Exquisitely Yours: A Sin City Tale

by M. Jay Granberry

  I check my reflection in the mirror and see that I’m no worse for the wear. My pants are wrinkled from sitting so long and all the moisture has been sucked out of my skin—nothing that can’t be fixed with a warm shower and good bedtime routine.

  According to the itinerary, the happy couple have nothing planned until tomorrow night. Which gives me enough time to shake this funk and possibly talk some sense into my father.

  While he’s hell-bent on meddling in my love life, he’s ignoring his marriage.

  My attitude takes a nosedive at the thought of my parents’ disintegrating union and my dad’s horrible matchmaking attempt.

  I touch fingertips to my eyes and press, not rub. I’m not trying to smear eyeliner and mascara under my eyes. The raccoon look isn’t popping, and we still have a twenty-five-minute drive before we get to the hotel.

  I take a couple of cleansing breaths that do absolutely nothing to ease my increasingly dark mood.

  I’m a good person, responsible, hard-working. I do what I’m supposed to do, down to the mundane details of crossing T’s and dotting I’s.

  Yet, regardless of what I do and the effort I put in, the losses keep adding up.

  Is it too much to ask that my mom supports her son for one of the biggest moments of his life and show up for his wedding? Isn’t that like rule number one in parenting? Show up for your children.

  Is it ridiculous that I want my family back? The one I remember from holidays and vacations growing up? Where my doting parents were a united front, a Las Vegas power couple with the ability to help elect the next mayor or kill a zoning request for a rival casino. That they still lived in my childhood home…together, and that my older brother still showed up for Sunday dinners.

  I know it’s irrational, but even though there’s no future, fleeting or otherwise, I want Daniel Xu to look at me the way he did the first night we met, with laughing brown eyes and a teasing smile. I want the direct assault of his passion like I had months ago, one night at a random party.

  It’d be nice to have a weekend, just one, where I don’t have to play goalie for my brother’s shenanigans or fend off what is fast becoming embarrassingly uncomfortable overtures from one of my oldest friends, who I have a sneaking suspicion is in cahoots with my dad, because I can’t and don’t return his obvious affection.

  On paper, Terrence is perfect. An IBM: ideal black man. Educated. Classically handsome. President of the UNLV chapter of Alpha Psi Kappa, a social service fraternity that tutors children and helps the homeless. A junior executive at my family’s hotel.

  He’s thoughtful and kindhearted. Who in her right mind wouldn’t want him?

  I’ve asked myself this question more times than I care to count and each time I come away with the same answer: me—I don’t.

  Terrence is going to make some woman extremely happy one day, but I’m not that woman. Daddy shouldn’t get his hopes up or have taken the liberty to invite him, but with the demise of his marriage, my father has doubled down on us kids.

  Jake is obviously taken care of as we’re attending his wedding, which unfortunately leaves me as the singular object of our father’s well-meaning meddling.

  All right, Jess, pull it together. Bathroom ruminations are cute for romcoms, not so much in Mexican airports with three men waiting for you to exit.

  I make another sweep of my reflection in the mirror and quickly apply some much-needed gloss.

  “There. That’s better.” Not six a.m. fresh with bright eyes and a bushy tail, but my lips are moisturized, my ponytail is smooth, and after a tug on my coat sleeves I feel more in control of my spiraling emotions.

  I exit and walk into Daniel exiting the men’s room. “Sorry.”

  “My bad,” he says at the same time a solid arm wraps around my waist, pulling me into his hard body. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” he laughs, but he doesn’t try to let me go, and I don’t move either,

  Behind Daniel, the terminal is all bright lights, gleaming metal surfaces, and LED signs advertising the excursions available to vacationing tourists.

  The light in the hallway is dim by comparison. It’s oddly quiet and intimate.

  In the close quarters I can see the multitude of whiskers that make up his five o’clock shadow, the eyes that aren’t exactly brown but a brilliant copper, vibrant with life and curiosity. A chunk of dark hair falls forward and with it comes the scent of apple, which transports me back to a night that seems more fantasy than reality now.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I say again because I don’t have other words, but I need to say something.

  “Jessie,” he chuckles. “It’s no big deal. Nothing broken or damaged. At least nothing that wasn’t damaged before. I’m good. What about you?” One inky brow rises in a perfect arch as his gaze sweeps down my body.

  “Yeah…I’m… I mean, yes. Nothing is broken here either.”

  “Good deal.” He drops the arm around my waist, taking a step back, and I sway a little at the loss of heat and strength. He starts walking toward the terminal and I call, “Hey, Daniel.”

  He stops and turns, looking at me over his shoulder. “What’s up?”

  I don’t want it to be like this between us, stilted, chilly. “Can we start over?” I feel the heat of an embarrassed flush creeping up my neck to stain my cheeks. “I mean, it’s inevitable that we’re going to be around each other, especially this weekend. I don’t want it to be an awkward thing, you know?”

  Daniel does a one-eighty, turning to fully face me.

  “Yeah, I do,” he says, walking forward to stop less than a foot away.

  We study each other in silence and the tension mounts, breaking when one of us starts laughing. I’m not sure who started first, but the air clears, and I breathe a little easier.

  Sobering, I extend my hand. “Jessica Johnson. Sister of the groom.”

  His warm hand clasps mine. “Nice to meet you, Jessie J. I’m Daniel Xu, a best friend to the bride, drummer in her band…” His hand squeezes mine and he leans forward, seductively whispering in my ear, “and the best damn fuck you’ll ever have, if you give me half a shot.”

  I open my mouth to respond but the words get stuck behind shock and—and outrage. “Who says that?” I mean in real life. Not the rock star reality where he resides.

  “What kind of men have you been around that they don’t?” he asks, tilting his head to the side like he’s trying to comprehend a world where humans interact with manners and decorum.

  “The civilized ones,” I quip immediately.

  “Is that right?” He chuckles. “And I take it from your tone, you think I’m not civil?”

  “I don’t know. Are you?” It comes out more challenge than question.

  “I am. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have stopped when I had you primed and ready on my buddy’s sofa.” He stresses the words, sending warm mint-scented breath cascading over my ear. “If I wasn’t at least semitrained and courteous, I’d have already marched you back into the restroom, peeled you out of this preposterous suit, and dropped to my knees to acquaint myself with your taste, and smell. If I gave in to my caveman impulse, I’d send you back out there to ol’ Terry soaking wet and well used and still feeling me while he politely asks to wheel your luggage.”

  Does this man say every outlandish thought that flies through his head? “That’s disgusting,” I murmur, afraid to acknowledge the super small, totally inconsequential part of me that likes feeling overwhelmed by his unapologetic, in-your-face, overt sexuality.

  “Maybe.” He shrugs. “It definitely lacks a certain…” Daniel pauses, eyes on the ceiling searching for the right word before his gaze drops back down to mine. “Tact. I’ll give you that much.”

  “It’s base.” I try to pull my hand from his, but he holds on. “Let me go.” He does the opposite and pulls me closer.

  “P
assion should be primal, but here’s the thing, poppet, the scenario I gave you was hypothetical. You’re standing here safe, and virtually,” he looks meaningfully at our joined hands, “untouched. I’ve been the perfect gentleman.”

  Daniel releases my hand. A sexy cocksure grin pulling at his full lips.

  “You wanted to start over, right?” he prompts, and stands to his full height, walking backward toward the terminal.

  “Right.” I clasp my hands together, so he won’t get it in his head to grab them again.

  “Then you just asked me to put the gentleman on the shelf.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. We’re supposed to be starting over, not pressing the rewind button,” I call to his back. I’m not sure he hears me until he turns to face me again, eyes raking my body.

  “We’re starting something all right,” is his response, and dammit if I’m not curious to see what it is.

  Chapter 15

  Daniel

  “You're one sexy motherfucker," I say to my reflection as I head out the door. Who knew that linen comes in bright orange and paisley patterns? I picked out this little number and several others specifically for the occasion.

  One thing I know about the Mexican Riviera outside of its stunning beaches and picturesque views is that it’s humid. If you don’t dress accordingly, you’ll find yourself chafed with a bad case of swamp ass.

  It’s day two of Sin’s four-day wedding weekend and tonight is the rehearsal dinner. Not sure what we’re rehearsing or why there’s a need for all the wedding guests to gather for yet another obligatory event when only two people—Adam, Sin’s man of honor, and Connor Rappaport, Jake’s best man—are required to do anything for the actual ceremony.

  But the welcome basket I received at check-in, complete with a weekend itinerary, made it clear where I was expected to be tonight, yesterday, and every other night of the weekend. And just in case I miss something, Adam, Miles, and even Sin have taken it upon themselves to become my very annoying, well-meaning reminders. Texting and calling multiple times a day.

  I’ll throw this out there because my typical countenance can be that of an irritant and I’m tired of playing the expected role, I’m neither senile nor chronically late. It’s been years since I missed a flight or train ride and I’ve never missed a curtain call. In the past, I’d been known to periodically run on CP time but come on now, we’re all staying at the same resort. Every event is within walking distance from my hotel room.

  I follow the winding paths and signs that point me in the direction of tonight’s festivities. The steak house, Seared, which is located in the heart of the resort.

  I can literally make out the waiters carrying trays of water toward our group through the windows of the restaurant when Katy Perry’s “Teenage Dream” blares from my phone. I changed the ringtone for this trip. Thought Sin-a-sticks would get a kick out of that one. Since she’s marrying her teenage dream.

  Almost everyone that I care for in the world is currently at the end of this walkway with one small exception, my immediate family. Just the thought of why they might be calling immediately increases my anxiety levels.

  “What up?” I answer without looking to see who it is. Purposefully inflecting a lightness in my voice to hide the immediate worry that sits like a lump at the back of my throat.

  “Hey, bro,” comes my youngest brother’s voice. That lump quadruples in size and I’ll be damned if I don’t get a little lightheaded.

  Chris is the good son. A doctor. The designated handler. The one my parents trust and my other three siblings turn to. The emissary when the waters are troubled, and the diplomat when clearer heads are needed to prevail.

  My baby bro is the proverbial constant in an ever-changing landscape. Chris has been practicing for adulthood since birth. At twenty-six, the most lighthearted thing about him is a sick sneaker game. Fashion sense aside, he’s way too serious and quite possibly still a virgin. I can’t remember a time where he wasn’t pushing to do better, to be more.

  “Chris?”

  “I don’t want you to worry but I didn’t want you to be in the dark,” he says slow and deliberate, in that soothing voice typically reserved for cranky toddlers and wounded animals. I wonder which one he thinks I am.

  If he didn’t want me to worry, maybe he shouldn’t have started with the phrase ‘I don’t want you to worry but…’ Why do people say that? The first thing you do when someone says don’t worry is worry.

  My mind starts racing with a thousand possibilities. Is it my parents, the other siblings? Shit. It might be my grandmother. I don’t think I could handle if my grandmother passed while I was out of the country and unable to say goodbye.

  “Okaaay,” I say, hanging on to each syllable for a beat too long. “What’s going on?”

  “Nai Nai had a fall. Her left hip was fractured but she’s all right,” he adds in a rush. “She’s been admitted, and the doctors are going to do a heart stress test to see if she can withstand surgery.”

  “She’s fucking almost ninety years , old man. You really think surgery…”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out, D,” he says, cutting me off. “Right now, she’s on a low dose of morphine to manage the pain. You know Nai Nai, she’s already got the nurses bringing her blankets and lattes. In the last couple of hours, Mom and Dad have arrived in all their micromanaging glory. Asking all the questions. Demanding all the services. Plus, I’m practically at the hospital damn near twenty-four seven,” he says with a weighty sigh. It’s a vocalized emotion that starts at the base of his diaphragm and ends somewhere near the center of his soul.

  I know that sound, that feeling. It’s the albatross hanging precariously around my neck and the burden that, until this very second, I thought of as exclusively mine.

  Chris may be a child wonder but apparently all the smarts in the world don’t make him any more immune to the pressures of familial expectation than the rest of us. And because I know my little brother so well, I know how hard he works to appear controlled even amid the crazy. “I’ll keep everyone apprised if there’s any news.”

  His voice is a low, calming hum and I wonder if it’s the one he uses when speaking to the families of patients with loved ones in medical crises. Clear and concise, but with just enough empathy to soothe the wounded edges of an aching heart.

  “Shit.” I raise a hand to my chest, squeezing the muscle in an awkward attempt to ease the pressure immediately building behind my rib cage. “I don’t know how fast I can get back. I flew private but there’s probably something commercial. Maybe…” I blow a frustrated breath into the phone.

  Of all the moments that this shit could have happened, why now? I have days—weeks, even—when everything is honky fucking dory, and the moment I fly out of the country, that’s when the shit officially wants to hit the fan.

  Well, fuck you very much, fate.

  Fuck you hard.

  I lean back on my heels and raise my face to the sky, searching the emptiness. Does somebody up there hate me? Hmm? What did I do? If you tell me, I’ll fix it. Whatever it was, I’m calling uncle. You hear that up there? UNCLE!

  The sound of heels beating a steady cadence on the concrete path draws my attention from the sky to the lovely Miss Johnson walking toward me. Her lithe body is expertly draped in a strapless blue jumpsuit, and good old Terry is nipping at her heels like a goddamn lost Chihuahua.

  Her steps slow to a stop as she warily eyes me, head swiveling to the foliage lining the path, looking for a way to avoid me. That’s just… I don’t know what the hell it is. I would say great but that’d be bullshit and I make a rule to never lie to myself.

  I’m not the dude women run away from or try to avoid when I’m standing dead center in the middle of their path. The fact that I shouldn’t be interested but clearly am makes that tepid look on her face an i
rritating itch at the back of my skull.

  I don’t know Jessica Johnson well enough to gauge what she’s thinking, but I recognize attraction, and we have it. To use a cliché but fitting Vegas platitude: we have it in spades. It being that intangible thing that holds court with elements like vapor or wind: it’s invisible, intangible, and the effects knock me off my goddamn feet.

  Even ol’ Terry sees it. I squint at the reasonably defined arm he curves around her waist and the irritation twisting his classic Black Hollywood features into a warped mask. The man is far from oblivious, and he’s making it clear that he’s staking his claim. If the arm wasn’t a clear indication, the smug look certainly is, and when piled on top of the shit show back home, I can barely contain the urge to hit something.

  “D? Did you hear what I just said?” My brother’s voice draws my attention back to the call and I take a much-needed, calming breath.

  Not at all. “Yeah. Of course.”

  “Cool. Gotta get back to work, but like I said, don’t do anything until I call. All right? You might fly all the way back here for nothing.”

  Ah, so that’s what he said.

  “Chris, I can’t sit here if the family needs help at home.” I’m talking to my brother, but my eyes are trained on the woman in front of me.

  “We don’t,” he says quickly.

  Ouch…really? Looks like the kid needs to work on his bedside manner. If that was supposed to be reassuring, it wasn’t. I haven’t been around as much as I wanted to be, and in some cases, as much as I should have been. I’ve missed holidays and birthday parties, weddings and births.

  My absence by no means meant I didn’t want to be there or that I didn’t regret missing every event, every milestone, because I did.

  Unlike some of my bandmates, I grew up in a traditional nuclear family—mom, dad, siblings. Dinners at the dining room table. New clothes for the first day of school. Music lessons in the fall. Swim lessons in the summer. My parents weren’t rich, but we never wanted for anything.