Vulnerable (23 page)

Since Dante's death, Blaine had been guarded and wary in Imani's presence. He never knew one minute to the next what Imani would say to him; confusing her grief over Dante with her longstanding anger at him. And if Imani did not know better, she would have thought Blaine was on the verge of producing a tear. Patiently, he waited well over two years to hear her say those words. He knew nothing he said would ever make her understand how sorry he felt, and what a fool he had been. He never told her, but he chalked that time up—the cheating on her—to bad judgment and immaturity. Back then he was a visibly successful male model and he had an assortment of options, and Blaine took advantage of nearly every single one.

“I never meant…”

“It happened. And I know you didn't intend to hurt me. But you did.
Had Dante not been killed, I most likely would still be unable to forgive you. But they say, no sooner than God closes a door, he opens a window.”

“And you know I hate that Dante's gone, but…”

“I know.” She purposely stopped his words.

“Damn. Imani, you smiled.”

Her laughter, often irrepressible, made her eyes water. “Yes, I know.”

Their embrace was natural. It was emotive and long, like the affectionate hug they shared many weeks ago; when Imani saw Blaine for the first time since she packed and left New York and relocated to Seattle. Through their embrace, they both felt the physicality of their emotions—the genuine love that was real between them.

When she released him, Imani said, “Kenya asked me something interesting before she left for Toronto.”

“What's that?”

“Would I take you back if you tried to go in that direction.”

“No, she didn't!”

Imani was not exactly sure whether he wanted to know the answer to that question. “I told her how much I loved you back then, and I always will love you. But love evolves and what it feels like—what it
is
—when two people meet and begin to develop as a couple is a different love from the love those same two people feel years later. Sometimes it's mature and special, and sometimes it's reliant and taken for granted. What I know for sure is that I can now meet someone new and be open with that person. Available—emotionally and psychologically—to that person. For quite some time, I chose to go on a date with someone strictly because I knew I wasn't interested in them. They were safe. Letting go entirely with a man—it just didn't seem possible. Some part of me didn't know
how
. I didn't trust myself.”

They shared a grace-filled moment.

“I mean this, Imani. That man—whoever he is—will be blessed to have you.”

Her voice was gentle. “Thank you.”

In silence, they watched ice-skaters in their wool scarves, gloves, caps with fuzzy balls dangling on either side, which sheltered them from the bitter cold air.

“So when do you plan to go back to Seattle?”

“My business manager and my office manager—they've been taking care of everything for me right now. I feel bad leaving Jean-Pierre in a bind at Café Neuf. But I need to see this through first. I
need
to know who would kill my father in cold blood and walked out of that bodega like he's some damn Al Pacino in
The Godfather
or something.”

“Oh, that scene was the bomb, though. I mean, one of the best scenes ever in motion picture history. Seriously.”

She loved Blaine deeply; Imani understood that clearly now. She sipped her drink before she said, “Yeah, but whoever that lowlife was, he was no Al Pacino. Michael Corleone was smart, but this guy…he's stupid! I wish I knew why he did this. Anyway, he's lucky the video camera didn't work at the bodega.”

Blaine was somber when he told her, “Dante was like a father to me. I want to see that lowlife's… Clearly he didn't know who it was that he shot.”

•  •  •

“Good morning,” Sicily said, reaching for her mail in the Academy mailroom..

Rawn looked up from a letter he had opened seconds before and flashed a deceptive grin. “Good morning.”

“So, don't keep me in suspense. Tell me.”

“Tell you?” He felt awkward, and hesitated before he replied. “Tell you what?”

“What you think of Tamara.”

All weekend Tamara's voice kept coming back to him:
It's between you and me.
“She's cool people,” he managed to say persuasively.

“So you approve?” she asked.

“What do you mean by
approve?”

“You agree?”

“With what?”

“Okay. I guess I'm not using the correct language. But you think she's good for me?”

It was not Sicily's style to seek, let alone need, someone's approval. In Rawn's mind, he played with the theory that she was too intoxicated by Tamara. Janelle said to him when he broke off their engagement and she walked away from him for good: “I should have listened to my intuition.”

“Enjoy this, Sicily. Whatever it is you and Tamara have, just go with it.”

She held his eyes for a beat, and if Sicily did not know him better, she would think Rawn was guarding a secret. “Tamara's authentic and I like that. Hey, by the way, did D'Becca tell you? We had lunch Friday.” Sicily stuffed her mail in her briefcase. “She's in love with you. So what's going on with you two?”

Rawn pretended to be distracted by the letter, and continued to keep his eyes on the page to avoid looking into Sicily's trusting eyes. “She mentioned you two hooked up. By the way, how much of my life did you share with D'Becca?”

“What do you mean?” Sicily acknowledged a passing teacher and extended her a friendly, “Good morning.”

Rawn, polite, nodded to the colleague. He looked into Sicily's hazel eyes and they were gentle, kind. She spent time with D'Becca
out of respect she had for him. Moreover, it was obvious Tamara mentioned nothing about their running into each other at Pacific Place. Depending on how he chose to look at it, it could be a good thing or it could be a really bad thing.

“It's nice that you and D'Becca are friendly. Now you can get off my case about the fact that I'm seeing someone who isn't Negro.”

Amused, she said, “Oh, and Tamara liked you. Want to go to Café Neuf for lunch?”

He mulled over the idea, hesitating before he finally said in a passive voice, “Sure.”

Once she left him standing alone at the mail slots, Rawn's mind raced. He was not confident that he could maintain such a despicable deception. The veil it cast over his life made him uncomfortable. He was brought out of his train of thought when he heard two colleagues entering the mailroom in the midst of an animated conversation. He turned to see who they were and offered his thoughtful “good morning,” and their replies followed him out of the mailroom.

•  •  •

“Khalil Underwood!”

“Khalil, hey, it's me.”

“Whatup?”

“Take me off speaker, man.”

The tone alone made Khalil place his bottled water on his cluttered desk filled with paperwork. His office, which overlooked the entire West Hollywood community, was equipped with a basketball hoop, and posters of the athletic elite—from Michael Jordan to Tiger Woods. There were framed photographs of him and a few female public figures taken at Hollywood parties and various social events. He looked up to his assistant. “Give me ten.”

Standing, the assistant said, “You have a conference call in five.”

“Find a way to make it in ten.”

“It took weeks to make this happen.”

“Ten minutes. Make that happen.”

When his assistant closed the door behind her, Khalil took Rawn off speaker. “Why do I
know
this ain't about Vail?”

“Would you have kicked your assistant out of your office if you thought this was about Vail?”

Khalil exhaled a deep breath. “What? No, wait up! Uh-huh, no way!” Rawn butted in on his best friend presuming to know exactly why he called, and attentively, Khalil listened while Rawn gave him the blow-by-blow. Oblivious to the fact that he came to his feet, Khalil put his earpiece on and returned the receiver to the carriage. It took roughly four minutes for Rawn to set up the scene—from Pacific Place to Tamara's—and when he finished, Khalil said, “Damn! Are you?…Man, what. the. fuck! You know you can't even tell Sicily about this. Listen up, Rawn.
Do not
tell Sicily. I know you'll feel compelled. This thing'll start messing with your head…Man, don't—
don't
—tell Sicily!”

“Look,” Rawn began. “Sicily is whipped. She's crazy about this woman.”

“I told you to stay away from her. You are way smarter than me, so what about the word
trouble
are you not ascertaining, man?”

“It's not like I knocked on her door.”

“But did you have to go hanging out with the bitch, man? That idea went looking for trouble. You just couldn't resist it.”

“I'm lying to Sicily…”

“Now, not bringing it up isn't what I call lying. Omission, granted. But I believe a lie isn't officially a lie until you start making stuff up. Long as you don't go there, bro, you cool. Trust me, Tamara won't tell Sicily. She likes the whole idea that the two of
you have this secret. See, that's how she plays it.” Khalil heard a tap, then a pause, then another tap, then another pause, then a knock. He spoke up, “In a minute.”

“I better let you…”

“Listen to me, Rawn. You have to understand, this woman is not wrapped tight. You remember when I got arrested because that actress I dated put that restraining order out on me?”

It was for the first time Rawn took notice that Khalil always referred to his ex as “the actress.” “Who could forget.”

“You know and I definitely know, I am no stalker. Okay, I lost my head for a minute. But I didn't
stalk
her. Getting that restraining order—she made her point! But man, this lady—Tamara, she'll stalk you…She stalked Daphne.”

“You never mentioned that.”

“Dude, you gotta…Put this to bed!”

The assistant barged into the office with a hand pressed against her lean hip. “Khalil!” Her coiled hairdo added to her dramatic, stylish look.

He lifted a finger and nodded. For a few seconds, he listened to Rawn while the assistant walked into the office and came directly in front of his desk, attempting to intimidate him with her look—eyes rolling, neck popping.

“I'm not sure what to do…”

“Khalil?”
The assistant raised her voice.

“Whatever you do,” Khalil advised his friend,
“don't
tell Sicily!”

W
hen she answered the door, D'Becca rushed into him, and there was a look of anguish in her eyes. “Rawn, I'm sorry. I'm sorry…”

When he let her go, Rawn noticed traces of recent tears that she tried to camouflage by not meeting his eyes. “What's going on?”

“I…” She took his hand, guiding him. “Let's go in here.”

The living room was candlelit, and buoyantly the voice of Andrea Bocelli played. D'Becca stood awkwardly in the room. Dressed in a pair of Rawn's 501s—flesh tight against her trim hips, and there was a rip right near the crotch—she looked quite vulnerable. With a faint smile, he gave a passing glance at her nipples vaguely visible through the Old Navy Tee she was wearing.

“You have reason to be confused.” His words verged on an apology.

He turned his back to D'Becca, slipping his hands into his black trousers pockets. He tried to decide if he was going to stay or leave. He walked deeper into the room and slipped off his bomber jacket and placed it over the arm of the chair nearest to him. He sat in the plush cushioned loveseat and looked to the fading fire in the fireplace. Rawn crossed his legs.

D'Becca moved quickly to the sofa and sat on the edge, not taking her eyes off Rawn. She leaned forward, her elbows pressed against her knees. “What is it, Rawn? What?” Her voice was laced with acute worry.

“I'm—I'm not sure.” He looked at her, but then averted his eyes.

“What do you mean?” D'Becca knew the way he had been acting lately was not solely her imagination.

•  •  •

They made love.

But whatever pulled them together in the preceding months—whatever kept them coming back again and again—that was over. In silence, Rawn lay on his back, his arms behind his head. She turned to her side and watched Rawn's distinct profile. She said it so softly he could barely hear the words: “I love you, Rawn.” It was a risk, but before Rawn, D'Becca had never felt whole with a man; she never let go, or allowed herself to get terribly close. Her innate wisdom led her to believe she should not put everything on the line for this man. Letting Rawn in could have had something to do with his unique masculine manners. He was a profoundly intriguing personality.

Rawn climbed out of the canopy bed and went to the window. The rain had abated and a full moon was peeking out from behind passing pelican-colored clouds. He caught sight of a Beamer parked directly behind his Jeep. Certainly that was no coincidence. It was difficult to establish in his mind whether someone was in the car because of the shaded windows, but it was unquestionably the exact same BMW—always polished, well-cared for. With a look of puzzlement, Rawn stepped away from the window. While he dressed, D'Becca could see him in her room as clear as the moon against the brilliant evening sky; and she understood that his mind, his very core, was no longer accessible to her.

“Rawn, stay.”

Rawn never heard D'Becca so fraught, which made her especially vulnerable.

She lifted herself up, letting the weight of her upper body rest on her elbows. “Stay with me tonight. Don't go.”