The Wedding: Dark Romance Page 2

  Ms. Mocha has on a purple dress that she tugs on the sides after she takes a few steps because it's risen so high up her thighs. And her hair has a side part. It causes her long bangs to fall over her right eye. She's got a figure on her too. Small in the chest and trim in the waist she carries the real curves in the hips, ass and thighs.

  Most babes if privileged enough to be brought down to the 'bones room' are intimidated by the band and musicians. There's a heavy stench of testosterone here, even traces of marijuana I wouldn't cop too. You see we are wolves, primates, lovers of music, liquor and fast women. Ladies have a special instinct and can sense our predatory ways the moment they are in our presence. This beauty doesn't even blink when we make eye contact. And instead of lowering her gaze when I smile she entices me with a smile of her own.

  “I’m out of the game boys!” I say and toss in my hand.

  “What the fuck, Brick? You got two aces man?” Twig says.

  “Pussy,” Domino mumbles and moves the toothpick around in his mouth. I give him a fuck you glare and I'm up out of my seat with money left on the table. ‘Pussy’ is right. And I'm headed straight for it.

  Marcel takes the girls to a booth seat up against the wall. I have to make my move before one of these assholes does. I may own the joint but I got no clout with the band. These men could strip us dry and move on to another dive vying to have them whistling tunes and bringing in crowds.

  “You ladies want something to drink?” Marcel offers. I then step up to his right. He glances back and sees me. “W’sup Brick?”

  “Hello ladies,” I say and wink at Georgie then narrow my sights on Ms. Mocha. She bats those long lashes at me and I'm in love. Babe has eyes like Betty-boop, pretty-girl eyes. So bright and sexy.

  “Hi,” she says and scoots over. A clear invitation for me to join her. I like that. I like a woman that is welcoming. So I ease into the booth.

  “Brick, this my girl’s best friend Coco,” Marcel says.

  “Yeah we've been best friends since we were six,” Georgie says.

  “Coco, meet Brick, he plays the saxophone and owns this place,” Marcel says before he walks off.

  “Oh yeah? You play the sax?"

  “I do. You like jazz?" I ask her.

  She glances to Georgie and then to me.

  “I like it a lot,” she says.

  My brows lower. I got game and pipes, but it should never be this easy to flirt with such a beauty. And if Coco is best friends with Georgie then I know her kind. Catholic, preparatory, part of that black elite that don't mix it up with Cajun cats like me. So what's her motivation?

  “Are you a tenor or alto sax player?” she asks.

  “I go both ways,” I tell her.

  She giggles. She understands my joke.

  “Can you play something for me tonight?” she asks. “Something special?”

  “What-chu like? Beyonce?”

  She shakes her head no. She presses her ruby red lips together and her head goes back with the lift of her chin. The hair covering her right eye brushes away and I can see her face better. She's beautiful. My guess is she's even more beautiful without makeup.

  “I dunno. I'm a Coltrane kind of girl,” she says. She turns in the booth seat so she can look me dead in the eye when she delivers the news. “I think I'd like to hear some Oleo.”

  My eyes nearly pop out of my head. Is Marcel fucking with me? I glance back and he's not downstairs with the drinks yet. In one sultry move she reaches in and grabs me by the heart. Oleo, is an alto saxophonist, like me, dream. And Miles Davis and Coltrane delivered it masterfully.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” I ask her.

  “No, cher. You asked me what I like and I told you. Nothing funny about that,” she says.

  “Hmm,” I say and shake my head in disbelief. “Well you'll get what you like, I promise you.”

  She grins for me. Marcel returns and delivers drinks to the girls. I can't take my eyes off her. Either Marcel is playing me for a fool and this is a setup. Or I really am the luckiest man in the room tonight. I typically don't get all giddy like a school girl when a beauty mentions Coltrane. Because most times chicks do it for name dropping not real music appreciation. I get the feeling with her this request is genuine.

  “Mmm, this is good,” she says as she sips her drink with too many cherries. The red skinny cocktail straw is between her lips. Her gaze is on me from under her long lashes and I can't look away.

  “Brick?”

  It takes a minute for me to hear my boy Marcel speak. And when I do I feel like an idiot for staring at her so hard.

  “You up next brother,” Marcel says.

  I look over my shoulder to the band. Domino is ready for his set, that means every man playing with him needs to be ready too.

  “Excuse me honey,” I whisper in her ear.

  “And my song?” She grabs my wrist to force me to say.

  “You’ll get it,” I say and she lets go. Not before I touch her hand once more. And just like that I'm standing eight feet tall. My mocha baby is good for my ego.

  Chapter Two

  “Look at her Marcel, flirting with Brick,”Georgie giggles.

  “Who is he Marcel?” I ask. I can't take my eyes off him. He's got all the things that should make him forbidden—and I like it. “I know his name ain’t Brick, for real.”

  “Name is Byran Bondurant,” Marcel says.

  “Wait, you talking about the Bondurants who own those car dealerships, right? Bondurant Lexus, Bondurant Honda, Bondurant Mercedes, Bondurant BMW, all of them belong to Brick’s family?” Georgie asks.

  Marcel chuckles. “They into a lot of stuff. Swamp bayou Bondurants, that’s them. But yeah, they own the dealerships here and in Mississippi. Brick owns this joint, him and Smoke do. He don’t too much give a shit about anything his brothers and his father are into. His main focus is his saxophone, and keeping non-jazz musicians out the front door. Place is a gold mine if he'd relax that rule a bit.”

  “How old is he?” I ask.

  “Why?” Marcel answers.

  I look over to Georgie and my best friend knows my game. I want a little fun. The kind that would turn my grand-mère's gray hairs from curly to straight. I never get to have any fun with school being so grueling. She's worse than my mother with the way she watches me. They both know when I graduate this year I want to head to New York or California. Not marry ole stick in the butt Xavier. Georgie is the only person who can help me break free from time to time.

  “Take him off the menu Coco,” Georgie says. “Brick is as a much of a hound dog as you.”

  Marcel eyes stretch and he looks at me with wide disbelief. “You checkin for Brick, f'true?” He then chuckles. “Brick ain’t no one to play with Coco. He'll sniff your game a mile away.”

  “I’m not trying to marry the man. I just want to have some fun. Yawl, mind your business. How old is? He looks to be around your age Marcel. What is he? Twenty-five or so?”

  Georgie and Marcel exchange a look. They then look at me and consider some risk I don't care about. The reason I came down to the Quarter was for a no attachment hookup. A Cajun saxophone player with that much swagger and beauty is perfect. I'm sure I'm not his type for anything more than sex either.

  Brick speaks to the band and then he steps to the microphone. “For my baee-beee, Coco,” he said and moistened his lips. Then he blows into that golden saxophone and I swear my heart jumps in my breast. How can I explain what I'm hearing? Let me try. Most forms of jazz as I know it is built upon improvisation, the unexpected. But that's not all I’m hearing. Brick’s blowing tunes at me that spin like words. I'm a writer or at least I aspire to be. I know words, I love music, what I’m hearing is lyrical poetry. Music has its own culture, language, personality. For a N'awlins native it can be as spicy as a fresh pot of gumbo or as sweet as a beignet. My Cajun-boo is whispering to me, teaching me his language. He's got his lips and hands on me and the sexual healing is all through his music.
The bass comes in like a rumble of thunder and pulsates through my body. Someone is tickling piano keys like a mother would a newborn baby. All of it is background noise to my sexy Cajun who owns the set.

  “Where you goin’?” Georgie asks.

  Why should I bother to answer her? I got my drink and I'm out my seat. The men in the room are looking at me. I can feel their eyes on me. And the alcohol in me makes me brave and daring. I don't even try to pull down the hem of my mini dress that's risen high up my thighs. Its jazz who has me now. I stop right before the stage and sway while listening to Brick do his thing.

  And he's looking dead at me, before his eyes close and he blows a sultry intoxicatingly wicked tune. I close my eyes too. The sound that comes from his instrument has texture. It's jagged, woolly, and then it gets shaaaarrrrppp and goes smooth and then soft. I open my eyes and I can see the spark of excitement in his. He's not playing the instrument. He’s playing me. I sip my drink and wink at him and then return to my seat. I know he's checking out my backside as I leave. Most men do. I glance back once and he's no longer playing but staring. He's mine. All I have to do now is wait.

  Before the band set ended people began to pour into the Bone Room, and my view of him is obstructed. It felt like our connection is lost after an hour. So Georgie and I decided to mingle. I meet a few other men, and shared a few laughs. A couple of ladies arrived and it was no longer our private party. On my way back from the bathroom after consuming a few more drinks Brick caught me by surprise.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Brick whispers in my ear. I glance back over my shoulder and we nearly kiss because he's so close. I’m pulled away from the Bone Room into the hall.

  There's a black door. It blends in with the dark walls. He tosses it open and I voluntarily walk inside. Might as well be a broom closet it's so cramped tight with junky stuff. A desk is in the middle of the horde. There are file cabinets with open drawers. And I can see paper everywhere. Whoever manages this place and the business can't be doing very well.

  Brick’s hand finds mine again and when I look back at him he smiles. He then lifts my hand up above my head and I do a slow turn for him in my stilettos like that of a graceful ballerina. It’s all in fun but I can sense Brick gets a kick out of my confidence.

  “Très bien,” he says.

  “Why did you bring me back here?”

  “Why do you think?” He asks and lets my hand go. He tilts my face up with the pinch of my chin and comes in close for our first kiss. This is a deal breaker for me. No matter how cool, different, confident he comes off if he can’t kiss there will be no second base. And Brick once again that he’s masterful at using that mouth of his. The kiss is smooth, unhurried, a sample of his firm lips against mine before a taste of his mint and bourbon flavored tongue. My lips part and his flavor changes. Now I taste the music and the soul on his breath. It's like stepping into a cocoon of warmth and being enveloped in comfort. My arms naturally rise to go around his neck and his hands slide from my waist to my hips.

  He's against the door and I'm against him. He has to bend a slight bit to keep the swirl and seductive tangle of his tongue over mine in perfect harmony. And I can tell he wants more. He grabs my ass by both cheeks, squeezes, and lifts me up against him. Thanks to his strength I come out of one of my shoes. And he's holding me up against him so I can match his height. There’s no escape. I don't want one. It's the longest kiss I've ever had from a man. Typically a kiss is just a passing greeting that leads to my neck and my lover’s hands inside my panties. But not Brick. All he wants is this kiss. Over and over. He owns me until I'm breathless and the back of my neck hurts. No matter how much I want him to go for second base I cling to him and enjoy the loving taste of his mouth.

  There comes a knock on the door. And it freezes my lustful spirit, however, my Cajun doesn't respond. I swear he's trying to penetrate my throat.

  “Brick! Coco! Are you in here? You betta let me in!” Georgie demands.

  “Yea Georgie! We in here!” I say between kisses. Brick groans because I'm distracted. The man isn't ready for it to end. So I have to turn my face away from his and simultaneously push at his chest. He's trying to force the kiss and instead his mouth is on my face and neck. He's working his hips grinding me with his pelvis pressed hard against my pelvis.

  “Open up! Brick? Coco? I will kick this door down!” Georgie says. She's beating on the other side with her fist and kicking with her feet.

  “We have to stop,” I say between pants for breath.

  He doesn't let me go but his sigh is acceptance. And I have to push hard against his chest to get him to lift his head and look into my eyes.

  “Let her in and I'll convince her to let me go home with you.”

  Brick’s left brow wings up and his dark eyes spark with supreme interest.

  “Open the gat-damn door!” Georgie is pissed.

  “I promise,” I tell I him. “She is only momma bear right now because she doesn’t have my consent. Let her in.”

  He lets me slide down off his erection and my right foot lands on the cold concrete floor, my dress rolls up to my waist. I might as well have on no panties because my thong is thin. I quickly pull my dress down as Brick leers. I put on my shoe and Brick opens the door. Georgie storms in.

  “Have you lost your ever loving mind! We do not separate. Ever!” And then Georgie turns on Brick. “You think you slick white boy. You know she's been drinking. I ought to have her brothers up in here to kick yo…”

  “Georgie! Chill, we were just talking.”

  Brick put his hands up in defense.

  “Let's go. I told Marcel to take us back to my car!” Georgie turns on me. I give her a smile. It's true, I am very buzzed. But I could be stone cold sober just stepping out of a four-hour sermon in church and still want me some Brick.

  “Can you leave us alone for a minute? I need to talk to Georgie,” I ask my Romeo.

  Brick doesn't have on his hat anymore. It must have fallen off when were kissing and necking. I was too caught up to notice. He picks it up from the floor and situates it back on his head. He gives me a wink and then he leaves.

  “What is wrong with you? I know you want to have fun, but this? Girl you trying to get Brick killed?”

  “Oh please. My brothers can’t control me. Why is it you can have all the fun but I can’t? I’m a grown woman.”

  “Drinking is one thing Coco, but Brick is something else. I know how you are. He's an innocent bystander in this ‘I want to rebel against my parent’s’ thing you doing. And I don't want no drama with Marcel.”

  “Drama? I don't care about drama. I’m…”

  “I know. I know. Trying to have fun. That's what you going to tell Xavier?” Georgie crosses her arms and stares me down. Now she has killed my mood and I'm angry.

  “Xavier and I…”

  Georgie brows lower and she narrows her eyes on me. “You and Xavier are what?”

  “I have never even kissed Xavier. Far as I’m concern he’s a cousin not a fiancé. I don't want to marry him Georgie. You know that.”

  “Then don't! Tell your family you aren’t going to do it. Have fun. Be twenty-two. Hell! Screw Brick if you want. Just get it over with.”

  “I have told Xavier,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  “I said I have. I told him.”

  “And what? What did he say? You didn't tell me you told him? When was this?”

  “He pretty much told me I don't have a say. We been promised to get married since we were kids. It's happening. Told me to deal with it.”

  “Well fuck him!” Georgie put her hands on her hips and works her neck. I have to smile. “This ain't the 1800s. You don't have to do a damn thing but eat, die and pay taxes. Who the hell does he think he is?”

  “Shhhh!” I walk over to the door and close it. “You know my family. You know his. It's how its done. No, people don't have to stick to that dumb tradition but it's hard to break it. Have you broken
it?”

  “I’m not in an arranged marriage,” Georgie huffs.

  “Can you marry just anyone you want? Can you marry Marcel? Can you take him home to your daddy and say he the one?”

  I've won the argument and it's depressing for us both. In our little secret society we keep up with traditions of the past and guard the secrets of our misery. It's how it was done for my mother. For my grand-mère and hers. My name is Colette but my friends and family call me Coco—and I don’t exist unless my parents say so. I’m a Creole mixture. According to my family who kept records of our lineage all the back to before Emancipation, I’m part Choctaw Indian, French, Spanish, and African. They even had a DNA test done after a cousin underwent a bone marrow transplant to prove it. I don't care what they call us or what tradition says I should do. I just want to be free. Xavier knows that and doesn’t care. I've not kissed him or been on any real dates with him that didn’t include family, yet he feels entitled to me. My father and his father are grooming him to be the next Republican Senator of Louisiana. After Barack Obama’s successful eight years of presidency they now talk about him one day becoming the first black Republican President. Every thing, person, event, detail in his life is orchestrated. Including me. I’m only twenty-two. This is the bravest Georgie and I can be—down here in the Quarter where no one knows us. Pretending these men that make our blood hot and bodies turn to cream, offer anything more than a good time.

  “So what you gone do? Screw Brick tonight and then let Xavier control you tomorrow?” Georgie asks.

  “What I'm going to do is whatever the hell I want too tonight. And Xavier is not even a consideration. I'ma start with jazz-man out there and my family next.”

  Georgie smiles so bright at me I’m temporarily blinded by her infectious happiness. “I suck as a friend,” she says. “I'm your best-friend and you didn't tell me you tried to end things with Xavier. You didn’t tell me what tonight was really about. I got your back. Always, Coco.”