. He took an old-fashioned hot water bottle out of his doctor bag and gave it to Cleo with instructions to fill it and put it on Fiona’s back or belly to ease the cramps when she woke.

  “She shouldn’t snooze long,” he told them. “I gave her a mild sedative with a pain killer. Same thing you did really except my dose was stronger. Her body will nap with relief to get away from the pain. She’ll need to regroup for awhile before she gets back on an even keel. She has a low grade fever. Nothing to worry about. That can happen with inflammation of any kind.”

  He gave them 10 extremely strong pain killers in pill form to see them through the rest of her period as well as five tranquilizers for bedtime. “If you think she’s going to throw them up crush them into powder and disguise them in some ice cream. Cold things usually help medicine stay down. I’ve also left you each one for tonight!” he laughed. “Has she been dieting lately?”

  Cleo looked surprised, but she nodded. “Yes, she did Oprah a few weeks ago and she has a movie coming up.”

  “How about vitamins? She take any?”

  “No. Feef don’t like a lotta pills,” Netty laughed.

  “I only ask because I’ve seen this a lot in the past few years among thin women. They look great, and they think they’re eating well, but they’re often missing key nutrients, which makes the, well. It makes the giving up that much harder, if that makes sense.” He got several understanding nods. “It’s gonna sound too easy, but a multivitamin might help.” Then he shook Daney’s hand and went on his way. “Call me if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Netty told Daney, setting the kettle on to boil.

  He sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. Cleo and Netty looked at each other over his tousled black head.

  “Are you all right?” Cleo asked, hesitantly.

  He didn’t reply immediately. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Yeah. That was scary. Not being able to help her. Does she have fibroids? Fred mentioned it on the way in.”