“You’re going to think it’s crazy.”
After we close for the night, Izzie and I shoot the shit over a drink down in the bar. It’s a weekly ritual. Has been ever since we opened the place. We usually go over how the restaurant is performing, things we need, ways we can improve. But naturally the conversation turns to my mysterious guest sleeping in my bed this very minute.
“Try me.” She sips on her bourbon, swishes it in her mouth, and then swallows with a hiss. “Where did ya come across her?”
“She appeared out of nowhere. Like a dream or a wish come true.”
“What’s hard to believe about that?”
Like a broken faucet, I leak every detail of the other night, except where I pounded her like a drum in a metal song. I don’t fuck and tell. She listens with an uninterrupted focus, nodding her head in understanding. She’s my best friend and has been since I moved back to New Orleans, when we were teenagers, I knew she’d understand my bringing a stranger into my home.
“She ends up in ya bar in a weddin’ dress,” she reiterates, serving herself another two-finger pour. “There’s a story there.”
She sets the bottle back on the bar.
“I’m sure there is,” I agree, bringing my glass to my mouth.
“Ya haven’t asked?” She seems surprised I didn’t go snooping into Rae’s business.
“She mentioned her fiancé doing something unforgivable.” I finish off my first round of bourbon. “Whatever it was, it must’ve been pretty fucking traumatic.”
She points at me with an accusatory finger, her hand clutching her whiskey glass.
“Ya have a couple theories brewin’ in that head though.”
“Who the fuck knows? Maybe he cheated on her. It’s not uncommon.”
“Certainly is a theory.”
I serve myself my second and final helping of bourbon. I need to keep my head about me. Wouldn’t want to make any alcohol-fueled decisions. This broken woman has entrusted me with her fragile heart. I don’t want to ruin it.
“She asked why I’m trying to save her.”
I stare into the amber liquor, to the bottom of the glass.
“Well, now, that’s a helluva question.” She plants her elbow on the counter, her hand propping her head. “Why are ya tryin’ to save her?”
She already knows why.
My mother, my father, my need to save the unsavable, my desire to change the past, right some wrongs. Or it could be my tractor beam attraction to her.
“Oh, merciful God, ya didn’t.” She slams the bottle down on the bar with a reprimanding thud. “Please, Greier Elias Dixon, look me in the eye and swear ya didn’t take advantage of that poor girl.”
“Not completely?”
“Fuck me, Greier.” She plants her face in her palm. “Wait, that’s right. Ya must be tired from bein’ dick-deep inside her.” She jabs me in the arm, hard, when she says “her” through gritted teeth. You could never accuse Izzie of being a dainty Southern belle.
“It wasn’t like that.” I rub my arm. “She wanted me to. She started it.”
“Ya ain’t in the third grade no more, Grey. Have a little more self-control. That’s what makes ya a fuckin’ man, keepin’ ya dick in line and in ya pants and steppin’ to the plate when life is throwin’ curveballs.”
Damn.
She’s right.
She’s always right.
She was right about Charlotte.
She was right about taking over this place and starting the restaurant.
She was right even when we were fifteen, and she told me not to jump a dirt pile on my bike. I have the scar on my left knee to prove it.
She’s the foul-mouthed angel on my shoulder. My straight-talking cricket.
But right and wrong had nothing to do with my decision the night before.
“She needed it.” I attempt to justify my actions and appease my guilt. “I felt it. She was trying to wash something away.” She huffs and rolls her eyes judgmentally. She sees right through me, so I get real with her. “I needed it, Izzie. Since Lotte left me for that sonofabitch again, I needed it, and I don’t regret it.”
She takes a mellowing breath through her nostrils, inflating and deflating, assessing me through slitted eyes. Not sure that’s a word, but fuck it.
“Ya can’t let it happen a second time…or third. However many times it’s already happened, it has to stop there. This girl…This woman needs ya help, not ya penis.”
“She already nipped it in the bud.”
“At least one of ya is thinkin’ with their head and not their…”
She nods down to my junk.
“You’re both right,” I admit. “My head tells me you are.”
“But?” she probes, knowing me better than I like sometimes.
“I like her.”
“Then take time to get to know her, let her figure her shit out. Unless ya lookin’ to be her transition. But if ya really like Rae, let her find ya in her own time.”
“Alright,” I agree. “While we’re on the subject—I need a solid.”
I execute a Chinese fire drill on this conversation. I’m done being under the microscope. Me and my sex life.
“Which is?”
“Watch her for me, will you?” I rise from my stool. “When I’m not around. She’s new to the city, and I want her to feel she has people to come to.”
“I am at ya service, mon frère.”
She does this lazy bow.
“Good.” I drum my hands on the surface of the bar. “Because tomorrow you need to take her shopping. She shouldn’t be subject to wearing Charlotte’s hand-me-downs. And you know the best places to go.”
“Fabulous. Then after, we can curse and burn her shit.” She smiles that lethargic smile of hers, swatting me playfully on the arm. “Speakin’ of the salope, heard from her lately?”
“Nah. And I’m glad. This is it, Iz. I’m not taking her back this time.”
“Ain’t the first time I’ve heard those exact words.”
I roll my eyes and start toward the back of the restaurant, calling back, “But it’s the last.”
As I move further from Izzie, her faint voice mutters into her glass. “Mm-hm. Doubt we’ve seen the last of her.”
I’m not a gambling man, but I wouldn’t bet against it either.
It’s my wedding. Or a celebration of some kind. I can’t tell. Guests buzz around a grand plantation, dressed in gowns and tuxes. I’ve never been here before.
No different from any other day, no one notices me as I run down the stairs and through the foyer that spans the manor from front to back. Slowly, I come to realize I can’t see anyone’s faces. They’re either turned away or obstructed by something, a plant, a passing tray, an oversized hat.
I move freely toward the back, stepping out the door and into a swamp with Cypress trees draped in Spanish moss. I’m waste high in murky, algae-covered water. I turn back to the house, but it’s gone, so I keep moving deeper and deeper into the bayou, fighting my way through sludge and slime and briar patches tearing at my skin. I feel the need to push forward. I can’t go back. He told me not to. Who he is, I’m not sure. But I listen to him. And I move farther. Until an opening appears, slivers of light through the dark. When I finally claw my way toward it, I realize it’s a small, barren field, devoid of any plants or grass.
Except for a grand magnolia tree in full bloom. Something’s not right though. The thick petals aren’t a virginal white. They’re black, ink black. I reach for one on a low growing branch and pluck it, cradling the large flower in my hands. The black starts to bleed over my hands and forearms and the petals wither in my palms.
I wake to a slap on my butt and the stunning, blue-haired Izzie ordering me to scoot my sweet little ass out of bed. Late morning light streams into the bedroom through the shuttered windows, separating me from the already buzzing streets.
I must’ve slept straight through the night.
“Why?”
“Because, suga, we’re goin’ shoppin’.”
I flip the blanket over my head and say groggily, “I’m broke.”
“It’s on Greier.” Suddenly, the blanket is gone. I spring upright and stare at her fanning herself with a credit card. “Now, move ya ass.” She walks out of the room before I protest, leaving the door wide open. “I’ll get coffee.”
“Where is he anyway?” I call after her.
“Out. Probably the whole day.”
“What about the restaurant?”
“Tiny, the manager, takes over the restaurant on Sundays.”
Ah.
I stumble out of bed and into the bathroom, taking off my clothes en route. “Don’t think I met Tiny.”
“Don’t let the ironic name fool ya,” she says, her voice booming from the kitchen. “That boy is a behemoth of a man. But the gentlest damn soul ya ever gonna meet. Unlike me. Now, enough questions, hear? Get ya ass into gear.”
I chuckle.
Turning on the shower, I jump into the cold spray of the faucet head, giving myself a shock to the system. I multitask, brushing my teeth while I’m in here. Luckily, Greier had a fresh one handy.
Once I’m awake, I step out, dry off, and then head into the room to pick an outfit. Jean shorts and a plain tank top, without a bra. Even if I wanted to wear the ex’s over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders, they wouldn’t fit my pebbles.
Suddenly, Greier’s mouth hijacks my brain, gluttonously drawing the entirety of my breast inside the refuge of its warmth, tasting me while I rode him. It was the first time I’d ever taken control in bed. I was more of a lay-back-and-take-it girl when it came to Shaw. It never felt like it mattered if I was there. I could’ve been anyone. (INSERT GIRL HERE)
It wasn’t anything like that with Greier.
My dirty mind isn’t making this platonic thing very easy.
Izzie comes back in with two mugs and hands one to me. My fingers bend around the mouth and take it from her carefully.
“Thanks.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, she sips on her coffee. “I was wondering. Why doesn’t Greier work Sundays?”
“Personal.”
Not going into further detail. Gotcha.
“Why is he doing this?”
“He doesn’t want ya wearin’ Skankenstein’s clothes.”
“No.” I shake my head and set the coffee down on the bedside table. “Trying to save me.”
“Ah.” She takes another draw of her coffee, buying herself time to figure out what to say. “Yeah, he does that, doesn’t he?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful. If it weren’t for him…” I stop before I divulge too much.
“I get it,” she assures me.
Does she?
Could she?
I don’t push the topic any further, and neither does Izzie. Instead, we finish our coffees while I dress.
When my mother and I took one of our monthly shopping trips, it was to Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdales, or some designer boutique. This is not the case with Izzie. She takes me to a secondhand store. Nana’s Attic. A mix of new and vintage clothes. Another first for me.
As we browse the racks, hanging the pieces we like over an arm and passing on the things we hate, Izzie does most of the talking. About growing up on the bayou and moving to the city when she was nine to live with her grandmother after a gator ate her dad…Seriously. An alligator.
“When I was twelve,” she says from the changing room next to mine, “I met Greier. He moved to the Vieux Carré to live with his daddy, in the very same apartment. He was fourteen. We’ve been best friends ever since. We look out for each other.”
“He mentioned something about California the other night.”
Even before Greier told me, I’d figured he wasn’t from around here. Hardly any zest in his accent, except with certain words. Not like my colorful friend here. At times, hers sounds as if she were from Brooklyn. Like when she says words that rhyme with hurt. Other times, it’s so saturated with Cajun flavor, I have to strain to understand.
“Yeah, with his mama when he was still in Huggies.”
Left with mother. Came back to live with father. I have no right to be, but I’m itching to learn the story there, the torn pages from Greier’s book.
I end up buying everything I try on. I feel guilty until I see the amount everything came out to. I’ve spent more on a single outfit shopping with my mother than on the whole lot. And it wasn’t so much I can’t pay him back from my first paycheck. Luckily, I can live off tips until then.
Afterward, we hit Victoria’s Secret to buy delicates for my delicates. Even though I got amazing steals at the boutique, I’m relieved she’s not one to skimp in the panty department. I have no desire to rock the girlfriend’s used underwear or anyone else’s for that matter.
While we’re in the fitting rooms, trying on bras, I catch myself covering my goodies every now and then. Besides the fact I’m naturally shy about my body, a gift my mother bestowed on me growing up, I have, easily, the most stunning creature standing next me, with curves a man would dream up. Anyone standing next to Izzie in lingerie would be self-aware of their own faults. Her killer body is to die for. Picture Jessica Rabbit with aquamarine hair and a rose tat on her left asscheek. I can’t stop wondering if Greier has noticed her…attributes. He’s a man, and men can’t help themselves. Hell, I’m a straight woman, and I can’t help noticing.
As the living, breathing embodiment of sex appeal and cool hooks my B-cup bra, I let curiosity kill me.
“So,” I mumble with a dry throat, tucking a bit of hair behind my ear, “have you and Greier ever…?”
“I’m not into cock,” she states bluntly, jiggling my breasts into the cups by the straps. My eyelids suck back into my head like garage doors on speed. “But if I was, Greier’s ain’t half bad.” She sees the question in my eyes as I stare back at her through the mirror. “Occupational hazard of being a guy’s friend, ya eventually see dick. Even if ya don’t want to.”
After clearing out most of the Quarter, Izzie takes me to lunch at this hole-in-the-wall around the corner from the apartment. My stomach was screaming for nourishment. We chow down and talk, not about anything specific, about the clothes we bought, the people passing the window, the bar. She gives me pointers. Not just about the restaurant but living in the Quarter. She warns me about the smells of Bourbon Street, hot days and busy weekends are the worst. She says it’s the tourist mecca of New Orleans and Carnival is the worst of it. Great for business, bad for your nose.
“If ya want to taste the real New Orleans, ya hafta venture away from it. I’ll show ya the town,” she offers.
“I’d like that,” I accept. Of course. I’m in need of a friend right now, and Izzie seems like decent people.
“Or I’m sure Greier would be happy to show ya.” This remark wasn’t meant in a girl’s talk, I-think-he-likes-you kinda way. It’s more accusing.
“Uh.” I take a sip of water, buying myself time to untie my tongue and think of another topic. “So, think I did alright my first day?”
“Yeah,” she eyes me with a puckered smirk, “better than most. The others said good things.”
“I was nervous,” I admit. “I’d never had a job before.”
It feels as pathetic as it sounds.
“Eva?” She doesn’t wait for confirmation. “How did ya manage that?”
“My family is well off. They didn’t want me to work.”
I realize I’m giving her more clues about myself than I’m comfortable with, but I’m finding it too easy to open up to her. She has that kind of personality, sure of herself, strong-willed, no bullshit, and extremely personable. I see why she’s Greier’s best friend.
“Did ya want to?” she probes further, using her tongue to dislodge something in her molars.
I figure answering this won’t give too much away, so I do. “Yes.”
“Grey’s curious about ya,” she says flatly. Well, as flat as her flavorful drawl grants. “Especially, the story behind ya showin’ up at his bar at three a.m. in a weddin’ dress.”
“You aren’t even going to extend the common courtesy of beating around the bush.”
“I’m not much of a bush beater.” Her face confirms that. “Well…not in that sense.”
“I’m not much of a storyteller.”
“Fair enough.” She bites into her sandwich and chews thoughtfully. “But if ya screw over Greier, hurt him in any way, ya hafta deal with me,” she warns. No, threatens. And yet, I can’t hate her for doing it. I’d probably do the same thing…if I had someone to do it for. “I love that boy like a brotha. The last thing he needs is more shit in his life, suga.”
After that, we keep our mouths occupied with food instead of words.
When we return to the apartment, she helps lug my bags upstairs and remove the ex’s clothes from the drawers and closet, which required tongs, rubber gloves, and a garbage bag.
“Hafta be extra careful with toxic waste,” she said with a bitchy grin. I laughed. I don’t know the girl, or Greier for that matter, yet I already dislike her for hurting him. He’s one of the nicest, though crude at times, people I’ve ever met. I can’t imagine he deserves any less than he gives. And he gives his all. You don’t need eyes to see that.
Once the room is clear of any relics of his previous relationship, Izzie leaves, and I work on putting away my new wardrobe. I’m almost finished when…
“Buy everything you need?”
I acknowledge Greier with a hasty glance.
“Yes,” I answer, folding a sweater and setting it in the dresser. “You can take it out of my wages.”
I hear him lean into the doorframe. It makes a slight crackle as his weight eases into it. I feel his eyes on my back. “Or you could thank me and consider it a gift.”
I sigh and shut my eyes.
“It wouldn’t be ethical. Not after…” I turn to face him because this should be said with eye contact, so he can see the seriousness in my stare. “We need to keep boundaries.”
“You’re the boss.” He salutes me, a pair of keys dangling from one of his fingers. “Just so we don’t have an incident like last time, I won’t be home for dinner and might get back late.” He steps into the room and over to the closet, pulling out a midnight blue dress shirt. He takes off his t-shirt, saturated with a day’s worth of his manly scent wafting past my nose when he rips it over his head. It’s intoxicating. And his body is glorious in the daylight. I should stop staring, but I don’t want to.
“If you’re hungry,” he says, pulling my attention off his impeccable torso and back onto his face, which, let’s face it, is off the charts gorgeous, “there’s leftovers in the fridge. Have whatever you like.” He shoulders into his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned as he walks toward the doorway. “Try not to use the gun unless you really need it.”
“Where are you going?” I ask.
He stops, setting his hand on the doorjamb and looking back at me from over his wide shoulder. “For a woman who wants to keep things platonic, you sure ask questions like we’re more.” He disappears out the door, leaving me to wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.