“Oye!” The female taxi driver waved at me. “You in?” she said.
I lifted the skirt of my long evening gown, broke out of my trance, and climbed into the back of the taxi.
“Can we just drive around for a bit?” I asked.
“You got it,” the taxi driver said. She turned on the meter and began heading down 5th Avenue towards Old Havana. “One of those nights, eh? Or, are you Cinderella and I’m your fairy godmother?” She laughed at her own joke.
Instantly, I liked this woman. First, she was a woman in a man’s world. Cuba was still very much a man’s world, and taxi drivers tended to be men, but not this one. Her hair was a fiery red that almost matched the red of her taxi, and—I suspected—matched her own fiery personality.
“You sound American,” I said, happy to hear a familiar sound among the sea of noises that reminded me every day that I was a foreigner.
“I am, or was. Hell, I don’t even know anymore. But I’m here. Livin’ la vida loca,” she sang robustly. She looked at me via the rearview mirror. “Having one of those nights, eh?”
I exhaled sharply. “Try one of those months… years… could be lives.”
The cab driver let out a long, low whistle. “I hear ya, mami. Don’t tell me, it’s a man.”
I kept my eyes on the rearview mirror, hoping to make eye contact again with this cab-driver.
“How did you know?” I asked the mirror.
“I know because I live there, too. It’s in the eyes. Your man doesn’t make you happy. Am I right?”
I was flabbergasted, and I had no clue where or how to begin to answer her question. The years and years of unhappiness I’d bottled up were about to come bubbling to and over the surface. I’d been feeling this pressure for a while now, and I wasn’t sure it would be corked much longer.
“Let me see if I can get your story straight,” the driver continued. “You put your life on hold. Kids, dreams, career, your own desires to follow him, to allow him to spread his wings and fulfill his dreams. Hell, you were taught to do that. It’s the job of the American wife… especially one with money, right? You should stand by your man, afford him all the opportunities, and if the road leads to Cuba… well, vaya con dios, go with god, right?”
The cab driver glanced into the rearview mirror in time to see my jaw drop in wonder.
“I know,” the driver continued, the question unasked, “because it’s my story too. It’s the same story with the same look in the eyes. I can always tell. These men—it doesn’t matter who they are or where they’re from—Cuba, America, Timbuktu. They cheat, and then they pretend they don’t… after all we’ve given to them and for them. Yet look at us. We stay.”
My phone chirped and a text message lit the screen. I was only mildly irritated that this exchange was interrupted. While this cab driver was nailing every emotion I’d been experiencing for over a decade, it was a little disconcerting to hear about yourself so intimately from a perfect stranger.
Where are you? the text message blared.
It was my best friend Claudia. I quickly responded with an inexact location, to which I received another text giving me instructions to meet Claudia at a nearby bar and discuss my unannounced exit from the party.
I leaned forward to speak to the taxi driver.
“Can you take me to Hotel Nacional? I think I’m going to meet a friend.”
The reflection of the driver’s eyes in the mirror seemed to dance.
“Ohhhh, a ‘friend’ is it?” the driver said with intrigue. “That’s one way to handle your emotions and your cheating man. I just never could do it myself.”
I laughed lightly. “I’m not meeting a man.”
“Hey, it’s a new age. Maybe try a woman, who am I to judge?” The cab driver laughed heartily.
The driver pulled up in front of Hotel Nacional. She told me the total, and as I was paying, she grasped my hand and made eye contact.
“You are a beautiful woman. Don’t let a man ever make you feel otherwise,” she said. “But don’t count on a man to make you feel it regularly either. Find it within.” She handed me a card. “And call me when you need a cab. Don’t trust these other penedejos.”
“Dee Redmond,” I read from the card.
“That’s me.”
“Well, Dee, I certainly enjoyed meeting you. I’m sure I’ll be calling.”
I inserted myself at the bar, finding two bar stools beside each other but flanked by Cuban men and a sparse smattering of women. I ordered a martini dry and glanced around, allowing myself to peek outside. There, men and women with sun-kissed skin relaxed in grand rattan chairs as peacocks wove their way through the wealthy locals and tourists. The jazz band played at just the right volume for the locale.
I always hated going into a classy bar and walking away with a headache from straining to hear the conversation, not to mention the raw scratchiness of my throat from having to raise my voice. This place was perfect, but I shouldn’t be surprised. I expected no less from Claudia; my single friend knew all the best spots in Havana for all times of the day.
Then, as if my thoughts had conjured her, Claudia arrived and slid into the chair beside me. She panted to catch her breath.
“Did you run here?” I asked.
“Very funny,” Claudia replied. “I guess I practically did, though. The minute I realized you’d bailed and I texted you, I was out the door trying to find you, a taxi or whichever came first.”
The bartender brought my drink and Claudia indicated he could make that two. She eyed the man on the other side of her, smiled, and said something I couldn’t make out. The man laughed and brushed Claudia’s bare shoulder lightly.
“Always on the prowl?” I asked discreetly.
“You betcha,” Claudia responded. “Life is getting shorter for me, and Cuban men are getting married… not that that little detail stops them from cheating. But…” she shrugged her shoulders, “well, I’d rather be their one and only.”
“This subject keeps coming up tonight,” I mused.
“Oh, really?”
I proceeded to tell Claudia about Dee, the cab driver.
“Best cab ride I’ve ever experienced in Havana,” I admitted. First, because I didn’t almost lose bladder control with the horrendous driving, but secondly, because she was so incredibly interesting. I’m thinking I’ll have to call her again and just hang out; have lunch or something.”
“Poor Sophie,” Claudia said.
“Why ‘poor Sophie?’”
“She’s so lonely she’s befriending a random cab driver,” came the reply, but we both knew there was a shred of truth in it. Claudia is the only one I’ve confided in while Harold and I have been in Cuba. Even my friends and family back home know nothing of my loneliness or the rumors of my husband being spotted coming out of a Havana brothel, the angst I’ve dealt with on a daily basis because of Harold’s distaste for Cuba.
All of this is just a stepping stone for him, a way to further his career. His goal is to be commissioned to Europe, but he accepted the position in Cuba hoping to work his way up. In the meantime, however, he does little to hide—from me anyway—his aversion to this country, its people, its food, and its culture.
“So, why’d you bolt?” Claudia asked after a few more flirty comments with the good-looking dark-skinned man beside her.
“I just couldn’t take it. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I might actually, literally go insane if I had to hear about American relations or anything else, especially from Harold.”
“What’s he done now?”
Claudia knew the whole story—every detail—and her patience for the great Ambassador was thin at best.
I shrugged in response. “It’s more about what he hasn’t done, I guess. He’s married to his job, which he hates all facets of. Do you know how miserable that can be? I feel like I’m always having to be the one who makes an effort to… I don’t know, just live, just be here… in Cuba… in the marriage… whatever. It’s e
xhausting.” I sighed, exasperated and sad, then drained the rest of my martini.
“And don’t even get me started on the desert our sex life has become,” I mentioned.
“Yeah, I don’t know how you do that,” Claudia said. I knew she was listening, but I also saw her eyeing a dashing waiter dodging the peacocks as he wove his way through the rattan chairs and tables. Then, Claudia snapped her fingers with inspiration.
“I know exactly what you need,” Claudia said. “Well, more like who you need.”
I put up my hands in protest and shook my head against the idea.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t think taking a lover is for me,” I said.
“What is this ‘taking a lover’ thing?” Claudia said. “I’m not trying to set you up with some long affair… unless that’s what you want. No, I just know this guy who would be perfect for you to meet. If it ends up in a night of wild, passionate sex, then who am I to stop the gods from making that happen. I am but the mere matchmaker.”
“Ssshhh,” I scolded. “Lower your voice. I have no idea who’s here and who may recognize me. I can do without the rumor or paper mill running with this scandal.”
Claudia glanced around and nodded. “Alright, but what I’m saying is, I merely introduce you. Set you up. He’s very discreet, loves all things American—including older women—and he’s muy, muy guapo. Very, very handsome.”
Another deep exhale escaped me, and I realized how often I’d been sighing this night alone. If tonight was any indication of my level of vexation at my life, I may truly need to take more drastic measures.
“It’s easy for you to think about,” I indicated to Claudia. “I mean, you’re single and not worried about the public eye.”
But both of us knew what word had remained unspoken, and that was a clear, definitive ‘no’.
Available Now!
Also By Leslie Johnson
Badass: Jungle Fever Box Set
Stoking the Embers Box Set
Ashes Box Set
Firemen Romance Series Box Set
Love, Lies, Deceit
The Ambassadors Wife Box Set
Standalone Novellas
Everything to Live For
With Elle Dawson
Rebecca’s Gift Box Set
About the Authors
Leslie Johnson
Leslie is a California native but recently moved to Arizona after a stint in Arkansas. She enjoys travel and being with her grandchildren.
She is an avid reader of many genres, but prefers romances with travel or thriller themes. She loves writing about strong women and strong men because the world needs both!
Please visit me at:
http://lesliejohnsonauthor.com/
https://www.facebook.com/lesliejohnsonauthor
Elle Dawson
Sharing ones thoughts on paper is an intimate experience, and should not be taken lightly. Some days I fear this process, as my mind can be a scary place to dwell. Other days I realize I’m not alone in this journey, and although the very action of expelling ones deepest thoughts onto paper is intensely personal, it is deeply healing. Funny how that works.
I will continue to write as Elle Dawson, and be a mom, sister, daughter and friend in my real life. I’ll enjoy the beauty of Tennessee and read books that take me away or speed up my heart. When I’m not writing them.
I’d love to stay connected...please visit me at one—or both—of these places:
Website: http://elledawson.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ElleDawsonWrites
Email me: [email protected]
Copyright
© 2016 Leslie Johnson & Elle Dawson
All rights reserved.
Published by: Atrevida Publishing
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated. All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Badass: Jungle Fever (Complete): A Billionaire Military Romance Page 25
