Between Lovers (16 page)

I swallow and wonder what kind of sensual life Nicole has here without me. I'm experienced, but I feel like a babe in these woods. I want to know more about Nicole's life here in Oakland, try to get a grip on her unrestrained appetite, her new forms of entertainment that surpass anything I've ever done. Try to understand the person she is when she's with Ayanna.

Nicole said that when her body is with Ayanna, her thoughts are on me. I wonder if Nicole cries in the shower, if Ayanna holds her shivering body when her emotions overload like they did yesterday morning.

Nicole glances at her watch. “You're acting a little stressed.”

“Rough trial today. And I picked up another case.”

“Like you're not busy enough. What's the deal on the new case?”

“Stupid-ass elementary teacher went wacko and made a kid lick the blackboard with her tongue.”

“You're joking.”

“Who is certifying these morons?” Ayanna says. “Just hearing the parents talk about it had me so stressed that I wanted to run to Market Street.”

I interrupt. “Market Street?”

Nicole pushes her lips up into a shallow smile, the way she does when she feels exposed. “Downtown San Fran. Weed city. Blunts haven. Indo-ville.”

Ayanna bumps Nicole, says, “And I'm running low on my indo. I want to go to Hoe Stroll and pick up a little package from my connection.”

“We're not going to Fillmore, Ayanna. We're not getting arrested supporting your medicinal habit.”

Ayanna retorts, “Oh, now it's just my habit. Guess you haven't told him you dibble and dabble.”

“Not like it's a secret. I've smoked a few trees with him.”

I say, “Years ago. Thought you said you had kicked the habit.”

Nicole laughs a bit, glances at me with guilty eyes, then bumps her hip into Ayanna. “Maybe we should chill out. Get to know each other better.”

“I wanna dance.” Ayanna shakes her ass in a hot and humid Luke Skywalker from Two Live Crew kind of rhythm, one that surprises me and gathers my attention, sends heat to my gut like a shot of rum, a shimmy that says she's loosening up, but anxiety still blankets her timbre. She laughs then puts on a playful face and pouts. “And I gots to have me an apple martini. Let me have at least one decent apple martini.”

Nicole says, “Thought you wanted a cosmopolitan?”

Ayanna laughs.

I say, “Cosmo. Weed. Martini. Sounds like you want it all.”

Ayanna says, “We all want it all.”

She shakes her ass.

Nicole drives us across the bridge and we go to a club in downtown San Francisco on Sixth. A multi-leveled, warehouse-sized hangout. Dark place. Oldies bumping in one room. Hip-hop upstairs. House music on the main level. Cages on the bottom floor like go-go girls used to dance inside on
Laugh In.
Or in those
Austin Powers
movies.

The combined beats rock the building like an earthquake in the making. Crowded with people whose sweat reeks of the fermentation of imported beer, clothes from hip-hop to Wall Street to garage band grunge, hair in everything from earth tones to shades of orange and purple. All types of people are staggering back and forth, chasing the vibrations of a song they can't catch.

Ayanna sips her second lime-colored, bourgeois brew and watches me and Nicole dance. Ayanna licks her sultry lips as we sweat and laugh. She's taken her coat off, put on a sultry face. Her black dress displays an extreme arch in her back, a curve that forces her toned butt to stand out as if it has a mind of its own.

Nicole says, “Isn't she wonderful? Isn't she beautiful?”

“Beauty is all mathematics. You inherit the right nose, right shape of face, right this, right that, then, as long as you don't have an industrial accident, you look good.”

“Admit it. Her body is off the chains.”

“Her clothes are cool. Haven't seen her body.”

“Ha, ha. What do you think of her?”

“She has a big mouth. Needs to learn when to shut up.”

“Whatever. But can't you feel her passion when she steps in a room?” Nicole runs her hand across my face. Her words soften: “Can we go kick it at your hotel room when we leave here?”

“Sure you wanna do that? We could drop her off and go spend some time alone.”

She shakes her head. “If you're craving oatmeal cookies, apple sauce won't do.”

“Is she okay over there?”

“She's fine. She always acts like that.”

“Well, this is a new adventure. If somebody's nervous, they can't enjoy new things.”

“I said she's fine,” Nicole says with measurable force, then pulls back, downgrades her tone with a wink and a rising smile. “She's jittery because this is exciting. Just like I am.”

My talk of nervousness is about me, not Ayanna. Nicole's focus is beyond this moment. She winks toward Ayanna, crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue, makes a monkey face, an act of silliness that, for seven years, I thought was reserved for me. For us. Another illusion is withering. In response, Ayanna glows like a movie star.

Ayanna's love has risen to the surface, so thick an elephant can ice-skate on it.

“How long have you known Miss Esquire Atheist?”

Nicole smiles in my face, some guilt in her eyes, but doesn't answer. She knows I know.

I ask, “And what else haven't you told me yet?”

Nicole nibbles my ear, whispers, “I love you.”

I want to steel myself and become cold, but those three words create instant warmth, at the same time sending a chill up my arm to my brain, setting my head on fire.

She says, “We've gone through so much together. The death of your grandparents. My daddy. Lost a couple of friends along the way.”

“Parking tickets.”

She frowns. “You had to bring those up.”

We laugh.

She says, “And other things. Countless other things.”

“Lots of other things.”

“And Paris.”

That is my tender spot. Nicole is a good warrior. Knows how to win with simple words.

A spiritual connection that has been nurtured over more than half a decade weakens me, and I say that yes, whatever craving you have that can't be denied, I'll see to it that it's quenched. I'll go into the bowels of hell to rescue the woman I love. I'll sacrifice my sanity to get you oatmeal cookies.

I'll fuck you three ways from Sunday if that drives Ayanna insane. I'll do that.

She runs her tongue around the outline of my lips, sucks my tongue, makes my nature rise as she once again reminds me, reminds me as she laughs, “This is your fault.”

I taste her tongue as I hold the soft part of her ass, the part where her flesh curves into her hamstrings, the part I grip when she's on top of me, or I'm on top of her trying to find that new room. I palm that part of her ass, pull her to me, and I press against her.

“I'm serious. This is your fault.”

“Well, the way I see it, it's like this: it was there in your blood. Waiting to activate at the right moment. If it didn't happen in Paris, it would've happened somewhere else. Am I wrong?”

“If you throw a match in a house filled with gasoline, who gets blamed for the fire? The gasoline or the man who tossed the match?”

Ayanna watches our passionate conversation, one of accusations and denials and tender kisses. She folds one arm underneath her breasts, shifts her weight on her left leg, stands alone in the crowd and sips her apple martini.

Nicole sips on a mimosa, her backside rolling up against me, the spirits in her head and the rhythm of the boob-shaking, booty-bouncing song by George Clinton taking control.

With a feminine stroll that could stop a show, Ayanna sashays over to Nicole, overlooks me. “I need some attention.”

“You always need attention.”

“I hate being ignored. Taste this.”

She lets my ladylove sip from her drink. Nicole leads Ayanna's glass to my lips, turns the part with the dark lipstick to my face. I sip from that part. Nicole gives Ayanna a sip of her mimosa, makes sure the lipstick part is where Ayanna drinks from, then does the same with me. Indirect kisses on glass.

Ayanna tells Nicole, “Dance with me.”

Nicole giggles and tells Ayanna, “Dance with us.”

Ayanna finishes the drink, brings her rhythm to the floor, moving with a cha-cha-cha Latin syncopation, on one side of me, rubbing her heat against me, bumping her breasts into me, then her hips into me, again her breasts, turning and vibrating and pushing me with her backside, turning again and pushing with her thighs, making me a sandwich, doing that over and over, showing me that she has more fire, that she's the better dancer.

Nicole rides the rhythm, floats closer to Ayanna, does her dance of enticement, puts her tender and firm body next to her other lover with enough coyness to tantalize, hips moving with naked abandon.

Ayanna smiles and blushes like an innocent girl excited by eroticism, but I can see that she's an experienced woman who loves to dance. Once again, she runs her hands over her locks, bounces her shoulders, spins, shakes, gets lost deep inside the rhythm. The moment Nicole touches her, Ayanna's eyes light up and, despite my ill, maybe not ill, just awkward feelings for her, Ayanna glows and becomes attractive in her own way.

Nicole eases away, puts her hand on Ayanna's ass, touching Ayanna the same way I had just caressed her, creating a look of ecstasy and acceptance on Ayanna's face. Nicole pushes her toward me and says, “Ayanna, I want you two to dance.”

“Why can't I dance with you?”

“Get your groove on and chit-chat. I'll be back in a sec.”

Ayanna asks, “Where are—”

“To the bathroom.”

“I'll go—”

“I can handle it.” Nicole's voice sings, as enchanting as a flute, as seductive as a saxophone. “If I need help I'll scream. Dance. Talk.”

We hold our smiles as if we're waiting for a camera to flash.

Ayanna stands in front of me like she's been left naked in the snake house at the zoo. I do the same. Her scent attracts my senses, floods me with the smells of alcohol, patchouli, fear, and indecision. If I close my eyes, I can fool my heart into thinking she's the woman I desire. Her fingers are longer, hands smaller. Imagination fails.

She asks me, “What do you want from her?”

“To get married.”

“I see.”

“Then travel.”

“Uh huh.”

“Make love in different countries, as many as we can.”

She sings, “Okay.”

“Then when we're ready, have kids. Pack up the SUV and take her to brunches on Mother's Day and have them do the same for me on Father's Day.”

“Why, that's very
Leave it to Beaver
of you.”

“I know. It's a
Nick at
Nite fantasy, but hey, corny ain't always bad.”

“Damn shame. Slavery was outlawed years ago, but marriage is still legal.”

I chuckle at her humor, start to understand, almost appreciate her sarcasm. “So cynical.”

“So, your ultimate goal is procreation. To send your sperm on an Easter egg hunt and enslave her with snotty-nosed children as her shackles.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Don't make me puke. Be real. People get married, have kids, then realize they were better off and much happier being single. I've been counsel at enough divorces to know that for a fact. I've seen too many love relationships become love-hate relationships, then just hate relationships.”

“Which are you in now?”

She runs her tongue over her gums. “Which are you in?”

“No hate in my house. Just a struggle to understand.”

“Why do you have to struggle to understand what's in your face, what's clear?”

I run my tongue over my gums as well. I tell her, “I'm into family. My dad has seventeen brothers and sisters, all but four by the same mother.”

“Talk about overkill. Did your grandmother ever stand up long enough to get a glass of Kool-Aid?”

“They did go all out back in the day.”

“Thank God for birth control and
Roe versus Wade.”

I laugh a little.

She tisks. “What you want is a major conflict. You want to serve your ego.”

“C‘mon. And you're not serving yours?”

She chuckles. “Typical, typical, typical. So self-absorbed that you can't see beyond your own desires.”

Her hand smoothes her hair. Her locks have a wonderful aroma, sensual and fruity. And they are irresistible. I want to touch them, feel their texture. But I don't give in to that urge.

I ask her, “What do you want?”

She sighs. “Love perpetually. Resolution eternally.”

“You're working those adverbs.”

“And Chinese food twice a week. Have to have my orange chicken.”

A moment of us dancing, holding each other rocking, and just dancing. She feels warm, relaxed.

“The Chinese food part is easy.” Ayanna sighs again. “Love can be the best thing that happens to a person, and can be the worst thing at the same time. That's not fair.”

“We're on the same page.”

“Writer Boy, we're not even in the same book.”

Nicole rushes back through the crowd, eyes those of an excited child, a wild and naughty smile on her golden-brown skin.

She grabs our hands and tells us, “Quick, follow me.”

Ayanna asks, “What's wrong?”