CHAPTER FIVE
Slippin’ and Uh Slidin’…
Yellow, orange, and red were the colors in many of the gorgeous tree frogs that looked like Mother Nature’s jewelry that she’d seen the day previous on her little adventure with Cain. They were also the color of the rose petals scattered about outside Tapestry’s apartment door, along with a handwritten card…
Something for my beautiful song bird…
I had a great time with you last night.
– Cain
The early morning breeze caressed her skin. The sun hadn’t gotten good into the air yet; the world around here was lazy and asleep, and hues of gray loitered in the sky, not yet ready to let the dawn show her glow. Standing in her ratty, raspberry-colored robe with one of the pockets half hanging off that she’d sworn she’d sew back on a million and one times, she fell deep in thought. Honestly though, she didn’t know what to think, but perhaps mental heavy lifting wasn’t necessary. This was just one of those moments in life where acceptance of a universal gift was the order of the day, though she struggled to embrace it.
He is somethin’ else. What a charmer…
Simply put, Tapestry wasn’t used to this sort of courting. She’d been dealing with the Netflix and Chill dudes, the guys who felt like she should be happy with a Coke and a Po’ Boy, and then give up them damn draws. She shoved those old memories out of her mind and focused on the here and now….
And NOW was damn good.
In one hand she held a white cup of coffee she’d just brewed and in the other, a bouquet of the same colored roses he’d apparently plucked a few petals from, setting the stage for a stunning floral display at her feet. Closing and locking the front door of her apartment behind her, she returned to her kitchen with a smile on her face. Her bare feet hit the cool linoleum, and she looked down, taking note that her early morning hot shower had removed a bit of red polish on her baby toenail.
Need to fix that before I head out…
She looked at her phone once again and smiled… wanting to make certain she wasn’t dreaming.
Cain had sent her an early morning text moments ago that read:
Good morning, Oiseau Chanteur. I stopped by on my way to work. Have to be at this residence by 5:30 AM. Check your front door for a little gift from me to you. C U 2NITE. – Cain
Still grinning from ear to ear, her stomach flipped and flopped about as she swam in the beauty of his prolific romantic ways. Honestly, she wasn’t certain what to make of Cain just yet. Everything was going so damn fast. Her growing attraction to him was a bit frightening.
They seemed to have so much in common, including their sense of humor. The day previous, after their time at the Preserve, they both had an envie, an awful hankering for some good soup and sandwiches, so off they went and got a bite to eat at Parkway Bakery and Tavern. They talked for hours while there, drank plenty and ate some more, too. What was only supposed to be a date scheduled to last three or four hours max ended with them kissing in his big ol’ truck into the wee hours of the night. She didn’t get home until almost 10:30 P.M.
Sitting parked outside her place, they spent a whole ’nother hour talking. She hated how she felt as if she no longer had control over this; they just couldn’t seem to turn one another loose. They’d had far too much fun and it got to the point where he no longer felt like a stranger. He felt like someone she’d known for 3,000 full moons.
In between cuddling, kissing, and laughing, they talked about everything. She spoke of memories she hadn’t delved in since she was a child… because he made her feel like one. He was so damn silly—and wise, too. And so open, spilling his guts about his first love, even telling her the crazy story about when he lost his virginity.
Cain was a real cut up. What she loved most about him was how much he seemed to love his family, especially his mother. And he loved to hear about her life; he asked so many questions, and he listened. He would look at her as if his very life hung on each word she uttered, and then he’d ask more questions, and react to her responses. With him she had real life conversations, and he genuinely seemed to care.
Still, with all of that laughter, heart to hearts and such, she couldn’t help the feeling that Cain had some unmentioned struggles; of course, everyone did, but she surmised someone of his genius didn’t get that way all on his lonesome. Cain had too much soul, the type of depth that didn’t arrive from a lack of trials and tribulations. She’d noticed this trait in musically inclined folks and creative comrades, herself included—they had pain and anger that often fueled their creative outlets. Want to see some magic? Get ’em good and heated! They kept that shit behind closed doors.
But his eyes… the man’s beautiful, big blue eyes told her that he saw the entire world for what it was—a beautiful place with pockets of quicksand and pitfalls of treachery. Life was often a minefield of fuckery and if you weren’t careful about where you treaded, you wouldn’t make it out unscathed.
You’d become the next Amy Winehouse—an artist the man obviously adored. Apparently, he’d met her many times, felt a special connection with the woman. He identified with her.
They talked about politics, religion, and race, the ‘no-no’ topics her mama always told her to avoid, ’specially with ‘boys she liked.’ But it worked out this time, for they agreed on more things than not. Cain was no liberal, but he was so open minded, he didn’t seem to care about the differences he had with people regarding race and how they worshipped God. He professed to only care about how people treated him. It was truly about character for him.
She admitted to the man that he’d be only the second White guy she’d dated in her entire life. Cain didn’t seem concerned, but let it be known that he had dated mostly Black women, not on purpose, but it just kind of happened that way. She found that intriguing and asked why.
“Guess I was simply more attracted to them,” he’d responded. “After a while, I stopped questioning it, even though I got flack about it from family and friends sometimes… not that it mattered to me. I like what I like. Fuck it.”
“Yeah, I like his ass.”
She smirked as she placed the flowers in a vase, arranged them just so, and set them on the kitchen counter. She then grabbed a skillet from a cabinet to scramble up a few eggs. Grabbing her phone from off the counter, she selected her soul classics playlist and listened to “In the Rain” by the Dramatics.
She’d discovered that, like herself, Cain seemed to be an old soul. He enjoyed music from his parents’ and grandparents’ time as much as she did, and he had a penchant for rhythm and blues. Standing before the stove as it heated up, she tossed a couple pats of butter into the pan, cracked three eggs into a bowl, added a dash of salt and pepper, as well as some chopped up fresh green peppers, lightly stirred the mixture, then poured it into the hot pan when it was ready. Taking a spatula, she lightly folded and mixed the eggs every so often, her thoughts drifting here and there. Minutes later, she was sitting at her small kitchen table, legs crossed, with a fresh cup of coffee, the hot buttery eggs, a freshly cut half of a pink grapefruit, and a slice of lightly toasted bread coated with a thin layer of strawberry jam.
She sat there with her hair under a purple satin bonnet and that same damn smile on her face that she sported when she’d seen the flowers. Plucking her phone from the table, she decided to listen to the songs they’d be practicing, get to know them a bit before she headed off to care for Ms. Robertson. Bobbing her head to the music, she listened carefully, memorizing the lyrics.
This is a nice song. I see why he likes it. Yeah, I can sing this, add my own touch to it… this is good…
And she felt good… yeah… she felt damn good all over…
She insisted on coming by, that she didn’t need a ride, even though he’d offered to pick her up… Cain now had more time to get himself together. It had been a long ass, exhausting day. The people who wanted their staircase ripped out and redone kept changing their mind for how they wished it to be taken care of. They’d jumped on his very last nerve and rode that son of a bitch to the hilt. At one point he contemplated grabbing his toolbox and never looking back. On a deep sigh, he tried to push the day out of his mind and get ready for tonight. He was home now and covered in sweat.
His t-shirt stuck to his body, his hair that had been pulled back in a ponytail was now limp and lifeless, covered in dust and debris. He turned on his stereo and put in Quadron’s CD. Yeah, he was old school like Tapestry, still enjoying CDs. He liked that about her. She’d also admitted to having collections of cassette tapes just as he did, along with his old iPod and playlists. He had an affection for all that was music, past and present. One of the songs that they were to rehearse, “Slippin’,” began to play as he ripped his clothing off like he was some male stripper. He wanted that shit off his body in the worst way. He hated feeling unclean.
Naked as a newborn in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, he reached for the ponytail wrap in his hair. His chest, stomach and upper thighs were covered in dark blue and black heavily detailed tattoos. At one point he believed he was addicted to getting them. Some of them featured musical notes. There was a pulsating heart with, ‘Mama’ written on his left bicep. Another one of three blazing guitars on his upper shoulder, another of a group of some of his favorite artists standing by a piano: Bob Marley, John Lennon, Amy Winehouse, 2-Pac, Chuck Berry, Tom Petty, and Jimi Hendrix. He tossed the hair band onto his dresser and his tresses immediately fell to well past the middle of his back.
“Damn, the shit seems to have grown overnight. My hair grows so fast… probably need the ends trimmed again.”
He ran his hands through it, brushing the long, jet black strands away from his face, exposing his widow’s peak. Moments later, he was standing under the hot water of the shower, the music blasting and his body swaying to the beat. He vigorously washed his hair; the fragrant shampoo improved his mood… a little aroma therapy. Soon he was finished and dried off, a thick, black towel wrapped securely around his narrow waist. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror and applied some deodorant, splashed on a bit of aftershave and cologne, and put on his necklace, one that featured a black and white musical note.
“Shit!” He looked at the time, realizing she’d be there at any second. Racing out of the master suite bathroom, he opened the door to his large walk in closet door but it was too late—the doorbell had rung. “Damn…”
On a sigh, he stormed out of his bedroom without a second thought, looked through the peephole, and opened the door. The woman’s smile quickly faded and a look of utter surprise came over her.
“Hey Tapestry, I’m sorry, I just got out the shower… I was about to get dressed and didn’t wanna keep you waitin’. Come on in.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder, motioning behind him.
“Oh… uh, that’s okay.” She stepped inside, looking like a treat he wanted to eat, standing there like a damn dream come true.
“Mmmm! You smell good!” He leaned in close to her and kissed her cheek, and her smile soon returned.
“Thank you.” She removed her light jacket and he immediately took it from her.
“I’ll take that. Go on and have a seat… make yourself comfortable.”
“All right.” She looked about then decided upon his couch. All of his furniture was white and black. He enjoyed those shades paired together. However, the walls were covered with framed vintage album covers, concert posters, and the like.
“You want anything to drink? I’ve got water, beer, juice, wine, probably anything you want,” he offered, watching with amusement as she kept turning in various directions, checking out his digs.
“Water is fine… thank you. Oh my! You’ve got a piano, too. I take it you play?” She’d craned her neck in the opposite direction from where he stood.
In the dining room was his musical equipment instead of the traditional set up. He typically just ate in the kitchen or his bedroom. In the middle of that room sat a beautiful white piano.
“I ain’t much good at it, but I know the basics. It gets more use when I have a party with some of my musician friends.”
“Oh, well then, why do you have it? Just for decoration?”
“It was a gift from a friend of mine… He was the one that actually knew how to play it. He’s passed away now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry about that, Cain.”
He went to his black and white checkerboard decorated kitchen, opened the stainless-steel refrigerator door, then paused when a very old photo of him and his ex caught his eye. The thing was still on that damn refrigerator, kept up with a magnet shaped like a taco. He snatched the photo off, tossed it in the silverware drawer, and returned to her with a chilled bottle of water.
“Thank you.” He handed it to her.
“You’re welcome. Yeah… he was real talented, and a real good friend.” He stood before her as she cracked the seal, removed the top and took a sip.
Look at how her fuckin’ lips wrap around that bottle… ohhh baby… I’d love to be that bottle right about now…
“Do you mind me askin’ what happened?” Her question crushed his libido like a grape.
“Accidental drug overdose.”
“Oh shit…” She shook her head, looking sorrowful as if she’d known the guy, too. Perhaps she simply empathized. In her profession, surely, she’d seen her share of such tragedies. “Sorry again… I know I said that, but that’s terrible. I’m sure you were devastated. I’ve lost people due to addiction, too.”
“Yeah, I was devastated… one minute he was here, the next he was gone. But it proves one thing.” He shook his finger in her direction. “Life ain’t promised to none of us, now is it?”
“You’re right about that… sho ’nuff.”
He winked at her then started to walk away. “I’ll be right back… gonna get dressed and then we can get started.”
“All right. Sounds nude! I mean, sounds good! Oh, Lord!”
They both burst out laughing…
At least now I know she liked what she saw…
Cain was a manipulative son of a bitch, and he took pride in his skills.
He’d purposefully allowed the towel to drift a bit low across his hips, to tease and entice the lady. The top portion of his black pubic hair peeked through, and he was quite proud of his abs… he flexed them a time or two… drawing her eye there just for shits and giggles.
He kept chuckling to himself at her faux pas as he stood in his bedroom, looking for his favorite pair of jeans.
Now where the hell did I lay ’em?
He finally spied the damn things under a stack of neatly folded white shirts and slid them up over a pair of boxer briefs he’d just put on seconds prior. Less than five minutes later, his hair was brushed and he was fully dressed. Stomping barefoot back into his living room, he found his lovely songbird busy on her phone, her water bottle halfway consumed. Her fingers were flying as she texted and then, she slowly looked up at him and grinned.
Placing her phone next to her purse on the table, she got to her feet.
“All right, we ready?” She clasped her hands together.
He looked her up and down. Tonight she wore a dark red top with a plunging v neckline. Her huge breasts looked as if they were going to burst free… and he prayed they would.
Them thangs in there lookin’ like two oiled up pigs with a tan havin’ a fight… Squeal, mothafucka, squeal!
Her legs were encased in tight, hip hugging jeans, showing off her curves in all the right places.
“Take your shoes off.” He pointed down at her black high heels.
“Oh?” She turned towards his front door and seemed to take notice of a couple pairs of his shoes right there by the entrance. “Yeah… all right.” He waited a couple of seconds and then there she was, several inches shorter, her cute little feet with perfectly painted red polish approaching him. She followed him into the dining room, which had now been converted into his makeshift practice room, or studio. He set it up just so—plugged in his guitar, got the microphones in order and then handed her one. When he was done, he gave her a piece of paper with the lyrics typed across it.
“I took the liberty of practicing the song a bit before I came over,” she explained as she looked down at the paper and bobbed her head as if she already heard the music playing in her mind before they’d even gotten started.
“Good.” He sighed as he grabbed his guitar and sat down in a fold up chair. “’Preciate you being proactive.” He turned on the CD and let the song play a couple of times. “You got the vibe of the song now?”
“I do. I’m ready.” He nodded and then warmed up for the next few minutes, after which he gave her the cue to start.
“I was demanding to be oh so strong…” she began.
A few lines later he slapped the strings of his guitar with an open palm.
“Stop. Start over…” She looked at him perplexed, but then began again. This time, she got a bit farther in the melody, but he stomped his foot to get her attention.
“Tapestry… stop. Stop. Stop.”
They began again…
And again…
And again…
And yet again…
He was so frustrated at this point, he threw his pick across the goddamn dining room, not certain where it went.
“Shit!” He closed his eyes and gripped his forehead for a spell. “I think we need to take a break… let’s just take five.”
“What is it?” The woman’s brows were furrowed, a clear look of irritation on her face. “I’m not takin’ five until you tell me what the problem is! I’m not a mind reader. Tell me what you want, Cain.”
“You’re putting too much pretty shit in the way you’re twistin’ and turnin’ the words, Tapestry. You got it soundin’ like a gospel song, and it’s not. This ain’t the Clark Sisters, this ain’t no jubilee or celebration of the Most High! This is a song about fallin’ in love… havin’ no control. It’s about fallin’ out with a friend, and carryin’ more than she thought she would. It’s about feelin’ things deep in her soul and it makes ’er uncomfortable. It’s about lettin’ loose ’cause ain’t shit she can do. Things goin’ wrong, and it’s all happening to her… she’s slippin’. The original artists that we are doin’ this cover on are soundin’ like this for a reason. That singer sounds good, but her voice is lazy—it flows, it ain’t forced. It is matchin’ what she feels… like somebody bein’ high off love, feeling regret, filled with guilt. Dejected. Her life ain’t right. Her emotions are twisted up and she isn’t strong anymore… she’s slippin’ and havin’ no control. See, control is actually your issue.”
“How so?”
“You have very good control over your voice, and so you are not loosening it up to fit the song. Instead, you are doing what worked for you in the past, which is using your default voice. Everybody got a default voice, singers or not. You sing everything in that same voice and it just so happens that with most of the songs you sing, well, that works. But with this song, baby, you can’t do that. You have to just—”
“But you said just last night when we was talkin’ in your truck outside of my house that you put your own twist on covers, and I do, too! I don’t have to sing it just like her, Cain. In fact, to me, that is insulting when people do that unless they are teachin’ a singing class. This may not be the Clark Sisters in concert, but it isn’t a class, either. We ain’t in school.”
Her lips twisted up. She was clearly pissed at this point.
“In this case, you do need to act like it’s a damn class ’cause somebody is gonna be watchin’ us and takin’ notes! You need to be the exact fuckin’ carbon copy of the original! None of that vibrato! None of that swayin’ ’nd shit, Whitney Houston has left the buildin’!”
“I think we need to talk about this… I like the song, but she sounds flat. You need the—”
“Why are you arguin’ with me about this? You don’t even do gigs! You sing in the shower, for your friends’ weddings that they’ll probably be out of and divorced in a couple years. You sing in a choir in a little church that is so small, people don’t even realize it’s a place of worship until they hear them coins hittin’ that collection plate for the umpteenth thousand time. You can’t tell me how to do this! Shit! Can’t you just follow my instructions? Damn!”
“Ohhhh.” Her finger jetted in his direction and her neck got to moving and twisting like a cobra. “I see what’s done happened here. You done lost your monkey ass mind! Follow your instructions? Mothafucka, I’m not some dog down at your uncle’s alligator farm and let me tell you another mothafuckin’ thang, I don’t like how you’re talking to me and you best get it togetha!”
His eyes grew big, but he stifled a laugh… Whew! Little Mama was hot!
“Oh, so now you wanna show you ain’t always sweet and kind like strawberry wine? I been askin’ you to tell me about what’s tickin’ in your heart, what makes your juices flow and nine times outta ten I can’t make heads or tails of your answers ’cause you skirt around ’em like an ice skater but when you think I insult your singin’ now you wanna rise up like ashes from Ms. Mt. Tapestry Volcano. What did you expect me to do about it? You’re singin’ it wrong. This ain’t a date right now… this is business.”
“Cain, you could have just as easily said, ‘Try to do it like the original track because they want it vanilla.’ Without all this extra bullshit! I tell you what though, little boy, you go find you a White girl like the one singin’ the damn song. That’ll be yo’ cup of tea since you don’t want no soul in it. Askin’ for soulfood wit’ no seasonings… fuck you.” She turned her back to him. “Thank God I drove myself over here, ’cause I’m leavin’.”
“You’re slippin’ out the door too, huh?” he joked, but she wasn’t amused.
The woman tossed the microphone on the floor and stormed away, her arms swinging so hard, it was a miracle she didn’t fly up into the air like an angry bird. He chased after her, his heart beating a mile a minute. She grabbed her purse and phone from the living room table and made her way towards the exit.
Had he just picked a fight? Perhaps he had, though it wasn’t his actual intention.
“Baby.” He gently pulled on her arm as she opened his closet door to retrieve her cardigan. “Look, I am a perfectionist, okay? But I didn’t mean to make you feel badly. It’s nothin’ personal.”
“Why don’t you perfect how you fix yo’ mouth to talk to folks, huh?! How ’bout that? I’m not tha one! You need to learn some respect… You don’t know me like dat. I can see that you have anger problems and I ain’t about that life. Call you a therapist, but don’t call me. I’m too expensive for the nickels ’nd dimes you tossin’ my way, I won’t let you wreck my peace and I ain’t got time for the headache.”
She snatched the jacket off the hanger but he turned her towards him and pressed his lips to hers. She struggled against him, her fists beating into his chest until he pushed her hard against the wall.
“Come on, baby… don’t be like that… I’m sorry.”
They gasped for air between kisses, his hands roaming all over the soft curves of her ultra-feminine body… his lust burst free. He kissed all over her face and circled her waist with his arms, pulling her into him, cinching her close. After a bit, she finally relaxed against his body.
“I said I’m sorry… I’m serious.” He looked into her eyes and smiled, but she didn’t smile back. “It’s just that uh… this gig is really important to me. I’m a little tired tonight, too but that’s no excuse… you ain’t deserve that. You were right. I was wrong.”
She stood there staring at him, her arms now crossed over her chest, as if she didn’t believe a damn thing he was saying.
She looked down and opened her purse to slide her phone inside, but instead, it slipped to the floor.
“Shit!”
“Don’t worry, it didn’t crack.”
He reached down to retrieve it, but before he handed it back to her, he saw a new text message on her screen from someone that read:
GIRL! If his body look that fucking good you better jump on that dick tonight!
He handed her phone back and burst out laughing.
“What?” she said before looking down, too. “Oh no… oh no!” She cracked up, covering her mouth with her hand. “I promise it’s not what it looks like! Grace is crazy!”
He took her by the hand and walked her back into the dining room.
“Shhh, you don’t have to explain.”
He sat back down and picked up his guitar. She looked at him long and hard as if still trying to figure out if all should be forgiven…
Seconds later, she had the microphone in her hand and she was belting out the damn thing perfectly!
He smiled to himself.
Damn. It worked. She sings better when she’s impassioned… pissed, angry as fuck. I could feel it this time. Every word, every sentence that flowed out of her mouth was alive. I had to rile her ass up to get what I needed from her. She’s like me… our best work comes from our very soul, but only when we’re on an extreme high, or at a gut crushing low…
…She’s like my twin. A soulmate in the making…