Exquisitely Yours: A Sin City Tale

by M. Jay Granberry

  I take a long pull of soda from the straw the cute little attendant placed on the napkin when I first arrived thirty minutes ago and hit the FaceTime button on the call.

  Adam’s distressed face immediately pops up on the screen and I don’t understand what I’m looking at.

  “You cut your hair?” I accusingly study his newly adopted hipster facade. It can’t be that long since I’ve laid eyes on him. Admittedly, the band kind of dispersed after the tour ended but that’s not exactly odd. There’s only so much togetherness one can take.

  He raises a self-conscious hand up to the shorn locks, dropping it just before he touches the crown. “Yeah. I just—I needed a change. You know?”

  “Yeah, I do, but come on, man. That’s self-mutilation. Your hair is like…” I push down the worry that immediately flairs across my thoughts. Adam has been spiraling for two years. It started with the death of his mother, heightened at the shooting, and continued through us bebopping our way across the globe.

  “Are you okay?” I ask quietly.

  He doesn’t answer immediately, indecision dragging down the corners of his mouth. “I’d be better if someone had his ass at the terminal to catch the flight. But we’ll work it out. This is our last hurrah. Miles has already walked down the aisle. Sin is up next. I imagine you won’t be that far behind. You gotta be here, D.”

  It’s not lost on me that he left himself out of that little explanation. Is that what’s been eating at him for the last couple of years? He sees everyone else moving on but him? If that’s the case, I’m more confused than I was before.

  Last I checked, I shouldn’t be on his running tally of bandmates who have coupled up. Hell, between taking shifts for my family with my grandmother, picking up studio work for a few of the local bands, and flirting with the idea of a solo project, that would be a departure from everything.

  I miss the sweet spread of a woman’s thighs, and the arch of a fragrant neck under my lips. Never one for pain, I even miss the sting of nails dragging down my back.

  The last action I got came from a fuck-hot woman who straddled my lap late one night under the stars. Said woman and I did little more than round a very scintillating third base; that had her pulsing around my finger and moaning into my mouth. After which, she fell asleep, leaving me with my first case of blue balls since Heather Yoon in the ninth grade.

  I woke up raring to go and was shut down hard. In the almost light of day, the pretty lady couldn’t meet my eyes. She talked around the fact that we almost bumped uglies and juked my ass pretty good. Except the goodbye kiss, which was hotter than the kisses that came before it.

  There are a million reasons why we shouldn’t have gone there, but—and that’s a big B-U-T, with capital letters—we’d already opened Pandora’s box. You can’t put damn near fucking back in the bottle, box, or whatever.

  Even if I wanted to and gave it the old college try.

  I’ve been with women of every flavor of the spectrum: spicy vanilla, rich chocolate, tangy sweet-ass strawberry. Swanky ladies who like eating Almas caviar before giving effervescent blow jobs with a mouth full of Moët & Chandon, earthy women who taste like honey and make you want to yodel like Tarzan swinging from a banana tree, and sweet groupies with W. A. P. who never have to get ready because they stay ready.

  And I’ve still never experienced anything like Jessica Johnson. She’d been rousingly inconsistent. Bold and aggressive one kiss, timidly earnest the next.

  We had a laundry list of reasons that should have kept us from sliding down what turned out to be a slippery slope, but those reasons didn’t matter. Not when her lips were on mine or my hand was travelling up a taut thigh under the edge of her swimsuit bottoms. I’d wanted to show her every lesson I’d learned over years of experience. I’d wanted her needy and breathy and under me.

  I could have been discreet. There was no way anyone—not her brother, my bandmates, or the man on the fucking moon—would have heard one word from me. Plus, the goings-on between consensual adults are no one’s business but their own.

  I don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing that Jessica and I are bound to cross paths this weekend. Her brother is getting married to one of my best friends. We’ll be at the same obligatory wedding events at the same time in close, possibly awkward, or glorious proximity.

  Either way, my intuition is telling me a round two is inevitable.

  “I’ll be there.” My voice is drowned out by an overhead announcement asking the passengers of a Grand Canyon helicopter tour to convene at the sliding glass doors that lead to the airfield.

  “Dan? Where are you?” Adam asks sharply. Alert eyes search the space over my shoulder.

  “Busted.” I shrug unapologetically. A man’s gotta know when to throw in the towel.

  “Asshole.” He laughs, tension giving way to an easy smile. “I was having a mini coronary over here.”

  It can’t be as bad as all of that. “What I think you meant to say was, ‘Thank you, D. You have once again saved my ass.’”

  “Nah, I said exactly what I meant…” Adam looks pointedly into the camera. “Asshole.”

  “Well, one man’s asshole is another man’s…” I search for a biting response and, yeah, I’ve got nothing.

  Mentally, I add one to Adam’s win column. He knows it too. His smile turns into a knowing smirk. “On that note, I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  “More like four.” The lobby door slides open, drawing my attention to the people who just entered.

  An older man dressed in an honest-to-God linen suit, straw fedora, and old-man sandals comes storming in. His shiny black roller bag noisy while hitting every possible grout line between tiles with irritation as he strides toward the check-in counter. My man is obviously pissed but he’s hard to take seriously when he looks like something out of a ’60s Sean Connery James Bond movie.

  A much younger woman trails behind him pulling designer luggage. Where his suit is light, hers is heavy, severe. Dark sunglasses cover her eyes. Hair with a slight wave at the root has been pulled mostly straight by the tight ponytail that hangs down the middle of her back.

  The old man has his bag and the executive cutie has high heels clacking across the tile. I wonder if it’s a competition for who can make the most noise. “Daddy, slow down.”

  She catches up where he stopped in front of the desk.

  Daddy? I know that voice. On closer inspection, I recognize this boss lady. Jessica pushes the sunglasses up her forehead to rest atop her hair. She rubs her tired eyes before squinting at her father.

  “We need to fly. Now,” the man demands, slapping a palm on the countertop.

  “What is that?” Adam asks. The tension in his face returning full force.

  Shit. I’d almost forgotten about Adam. “It looks like the young Miss Johnson and her…father?” I hope. She did call the man Daddy.

  “Is it just those two? You don’t see Jake’s mother?”

  “I wouldn’t know who I was looking for if I did see her, but Jessica and Pops Johnson are the only two who walked in.”

  “Dammit! That must mean she’s not coming,” he derives, eyes boring into mine. Between the two of us, the intricacies of a mother-son relationship are more my wheelhouse. “What kind of mother misses her own son’s wedding?”

  It’s a rhetorical question. Adam’s mom, well, we all know she would have missed her son’s wedding to chase her next high. My mom? She has her issues, but not supporting her sons isn’t one of them.

  “Should I go over there? See what’s up?” I stand, taking a couple of steps toward the Johnsons when the sliding glass door opens again. Another man walks in, this one younger. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s closer to Jessica’s age. He’s dressed in a navy suit—what is it with these people and formal clothes?—clean-cut and preppy. Picture Morris Chestnut in any movie from the early
2000s, and he’s looking at Jessica with open adoration.

  “No,” Adam sighs, bringing my attention back to the phone screen. “This is a family drama ten years in the making. Just make sure the people present get on the jet.”

  “Will do. See you soon.” I end the call and once again glance at the little group convened at the check-in desk.

  Voices are lower so I only catch every other word of the conversation. Luggage is checked, bag tags given, and the attendant points the party in my direction.

  I sit up straighter in my seat. Suddenly self-conscious in a way that has me questioning my appearance and chosen profession. My travel gear consists of a T-shirt, jeans, and a leather jacket just in case it gets cold. I washed my hair before I left. The long, heavy strands are still wet, but my hair is one of my best features, even on bad days.

  “Good afternoon, son,” the older man says with a soft southern accent that elongates the O’s, extending his hand in greeting. I stand before clasping it in a strong handshake.

  “You must be one of Sinclair’s…people.” He doesn’t say it in an insulting manner. It’s more like he’s uncertain if I fall into the friend or band camp.

  Band camp. Good one, D.

  “Yeah, we grew up together and I also play drums in the band.”

  “Is that right?” He gives my hand a couple more pumps before releasing it. “What’s your name?”

  “Daniel. Daniel Xu.”

  “Nice to meet you, Daniel. I’m Conrad, Jacob’s father. This,” he wraps an arm around Jessica’s shoulders, pulling her forward, “is my daughter Jessica, and that fine young man is Terrence, a longtime family friend.”

  ‘Longtime friend’ holds a partially expectant, decidedly hopeful undertone, which makes me study the other man closer. Conrad might as well have said ‘future son-in-law.’

  Terrence is younger than me, maybe twenty-four, twenty-five. He has skin the color of deep umber, a perfect contrast to his bright white smile and friendly eyes. His appearance screams prep school, money, and safe choices. Next to this HENRY—high earning, not rich yet—family friend, I look like a goddamn deviant.

  “We’ve met, Daddy,” she states as a matter of fact, extending her hand in much the same way her father did. Polite. Professional. Indifferent.

  Not sure why this prim and proper persona strikes a nerve, but it does. Immediately.

  “At the pool party a couple of months ago, right?” I slide the pads of my fingertips across her palm before wrapping them around her hand. It’s a repeat of the first time we met backstage, and the moment she walked into the pool house. The air around us thickens with attraction, the places where our skin touches tingle.

  Jessica gives me wide, blinking eyes.

  I can’t quite decipher that look. Is it shock that I’d mention that night—our night? Is it a surprise that our chemistry is very real and has been lying dormant, hidden under the laundry list of shoulds and shouldn’ts, until this exact moment?

  I see you, pretty lady. This is what happens when we are in the same vicinity.

  “Yes. I think that was it,” she says in a husky monotone, pulling her hand from mine. Nervously reaching up to smooth the undisturbed hairs of her ponytail.

  Terrence steps in front of Jessica, blocking her from my view.

  Well, well, well, looks like ol’ Terry here is a little territorial.

  “Nice to meet you,” he clasps my hand in the too tight grip of a man sensing a challenge. You’ve got the wrong man, brother.

  I can see the woman. I’ve tasted her, felt her in my arms. I know what I’d do for just a shot, one night. It doesn’t take a far leap of the imagination to guess the direction of ol’ Terry’s thoughts.

  He’s a red-blooded, American male, and this woman is in a category of her own. It’s not that she’s the most beautiful, although she’s stunning. It’s her spirit. The intelligence lighting the vivid hazel eyes, and the wordless challenge that lives at the edge of all that carefully sculpted control. Jessica Johnson calls to the primitive region of the male brain. The part that wants to hunt and vanquish because if you can conquer her, the rest of the world is easy.

  “Likewise, Terry,” I respond, returning his grip.

  “Terrence,” he corrects, and we have a stare-off. Assess each other as men and possible rivals.

  “Yeah, that’s what I meant.” I wink, dropping his eyes to look at the subject of our male posturing. The lady is paying us little attention and I suddenly feel foolish. Dick measuring is a young man’s game. I have money, celebrity, and a cool-ass job. On G.P. I’m king ding-a-ling.

  What are you doing, D? This woman isn’t yours. You like ’em wild and loose. Judging by her refined suit and perfectly coiffed hair, she’s a little too uptight, and too put together. So what if she played a starring role in one of the most erotic experiences of your life. You’re not even on her radar, but God, what I wouldn’t give to be a blip, to know for a fact that her pussy is indeed the fine specimen I believe it to be.

  “Is this everyone then?” Conrad asks, looking around our little group before taking a seat.

  “No,” Jessica says pointedly. “You need to call Momma. You know she should be here. You’re the only person who can bridge this gap between her and Jake, and you just…”

  “Enough,” he responds in a hard voice, cutting her off. “I have spoken to Danielle at length. I spoke to her today before the car came to pick us up. I have been speaking to her since your brother chose Sinclair James twelve years ago. Baby girl…” He lets out a wary sigh. “I’m all talked out. I almost lost him trying to traverse that chasm and I won’t risk it again.”

  “But, Daddy, if Momma misses his wedding, I don’t think there’ll be any fixing it.” Jessica takes the seat next to her father’s, sad eyes searching his.

  “I know, baby girl. The only thing we can do is love them both and hope that, sooner rather than later, they come to their senses.”

  Ol’ Terry and I take the open seats in the clustered chairs and try to give them privacy in a setting where there’s little. The executive terminal, although plush, isn’t large. We’d hear the conversation from practically anywhere in the terminal. Thankfully, they fall into silence, each lost in thought until our party is called over the overhead speaker.

  Terrence stands immediately like a good little puppy, driving home the fact that Jessica is here with someone else. Albeit an L7 motherfucker that I can’t picture with a woman of her caliber, but he’s the family friend. The one who talks softly in her ear while offering to help with her carry-on. He’s the one she smiles up at even as she wipes a wayward tear that somehow slips past her lower rim lashes.

  We board the airstairs and get situated in the deluxe leather seats. Conrad is up front, eyes closed. He might be praying, but then again, he may be meditating and having a woosah moment, as the door to the jet closes and he’s forced to accept his wife isn’t coming. I don’t know his life other than the uncomfortable snippet I just heard.

  From my position I can also see Jessica and Terrence in the seats a row up. I place wireless headphones in my ears as the jet door closes, choosing one of the new audiobooks I downloaded. As an erotic novel starts, I spare another glance across the aisle.

  Let it ride, D. All the two of you had was moment. It looks like the two of them have a future.

  I lay my head back against the headrest and close my eyes. The narrator’s melodic voice in my ear is relaxing as my body is pushed into the cushions by the pressurization of the cabin and I square up for an uneventful flight where for once in my life I make the smart choice, the logical choice, and forget all about Miss Johnson.

  Chapter 14

  Jessica

  Five hours later, I watch the sun lower behind the most western edge of the earth and dip into the Pacific from the porthole window as we touch down in Los Cabos.

&nb
sp; The time in flight did little to ease the awful dread gathering minute by minute at Momma’s absence, or the aggravation at Daddy’s lack of initiative to help fix or at the very least navigate what’s broken between Jake and my mom, and by default our family.

  If anything, the time in the air intensely heightened the almost painful awareness of Daniel, who has practically ignored me since the jet gained cruising altitude, and the irritation with Terrence, who so help me God I might harm if he offers one more overly attentive helpful hand.

  “I got the bags, Jess,” he says on cue, and I barely contain my growl of frustration. “The SUV has just pulled up to take us to the resort. I’ll make sure everything gets situated.”

  Instead of releasing the scream aching at the back of my throat I do my best to raise my lips in a smile, and utter, “Thank you. I’m going to run to the restroom to freshen up before we head out.”

  “I can go with you…”

  “Please, don’t.” I put up both hands in the universal hand gesture for stop. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’ll just be a minute,” I say in a rush, already walking toward the ladies’ room.

  His gaze sweeps over my face, dark brows bunched in a question.

  Please, don’t ask. Nothing I say right now will be kind or considerate of a friendship a lifetime in the making.

  Intuitively, he shelves whatever he was about to ask. His attention refocusing on the baggage handler wheeling a metal-framed luggage cart toward the exit and waiting vehicle.

  I make my way to the restroom, simultaneously surprised and relieved to find it empty. I empty my bladder in less than a minute flat. Exiting the stall, I move to the sink, waving my hands under one sensor to get soap and another to get water.

  “Damn, that’s cold,” I mutter to myself, shaking the excess water from my hands before pulling a couple of paper towels free.