From Cape Town with Love

by Blair Underwood

  “Do we really want to make this harder, Ten?” April’s voice flowed like a yoga relaxation tape. She had already started moving on.

  I thought of the old Richard Pryor routine where the calmer his woman got, the more he had a fit. I closed my eyes, forcing a deep breath. “I need to understand,” I said, opening my eyes. The lights stabbed my sudden headache. “We were fine before, and now we’re not? What changed?”

  April stared at her plate of half-eaten food. Our talk should have waited until dessert.

  “I’ve really been praying about this, because I started writing you letters and couldn’t find the words. There’s a quality you have—riding the chaos wave, seeing where it takes you. It’s so beautiful and free and brave, just like you. It’s the first thing that attracted me to your spirit. But now . . .” She didn’t finish. When April first met me, I was a suspect in Serena’s death; I’d been a vote against her better judgment from day one.

  April went on. “Some people can handle it—I know you’ll find someone who can—but I can’t anymore. I can’t sit around worrying about whether you’re going to get killed, or if you’ll have to kill somebody. I can’t live that way—or raise our kids that way.”

  I was about to promise April that I would never take another case, but the phrase our kids nearly made me choke on my bread. I tried to recover before she noticed, but I was too late. April gave me a resigned, heartbroken glance she tried to hide by drinking the last of her wine.

  “We have kids?” I said. I felt like Rip Van Hardwick. Had I missed something?

  “In two years I’ll be thirty, Ten. I want to be headed somewhere.”

  I don’t know how guys feel when they’re ready to discuss marriage and kids, but I wasn’t there yet. I was too tired to keep talking, so I should have kept my mouth shut—but I thought I knew exactly what to say. What every woman wants to hear.

  “All I know is . . . ,” I said, pausing for effect. “I love you, Alice.”

  For the first few seconds, I was confused by the horror on April’s face.

  You called her ALICE, my memory whispered, and my insides shriveled.

  “Shit,” I said, honestly shocked. “Jesus.”

  Blasphemy was just for good measure, since April was a church girl. My words were gibberish to me, as if someone had hijacked my mouth. I couldn’t think of an apology worthy of the transgression. I suppose my faux pas could have been worse. We could have been in bed.

  There’s no good way to call your girlfriend by the wrong name—but Alice was a former client from my working days. She was one of my steadiest clients for years, despite an age difference that made her old enough to be my mother—older, really. When she died, she left me her house, and I’d been living there ever since. I’d insisted to April that I’d kept the house only out of convenience; it was worth $2 million even in a recession.

  The past was the past, I had promised April. But it wasn’t. It never was.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” April said again, near tears. “I’m sorry, Ten.”

  Now I was the one who couldn’t meet April’s eyes. The bright colors all around stung me, their celebration quietly mocking. I reached across the table and took April’s hand, grateful when she held on. Her palm melted into mine. I stared as our sad fingers danced.

  I was wrong about the ghost at our table: It had been Alice all along.

  Since I had booked us two cottages at the B and B, taking nothing for granted, I was surprised when April gently held my hand after I walked her to her cottage’s doorstep. She squeezed, a silent invitation to the Garden of Eden. Just before I got cast out.

  My hand burned inside April’s. My stomach had sloshed acid since we left the restaurant, but not from the food. April’s hips swayed toward the pink-crimson bougainvillea blossoms guarding her door, and my eyes followed. Forget all that bullshit I just said about you, April’s hips said, soothing me. This is how I really feel.

  “Do you want to spend the night?” April said, taking my other hand.

  A mercy fuck. I understood the concept, had even administered a few, but had never been offered one. Night skies hid most of the beauty around us, and in the dark I was just very far from home. I could hear Sipho’s voice in my head, insisting that I walk away with my pride. If she was horny, she could buy a damn dildo.

  “Why would I come this far to be anywhere but with you?” I said instead. She smiled, ignoring the pained rumble I had never heard in my own voice.

  April dug through her too-big woven purse, looking for her room key.

  My agent, Len, once told me that he’d ended up drunk on champagne, puking in the men’s room when he went to his ex-girlfriend’s wedding right after college. Walking into April’s cottage, I was sure I should know better, just like I’d told Len.

  The rooms were small, hardly big enough for the high queen beds that were their centerpiece. April’s buttocks flared out when she leaned over to turn on the gourd-shaped light on her nightstand. I would miss April’s ass; it was a minor miracle. She rarely wore a bra, since her breasts were small and perfect. Through the thin white cotton of her tank top, her nipples’ black pearls stared back at me in the thirty-watt light.

  April sat beside me, her hand on my knee. “It’s hard for me, too, Tennyson.”

  “You seem to be doing all right.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “I smell you on my pillow—even here. I see people everywhere who look just like you. The way you flew to South Africa will probably always be the most romantic thing anyone ever does for me. Thank you for trying so hard. I’ll never forget it.” I shrugged, tired of the postmortem. “I miss you, Ten.”

  I didn’t say I miss you, too. Talk of missing me pissed me off. I played with the strap of her tank top, sliding it from her bare shoulder.

  “What else do you miss?” I said, on cue. She could have been a client.

  April slid her hand to my thigh, kneading hard. She knew exactly how to get my attention. Suddenly, April’s cruelty was sexy. I felt taut arousal below my navel. Most of the heat baking my skin was pain, but I wanted her.

  April pulled my T-shirt up, and I ducked to help her glide it over my head. The fabric stung when it snagged my bruised chin, but I hid my wince.

  My chest offered a new array of bruises. On one side, my ribs were battered purple.

  “God, Ten . . . ,” April said. Her eyes flooded with tears.

  “Shhhhhh,” I comforted her. “Don’t do that. I’m all right.”

  “You just went through hell, baby . . .”

  I just got to Hell, baby.

  April lightly traced the trail of welts and marks on my chest with her fingertip. Pain sizzled, mingled with longing. People who like to be whipped are looking for the feeling April’s finger gave me as she prodded my injuries. That night, I understood anew.

  “Does this help make it better?” April said. Gently, she kissed my raw ribs. My skin fluttered against her lips, a wave of soft pain. “Yes.” I clutched her shoulder. Harder.

  She kissed my ribs again, less gently. Real pain that time. I gritted my teeth, remembering the tree trunk that had smashed my ribs in the swamp. “Like that,” I said.

  After she’d kissed my bruises, April unbuckled my belt. My jeans collapsed to my ankles. My knees and legs were scabbed from the swamp, but the erections have always been easy for me.

  “Sssssss,” April hissed, admiring my trophy the way I’d admired her ass, like a beautiful tragedy—my nickname isn’t “Ten” just for brevity’s sake. April stared and mourned. Her hands stroked me into her memory. Next, her mouth buried me in warm, earnest wetness.

  April’s lips were sweet agony. Her tongue had learned its way along my hidden ridges. She knew how I loved her fingers to roam across my testicles and deep between my thighs. We had trained each other’s bodies well. Every hot swirl of April’s tongue stole my breath. My legs buckled back against the bed.

  I groaned, only partially from pleasure. A deep stab of grie
f made my seed surge and burn, until my groans had nothing to do with pain. My sore knees shook.

  I kissed April so hard that my mouth ached from the pressure. I stole her lips and tongue, sucking so fervently that I expected her to push me away—but she never did. “You’re gonna remember me, girl,” I said, nuzzling her earlobe before I bit it.

  April whimpered, surrendering to punishment. She pressed herself against me as if she wanted to climb inside my skin. Our fingers tangled as we fumbled at her clothes. Then she was naked brown skin, smooth as a college sophomore. Her nakedness lashed me. One last time. A guttural sound rose in my throat, and I collapsed against April to bend her over the bed, propping her ass high. Hot skin trapped hers as I pinned her beneath my weight. We’d tried anal sex once before, and my size made it too painful. I’d always wanted to try again, no matter how tight the fit, but instead I inched past the Forbidden Zone to slip through her moist, swollen folds.

  “Oh, Lord,” April said, trembling beneath me. “Oh damn, Ten. You’re . . .”

  April felt a little dry, but her insides welcomed me, grasping as I thrust. So tight. She pulsed against me with every breath. I bucked, and April’s hands clutched at the bed as she cried out. I braced myself with my arms locked, rolled my hips deeper. Stirring her up inside. April’s back squirmed against me, and my rib cage screamed.

  I pounded back at her, ignoring the pain from my cracked ribs. The air was thick, hot soup. I thrust blindly, chasing the ring of pleasure that could make me forget about breathing. I thrust so hard that my hips snapped loudly against April’s ass, whipping her. SLAP-SLAP-SLAP.

  “God . . . God . . . God . . . ,” April said.

  I felt the tremors across April’s shoulders, up and down her legs. Her insides snatched me, greedy and strong. I cried out when April’s body bumped my ribs, losing track of which cries were hers and which were mine; which were pleasure, which were pain.

  April howled and screamed. Her body danced and then went rigid, her first deep orgasm shuddering through her. I wondered how I didn’t break us both in half.

  We cursed each other, called to each other. We wanted to leave something behind, take something back. Our cries sounded so violent that I was sure the owners would call the police. But we couldn’t be quiet. We couldn’t go slow. When I climaxed, I yelled until my throat hurt. My legs gave way, and I sank to the floor.

  Then, it was over. Quiet.

  We lay nude the rest of the night, and I fought the feeling that I was in bed beside a cooling corpse. Both of us dozed, but neither of us slept for long. I could feel April’s microscopic hairs brushing against my skin. Since I couldn’t have April, her nearness chafed me. I wanted to leave so badly that I could barely lie still. I love you, Alice. Ugh. I was afraid I would vomit.

  When the first pale sunlight peeked beneath the door, I checked April’s face and found her eyes closed. She was asleep, or pretending to be; either one was fine. I kissed her forehead and climbed out of bed. Silent as a cat burglar, I found my clothes and dressed.

  I left a note of apology on her table, explaining that I would slip her plane ticket to Johannesburg under the door. Thank you for helping me understand, I wrote.

  The room reeked of us. April’s sweet, sharp scent, like no one else’s.

  I couldn’t glance at April’s nakedness one last time before I walked away.

  THREE

  SOON AFTER DAWN, I was driving toward the airport to look for a standby flight when I remembered the scrap of paper in my back pocket, a glimmer of good karma. I had planned to spend the day touring wineries with April, but instead I was leaving her stranded at our B and B. I’d left money for cab fare along with her plane ticket, but I didn’t expect her to be happy when she got up and realized I had cut our trip short.

  Rachel Wentz’s telephone number was a promise of diversion—and insurance against running into April at the airport. April and I might be friends again one day, but I needed to shake I love you, Alice out of my head. You twisted, stupid-ass motherfucker. If I flew straight home, I knew I would beat myself up all along the way. No thanks.

  I pulled to the side of the road near the entrance to a winery on Route 44 and dialed my iPhone. I don’t always pull over when I make a call, but I had nowhere else to go. The near-empty roadway was flanked by towering oaks, and the mountains and valleys around me burst with green life in the golden tendrils of the morning light. I could almost smell wine in the air.

  “Who the hell is this?” said the woman who answered in Rachel Wentz’s room, her voice angry and wide awake. “It’s six o’clock in the morning.”

  I almost hung up. Since I’d called a hotel switchboard, she would never know it was me.

  “This is Tennyson Hardwick. I—”

  “We were looking for your call yesterday.”

  “I’m calling now.” My interest in the job was circling the drain. After the night I’d just had, I would have a low tolerance for Rachel Wentz.

  “Why should I let you within ten feet of one of the biggest movie stars in the world?”

  Go fuck yourself. It was right at the tip of my tongue. Instead, I looked at my watch, still set to Los Angeles time. “It’s nine o’clock last night in L.A., but you might be able to catch my agent, Len Shemin, on his cell—”

  “Bodyguards have agents?” Her New York accent suddenly became pronounced. She liked being a character, and abrasiveness was her routine.

  “I prefer Close Protection Services,” I said. “But I’m an actor, too.”

  “Right, you live in L.A., so of course you are.” The woman laughed, overly amused. I don’t like being laughed at, but it changed her tone. “Okay, so I’ll give Len a call. I’ve already got his cell and home numbers. How do I reach you?”

  I told her, and she hung up without saying good-bye.

  Ten minutes later, she called back. My phone rang before I could finish a cup of Caturra coffee I’d picked up from a roadside café. I’ve been Len’s client for more than a decade, and I’ve never reached him that fast. But I’m not Rachel Wentz.

  “You may be a godsend, Mr. Hardwick,” she said when she called back; whatever Len had said had sealed the deal, given me instant respect. My caller ID beeped to announce that Len was trying to reach me, too; I wished I could see the look on his face. “We’d given up on you! Come to our hotel. We’re leaving for an orphanage in the township in two hours. Sofia will be glad. You’ll see our white van outside the lobby.”

  She never asked my rate, not that it probably mattered to her.

  An orphanage would be the perfect reality check, I realized. Instant perspective.

  I couldn’t wait to get back to work in Cape Town.

  “What is it with adopting these African babies?” Len said when I clicked to his call. “Do they poop Botox, or what?” Rachel Wentz must have mentioned the orphanage to Len, because I wouldn’t have. Any time I spend with a client is their own business.

  “What is it with folks who don’t want any kids, but feel free to judge people who do?” I said, a bit sharply. “Orphans need homes.”

  “Ten, you’re so damn naive. Sofia Maitlin doesn’t do anything unless it’s been plotted by three publicists, two managers, an agent, and a partridge in a pear tree. Expect a red carpet at the orphanage door—this is probably her new Oscar campaign. And gee, what a coincidence, Rachel Wentz is there. This is disgusting. That kid will need therapy.”

  Len’s cynicism was hard to stomach first thing in the morning.

  “At least he’ll be rich enough to pay for it,” I said. “I say live and let live.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see. Hey, I almost forgot: What about April? How’d it go?”

  I love you, Alice.

  “Didn’t.”

  There was a long silence on the other end. Len had had a minor nervous breakdown during his divorce, although I was one of only two people who knew. I’d found him sobbing under his desk one day, but we never talked about that. Only two months before, I’d
taken April by his office to meet him—the first time I’d brought a date out into the light. Len had beamed at me like a proud father, gushing about how good April was for me.

  “Shit. I’m really sorry,” Len said. “You know I mean that.”

  “Thanks. Next subject.”

  “Ten, I’ve been there. Your guts just got stomped to dogshit, and you need a boost. Boy, do I get that head space.”

  “You stink at pep talks. Move on.”

  Len pressed on with his true agenda: “. . . but no matter what, do not bump uglies with the boss—Sofia Maitlin is very engaged. To be honest, too many people know about the Lynda Jewell thing. You get tied to Maitlin, you’re the Enquirer’s poster boy for a year.”

  “Fuck you very much, Len.”

  “Tennyson, promise me you will not screw Sofia Maitlin.”

  Len only called me Tennyson as my friend, not my agent. He’d watched me flush my career away once. He knew I had sex with every woman who came near me, mostly because I could. The grieving woman I’d coaxed into bed in L.A. soon after April cut me loose was engaged, too. I was still a whore, whether or not I charged money. April had just helped me forget for a while.

  And Sofia Maitlin was one of the most beautiful women in the world.

  “I promise you,” I told Len, “nobody will know if I fuck Sofia Maitlin. Especially you.”

  “Ten, this isn’t a joke—”

  I hung up, realizing the harsh truth: I could easily start working day and night again, like the Michael Jackson song. It wasn’t so far behind me. So what? my mind challenged. At least you’d get paid. You should send a damn bill to April. She was joyriding you, man, and in this world, joy comes with a price tag.

  Anger was my medicine, softening the bite. I drove faster on the nearly deserted road, creeping far beyond the 120-kilometer-per-hour speed limit. My iPhone was on shuffle, and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Freebird” played on the car’s speakers next. The Southern-fried beat of liberation suited me fine. I jammed on the accelerator while the electric guitar whined and raged.