Smoke and Mirrors (41 page)

“Hmmm, well, we will see. Maybe I can use my dad’s driver’s license or something. Everyone thinks we look alike anyway. I’ll round up some more money. When is your car going to be out the shop, man?” Brent asked as he pulled up to Carl’s home. The lawn was perfect, with a little white baseball jockey in the front. “Shit, like another day or two. I can give you gas money.” The guy dug vigorously into his pocket and pulled out a crumbled five dollar bill.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’ll give you a call later, okay? Let you know what’s up.”

“Alright!” Carl got out the car, turned on his heels and walked swiftly up the sidewalk.

Brent sat there for a long while, looking at the ranch house surrounded by palm trees. He imagined Carl washing his face and hands for supper; yeah supper… He bet that was what his mom and dad called it, and his cute little sister, too. They probably had a little white dog named Sugar, and listened to classical music while discussing their day around a big round table with a white table cloth over it. Then after they ate, they possibly gathered around the television and watched a PG movie, with a big bowl of buttery popcorn along with diet cokes and well-placed guffaws.

Yeah…he bet Carl had a good life. The man’s father was top chef at some fancy kosher restaurant, and his mother a part time librarian. She probably read to his little sister every night, stories about frogs that turned into princes, then tucked her in before singing a lullaby.

Nobody read shit to me when I was a kid, except the Wanted Ads…

He chuckled to himself as he started his car up and pulled away from the curb.

I think I’ll go to that party after all…besides, I’ m wanted there. People like me and I don’t even have to pretend to be someone I’m not. Yeah, I could get used to this…

That night, he met Cheryl. She was standing against the wall holding a red plastic cup and laughing shyly with a couple of friends. One of the cutest little things he’d ever seen—and she seemed taken aback that he’d shown an interest in her. He spoke to her all evening, and realized not only was she easy on the eye, she was intelligent, and quirky…and witty, too. A friendship began, and then just like that, they began to date exclusively.

He was drawn to the green-eyed brunette because of her sweetness, her innocence. She was such a good girl, but she wanted him, acted like she needed him. Cheryl was his sparkling, golden key to normalcy, just like Carl, his last ditch effort to escape his demons that just itched to emerge, to get out and wreck havoc on the world. She was his ticket away from himself; only, things just didn’t quite pan out… He realized soon thereafter that he wasn’t supposed to be upstanding and good natured like Carl, date sweet girls like Cheryl, and live in a ranch home surrounded by palm trees with a little white dog named Sugar.

No, he was supposed to be a motherfucking west coast pimp with new age flair and old school protocol—and the idea of normalcy for a hillbilly bastard like him should simply go up in smoke…

*

‘He has marked
me inside and out,’
Paris wrote in the small silver and black hardbound journal. As of late, she’d begun to keep one in which to compose her innermost thoughts. Her world had completely changed, she was enraptured, and her heart beat differently when the man pressed his lips against her own. She was finally one of the characters in her secret stash of romance books…the ones no one knew about except Smoke. She had to get the words out. It was a therapy of sorts. As a child, she used to keep a journal, and it would help calm her nerves. Now, she did it to express her gratitude, to lay it all out on the blue lines on off-white sheets. She was head over heels in love with the man. Every time he called her, she’d feel her stomach tighten in anticipation, like a first crush. He sent her swingin’… When she heard that deep voice on the other end of the phone, she’d lose her damn mind. When he’d say, “Pussycat, I love you…” her heart would pause and take it all in. He
did
something to her, changed her a bit more, each and every day.

Smoke fascinated her. He was a smart businessman, good looking, and funny, though at times prone to emotional withdrawal. She figured nine out of ten wasn’t bad; besides, he had a right to his private sanctuary of thoughts. She closed her journal and sighed, then startled when her cell phone rang. She looked down and read the number…

My Smoke Baby: 310-542-2431

“Ahhhhh, yes!” She smiled down at the phone, surprised that the man was calling her at that time. He had a jam-packed day, so this was rather unexpected. She grabbed the phone, unable to mask her delight. “Hi, baby!”

“I can tell you’re smiling.” He chuckled lightly. “You make a man feel good, always happy to hear from me.”

“Of course I am. How are you doing, honey?”

“I’d be better if you’d open the door.”

“Huh?!” Jumping up from her chair in her living room, she rushed to the front door and opened it to see the dashing man standing there in cream pants, a V-neck black shirt and his customary smirk on his face. His slightly damp hair appeared jet black and those amazing blue eyes gleamed under her porch light. He removed his hand from behind his back, and shook a cup of her favorite caramel cappuccino in her direction.

“No you didn’t! Get in here!” She laughed as she took the warm cup from his hand and moved out of the way, allowing the tall god to enter. He waltzed inside like he paid bills in that motherfucker, and in a way, he did. She closed and locked the door behind him, set the coffee down on a decorative table, then clasped her hands together as he looked around. His gaze fell on her journal lying precariously on the white marble table, and like the damn road runner, she scurried over as fast as her bare feet could carry her, plucked it from the thing and pressed it to her light pink robe covered bosom.

“What do you have there?” He drew closer to her.

Damn that smirk.
“None of your business.”

He flashed a grin, one that made her sick, for she knew what it meant—he wasn’t going to drop the damn inquisition.

“Come on, tell me.” He put his hands on his hips and halted his advance. His eyes never left hers.

“I keep a journal, okay? I just started, actually.”

“Whatever you do, don’t write anything incriminating in it,” he warned as he plopped down in one of her over-stuffed white love seats. The man was so long, he looked like he’d just dropped into a child’s chair. “Everything I write out on my computer, I save it on a hidden external drive. My computer hard drive is wiped clean by an old high school buddy of mine, uh, Carl. I told you about him. Anyway, he takes care of it every damn month. That’s how they catch up with people like us, Paris, shit like that.” He pointed lazily at her as she clutched her book protectively.

“For your information, Mr. Know-It-All, nothing in here is about the business.”

“Good, very good. Now, I just dropped by to see my Pussycat because I’ve missed you. We’ve been like ships in the night, so to speak, this week.”

“I know.”

She approached him, making herself comfortable across his lap. He held her gently, as if she were some pristine little doll, then leaned forward and pressed his delicious lips to her own. Her stomach knotted a bit as waves of emotion overcame her. She couldn’t figure out for the life of her why she’d become suddenly dismayed; dare she say it, sullen. Perhaps she should blame the thoughts she’d scribed in her journal a few hours prior—dark thoughts, horrible thoughts, ones that she wished she could simply make go away.

“What’s wrong, baby?” He ran his hand soothingly down her back, sensing her mood.

Damn, he knows me so well …

“I was writing some stuff in my journal, and…some memories came back… things from the past.” She shrugged. “I didn’t reveal everything to you when you asked me. I tried, I really did.”

“I know you didn’t, Pussycat. You weren’t ready.” He smiled sweetly at her. “It’s time, right?” He held her a bit tighter.

“I believe so.” She took his hands into her own, squeezing a bit. “I told you quite a bit, but I left out a part, a
big
piece…because it’s hard for me to talk about.”

He cocked his head to the side.

“All right,” he said gently. “I understand.” He tapped his leg and leaned back further in the seat.

Her head lowered, as if abashed, humiliated. This was a part of her life she’d rather forget, but she simply couldn’t. It had changed her so; some would say
ruined
her. Smoke needed to know why, in part, she’d treated him like she had when they met. He deserved to understand that she wasn’t a bitch in a badass pair of heels. She’d been damaged beyond human comprehension, and a man trying to run game on her caused her to seethe…because she was steeped in similar history, and it had destroyed her, crushed her self esteem, made her fight to simply stay alive.

“Smoke, my life with my parents obviously wasn’t great, I told you a bit about that but I
can
say this. My father had a bad temper, but I didn’t grow up watching him beat on my mother. I didn’t know my family was messed up, until I got older, much older. Now, my father
was
verbally and emotionally abusive to my mom though, and that’s just as bad. I didn’t know what motivated him to treat her that way. I just knew I didn’t want to be with someone who would treat
me
that way.”

Smoke nodded in agreement. “Yeah, verbal and emotional abuse is actually worse to some degree, because that’s the shit that’s long-lasting. A bruise heals and goes away, while the fucked up things people say to us last forever.”

“Very true…Well, my mother, despite being a drug addict, she was as good of a mother as someone in her situation, could be… She actually
did
take care of me.” She smiled sadly and re-opened her eyes. “I don’t know how she managed, between that and her crack addiction, but she did. I had clothes, I was clean, I was fed, my hair was combed, things like that. I think partially it was because my father made sure she always had her supply so that nothing bad happened, well, you know what I mean.”

She took a deep breath, glanced at him, then looked back down into her lap.

“She instilled in me the importance of an education. Well, I thought I wanted to be a ballerina until one day at school for a field trip, we went way out to some farm where they had big, vibrant, sweet smelling oranges. They went on for miles and miles, those orange trees, Smoke.” At telling that story, she felt a bit of peace. That had been one of the best days of her life and she fell into the memory like a kiss upon a cheek. “The teacher was explaining how they grow orange trees, you know?” He nodded. “And then they took us over to the vineyards, and she talked about how they make grape juice and wine… and a little ways over, I spotted this huuuuuuuge field of wild flowers, Smoke! I mean, I was in complete awe! I’d never seen something so beautiful in all of my life. I felt like, if I could make something beautiful like that, then I’d be beautiful too, you know?”

“You
were
beautiful, baby. From the time you were born, up until right now, you’ve always been beautiful, Paris.” He looked at her with such love, making her heart pound a bit faster.

“Thank you, Smoke. That was very nice of you to say.” She took a deep breath. “Well, uh, so I saw the field,” she continued, “and they let us pick an orange, some grapes and a flower of our choice. The flowers were my favorite. I wanted to know how to make those things grow, and what they needed to become so beautiful. I didn’t care about getting dirty. I wanted to dig in that soil and make something breathtaking. It amazed me that we could put something in the ground, in the earth, and out something lovely would come. I wanted a chance to give life to a thing, to show the world that I could make something that was perfect, even if
I
wasn’t. You know, I planted everything around my house, Smoke, even the bushes out front.” She smiled proudly, unable to curb her enthusiasm.

“Really?” His thick brow arched. “I figured you had a landscaper do all of that.”

“Well, don’t get me wrong, I had help, but the design, purchases and putting those bushes in, that was all me. I love planting a seed and watching it grow. It makes me feel…like I’ve done something,
really
done something.” She took a deep breath, getting lost in her own thoughts.

“Keep talking to me, Paris.” He looked at her seriously, encouraging her to let it all out and not second guess her confessions. She hadn’t gotten to the nitty-gritty, and that meant she couldn’t back out. He sensed that…

“Well, after my mother died, things pretty much went to shit. Around that same time, my father had allegedly killed someone, like I told you, but that, that wasn’t the end of what happened there…”

They both sat quiet for a spell before she continued.

“I was left at home for weeks. It didn’t take long for people to figure out there was no parent in the house, and family services came and got me. I was in foster care for a bit. That was not a good experience either,” she said on a ragged breath. “Anyway, that ended. My uncle, my mom’s brother, came and got me. He stood there like a perfect gentleman in that courtroom.” She cracked a sad smile. “He had on a suit, a tie, and he looked so kind and mild mannered.” Her eyes drifted towards the ceiling as the memories swam within her. “I thought I’d caught a break.” She laughed mirthlessly. “Smoke, he took me to his house, and practically turned me into a slave. He had me cooking and cleaning all damn day and I slept on the broken down, stinking couch. He wouldn’t even put me in a room. He had three bedrooms and no one lived there but him. No one from the family services place came and checked on me like they said they would… They just,”—she shrugged—“forgot about me.”