Date Cute Marry Rich

by Alexis Nicole

  Now, I couldn’t wait to turn around and meet the artist, but when I did, I almost stumbled over my feet.

  OMG! It was him—Mr. Locks and Lips. The guy from yesterday. The one who had knocked me off my feet—literally and figuratively.

  “Have we met?” he asked. His eyes were squinted, as if he thought he knew me from somewhere.

  I didn’t want to remind him of who I was and how clumsy I’d been. It was much better if we met under these circumstances, right now, both appreciators of great art. I opened my mouth to tell him, no, we hadn’t met. But a yes came out of me instead.

  “We met just yesterday,” I told him. “I was coming out of my building, and we kinda bumped into each other.”

  “Ah, yes.” He smiled as if the memory of that was much more pleasant for him than it was for me. “I guess I should apologize again.”

  I waved my hand. “Oh, no,” I said, anxious to change the subject. I wanted to get that image of me stumbling on the sidewalk out of his mind. “So, you’re the artist?”

  “Yup,” he said as we both turned back to the picture. “I hardly ever sketch anyone I know, but there was so much about my grandmother that was just in her being. The only way I could capture her essence was by doing this drawing. I felt like her face told her life’s story.”

  “That’s exactly what I was just thinking,” I told him.

  He nodded. “Every line in her face was more than just her aging. Each line was about the passage of time . . . her journey through the decades, revealing everything that was old and showing us all that was new.”

  “That’s exactly what I was just thinking,” I repeated.

  He continued, “But even though she’d been through so much in her life, she still had a peace, a joy that I wanted to capture.”

  Okay, I wasn’t about to tell him that I’d been thinking that, too, even though that was exactly what had been in my mind. So, all I did was smile at that last part, though as I looked up at him, I couldn’t believe that my thoughts could be so connected to a stranger. It was the same connection that I had with his grandmother. What was that about?

  “Well, whatever you were trying to do in this sketch, you did that . . . and a whole lot more. This has got to be the best piece in the exhibit.”

  He laughed; it was a joyful sound, deep and rich and full of wonder.

  He’d make a great Santa Claus for our children.

  What? I coughed and coughed and coughed to get that ridiculous thought out of my head. Where did that come from?

  He placed his hand on my shoulder—just as he’d done yesterday. And the concern and caring were back in his eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked when my coughing went on and on.

  I nodded, glad that I had wiped away stupid thoughts. “Just had a little something in my throat.”

  He nodded as if he understood. “So, would you like me to show you around the exhibit? This was my featured piece. That’s why it’s up front. But I have a few other pieces here.”

  “I’d definitely like to see them.”

  When I turned around, he placed his hand gently on the small of my back, as if he knew me, though his touch wasn’t intrusive in any way. In fact, it felt like the most natural thing in the world for me to be walking beside him, through this grand ballroom. The crowd had thickened and we had to navigate through, but I kept up with my man.

  My man! Once again, I coughed away that thought. How could I call Mr. Locks and Lips my man when I didn’t even know his name? I was just about to ask him, but then we stopped in front of a large wall.

  Dozens of sketches, black and white, charcoal drawings—all took my breath away. These were clearly drawings, but again, the exactness of the lines, the attention to the details made the pictures look like photographs, made the people come alive.

  What I loved most was the way each rendition had a different focus. There was an old man with his hands resting on a cane, but his fingers were so long and elegant, I was sure that at some time in his life he’d been a pianist. Then there was a girl, a dancer with a neck as long and as graceful as a swan’s. And then the little boy with ears that were the largest things on him. But the sketches were all so beautiful; every person was portrayed with love.

  “These are amazing!” I said half to myself and half to him.

  “Thank you.”

  Slowly, I walked past the wall, trying to savor each sketch. Mr. Locks and Lips moved behind me, smart enough to be silent. Smart enough to let me interpret and appreciate on my own. I was glad for the moments of privacy—even though I was standing in the middle of hundreds of folks, I felt alone and lost in this fabulous world of black and white.

  I have no idea how long I stood before those sketches, but when I faced Mr. Locks and Lips, I wanted to ask, “Who in the world are you?”

  As if he could read my mind, he gently took my hand. I followed him, loving his leading, and after a stop at the bar, we settled on an upholstered bench right outside of the ballroom.

  “All I can say is, ‘Wow!’”

  He smiled and took a sip of his ginger ale. “And all I can say is, ‘Thank you.’”

  “Where does that come from? I mean, your inspiration?”

  After a pause, he said, “Believe it or not, I didn’t really start doing this until I was in college.”

  “You studied art? Where?”

  He shook his head. “Never studied art. My major was psychology. I studied human behavior, and that’s when all of this stuff”—he waved his hand back toward the exhibit—“came out of me.”

  “You know that’s incredible, right?” I took a sip of my soda. “Most artists knew what they’d be doing from the time they were children.”

  His eyes roamed over me, but not in a leering kind of way. I felt comfortable as he took in the sight of me, and I was so glad that I’d worn my favorite champagne cocktail dress. He said, “You talk as if you’re speaking from experience.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I’m an artist . . . in a way. I’m a fashion designer.”

  “Ah, that’s what you were doing on Seventh Avenue.”

  I nodded. “Yup, the fashion district.”

  “So, you’re a designer. Is that what brought you to the show?”

  Tilting my head, I said, “Yeah, I look for inspiration everywhere—especially from other artists.”

  “An artist knows that inspiration can come from anywhere, at any moment—even from a collision on a sidewalk.”

  I laughed as we both leaned back on the bench and exchanged stories of our love for our art—how we’d both gotten started, how we were both in the early parts of our careers, and our hopes for what the years would bring. Around us, the chatter continued as art enthusiasts entered the show, while others left. Droves of people flowed back and forth in front of us, but we stayed in each other’s space—as if we were the only two people in the hotel.

  It wasn’t until I felt someone standing over me that I broke my eyes away from the man who had totally captured me.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you.” Devin stood with his arms crossed and his lips a little poked out. But I could tell that he wasn’t mad. More like amused . . . and curious. “I thought you wanted to look around the show,” he said as his eyes looked over the man sitting next to me.

  “I did.” I stood up and faced him.

  “Doesn’t look like you’re doing too much art appreciating right now. Looks more to me like you’re appreciating—”

  “Devin!” I said, cutting off my friend before he went totally inappropriate on me. “This is one of the artists.” I turned to Mr. Locks and Lips and once again remembered I didn’t know his name. Dang, we had been talking for over an hour and hadn’t even gotten to that part.

  As if he knew what I was thinking, Mr. Locks and Lips stood up, extended his hand toward Devin, and said, “I’m Noah Calhoun.”

  Devin grinned as he shook his hand. “Ooohhh! Fine and polite.”

  I rolled my eyes. Sometimes, it was hard havi
ng a gay friend. I mean, there were times when I wondered if we would ever end up competing for the same guy—though anyone who couldn’t choose between me and Devin certainly didn’t deserve me.

  Devin introduced himself, and then I did the same.

  “We’ve been talking for all this time, and I didn’t tell you my name, either. I’m Skye. Skye Davenport.”

  “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” Noah said, taking my hand.

  “So, Skye, you ready to blow this joint?” Devin asked.

  Huh? Did he want to leave already?

  Then Devin explained, “The show is getting ready to close.”

  “Oh. Wow. Didn’t realize we’d been out here talking that long.”

  “Well, you have,” Devin said as if he was in charge of me. “So . . .”

  I tried to give Devin that look—that “let me be” look. But he just stood there as if he didn’t plan on going anywhere without me. Dang!

  I turned to Noah. “Well, it was really nice meeting you,” I said, while trying to figure out a way to give him my card or ask for his.

  “Yeah, thanks for making the hours go by so fast.”

  I nodded and shifted from one foot to the other, trying to buy some time. When Noah didn’t say anything more, I said, “Okay . . .”

  “Okay,” he said.

  My heart dropped. Usually, the first thing a guy did was ask for my number, whether I wanted to give it to him or not. So, what was up with Mr. Locks and Lips? I thought we’d had such a good time talking.

  Oh, well. I’d vowed off dating for a little while, anyway, right?

  But then, before Devin and I had taken two steps away, Noah called out to me. “I know we just met,” he said when he caught up to me, “but do you wanna hang out a little bit tomorrow? Maybe go for a walk in the park?”

  I guessed he was talking about Central Park, though it really didn’t matter to me. I couldn’t say yes fast enough. I gave him my card, jotted my cell phone on the back, and he promised to call me in the morning.

  This time, he gave me a hug before I walked away, and I swear, when I turned around and followed Devin, my feet didn’t hit the ground.

  Chapter 7

  Devin

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d kept a secret from my girls, but I had to do it this time. I mean, we were all so busy—there was no need for false alarms. That was why I hadn’t called one of our Code Reds. No need to get my girls excited until I was sure there was something to get excited about.

  And, anyway, right now I had enough excitement for all three of us. I couldn’t remember the last time I went on a date, and what made tonight’s date so much better—and so exciting—was that it was so unexpected.

  I really had to thank Leigh for the heads-up about that art show. If it weren’t for her, I would’ve never met Tony. I know, I know, I was supposed to hook up with Clarke. But that was Leigh’s idea, and I did try. Clarke was nice and all. He was so well dressed, so polite, and there wasn’t a more intelligent man on earth—at least not one who knew more than Clarke did about the history of Eastern art and Western art and every art in between.

  But Clarke was so stuffy. He talked through his nose, walked like he had to go to the bathroom, and he didn’t find a thing I said to be funny. What was up with that?

  But Tony, or Antonio, which was the name I loved to call him, laughed from the moment I said hello. And it was his laugh, which exposed two huge dimples in each cheek, that captured me. Not that he fell short in any other part of the game. Boyfriend had it going on for real; he looked good! His black turtleneck and black leather pants might have been a bit cliché, but Antonio wore them as if that outfit was a new idea—his idea—an outfit that had been made just for his hips and his butt and his chest.

  Hmph. Hmph. Hmph.

  Just thinking about meeting him had me going. From the moment he walked up on my little rendezvous with Clarke at the art show, inquiring about a painting we were standing next to, until now, seven days later, Antonio and I had been just about inseparable—at least in the virtual world. It was my luck that Clarke had to step away to take a phone call, and by the time he finished, I was long gone—and so was Antonio. We hid out in the hotel restaurant, far away from the exhibit, and just talked and talked and talked—about everything that didn’t have to do with art. I told Antonio about my business, and he told me how he had a passion for sports. He had had an opportunity to play professional football but injured his knee, and now he worked for a company that provided insurance for professional athletes.

  “Well, it seems like you made the best out of a disappointing situation.” I admired the fact that Antonio hadn’t fallen into a depression after his injury shattered his dream and had still found a way to work within the industry. I could tell he was a real go-getter, and that was very attractive to me since I saw it in myself.

  I knew Skye and Chyanne would really like him. I could just see them all getting along really well, especially since I hadn’t brought a man around them in who knows how long.

  But before any of that happened, Antonio had to first pass my test, though, on the real, I wasn’t a bit worried about that. With the way we’d been going at it all week, neither one of us could wait to get together. I had a feeling that Antonio was going to pass my test with flying colors.

  I’d decided to do it up right for the first date I’d had in I didn’t know how long. I thought it would look much better if I grabbed a cab instead of riding the train into a part of Lower Manhattan I’d never been to. But when the cab rolled to a stop and I caught a glimpse of the meter, I wished I’d walked instead. Not that twenty-five dollars was all that bad, but it wasn’t like I was rolling in it, like Skye, Chyanne, and Leigh.

  “Devin?”

  Just the sound of his voice made me stop thinking about money. And when I turned and looked at him, I stopped thinking about everything else, too. The only thing that was on my mind was this fine-ass, half-Black, half-Latino man with that long black braid down his back

  “What’s up, Antonio?” I said all nonchalantly, even though I was taking in every inch of him, once again dressed in all black.

  He laughed. “I told you . . . only my mother calls me Antonio.”

  “Well, just call me Mama,” I kidded.

  He laughed again as he led me past the line of folks who waited outside of Club Reggae. He nodded at the guy at the door, who nodded back, but not before he looked me up and down.

  “He’s cool,” Antonio said, vouching for me.

  I glared back at the bouncer, as if I was hard or something, but the way he broke out in a grin let me know I wasn’t fooling anyone. It was all over me. I was a lover, not a fighter, and if anything went down, I was probably going to be heading the other way unless you were messing with one of my girls. If something jumped off with them, I had their back. Oh no, don’t mess with my crew. Devin didn’t play that.

  We showed our IDs to the cashier, paid our little twenty-dollar fee, and headed into the club. The music was bumping, and already I wanted to move. The way Antonio’s head was bopping and his hips were swaying, I knew he felt the same way. But he led me to one of the countertop-height tables for two and sat down.

  I eyed the RESERVED sign that was at the center of the table, but before I could say anything about it, this female who looked barely out of high school came over, balancing a tray in one hand.

  “What’s up, Tony?” the petite little thing said so sweetly I thought she was made out of sugar.

  “Just you, Van.”

  The way she grinned at Antonio made me frown. I didn’t like the way she was looking at him—like he was a tall glass of pink lemonade and she lived somewhere in the Mojave Desert. I mean, I wasn’t jealous or anything. I didn’t know Antonio like that. But if he wanted to roll with her, then he couldn’t roll with me.

  Then I had to watch Little Miss Barely Legal bat her eyes and lick her lips, though none of that seemed to get a rise out of my boy. That worked f
or me—I was cool again.

  We gave our orders for a platter of wings and two beers, and once the waitress disappeared, I sat back and took in the view. The lights were really dim, so there wasn’t a lot to see. But from what I could make out, I knew this place was tight. This place looked like it was an old warehouse with all the exposed brick. There were dozens of counter-high tables surrounding the parquet dance floor, and in the center was a glass-encased DJ booth. I’d never seen that before, but I guess that gave the music master a full 360-degree view of what his music was doing to the crowd.

  Already, the dance floor was packed—with men and women, women and women, and men with men. Yeah, this place was mad cool, exactly like the world should be.

  People were jammin’ to Damian Marley, and it was hard to sit still.

  Antonio and I watched the dance crowd sway and swing and sing along. Then, finally, over the music he asked, “So, are you out?”

  I raised my eyebrows and made a big deal of looking around the club. “Oh yeah, I’m out,” I said. “I’m out with you.”

  Antonio chuckled as if he got my joke. But then he stopped, stared at me, and asked, “Do you know what I mean?”

  What? Did he think I was stupid? Of course I knew what he meant, and I told him so. “I’ve been out since I was born. Because I came out of my mama’s womb this way. All I’m trying to do is live my life. Just do me and I let everyone else do them.”

  Antonio nodded with a smile, as if he was pleased by what I said. And I was pleased because he smiled and showed me those two gorgeous, deep dimples.

  “Cool. I’m all the way out, too.”

  I didn’t know what he wanted me to say to that. I mean, I knew he was out. Though neither one of us had said a thing about being gay, gay men knew gay men. And I never got involved in any kind of way with those down-low brothers. I didn’t want to have any kind of relationship with anyone who couldn’t be honest about their sexuality. Because if you’d lie about that, what else would you lie about?

  Antonio said, “So, thank you for coming out here tonight.”

  “No problem. This place seems cool, and I’ve never been down to this part of the city.”