Romance: Menage Romance: The French Quarter Hostages (Paranormal Action Shapeshifter MFM Bear Shifter Romance) (Fantasy BBW Taboo Interracial Love Triangle Werebear Mates Short Stories)

by Jessica Miller

  His eyes bounce over to me. I go still because I wasn’t expecting him to call on me. Yes, it was a picture of me, but no, I hadn’t thought of the collection as a self-portrait. I just couldn’t think of anything else and wanted to do something risqué. At the time I had pictured it coming out tasteful. What was I thinking?

  “Well,” I mutter, looking over to the guy next to me like he could miraculously feed me something to say. “It’s not exactly a self-portrait. I know that I wanted to experiment with something black and white, and I am really interested in the human body.”

  He looks at me, just as blank as before. When he clicks his mouse the next photo pops up. This time, I’m looking out the window. Using a 50mm lens, I was able to get a great image that distorted the focal points while creating an inverse mirror image of the other side of my face in the reflection of the glass.

  “Tell me,” the Professor continues, “What exactly was your intent with the gray scale composition in this photo?”

  “Uh oh,” the guy next to me whispers. He keeps his voice low so only I hear him. “Dr. D is trying to actually teach today.”

  My mind goes blank. All I can do is reprimand myself for not taking the assignment more seriously. I get tense in my legs and my breathing speeds up. At once I bring back the weight—the guilt—of trying to live this dream; all the nights until 2 A.M. working at the bar to make enough for the small amount of expenses I have to pay that student loans won’t cover. Who am I kidding? Maybe I don’t belong here after all.

  I sit up straight in my chair and buy myself a second by taking a sip of water. “I always thought black and white photographs are the most beautiful,” I say, feeling my jaw get jittery. “Still life. I capture what I see, and that has always been my dream.” As I look around, all the faces are turned toward me and, surprisingly, Dr. Danteridge’s blank expression has a new curvature of interest. “Some people call me old fashioned,” I continue. “But I can’t deny who I am, and if I’ve learned anything since moving to the city, it’s that the only thing I can trust is my heart.”

  The guy next to me has a full-toothed grin shooting right my way. Finally, I get a good look at his face now that the adrenaline has passed. “Nice answer,” he says. Professor Danteridge responds to my rambling monologue, but I’m locked in my neighbor’s chestnut eyes. His rough lips are pursed loosely with a curled grin, his head cocked sideways and relaxed. In his eyes, I feel like he is somehow offering me a moment’s repose. His coffee complexion hypnotizes me, and then I see the scar running from his ear to his neck. He catches my eyes stuck on his scar and then covers it up with the hood of his sweater.

  “Frankly, Ms. Edwards,” Professor Danteridge drones on, an obvious tone of irritation in his voice, “my suggestion to you for next week’s deadline is to abandon the selfie stick and adopt a frame of mind that considers the world in your work, not just your unimaginative brain that can’t think of anything better to put on camera than its own mediocre body. Class dismissed.” He closes his books up and places them back into a briefcase, withdrawing all eye contact from the students.

  I let out a chortle at his remark before I can catch myself. Thankfully I’m not the only one who thought it was out of line. While some of the other students laugh casually at the remark as they exit the classroom, others scoff with me at Professor Danteridge’s insensitivity. I force myself to take my eyes away from the photo of a shirtless me looking out the window, but it glows in the darkness of the room like a humiliating monolith.

  “Don’t take it too seriously,” a voice says. It’s the guy next to me. He already has his things packed up and is standing, ready to walk away. “This class is weak, and that teacher has no idea what he’s talking about. My collection was a bunch of pictures of trees and he said it was ‘lacking life’. I thought your photos were raw, and honest.”

  From my chair, the only thing I can do is look up at him, mouth agape, and sputter out, “Uh. Thanks.”

  He laughs and starts to walk away. In the sea of other students aiming for the exit, I lose sight of him for a moment. I shove my books into my bag and shuffle up after him. Why is it that for the life of me I cannot speak under pressure? That’s twice in 20 minutes that I’ve embarrassed myself by not knowing what to say.

  I find him just as he’s turning to exit the Arts building. His hood is up and his walk is brisk, like he’s already running late to another class or appointment. At this rate I’d have to run to catch up to him, so my brain finally kicks in and I shout, “Hey! Do you have any suggestions? Like for what I should do for next week?”

  For a moment I’m certain he didn’t hear me, and that I look crazy standing out in the middle of campus shouting to no one—then he stops, and even with his hood up and I see him turn his head back toward me. He’s waiting for me, and I nearly trip trying to catch up.

  ***

  When I’m finally next to him he says, “I can’t tell you how to do you. But from what I can tell, you’re afraid.” He continues walking, barely paying me any mind. I realize that it’s not just me—but he’s also ignoring the world around him. We nearly walk into a busy intersection when I stop him.

  “You’re going to get yourself killed,” I say. “Are you trying to teach me some kind of lesson here? Like walking out into traffic means you’re not afraid?”

  At first his face is stone, and I feel that my joke didn’t land, but then he lets out a laugh that releases a hidden tension in my shoulders. “For one, all I’m saying is that you give off a vibe like you’re trapped inside yourself,” he says, pressing the button on the crosswalk. “And second, that wasn’t me trying to teach you a lesson. That was me not paying attention because you got me tripped up.”

  The orange hand switches to the white walk sign and he drops off the curb onto the road to cross over. I’m not sure if there was an unspoken invitation for me to follow him, but then I stop caring. “How do I give off a vibe like I’m trapped inside myself?” I say loud enough for him to hear me, at least five pedestrians away. A stranger groans at me because I practically shouted into her ear. To avoid embarrassment, I run to catch up again.

  “How do I give off a vibe like I’m trapped inside myself?” I repeat.

  He laughs again and peers at me from inside his hood. The more steps we take, the further away we get from campus. I look back and realize that I’ve never walked this far down Jefferson. On my right is the old Jefferson Church, or Iglesias de Jefferson, with the black and white mural of a lion, a lamb, and Jesus wearing his crown of thorns and looking up to the sky. The church doesn’t look much like a church. It’s a small, cubed orange building that has the name of the church painted across the front in black. The font looks more like a high school student’s graffiti at first glance.

  I stop just after the church. The guy is already in the intersection. He’s almost all the way across before he stops to look back at me. “I have to go home,” I say. “I don’t even know you. It’s getting late.”

  He comes back to my side of the street and stands right in front of me. “You do know me. My name is Roman. You’re in my photography class. Your name is Vylette, and I’ve seen you naked.”

  I go flush. Bumps rise up in waves through both my arms. From the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of my bus going the opposite direction. Great, I think. Now I’ll have to wait an hour for the next one.

  “Look, you don’t have a ride,” he says. “Come with me. I don’t live far. We can work.”

  It takes me watching him inhale and exhale twice before deciding that he’s actually serious. My first instinct is to reach for my cell phone, but the reason is to call Malik and say I’m not coming straight home. I don’t understand why I can’t escape feeling the need to check in with him, because the fact is that we aren’t together. But another fact is that I’m not paying rent, and I’ve been staying with Malik for damn near two whole years.

  Roman’s gaze is fixed on me like he sees nothing else around us—not the church behind
me, or the clear blue sky, or the vehicles coming and going through the intersection. “If you’re down,” he says. “Then say something. There are things I’d rather be doing than standing out in the street, do you feel me?”

  My hand is sweaty around my phone, and when I release it from my grip I’m embarrassed to pull it out of my pocket. “I really shouldn’t, Roman,” I say, trying to divert my eyes and look preoccupied. “I have to get back to campus. I just missed my bus and I need to head home.”

  He chews his lip, nods his head, and blinks when he looks to the ground. “I got you,” he says. “I’ll see you around, then.” He doesn’t walk away; he hovers, waiting for me to speak.

  “Yeah, see you around,” I respond to his silence, and turn back toward campus. As much as I want to look back and see if he is still standing there, I fight every muscle in my body and keep my course.

  ***

  The green bus drops me off downtown. It’s dark on the three-block walk from the stop to where I stay. I could have called Malik—he would have picked me up no doubt. It would only inflate his pride, picking me up in his new black Raven CT6. I can only imagine the attitude I’m about to get for walking home in the dark.

  By the time I get to Malik’s building, the temperature has dropped about ten degrees. One thing about LA that drives me crazy is how hot it is one minute and cold the next. I take the elevator up, and Malik’s building is one of the old style artsy ones, so the elevator has an old fashioned lift. I hold my breath every time I ride up the ten stories.

  The corridor is full of maroon doors, and I can’t help count them every time I pass until I get to Malik’s loft, 1017. The hallway is silent, but after I unlock the door and open it I hear the soft rhythm of a Miles track from Malik’s vinyl player. It is so Malik to set the tone and put on a calm front when he’s about to get real.

  He is already waiting for me in the kitchen. “How was the bus?” he asks, scrubbing the ginger glaze from lasts night’s mahi mahi off the plates. In the two years that I’ve lived with him, he has not only prepared a home-cooked meal every night, but also cleans, works, and goes to the dojo two nights a week. Last week I was on the phone with my sister, Hope, and she had the nerve to call me a gold digger.

  “You’re playing him,” she said.

  “I’m not playing anybody,” I said. “Malik is a friend, and when I make some money I’m going to pay him back. He knows that. I know that it. It’s all good, Hope.”

  “All good,” she laughed. “You’re a riot, Vy. Malik is a friend. I got you. How is the restaurant, by the way?” I was in no mood for the sarcasm. She has been criticizing me about my living situation with Malik since day one.

  “The restaurant is great, and I’m making like, really good tips,” I said, knowing she wouldn’t believe a word. “Plus, with the hours there, I get insurance, too, so…”

  “You just trailed off,” Hope laughed. “Look, I love you, sister, but I have to go. Tell Malik I said ‘hi’.” And with that she hung up instantly. She could joke all she wanted about the fact that I don’t make much as a server because she works at Waffle House and is putting herself through school back home. She still lives with our father in Detroit. The funny thing is that she makes twice as much as me, and I work at a high-end seafood place in Marina Del Rey.

  Malik dries his hand and walks over to the record player. He’s wearing khaki slacks and a rose pink polo. On any other man the shirt would look ridiculous, but Malik’s dark skin makes the shirt pop. He’s barefoot, tapping his heel to the beat of another Kind of Blue track.

  The music echoes throughout the wide-open, spacious rooms of the loft. With his back to me, Malik uncorks a bottle of wine. I watch his biceps bounce while he twists the wine key and drives the cork out. The pop of the cork is the sound of a soft kiss in Malik’s hands. He looks over his shoulder at me and repeats, “How was the bus ride?”

  I knew that the topic of me getting home late would come up. It is rare that Malik talks about his feelings, but something told me that he would open up tonight. The adult in me wants to stay true to my needs. I’m out here trying to follow my dream, it’s all I want, and for the first two years in Los Angeles I struggled to pay rent. Looking back, it was a night around Thanksgiving when Malik came into my restaurant. I was working doubles and skipping the maximum amount of classes that I could without lowering my grade.

  When I greeted him at the table, I found it strange that such a good-looking man was dining alone. He left his number on the check and the next morning I actually called him. When he answered the phone his voice was so smooth. Although he invited me to go out with him a couple times and, while at first he seemed like the perfect guy, I couldn’t get over the growing feeling that he was trying to buy my affection.

  It started with dinner after dinner, and the more time we spent together, the more he was paying for everything we did. Right around the middle of my sophomore year I was stuck between photography equipment for class and rent—and Malik wrote me a check without saying a word.

  Malik only ever made one pass at me. We were both gone and I ended it before anything could happen. Since then, he’s never been more than a friend, and we’ve never spoken about our relationship. However, the desire to be something more than a friend to him has always felt like an eclipse in my heart—one side giving in to the ease of life with him, relying on him, and the other side knowing that I need to let go and follow my heart. The last thing I want is to prove Hope right.

  Malik laughs and I’m brought back to the sounds of the trumpet. “You’re daydreaming again,” he says. “I asked you how the bus ride was.”

  Before I can process an answer I’m taken back to standing on Jefferson with Roman. What would have happened if I had gone with him? What did Roman mean by go to his place and ‘work’?

  “The bus was fine,” I say. “I just missed the usual bus I take. Professor Danteridge didn’t like my collection this week, so I stayed after to talk to him about it.” I don’t even realize that I’m lying until after my mouth is closed.

  “You should have called me,” he says, filling two glasses with a dark red liquid. “I would have been there in a heartbeat. You shouldn’t be walking around downtown after dark.”

  He doesn’t even bother asking about the collection, or what the professor had to say. That’s one thing with Malik—it’s impossible to get him to talk about anything that matters. I can count so many times that I silently tested him, seeing if he would carry on various conversations in the flavor of a meaningful dialogue. Each time I am disappointed. The worst part is that I want to be with a man I can dig deep into—and from what I’ve gotten out of Malik, his aspirations are little beyond money and work. He’s an executive at the company he works for, and they produce decorative linen. There just isn’t much to the man, and when I try to offer up my life as conversation, instead we end up talking about generalities, or things I’m doing wrong.

  “I’m just having a hard time getting all my work done, or…” I search for anything to say. “…Or maybe I’m having a hard time making quality work. My professor said—”

  “Look, Vylette,” Malik interrupts. “If you’re having trouble balancing things, you can always take some time off at the restaurant. I’ll help you sort everything out, you know that.”

  He hands me the glass of wine. With his glass to his lips, he takes a slow sip, and I know he is listening to Miles on the trumpet while he thinks. The way he can lose himself in his thoughts and in the music inspires me—it’s what connected us as friends in the first place. We used to go through bottles just listening to old records. Something in me wants to stop time for just a second, embracing the still image of my life here. Though I don’t consider this apartment my home, I still feel comfort in the way Malik welcomes me into his.

  “Would you like a glass?” he asks, grabbing the bottle and rotating the label to show me that it’s Ravenswood, my favorite zinfandel.

  “How can I resist?” I answer,
sitting down on the opposite side of the couch. It’s always easier to give in and say yes, than tell him how I really feel. I want to keep talking about school. I want to understand the confusion roiling inside me. As I sip the dark red wine I let the raspberry and plum notes settle on my tongue. After five years of drinking, it finally doesn’t burn anymore.

  When I drain my glass, Malik refills it, and I listen as he talks about the decorative linen business. The wine only enhances the resentment I feel while Malik goes on and on. I have to work tomorrow morning and still finish an online lab tonight, but as soon as I say something he’ll remind me in his own subtle way that he’s the only way I’m able to do all this. Maybe if I drink the second glass fast, I’ll be able to ride the little buzz until the end of the night. I’m not the woman he thinks I am, but I’m also not the woman I think I am.

  ***

  From Friday to Sunday I serve for half of the day and finish homework the other half. This week I’m scheduled a Sunday lunch shift and I realize that today is Super Bowl Sunday just as I’m walking through the eight-foot tall doorway of The Brewery. I’ve worked here for four years and at this point I’m on autopilot while I wait tables, but working Super Bowl Sunday in a craft food and beer restaurant is like the doomsday of all shifts.

  Hours pass and the shit show of a restaurant proceeds as planned—a mess of late, if not barely cooked food and people complaining about the time it takes for their beer to come from the bar to their tables—not to mention the constant barking and cheering during every single play of the game.

  I look forward to five hours from now, when I’ll be on a bus home, listening to my film professors lecture on film versus video on my headphones, and ready to spend the night relaxing, getting my real work done. When I graduate in May, I’m going to open a photography studio. That’s what these shifts at the restaurant are for, because even on days like these when my apron’s covered in malt vinegar and ketchup, I still make well over the average dollar per hour. On top of my loans I’ve been able to save a little on the side, with Malik’s help of course.