Like Slow Sweet Molasses (34 page)

Angela
took his hand, he surmised, in support of him as the crowd loosened enough for
them to walk side-by-side. The action was deficient for what he really wanted
was to pummel the man for putting her safety in jeopardy. He squeezed her hand,
instead. “Do you trust me for one more surprise?”

“I
don’t know.” Her laughter tinkled through the brisk night air as they came upon
the car.

“Come
on. Give me another chance,” he pleaded his case.

Angela
leaned with her back to the door. “I don’t know,” she hedged, again. Chance
caught the front of her short jacket pulling her into his chest for a sample
kiss. She pushed back. “Oh, alright. This had better be good. Or else.”

“Or
else, what?” Her body gained momentum to lay on his as he repeated the move.

“Or
else,” she turned her face up to his, “you’re cut off,” and the cup of her
hands on his jaws directed his lips to hers, “from this.” Angela rang his bell
with her slow-burn of a kiss.

“Perhaps,
we can forget the other stop and go straight home.” She smiled at his
suggestion. But, he meant every word.

“You’re
not going to get out of treating me to a good time that easily, Lieutenant.”

“I
figured as much.” He fell back doing a “Fred Sanford” to unlock the door and
like the gentleman he was—waited until she situated herself before locking her
in.

“Where
are we off to, now?” Angela asked as he pulled from the lot to travel a
boulevard unfamiliar to her.

“So
as not to alarm you, I’ll tell you.” He hinted, “It’s somewhere we can have a
steak, a drink and a dance.”

“Uh-ugh.”

“Relax,”
he urged, leaving that street behind to catch a road not as well lit and
sparsely traveled.

“This
is eerie.” The fact they rode parallel to the levee sent chills down her spine.
She knew only one thing about the levees of New Orleans—they broke during
Hurricane Katrina. “Are you sure it’s safe to be this close to the levees?”

“I
said relax, Angel. Believe that I would never put you in a position to
compromise your well-being.” He tweaked her cheek. “I love you too much.”

“I
trust you, Chance.” Her voice held a smile. “I just don’t trust the levees.”

He
looked at her profile silhouetted by the dashboard lights. “And?”

“And
what you said,” Angela remarked with pseudo-disinterest.

“And
what did I say?” he asked to hear the words.

“That
you love me.” Angela taunted him with her refusal to admit her feelings about
him.

“You’re
not going to say it?”

“Say
what?” The game was getting good to her, though, uncertainty laced his last
question. She relented to assuage his bruised ego. “Of course, I’ll say I love
you because it’s true.”

His
hand dwarfed hers long enough for them to play pinkie grab before he turned his
attention to the upcoming, unmarked, potholed lane. Chance slowed to maneuver
the Cobra across a narrow wooden bridge that appeared deceptively smaller than
the car’s width. Angela gasped and he noticed how she leaned towards her window
to check their progress. With no mishaps in accessing the rutted road, it was
his turn to lean for a look at the black sky through the windshield. The
mystical haze gathered above the treetops, signs the grill was still glowing.
The S-curve led them to the gravel parking area packed with monster pickups,
expensive sports cars, hip street rides and deranged motorcycles.

“We’re
here,” he alerted.

“Where?”
she asked warily, reading the oversized neon sign on the roof as Chance
answered.

“H.U.B.S.”
He parked and exited the vehicle.

“HUBS?”
she repeated.

He
elaborated. “House of United Brothers and Sisters.”

The
music was noticeable for what it was—a country song—while sitting in the car.
She didn’t wait for him to let her out, choosing to mask her apprehension by
attacking the problem head-on and doing it herself. Now, the tune vibrated the
starry atmosphere. Chance treated her to one of his savory kisses that weakened
her knees after he came to her side of the car. She used the pretense of
styling the hair at his ears as an avenue of groping him closer for
encouragement.

Wrapping
her up against the cold wind, he held her at arm’s length to read her sparkling
eyes that opened to her inner soul, if you knew how to interpret the look. That
was something he was improving at—deciphering her needs in spite of her
counterfeit façade of aloofness. In them promises of never having a dull moment
zinged him. Then, he looked again into their depths at the boundless rewards
she harbored and was ready to bestow on him, if worthy. No one needed to tell
Chance to count his lucky stars for he did so whenever his mind slipped in her
direction, which was all the time.

Her
dance started before they even reached the building as her heels sunk into the
rocky ground. Angela tipped her way up to the country porch steps away from
double roughhewn doors glad to set foot on the solid surface. Twisting her
agile body to expose the damage done to her shoes brought a grimace at the dirt
clumped around the caps, and caught Chance’s attention. The handkerchief from
his back pocket made them as good as new without her removing either foot. An
enormous crash against the door just as it swung outward notified them to act
swiftly to avoid a major collision. Out tumbled a grizzly bear of a man, who
from the way he landed, could have been a captive staked out in the desert.

Angela
obscured her vision of the unfolding altercation with both hands over her eyes,
her body trying to become one with the log cabin wall. Timidly, she lowered
them to a prayerful pose protecting her nose and mouth, eyes transfixed on the
man lying inert on the dusty ground below. She had never in her life seen such
brutish behavior.

The
doors opened again and a slip of a woman rushed out to stamp her booted foot on
the mountain man’s throat to keep him motionless. “Say it,” she brazenly
ordered.

“I’ve
had too much to drink,” he croaked.

“Oh,
hi, Chance,” she acknowledged him and nodded to Angela, then, resumed her
attack. “I…didn’t…hear…you.”

“Angel,
it’s okay.” Chance eased her fear as the behemoth spoke.

“I’m
drunk,” he confessed. “You’ll have to drive home.”

Chance
gave a lop-sided grin and explained. “It’s not a fight.” Her bewildered look
questioned his appraisal of what was going on. “Promise. That’s their usual
exit.”

They
continued watching like it was a spectator sport.

“That’s
more like it.” The woman’s fingers grabbed a handful of his plaited beard as
punishment. “Up you go.”

Angela
and Chance doubted he could get up, let alone go.

“Lieutenant.”
He sobered enough to stumble to his feet, his voice a deep southern drawl.
 
“Ya’ll have made my wife a wild woman, for
sure.”

“Sorry,
Bud. I can’t take the credit for that.” Chance chuckled as the duo weaved their
way to one of the trucks on the lot where Bud climbed in, not into the cab,
but, scrambled into the truck bed. “Goodnight, Linda.”

“Night,
Chance.”

“I’m
not so sure about this.” Her excitement withered to trepidation.

“He’s
a pussycat. She’s a hellion and one of the best cops on the force.” There was
no doubt background on the married gladiators wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
“We never have to come here, again, if you don’t feel comfortable.”

He
said
we
.
We never have to come here, again.
It would be selfish
of her to make such a demand. “This is your unwinding spot. How would it look
if I kept you from mingling with your friends?”

“I’m
confident that won’t happen,” he prophesied, steering her towards the doors
before she raced for the car.

She
let Chance guide her and was practically blown away by the sheer size of the
place, not to mention all the commotion going on inside. Chirpy, fresh-faced
young women greeted them, taking their roles to heart, Angela could tell—in
this instance—more for Chance’s benefit than hers. They showed their tolerance
for her presence with hardly a glance. A charming smile accompanied his
request.

“A
table for two, please, ladies. In the restaurant.”

They
put their heads together over the seating chart spread on the podium squabbling
audibly about the next available table. The snaky grin sliding its way across
the oldest looking of the bunch’s face when she replied to his request was a
sock to Angela’s pride.

“There’s
a forty-five minute wait, Lieutenant Alexander. For you, I’ll
work it
to
thirty.”

Gag
me with a spoon
Angela recited silently with a perceptible flip of her own shoulder length
hair.

“Here’s
your pager,” cheered another voice. “We’ll beep you when we’re ready for you.”
Giggles burst forth.

Chance
spared Angela an embarrassed glance and obediently followed her to the
platform’s edge. Her face disclosed none of what she felt though the slackness
of her hand hold was a definite clue. The tightness around her mouth would have
gone unnoticed except he had never seen those dimples before.

“Angel?”
If he didn’t know better, he would say she was jealous. His egotistical outlook
rocketed his stock’s worth off the chart.

Angela
batted to disperse the upset filtering behind her eyeballs at the affects of
the disrespectful double entendre. In the subdued lighting, even with her misty
focus, she zoomed in on a dark spot or two or three that looked like her.
Regrettably, and as was usually the case, they were all male.

“What
do you think so far?” he butted in on her introspection.

“It’s
unlike anyplace I’ve ever been before,” she replied honestly. So much snagged
her attention: bodies of all proportions hunched over the double line of pool
tables in one area, while jeers went up at the mechanical bull’s success in
dethroning a female rider, to the syncopated lights of the dance floor where a
raucous line dance came up an even match for the
traditional-black-family-gathering Bus Stop dance.

“We
have thirty minutes on the clock.” He saw her interest in the rocking dancers.
“Let’s kick up our heels.”

“No,
I don’t think so.” Her hand slipped from his when he tugged her down the steps
to the main floor.

“You
can do it.”

“I
know. I just don’t want to give away any of my secret moves.”

The
matter was out of her hands as he towed her to the elbow-bumping dance floor,
showed her his pearly whites and literally kicked his right heel behind to tap
his left hand, falling right in step with the flow.

“It’s
easy.”

Dancing
them to a less crowded area to slow his moves down for her to catch on, Chance
deciphered some of the looks his colleagues cast their way as mere curiosity.
The heated intensity of others echoed the direction of their silent thoughts
signifying to him to make his intent clear. So, he gently encircled her waist,
an apropos action declaring his infatuation for all to see.

Angela,
stumbling along, thrown off by the timing of it all because her soul showed
through, let go of her self-consciousness to master the dance. Before long, she
giggled as she dipped, wiggled and shook, out cowboying the cowboys and girls
whooping it up on the floor. The fun she never expected to have shone brightly
in her laughing eyes that enveloped him. The music dropped to a softer level,
simultaneously slowing the tempo and Chance crushed her to his chest in
response.

“You
never cease to amaze me.” His warm mouth dotted from her forehead, to her eyes,
to her nose, and to her mouth before finally nipping her bottom lip with his
teeth.

The
tests to the longevity of their association cropped up all in one evening to
allay the concerns they had about the differences in their skin color. It
turned out that the problem, if there was one, wasn’t theirs.

They
swayed to the music playing in their hearts for the song ended but their dance
did not. Not until pressed into awareness by the flurry of activity around them
did Chance escort her over to take a stool at the bar.

“The
usual, Chance?” asked the bartender, pulling a bottled draft from the cooler,
his eyes as sharp as tacks and his pate shinier than the glass he held.

“Iced
and frosty, Sam,” he responded.

Sam
inquired, “And the lady?” looking straight into Angela’s eyes.

“The
same, please.” She refused the tall beer glass he produced in favor of sipping
from the long neck.

“Haven’t
seen you in here before.”

“Do
you remember everyone who sets foot in here?” It was a stupid question because
he probably could rattle off the number of Blacks that danced on that floor
over the last six months and still have fingers left over.

“Sam’s
the owner, Angel, and a retired police officer who notices these things.” To smooth
over what he believed Angela’s answer intimated, he explained, “It’s her first
time here.”