“Good ole’ Greg,” he said, shaking his head. He ran his finger around his glass rim. “And while I was about to get blasted to try and take some of the hurt away, he told me that I wasn’t alone, not even the bar, and told me your story.” He wiped his face with his right hand and raised it. With a smile, he continued. “So, I turned and I saw you, and I understood the tears in your eyes, and for the first time since my wife passed away, I made a play for a different woman. It wasn’t easy though, and I think we can both say that my mad skills are lacking.”
Stacey’s face was unreadable. Looking into his eyes, she finally let out a breath. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t be mad,” he pleaded. “Last night, talking to you was the most exciting thing that I’ve done in a long time. For a minute, looking into your eyes, trying to get on your good side, hoping maybe that you’d bite – I don’t know – it made me feel alive again. It made me feel like maybe there was a better way to spend two months and six days of my life.”
Stacey looked down at the table, embarrassed that she had been so cold to him before. In the past, she had always prided herself on being humble and just, but last night was a testament to her ability to still be a bitch. She had to fix this – reboot.
“Last night, did you really want to be my muse?” she asked.
“Yes, of course I did…I do,” he answered quickly.
He marveled at her. Stacey Bryant was clearly one of kind - tall, slender, dark silky skin, wide-brown eyes that looked like they carried the world in them, lips full and pouty with only a faint hint of gloss, a smile that burned deep in his chest to his soul and long, sandy-brown dreadlocks that hit the middle of her perfect back. She was a goddess. Who wouldn’t want to spend time with her?
Hunter tied up all loose ends. “And I had no idea that you’d end up in my office today. I swear that was completely coincidental, if there is such a thing,” he vowed, though he wasn’t much for coincidences either.
Stacey liked the way that he was looking at her now, and she believed him. She could sense that he was hurting as badly as she. Only two people who had lost someone they loved well before their time could understand the absolute and utter emptiness that something like that caused.
“Any kids?” she asked, trying to move past their sad moment.
“No. You?”
“No,” she answered with a bit of relief and remorse. At thirty-two, she always thought that she would have kids. It was funny how life deviated from her plans. “Well, let’s see how this date goes, and if it ends well, then we can start on our little project tomorrow, if you still want to,” she said, nearly in a whisper with her chin tucked in.
“Sotto voce,” Hunter said, “I’d like very much.”
“With a few guidelines of course,” she added, before she forgot herself.
“Understandable.” He nodded and waited.
“When I say stop, we stop. No questions asked.”
“Of course.” He saluted her.
“No sex,” she bit out.
He paused. “Okay.” He smiled, but his hand dropped back down to the table.
“And when the book is done, and your time of mourning is over, then if we want to go our separate ways, there won’t be any pressure from either person.”
“It’ll be our way of helping each other,” he added.
“Exactly,” she said, taking a sip of tea.
“Exactly,” he repeated.
Stacey’s gaze landed squarely back on his, and suddenly she wanted to ask if he was wearing contacts. She had never seen irides so green and brilliant. If the eyes were truly doors to the soul, what his soul was like?
***
The bike ride home was absolutely painful for Stacey. Driving as fast as she possibly could on her Vespa, she forgot about the wind in her hair and the beautiful blue skies and jetted to her loft apartment with a mission in mind.
Words, emotions and excitement were swirling through her bloodstream like some potent drug pumped intravenously through her deprived veins. It had been years since she had felt like this, but it was finally back. She wanted to scream aloud, maybe dance a jig. But more than anything, Stacey wanted to write!
Hunter had already invigorated her. She nearly stopped at the park across the street and started to type, but instead, she finished her trek home and dashed inside with Rapture.
Slamming the door and throwing down her helmet, she picked up her cat with both hands. “You’ll never believe what happened to me today, kitty,” she said in a wispy voice. “I met a man.” Her voice strained in disbelief. “A real life man.” She held the cat up to her face. “And I think he’s the key to writing this freaking novel and getting Val off my back.”
Rapture licked her face and purred – the extent of his ability to show enthusiasm.
After turning on her kettle for tea, she opened her curtains to let in the sunshine and plopped down in front of her computer. Grabbing the remote, she turned on her stereo, selected Common’s latest CD and began to type. Her nimble fingers could barely keep up with her multiplying thoughts. Deep inside, she was on fire with possibilities and imagination.
Chapter Three
At first dusk, with the windows open and waves of fresh air blowing through his linen curtains, Hunter lay sleeping in his bed naked with only a large white towel wrapped around his carved, tanned waist.
Fidgeting as he dreamt of his wife, sweat beads formed on his forehead and under his lip. Flashes of the woman he loved shook him to his core. Shivering not because of the cool air but because of the quaking trauma of her death, he mumbled her name on his lips then heaved a heavy sigh of defeat.
Even as he slept, she haunted him. The memories of his untimely loss overwhelmed him, causing him to ball up his fists in fury. How could a woman so wonderful with so much to give to this world be taken in her prime?
“Why?!!” he cried out as he sat up in the bed. That was a recurring question that had never been answered. Why did she have to die? Why did she have to leave him? Why couldn’t she have survived? Why? Why? Why?
The rush of adrenaline shot through his veins and quickened the pace of his aching heart. Tears ran down his cheeks in heavy hot drops that salted his lips. Wiping them quickly, he looked around disoriented and realized that he was in the lonely confines of his home. The desolate silence made his reality even more sobering. Batting his watery eyes, he moved out of his nightmare into the present with a bitter resolve.
After seeing his patients, he had darted home to get ready for his date with Stacey. He cleaned his waterfront loft quickly, throwing clothes in baskets and dishes in the dishwater then jumped in the shower.
Honestly, he had fallen asleep feeling rather hopeful. But his thoughts had drifted off towards the woman he had lost, and he had woken up in his normal fashion – alone and frantic.
The bed creaked a little as he pushed his body towards the end of the mattress and sank his feet into the plush rug below. Slumped over, he ran his hands through is hair and tried to calm down. How was he supposed to impress this new woman if he showed up utterly depressed over the old one?
A crisp breeze rushed in and greeted him, reminding him that there was now a lot less time to tarry. Finally finding the strength somewhere in the pit of his soul, he stood up and made his way to his closet, passing the picture of his beloved wife on the nightstand as he went. He stopped and looked at her photo.
“I hope you understand what I’m attempting to do,” he said to the photo of her in her wedding gown. “The psychiatrist seems to think that I’m living in the past, but I tried to explain to him that everyone’s grieving period is different. I mean, there are men who go decades without dating after their wives pass away.”
He could nearly hear her voice respond. “You don’t have decades,” he could imagine her saying. “What about children? What about a family of your own?”
Hunter knew that it wasn’t his wife responding to him but his own silent desires. He wasn�
�t getting any younger. Everyone he knew was at least attempting to build a family. Yet, he was stagnant – dangling in the balance as people passed him by.
More than anything, he wanted to be that dad on the playground with his kid who looked happy because he was happy. He wanted a schedule full of things to do with his own family. Also, he didn’t want to be the attractive but extremely reclusive bachelor for the rest of his life.
He walked to his closet and pulled out a pair of jeans. “But what if she gets to know me, and she thinks that I’m absolutely and unequivocally the wrong guy?” Throwing his pants on the bed, he went to his dresser and pulled out a pair of boxers. He threw up his index finger in protest. “Plus, she could only be doing this to write her book, or because she feels sorry for me.”
He closed the dresser drawer and looked at himself in the mirror. “I don’t know which one would be worse. Either way, I’m going to give this my best shot. So, when it doesn’t work, I have an excuse to keep on being alone. And I can tell people that I tried, but I’m just not ready to go back out there again.”
Hunter knew that he was setting himself up for failure. To talk down the possibility of a good relationship before he even gave it a chance only proved his own negativity. Plus, there was the nagging fact that he was the one who had pursued her – not the other way around.
Stacey had done him a great service by saying yes, and here he was already prepared for things to go terribly wrong. His conscience ripped at him. Man up, it roared.
Even as he tried to convince himself aloud that things wouldn’t work, he also couldn’t ignore the nervous excitement that made his stomach flutter. There was something about Stacey that seemed off in a good way. She was different and independent, funny and clever. If nothing else, he could at least make a friend. A friend couldn’t be bad. He had how many now? Two.
Plus, he just couldn’t get her smile out of his mind. When she had agreed to his proposal yesterday at lunch, it was like someone had given him a million dollars. She had looked at him with a sincere hope. Her eyes had said to him that maybe, possibly, he could be the one that would help her move out of her own personal hell. He only hoped that she would also serve as the same stepping stone for him.
For the last two years, he had done nothing but sulk, mourn and pout in solitary. Maybe God had finally answered his prayers by sending him a woman who could understand his pain and possibly knew how to heal him?
He looked at himself in the mirror of his bathroom and stuck out his chest.
Tonight, he was going to pursue Stacey Bryant with everything that he had in him, or he was going to make a complete fool out of himself in front of a bestselling author. Either way, it was balls to the wall.
***
Stacey hadn’t been on a date in years. Standing in front of her gold-framed mirror, she and her cat analyzed her dress.
“What am I saying in this?” she asked Rapture, turning to view her side profile. Confused, she smoothed her hands over her dress and sighed. “You’re supposed to wear a dress on the first date, right?”
The cat looked up at her and meowed.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Stacey said, walking into her bathroom. With her toes pointed, she slipped her feet into her pumps and sprayed her perfume.
It had been forever since she had seen herself look like this. Normally, she was in a pair of jeans or cargo pants, coupled with boots, a comfy t-shirt and a backpack full of tech gear. Now, she was wearing Victoria Secret, thigh-highs, stiletto heels and exposing parts of her body that she had not paid attention to in quite some time. It was mildly amusing – two sides to a very sordid coin.
A nervous jitter hit Stacey when she heard the doorbell chime. He was five minutes early! With a quick glance at the wooden clock mounted on the wall, she grabbed her black clutch purse and scampered to the front door, while trying to remember how to walk in heels.
Rapture followed closely behind, feeling the need suddenly to be overly protective of his master. He let out another meow that made her slow down.
She turned to him and sighed. “I know; I’m nervous too, kitty.” Avoiding his fur in fear that it might rub off on her black dress, she turned back to the door and opened it.
To her surprise, it was Clive. Slouching over, she looked passed him into the hallway. “What gives, Clive?” She finally eyed him suspiciously.
In his normal black, matrix-like costume, he showed her a CD. “Just came out today. I’m selling them door-to-door. Would you like…no would you mind buying one to support me?”
Stacey took the CD and flipped it around to read the black. “Twisted Fantasies?” she said, looking up at him. “Is it heavy metal?”
“It’s alternative rock and roll,” he corrected. “You listen to it much?”
Stacey shook her head. “How much?”
“Ten bucks,” Clive answered hopeful.
Fishing out her wallet from her purse, she pulled out a ten-dollar bill and gave it to him. “Well, I had better go.”
“Got a date?” Clive asked, impressed with his neighbor’s sudden transformation. “You look hot.”
“Gee, thanks,” Stacey said, blushing. “So, I had better go. I may have like five more minutes to put on a little more make-up.”
“Okay. Thanks for your support,” Clive said, backing away from the door. “And if you only do it once, listen to it. You just might like it. I wrote all of the songs on this one. It’s my solo gig. I’m trying to get famous.”
As Clive was explaining, the doors to the elevator opened, and Hunter emerged with a huge bouquet of red roses. He stopped in his tracks with a what-the-hell look on his face as he saw Clive with his date.
Stacey waved him over with a smile. “Oh, there he is,” Stacey said, feeling her chest tighten at the very sight of him. He looked even better than the first couple of times. Dressed in black, sleek and sexy, he approached with a wicked grin.
Hunter walked past Clive and turned with a curious smile. “How you doing?” Hunter asked, nodding at the oddly dressed man.
“Treat her nice,” Clive ordered sternly as he turned awkwardly and headed to the next door with his bag of CDs.
Hunter didn’t reply. Instead, he strode over to the door where Stacey stood and looked her up and down. “Wow,” he said, lost for words. In his mind, he had never imagined that she would have worn a dress just for him. She was totally a jeans and t-shirt type of girl. And while he didn’t mind her normal style, he was incredibly thankful for a glimpse at the most perfect body that he’d ever seen.
“I take it that you like the duds?” Stacey said, rubbing her hand over her dress playfully.
“What straight man wouldn’t?” he answered, finally offering the flowers. “These are for you, though they are dramatically diminished by your beauty.”
Stacey was caught off guard by his gracious compliment. She took them and smelled their aroma. “They’re beautiful,” she said, stepping to the side. “Won’t you come in?” She fluttered her eyelashes lightheartedly. “I’m playing the debutante thing up tonight.”
“Absolutely,” he said, walking past her.
Stacey’s home was as eclectic as she was, which was a relief to Hunter. He believed that the home should match the soul. Usually, where there was conflict in the two, there was often a person in the middle of an identity crisis. Hers was a sprawling, open loft with exposed brick walls, hanging designer lights, rich colors and culturally meaningful art. He stopped at a painting of Miles Davis and smiled.
“I definitely like the Miles,” he said, noting that the piece was an original.
Putting the flowers into a crystal vase, Stacey looked up a nodded. “My father was a saxophonist in Harlem. I grew up listening to Miles Davis and Coltrane. It’s in my blood.”
Hunter noticed the photos on the wall facing the street. Each was in a black frame, each a black and white photo of Harlem. Some were from the present, others from various decades. All were of musicians at various clubs or congre
gating together on various corners. He marveled at the paintings, feeling as though they all told a secret story about Stacey that he would never had known if he hadn’t bothered to look.
“So you grew up in Harlem?” he asked, turning to steal another glance of her.
Stacey walked to over him. “Yes. New York was my home for many years,” she said nostalgically. She looked up at the photos and smiled.
“Do you ever miss it?” Secretly, he inhaled a whiff of her cologne, while keeping his eyes on the wall. It was hard to do with her standing beside him. He wanted to turn and hold her in his arms.
“Sometimes,” she answered.
“So, why won’t you go back?”
She bit her lip. What was this, twenty questions? “I don’t travel,” she said, frowning. “I haven’t traveled since Drew died.”
Finding Opa! Page 3
