My heels were four inches. I was five nine so my heels put me at six foot one. He still towered over me. I had ass, I had tits. I was not petite or slender, not even close. His mass still dwarfed me.
The bouquet I held looked like it was made for my dress. The shoes I’d found, the same (I had a sixth sense when it came to shoes – it took me an hour and a half to find the dress – the two pairs of shoes I found, tried on and purchased in twenty minutes).
I couldn’t help but think we looked good together. If you had showed me his picture and told me to build his perfect mate, I would have said, first, lithe, graceful African-American with a long neck, slender arms, elegant hands and a short-cropped afro that exposed her perfect skull. Second, I would have said a California girl, tan, blonde who looked like she spent her days surfing and her nights fucking his brains out.
But seeing us, we worked. And seeing us in that mirror, I couldn’t help but think we not only worked but we worked in a big way.
I turned to him and tipped my head back.
“Thanks for the signing bonus,” I whispered. “And the bouquet.”
His eyes dipped to mine. Then he jerked up his chin. Then he looked over my head and scanned the room.
Thirty-seven minutes later, we were in the chapel with Liberace.
Ten minutes after that, Walker was rumbling at Liberace to stand aside as the photographer angled for our picture, a picture he wanted Liberace to have no part in. Liberace looked crushed. I gave him a dazzling smile to help with his despondency and was pleased to see this worked. Then Walker yanked me into his side with an arm around my shoulders and pointed his blank stare at the camera. I wound my arm around his waist, tilted the front of my body, pressed it into his side and aimed my dazzling smile at the photographer. Then the photographer snapped our photo.
Ten minutes after that, rhinestone lady handed us the folder with our photos and our marriage certificate.
A minute after that, we were in my car.
Which brings me to now. Married. With a bouquet in my hand and wedding photos and a marriage certificate resting on my thighs.
And I was thinking, the minute Ronnie had his scholarship yanked and copped a plea; I should not have been the girlfriend who stuck by her man.
I should have dumped him and moved on.
But I didn’t.
And now I was married to a man I didn’t know who had a gun, a history where he was in the position for Shift to owe him big and was the kind of man who casually bestowed what had to be very expensive diamonds on “his woman”.
But even though all this was irrefutably true, there was also no denying Ty Walker and I just had one kick-fucking-ass wedding.
The Charger growled up the front of our hotel, we did the valet gig then I followed Walker into the hotel. I clocked the bag of bones guy the minute we entered. He was hanging around, waiting, watching and he clocked us about two seconds after I clocked him.
That tightness took hold of my gut and instantly, without me telling it to do so, my hand transferred the folder, envelope and my clutch to press them between my arm and my body, freeing my hand so I could take hold of his. I shoved my fingers between his, lacing them together and I edged closer to him.
His chin tipped down even as he carried on walking and his fabulous, arched eyebrows went up half a centimeter.
“Bag of bones,” I whispered, pressing into the side of his body even as we moved.
“Come again?”
“Bag of bones dude. Your shadow.”
His fingers tightened in mine and he stopped us in front of the elevator, leaning forward and hitting the button but not looking around.
He came back and I got even closer.
He stared at the elevator doors but muttered, “You tagged him.”
“You didn’t?” I muttered back.
“Yeah. Just surprised you did.”
“He’s hard to miss.”
“Part-idiot,” he mumbled.
“Hmm,” I mumbled back.
You’ll be my wife, you’ll act like my wife and you’ll do it until this is done.
That’s what he’d said.
That was the deal.
That was what I needed to do to get clean and free.
And that was why I curled into him, letting his hand go but moving mine to his chest and sliding it up, up, up until it curved around the side of his neck.
That neck bent and his eyes hit mine.
I went up on tiptoes but needed more inches so he was going to have to help.
“We just got married,” I whispered.
He stared into my eyes but said not a word.
“I’m carrying a wedding bouquet.”
More staring and more silence.
“Ty, he’s watching.”
He continued to stare into my eyes, silent but his hand hit my waist, gliding around in a touch so light, if it didn’t trail a burn I could have convinced myself it wasn’t there. Then he pressed me into him and bent his neck giving me the inches I needed.
Then his mouth was on mine.
And when it was, I flashed back to our wedding kiss. Something, after it was done, I promised myself I would bury. Something, with this flashback, I knew I never would.
Our wedding kiss wasn’t chaste. It wasn’t removed. It wasn’t void of emotion.
It was an arms crushing me to his body, heads slanting, mouths opened, tongues invading, toes curling, knees weakening, bones dissolving, deep, wet, hungry, carnal kiss. It seemed to last forever but that forever was not near long enough.
Just then, that memory fresh, sharp and resurfacing in a surge even though I tried to bury it, his warm, sleek skin under my hand, his lips hard on mine, my fingers tightened on his neck, my front pressed tight to his and my mouth opened of its own volition.
His tongue snaked out and touched the tip of mine.
Warmth washed through me in a flood.
The elevator dinged.
His head came up, his arm disappeared but his hand closed around mine and he dragged me into the elevator.
He tagged the button. Then his arm came back, joined by his other one, my body collided with his, his head came down, mine was already tipped back, my free hand sliding around his shoulders, my hand holding the bouquet moving around his arm, the stuff under my arm fell unheeded to the floor of the elevator and his mouth hit mine. My lips opened, giving him instant access.
He took it.
My bones dissolved and I held on tight.
The elevator doors closed.
* * * * *
I put the folder, envelope and clutch that Walker had collected from the floor of the elevator and handed to me after our kiss on the table by the window in our hotel room. Then I carefully set the bouquet on its side.
Then I turned and saw he was at the desk, flipping through the leatherette binder there. Then he picked up the phone, hit two buttons and put it to his ear.
I stood there and watched as he said into the phone, “Yeah, room six twenty-three. Bottle of Cristal, two glasses, now.” His head was dipped down and one, long finger was touching the leatherette binder as he went on, “Two bowls of clam chowder. Two prime rib dinners, one potato loaded, the other one all the shit on the side.” He flipped a page. “One cheesecake. One chocolate truffle cake with whipped cream. One panna cotta. One hot fudge sundae. And another bottle of Cristal. Deliver that in an hour. No. An hour and a half.” Pause. “Right.”
Then he hung up and looked at me.
That was when he asked, “You like prime rib?”
I burst out laughing.
When I quit laughing, he was staring at me, deadpan.
“Uh… yeah, thanks for asking,” I answered, still smiling because I couldn’t help it, he was hilarious even if he didn’t think so then I finished, “Belatedly.”
He made no response, pulled off his suit jacket while moving, tossed it on his duffle, walked to the bed and sat down.
I realized I hadn’t had anything to eat
since my tuna melt. I’d sucked back two lattes while shopping because I could go without food, at a push. Caffeine, no way in hell.
And I was starved.
“An hour and a half?” I said to his back as he pulled off his boots.
“A man marries a woman like you in a dress like the one you got on, he’ll want champagne but he won’t be thinkin’ about food. Still, he’ll want her to have something special so he’ll be makin’ sure she does,” he said to his boots.
My hand went to the table to hold myself standing because it wasn’t an extravagant compliment but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a supremely effective one.
And he’d noticed the dress.
And these meant a lot to me, both of them did, the compliment and the fact he noticed my dress. I didn’t know why, they just did. And when I say it meant a lot, I mean it meant a lot.
I swallowed.
Then I forced out, “That might be so but –”
He stood and turned to me, hands going to the buttons on his shirt. “Bag of bones?”
“Yeah.”
“Good guess, he’s down the hall and watchin’.”
My gut tightened again.
“Really?”
“Really.”
That’s when I thought, oh hell with it.
So I tried, “Why?”
He stared at me as he unbuttoned his shirt. He got it totally unbuttoned. Then he walked to his duffle.
He didn’t answer.
I sighed.
Then I turned to the table and picked up my bouquet, walking behind him as he pawed through the duffle and I went to the bathroom. Then I stoppered the sink, filled it with water and set the bouquet in it wishing I had scissors so I could give the stems a fresh cut in order for them to drink hearty. I didn’t want that bouquet to die. Not yet. Not tomorrow. Not the next day. I wanted to keep it alive for as long as possible. And it wasn’t because it cost a hundred and fifty dollars. I didn’t know why it was. I just knew I did.
I decided I’d take my steak knife and saw off the stems later.
I walked back into the bedroom to see Ty on the bed, eyes aimed at the TV which was on but muted, no sound at all, baseball game. He had not taken off his shirt and a wide (but not wide enough) expanse of his chest, abs and tats were on display. His feet were bare. His long, muscled legs stretched out. Ankles crossed. His back was to the headboard, one arm lifted, hand behind his head.
That big beautiful body reclined in bed, the big man energy that normally flowed from him turned low but not turned off, his gorgeous eyes on the game, his fantastic features no less fantastic at rest, I wondered, what the fuck?
Why go to a pimp for a woman when you looked like that? When you could take the elevator downstairs and find at least a couple dozen women on the floor playing slots who would jump at the chance to pretend to be your wife and you wouldn’t have to give up fifty grand or a secondary fortune in diamonds.
“Uh… Ty –” I started but as I spoke there came a knock on the door.
He angled off the bed and I moved across the room. A waiter came in with a tray on which was a silver bucket, a bottle of champagne draped in a crisp linen napkin, two glasses on the sides. He put it on the table by the window.
“Would you like me to open it?” he asked, tipping his head back to look at Walker.
Walker shook his head.
The waiter grinned a knowing grin, smiled at me and headed back to the door, Walker following him. Walker came back alone and went right to the champagne. He opened it with a practiced hand and poured a glass, handing it to me, another one for him.
“To connubial bliss,” I toasted as a joke, lifting my glass but his eyes cut to me.
Nope, no sense of humor.
He put the glass to his lips and threw back half the contents while I watched his corded throat working like I was watching a master at a canvas.
Then he dropped his chin and hand, grabbed the bottle, refilled and moved back to the bed, resuming his position but without the hand behind his head.
I took a sip of my champagne and walked to the side of the bed.
“Um… Ty,” I called and his eyes went from the game to me. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yep,” he answered but I knew this meant I could ask but that didn’t mean he’d answer.
I took in a breath. Then I went for it.
“I don’t want to point out the obvious but… you’re hot.”
He stared at me but didn’t speak. I didn’t either.
Finally, he asked, “Is that a question?”
I shook my head and explained, “What I mean is, why Shift? You could –”
He cut me off. “Five years ago, yeah. Now, no.”
“What’s that mean?”
His eyes went back to the game.
End of subject.
I took a sip of champagne and my eyes drifted to the game. Then they drifted back to him and I tried again.
“Ty,” I called and he looked back at me but said nothing. So I continued, “I’m supposed to play your wife. That’s gonna be hard, I don’t know shit about you.”
He stared at me again then said, “Give and take.”
“What?”
“Give and take,” he repeated. “You give, I take. Then I give and you take.”
“You mean, I tell you about me, you tell me about you?”
He didn’t answer but held my eyes so I took that as a yes.
I could do this. I had nothing to hide.
“What do you want to know?” I asked.
“You pick what you wanna share. I pick what I wanna share.”
Totally doable.
I nodded to him to indicate that, took a sip of champagne then put a knee to the bed and moved in, sitting on a hip and leaning into a hand, knees bent, legs to my side.
“You know Ronnie Rodriguez?” I asked.
Again his eyes held mine for a moment before he answered, “Name’s familiar.”
I nodded again. He watched baseball. He was a man. It was a long time ago but these two things told me Ronnie’s name would be familiar.
“Basketball. Indiana University. Full scholarship.”
I stopped talking when he jerked up his chin and stated, “Scholarship yanked. Brother was juicin’, sellin’ juice to teammates and pimpin’ his basketball groupies to his fraternity brothers.”
Yep. That was Ronnie. Stupid. Or stupid when he wasn’t with me and he wasn’t. I was in Texas, he was in Indiana making fucked up decisions. He needed steroids like he needed a hole in the head. Hoop dreams. Shit life. Projects. Desperate. Wanted a life where all that was a faded memory. Wanted his Mom and sisters seen to, his girl dripping gold. Wanted to make sure it happened and wanted insurance. Scholarship yanked and since he was dealing and pimping and ended up doing time for both, he was banned. He was destined for the NBA. Everyone said it. He wasn’t even going to get his degree. He was going to go for it the minute he was eligible. Then he fucked it up.
“We started seeing each other when I was fifteen and stayed together until four years ago and it was over when he took seven bullets from a rival dealer who wanted Ronnie’s turf. His Mom and I chose closed casket seeing as two of those bullets he took to the face,” I shared.
Walker had no response to me sharing this shocking and tragic news of a talented man who lost it all in a hideous way. Then again, Walker had walked out of a penitentiary the day before. He’d probably heard it all.
“After he did time in Indiana, he got out, came back to Dallas and was loose partners with Shift. Ronnie was about the girls, Shift about the dope,” I told him. “But it was Shift’s dope that got Ronnie dead.”
Walker again had no response.
I took a sip of champagne and turned my head to face the TV but didn’t see the game.
And then, for some bizarre reason, reclined on a bed in Vegas with a man I didn’t know, I shared shit I’d never shared with anyone but Ronnie’s Mom and his two sisters.
“I loved him, crazy loved him,” I said quietly. “Thought I could live the life, straight and narrow, prove to him it wasn’t that bad. I didn’t have a degree. I wasn’t a hotshot basketball player. But I did it, though it was a struggle. Ronnie didn’t like struggle and he didn’t like to see me doing it. Lost his dream, lost his way, hooked up with Shift who he’d known for God knows how long, Shift dragged him down further. I never gave in but I also never gave up.” I took another sip of champagne then whispered, “Should have given up.”
“Never pimped you?”
At his question, I turned my head to face him again then shook it.
“Miracle,” he muttered.
“Ronnie wouldn’t let anything touch me.”
“You’re wrong.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Might not have wanted your mouth around another man’s cock but he didn’t give a shit about you.”
My throat closed as what he said penetrated but I pushed past it and began, “I –”
“Didn’t give that first shit.”
“Ty –”
He interrupted me again. “Dope, that’s a choice, a weak one, but a choice. Girls who suck cock and spread for cash, they don’t choose that life, a shit life chooses them. Desperation. Any man who uses that to make a living doesn’t give a shit about women. Any women.”
“That isn’t true. He had me. He had a Mom and two sisters he loved. But he saw no other future,” I defended lamely. “And he promised me he took care of his girls.”
“He lied.”
My back went straight. “You don’t know him.”
“He lied.”
“You don’t know that,” I snapped.
His back came away from the headboard and his torso twisted to face me. “Woman, he sold cunt. You value your cunt?”
I closed my eyes and looked away, giving him his answer.
“Right,” he whispered.
I opened my eyes, looked at him and whispered back, “He gave a shit about me.”
“He… did… not,” Walker enunciated every word clearly. “The only reason he didn’t pimp you is because he knew you wouldn’t be pimped. He got the barest fuckin’ inklin’ he could sell you, he’d have done it. Now, I got a dick and I assume he had a dick so, seein’ as he and I have that in common, I’ll tell you, your pussy was my pussy I would not be sellin’ pussy, not that I’d do that shit anyway. I would not be sellin’ dope and I wouldn’t do that shit either. What I would do is make fuckin’ coffee drinks if it meant you could wear your heels and feel good about sleepin’ in my bed. He didn’t do that. This means he did not give one shit about you.”