by Tiana Laveen
…Why did I say that? This man don’t care about that shit. I’m too chatty sometimes. Why do I talk so much when I’m nervous or around a good-looking guy? Wait, I take that back. I don’t act like this around every good-looking man I may run into, just some of them… and why am I now explaining my explanations to my own damn self?! I’m even chatting too much in my own head, arguing with myself like some loon. Next it will be a full, head on argument and a violent fight between me, myself and I, right here in the wine aisle!
“A busy mind is a smart mind.” With those words, he brought her back into his world. His eyes hooded, causing her body temperature to rise like some pre-heated oven. Or was it a hot flash? She no longer cared. “Anyway, we’re both night owls I guess. I stay up late most nights for a bunch of reasons and have to eventually force myself to sleep. Wine sometimes helps, ya know?” He smiled, showing almost perfect teeth. One on the bottom row was slightly crooked, but it only added to his handsomeness, made him appear genuine. “See, when choosing wines, one of the best ways to start learning about them is just to try them out for size. If something catches your eye, get it. Start out with a couple of whites, a couple of reds, real simple, see?”
“Yeah.” Feeling a little silly, she stared into his eyes once more. Another rush of warmth coursed through her, this one a softer sensation, but definitely more lasting. Perhaps that was her preference in wines, too? Just that fast, her thoughts drifted to something low down and dirty, filthy and seedy, as her level of physical attraction elevated like an escalator. The man had a chiseled face, his expression serious, even when he smiled. His eyes were slightly crimped at the ends, the hoods naturally defined, heavy, and the irises an intense shade of green.
His gaze gave him an air of friendliness, while the rest of his face appeared regal and staunch. Such contrasts he was… Hair the shade of rich espresso was brushed away from his broad forehead, and a beard and mustache lined his face, threaded with mere hints of silver.
“That recommendation sounds simple enough,” she finally spoke again as she caught a whiff of the man. He smelled clean, like scrubbing solvents, lemon, and something medicinal and oily, possibly turpentine. One would think such a thing would have been a turn off, or at the least off-putting, but, in her years of restoring furniture, she found it rather comforting.
“What you need to do is get you a good book and read up, then go to some places that let you sample to figure out what you lean towards. Then you’ll have a better idea of what you like and don’t like. There are so many ways to skin this cat, but the possibilities are endless.”
“Sounds right to me. You said that one in your basket there helps you relax, huh?”
“Yeah.” He nodded and squared off with her, looked down at her as if she’d called him closer. She swallowed as they simply gazed at one another… Her looking up at him, him looking down her… The angles of his flawless lips rounded in a grin. “It helps me, and it’s my nightcap of choice. I don’t do it all the time, but this makes a delicious sleep aid every now and again.”
“I need to try that one then.” Reaching past him, she tried in vain to pull the same brand down, this time getting a whiff of his aftershave, too. He quickly stepped in front of her, grabbed the bottle, and placed it delicately in her basket.
“Thank you.”
“Of course…anytime.” They marinated in a moment of stilted silence, and she could almost swear she heard his breathing begin to slow… like some animal trying to quiet its own heartbeat as it searched about on the prowl.
“I have to be at work in a few hours. I need to get some sleep. Instead, I’m here at the grocery store. I have no idea why I do this to myself.” She chuckled. “Thank you for the tips though. I appreciate it. You’ve been really helpful.”
“You’re uh…” He took a step back from her, sliding his hand into his pocket, “…more than welcome.” The goliath allowed her just enough room to maneuver around him.
“You have a good night.” Her voice practically cracked as she turned to walk away.
“You too…”
His face, his voice, his scent etched themselves in her mind. She got several feet between them but before she could leave the aisle once and for all, the man suddenly called out to her.
“Hey!”
Pausing, she looked at him from over her shoulder. He reminded her of some dark tower wedged between the rows of glossy bottles. He commanded attention without even trying.
“Yes?” Her heart beat accelerated as he approached her. His blurry reflection moved on the lustrous floors and each step he took felt like a rumble, a thunderstorm right before torrential rain. Soon he was right beside her again. This time, she picked up the faint odor of cigarettes and mint on his breath.
“So, are you with someone? Married or somethin’?”
“No…”
“Good. One question down, another one to go. You like wine, I like wine… Maybe I could teach you about wine pairing over dinner? Or…” He shrugged. “Maybe we can do something else, I don’t care, whatever you want, but I want to take you out… get to know you. Can I get to know you better?”
She swallowed, then cleared her throat, as if important words needed to be spoken, some carefully constructed ‘let down’, a ‘no thank you but I’m flattered’ speech. Instead, her mouth opened and out flew some utterances she hadn’t planned on saying. “Get to know me? Over dinner?”
“Yeah, you know, that meal after lunch and before dessert.”
She looked down at her shoes and chuckled, partially because she now saw she had on mismatched socks—one navy blue, the other black.
“What’s your name, pretty lady?”
She looked up into his eyes and she lost her breath on the earthiness of his deep, husky voice. “Emerald.”
“That’s nice; unusual, but nice. I really like it. Mine is Sloan… Sloan Steele.”
She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Sloan.” He reached out and shook it, his grip powerful but gentle all the same. An awkward silence wove itself between them before they both chuckled, as if they’d just psychically shared a joke.
“So, Emerald.” He cocked his head to the side, showing that easy, lazy smile she was enjoying a bit too much and too soon. “Can I call you to arrange this dinner date I asked you out on?”
“I think so.” She laughed lightly as she pulled out her phone. “Let me get your number, too.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” He set his basket down by his foot and whipped out his cell phone from his pocket.
“You’re not from here, are you?” She scrolled through her contacts list. They exchanged numbers.
“Nah, I’m from Manhattan, lower eastside.”
“The village?”
“Yeah, born and raised there.”
“My brother is out that way.” Hiding a smile, she observed him remove his wallet from his pocket and slide out a business card. He handed it to her.
“Yeah? It’s home,” he said with a shrug, “but I just moved here and so far I like it… nice people, nice place. It’s quieter; I appreciate that.”
“It’s very peaceful here but the Carnival Bizarre happens in a few weeks and it gets totally crazy,” she warned as she took his black and white business card and ran her thumb over the smooth finish.
“Carnival Bizarre?”
“Yeah, it’s this big celebration with—” She paused as she read his card. “Sloan Steele – Author of “I Like Long Crawls in the Dark.” I knew your name sounded familiar when you said it, but I didn’t put two and two together! You’ve got to be kidding me!” Laughing, she stomped her foot in disbelief.
“You read it?” He looked genuinely surprised.
“Hell yes, I read it!” The man burst out laughing, his skin flushed. “That book kept me on the edge of my seat. Now, I won’t kid you…” She put her hand up, getting into a groove as her excitement grew wings and flapped about her. “I just started getting into your type of books. Usually I’d read bi
ographies, but your novel caught my attention for some reason. I saw it on the New York Times Bestsellers list and decided to give it a try, take a stab at something different, just like my wines.”
“Well?” His black brows furrowed ever so slightly, which only made him look that much sexier. “What’d you think?”
“I absolutely loved it!”
“Well hell, thanks. That means even more to me, you know, that it really wasn’t your thing but you gave it a whirl anyway. A real nice lookin’ lady like yourself flipping through my book… just the thought of it, well… it makes me smile, ya know? It’s a big ego boost to picture something like that.”
“You’re definitely from Manhattan. You guys are slick with words and I know you’re just blowing smoke, but whatever.” At this, the man feigned an expression of shock. “Manhattan smoothness should be illegal,” she teased.
Out from his mouth poured deep, raucous laughter, the belly-aching kind. That startled her. A vein protruded at the center of his forehead, driving his sexiness through the roof.
“Yeah, well.” He went serious and stood a bit straighter. “That may be true for some of us, but I meant what I said. I think you’re real nice looking, and you seem interested in some of the stuff I like. So look, my number is on there, and my email address, too.” He pointed down towards the card. “I only give these cards out to people in the special members clubs… can’t have every Tom, Dick, and Harry calling me.”
“Special members, huh? Do I get a silk purple jacket and a hat with your insignia, too?” she joked.
“No, but you do get some wine lessons free of charge if you want them, some dinner and good conversation.”
“Count me in, then.” She rattled off her number to the man. A surge of excitement pulsed through her as she watched him save her contact info.
“Alright, Emerald.” He began to back away, his basket swinging slowly at his side. “I’ll give you a call, all right? You be safe, okay? Crazy people ’round here.” He laughed lightly.
“Oh, I’ll be all right!” she chided as she turned away and perused the wine aisle once more. In actuality, she wanted to simply bask a bit longer in the space that they’d shared.
“Well, call me old fashioned, but I had to say it. People do dumb stuff so just…I’m rambling,” He grinned and waved her off. “But you know what I mean. Have a good night.”
“I will, and thanks, okay? It was nice of you to express your concern, and thanks again for the wine tips, too!”
“Anytime!” After blowing her a kiss, he turned and disappeared from the aisle, leaving her.
Suddenly, she felt alone. She hadn’t felt alone before he’d arrived. She’d been fine—in a bit of a rush, actually. She’d wanted to get home with her cabernet, or perhaps a chardonnay, and pair it with some cheese, fancy crackers, and her coveted chocolate covered raisins. She’d wanted to settle in front of the television for an hour or two, snuggle into her blanket, then doze off before her alarm struck.
Now, all she had was the lingering intermingled scents from his body and her own pomegranate body wash. His deep voice was gone, and so was his all-encompassing, almost overpowering presence. She didn’t want their conversation to end, but it had to, because the seconds warred on and there were jobs to do, homes to drive back to, and tasks to complete.
She never imagined in a million years that one of her weekly trips to the grocery store in the wee hours of the morning, when night still blew its obscure breath across the sky, would result in bumping into someone such as Sloan Steele. The beauty of the man lay in his relaxed vibe, in his naturally funny and charming self, all genuine and not overdone… not the kind that caused suspicion or came across as disingenuous. Even his appearance caused her to stiffen, yet want to relax all at once. He was good-looking, had a natural ruggedness, and she remembered all too well some of the things he’d written in that book… The man definitely had a way with words.
At that moment, she wondered what parts of him had bled into that story? That novel had made her laugh, scream, cry, and feel angry all at once. She’d even left a review for the thing, something she rarely did; she’d loved it just that much. She’d given it four stars out of five, deducting one for a character she despised that never attempted to redeem herself, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him that. Laughing at the notion, she stood there reflecting over their encounter. What a small, small world they lived in.
The next moments were spent reading the back of a few soup cans while tapping her foot to a cheesy karaoke version of Milli Vanilli’s, ‘Girl You Know it’s True’. Her mind wandered as she checked out, lining her items in perfect little parallel rows on the dark gray conveyor belt. The memory of him consumed her, made her smile somewhat, float inside herself like an internal vacation on the wings of possibilities. After she paid for her things, she mumbled goodnight to the cashier and walked through the electronic double doors, where she was saluted by a cool breeze that hit her face and blew into her hair. Holding the brown paper bags tight in one hand by the handles, she walked fast and steady to her car, while the man kept happily haunting her thoughts. She kept replaying their conversation in her mind and unashamedly hoped he’d call. Either way, she doubted she’d call him if he didn’t; that wasn’t her style though she confessed to herself she’d be disappointed if he never followed up—and curious as to why not, too.
Regardless, right then, right there, things were fine; matter of fact, they were better than fine. She had two bottles of wine she’d never tried before, an assortment of fresh vegetables dying to be marinated and sprinkled with garlic pepper, juicy strawberries, and another bag of sea-salted chips for lunch the following day. Her afternoon would be a busy one filled with patient duties, such as dental cleaning, calming down the crying adults who hadn’t been to a dentist in years, or those begging for their lives while she’d rattle off a distracting joke or two during a wisdom tooth removal.
But the patients weren’t the only ones experiencing discomfort; her issue with men was quite prickly as of late. Dating was no longer fun for her, and this was simply a fact that she faced and accepted head on. The process of greeting, meeting, then eating or whatever the order of the day was no longer panned out as planned. It often turned out to be messy and awkward, like a botched hairstyle steeped with far too much gel. Her latest ventures into the online thing had also proved a bust as well. Slipping into the driver’s seat, she took off.
It’s nice to meet a guy face to face…
She couldn’t help but grin nice and wide as she made her way home, driving in the darkness with the moon riding shotgun along the northern sky. Tonight, she was going to sleep on a fantasy, one filled with velvety rich wine, old black and white movies, and hopefully, the beginning of a real nice friendship. Perhaps even a bit more…
CHAPTER FIVE
It’s Time To Face the Music
Walter Murphy’s, ‘A Fifth of Beethoven’ curled dusty musical notes amongst the flying debris. Sloan had found the classic disco and funk station locally broadcasted in Maxim to be bar none. He’d always had a thing for old, interesting items, and radios drew his attention in a special sort of way. Perhaps this was due to his mother, who would always lounge on her favorite chair in their small living room, listening to the tunes with a smile on her face. One of his cherished memories of when he was a young boy. Radios had thus become a slight obsession for him; he’d even collected a few that caught his eye at The Demolition Depot, a place full of assorted, unique relics back in East Harlem. As he bobbed his head to the music and rolled back a wayward sleeve on his white button-down shirt, he couldn’t help but side eye a strange crack in the wall.
He’d been working for three days in Peter Jones’ old office, the room he’d avoided for quite some time, but that crack was grating on his nerves. It twisted and winded upward to the ceiling and sprawled outward like skinny, dark fingers. He jammed his hands back inside a bucket of soapy water. Toiling about on his knees, he gave the floor
s a deep clean, his muscles straining as he gave it all that he had. It wasn’t long, though, before he was jolted and pulled right back into another bout of disquiet.
It was always uncomfortably cold in that part of the house, despite repeated calls to the three heating and cooling companies that would surely be more than happy to take his money, but they claimed everything was in good order. Maybe the damn windows were causing the draft. He’d had those checked, too, but another inspection might be warranted. One window in particular made him pause. Its large frame cattycorner to the massive fireplace, it was covered in decades of soot. One had to look through tiny scratches of clear glass pane to see outside of it, but he always experienced a sense of uneasiness when he’d try to peer out, see what lay ahead.
My son got his ridiculous thoughts jammed in my head. All that boogeyman bullshit…
He shoved the sponge back into the water, wrung it out real hard then proceeded to rub it in a circular motion into a rather stubborn patch of dirt, harsh stroke by harsh stroke. But then he noticed something rather peculiar with the floorboards. One was slightly lifted, as if someone had attempted to pry the thing off, then gave up mid-way into succeeding. Getting on his haunches, he sniffed to stop a runny nose from all of the dust and odors of various cleaning agents, then ran his forearm against his cheek to cure an itch.
All the while, he stared at that floorboard so long and so hard, he suddenly realized the entire extended version of ‘Love to Love You Baby’ by Donna Summer had started and ended. Tossing the damn soiled, soppy rag down, he used both hands to pry the damn thing back the rest of the way. He grunted with the exertion, yet was so driven, so compelled to do this that even if he wanted to stop, he couldn’t. Several minutes later, his hard work paid off and beneath the floorboard, he found a book. Noting the blank, rich walnut cover with no printing on it, he carefully picked it up and opened it. Despite the stained and tatty pages, the typewritten words were still legible. He leaned against the wall beneath the window he abhorred and flipped through the thing. Didn’t take him long to realize it was a copy of one of Peter Jones’ most famous works, “The Water Fountain”, a spooky story about a water fountain on an enormous, stunning estate owned by a wealthy businessman. Each time a murder was committed—someone the man knew—and the water fountain would flow with blood, unleashing clues as to who would perish next. One day, the wealthy businessman collapsed, having become a hollow dried shell of his former self, right before the thing. So much blood gushed forth from the fountain then that it covered the entire property, saturating the grounds. That blood had belonged to the wealthy owner; his misdeeds had finally caught up with him, once and for all.
