Crimson Footprints lll: The Finale (3 page)

Chapter Five

Rain.

Despite the vast swaths of ocean enclosing Aruba, rain almost never happened. Twenty inches a year, they said. That made it ideal to visit, impractical to live in, yet gorgeous to look at.

From the moment Deena slipped into her hot tub, drink in hand, she faced the shoreline—unable to look away. What was it about that vast expanse of nothingness that drew her in irrevocably? Timeless, was what those still waters were. Unconquerable, even.

People used to believe that monsters roamed the seas. But what were monsters but those that which people were unwilling or unable to understand? There’d been a philosophy teacher back at M.I.T., Dr. Grossman, who’d said that philosophy was but the questions science had yet to answer, a recognition of man’s limitless ignorance.

Deena spent a semester in Philosophy pondering how and why she believed everything she did and whether her beliefs could withstand philosophical inquiry. She didn’t leave with a feeling of certainty, either. While she’d never been fool enough to embrace the stink of her grandfather’s theological convictions, she nonetheless could smell their stench. Interracial marriage was unnatural, according to him, a slight against God, a sign of self-hate. Never mind the rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth vitriol he passed off as sermons of love. No no, the world came to an end when folks forgot themselves and started mixing.

How lame. How positively weak in the face of reality. Of all the evils in the world, all the greed, hatred, starvation, oppression, genocide, her grandfather’s lone issue had been which adults other adults were sleeping with.

Deena set aside her shimmering pink drink and dipped low in the hot tub. Once, that rancid old man’s voice barked into her brain, hijacking her dreams, piercing her waking hours. She’d been so fearful of loving Tak because to love him wasn’t the easiest choice. But if regrets were billion dollar bills, then she’d go to bed a pauper.

She could have laughed at her old self. Her grandfather, Edward Hammond, the man with all the answers. The man with one hate-filled daughter, another who flinched at his name, and a son who sold drugs until he was murdered. Of course, a man like that would have all the answers.

All the wrong answers.

Joy burst through her like rays of the sun, warm, illuminating, stretching. She had love, loads of love, family, friends, security. Hell, she had a husband with a gorgeous face, the stamina of a racehorse, and a body made for snug fitting jeans. Life was so delicious; she could have sent word to the kitchen for seconds and thirds.

Life was too delicious, perhaps.

Too delicious to last, that is.

Chapter Six

The moon hung like a sliver on invisible thread, yellow-tinged and ominous in a star-lit sky. Tak stood under the hooded covering of the back terrace, eyes fixated on his wife. He could watch her, he thought, with those thick rivulets of hair in every shade of brown, already saturated to dripping in the water. Even, creamy skin with a smattering of freckles across the cheeks and full lips that turned up with a pout. He had traced those lips with a thumb, with a tongue, with lips of his own. Most every inch of him knew what those sweet beauties felt like and most every inch of him wanted reacquainting. Their last few days had been so busy, their moments together too brief. He could watch her, he knew, or he could do more.

How he had gone without touching her, he couldn’t know. How had he gone without tasting her, he couldn’t know. Not when she stood before him, a lexicon of sweet curves, a blueprint for all others.

Two hints of wet white fabric cut low at cleavage and high at the hips. Deena filled them with supple softness. He knew those curves with his fingers and had memorized the feel of them under his lips. Somewhere in South Beach was a woman desperate to purchase the same--full breasts and the same sleek hips and rounded backside, the same smooth, heat inducing body. Enough for two kids and a few false alarms. Maybe enough for a third.

The kids were asleep. He’d put Noah down himself and checked in on the other two, plus Deena’s grandmother. But it didn’t mean that no one else was around.

Some part of him wondered if he cared. After all, he had that feeling. That superhero feeling that made him think he could tear through reinforced steel to get to her.

Deena’s eyes closed and her head tipped back, arms resting on the edges of the hot tub with a pink cocktail in hand. In that moment, Tak envied the drink under her touch, firm against her hand.

He’d been a little tired…and consumed lately. Work, family responsibilities, and all the little things, had a way of wedging between husband and wife. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know all the ways he’d been unfair either. Unfair in that he made love to her in that tired way husband’s love their wives—quick, cursory, with satisfaction as the primary goal. She’d known pleasure, yes, but only because pleasure was the inevitable outcome in a series of well-tried steps.

Tak thought of her legs wrapping him, her back arched for him. He wanted her pulling and tearing and insane with her want for him. No talk of meetings or colleges or Noah acting out in school. Just him, her, and sweat.

He crossed the terrace to the hot tub straddling the pool. He peeled off his shirt and jeans, leaving just the boxers, before splashing in and earning a yelp from Deena. He buried that with a kiss as his hands found employment lower, gliding down her back and dropping to her backside to explore.

They should have found calm waters there, having sailed these currents so often. They should have found the steadiness of familiarity, the evenness of rote memory. But it wasn’t meant to be.

Maybe it was him. Maybe even the urgency of his touch. When he drew her near, she mewled for him, a soft sound of yearning he hadn’t anticipated. Fingers ran up through his hair and clutched, entangled as their mouths grew urgent.

Moonlight fell like a spotlight on them, lighting them for whoever took notice. They counted the seconds in kisses, measured the moments in touches. They had pulling, grasping, fumbling fingers that shredded clothes leaving them floating away.

He tasted desperation. Pressed body to body so that even water couldn’t slip between, they rocked together, fitting and molding, mouth to mouth, soft to hard. Sweat fell from his brow, streaking his face, tainting their lips. Even it emboldened her, as her nails drew fire down his back, as she rocked against him with the ledge for support.

He pulled the string of her bikini top and let the fabric fall away. A possessive hand, then a mouth, found its way to a single hardened nipple. She groaned, back arched to overextension, hand rushing through and through his hair.

Heart halfway to hemorrhaging, he allowed himself a cautious look back and found no one.

He might have been gentle. He might have, if she hadn’t wrapped into him so tight, if she hadn’t said she needed him, if she hadn’t let out that ragged, quaking moan the second he slipped into her.

With a leg still around him, Tak grabbed her by the waist and tilted, so that her hips went up, her back arched, leaving him with the sharpest of angles to explore. Tak reared back and slammed.

The sound from her throat was guttural, primitive, spastic. Her mouth hung open as if she might shout, before a mere gasp escaped it. He gathered her up while still planted deep, still throbbing, and trailed kisses down the pulse of her neck. Ever so slightly, she trembled.

Tak reared back, hesitated, and then slammed again, sloshing water from the tub to wet tiles. Deena bit down on her fist and stifled a cry, just as he ran a hand down her breast, over her hip, before settling on the curve of her ass.

“Tak—”

It was all he allowed before a shove took him as far as her body allowed, before hunger and greed found its way in.

He found a monstrous jackhammer of a pace, cramming her with violent, splashing thrusts—thrusts so powerful, so furious, that he could hardly find time to breathe. She pulled him in with every pound, digging into his backside with her heels, bidding him harder and deeper, wilder with every thrust. To see them would have been to believe that he had his way with her, that it was him who dominated that time. But to feel her, to feel her as he did, was to know that he had no sense of control and that she had long since mastered him.

She let out a cry and shuddered. He could close his eyes and know what it looked like: lower lip trembling, hands gripping—gripping at him, at surface, at anything. Rolling through her in quakes, boiling water that waved to her core.

He snatched her to him, knowing that his finish would follow, and buried a grunt of satisfaction between her lips. That was all it took—all it ever took: a look, a touch, her body, and the whole world incinerated for him.

Tak withdrew himself and exhaled.

“I love you,” he said and pressed his forehead to hers.

Sweat coalesced on their faces before they pressed lips and parted.

“You knocked over my drink,” she said.

Tak lifted his head, still flushed and unfocused, before spying the upturned glass. Bright pink liquid pooled beneath it in a run to their tub. He grinned. He had no remorse for the drink. After all, he had been jealous of it.

“It got in my way,” he said and tilted her chin, thoughts already with yet another kiss. A flicker of a smile passed over her, before being supplanted with a glance at a nearby deck table. On it, sat her purse.

Odd, Tak thought, to drag a purse around at your own house. But then she kissed him, melting his wonder with her touch.

Chapter Seven

Tony sat on one side of his bed, back arched, feet planted to the floor. Facing him and mounted to the wall was an army of autographed guitars. A sleek, white glossed bass one tipped in candy red had been autographed by soca legend Peppers Montane. Next to it was the shimmering electric blue instrument that once belonged to one-man-reggae machine, Drew Jeffrey. Adjacent to that was a golden god of a guitar, complete with flawless sound. It had been autographed by a master of calypso, dead before his time. This wall, not unlike the one at home with memorabilia from two dozen American icons, held more flash than the much more substantial collage of autographed drumheads painting the wall above his headboard. He had living legends and dead ones in a collection that spanned three continents. Each bedroom he called his, whether in Miami, Aruba, London, or Tokyo, paid homage to international legends. In a glass case back home, he had a shimmering white glove from The King himself, bedazzled in Swarovski crystal. His adoptive mother’s eyes had crossed when Tak had it shipped in from an auction for him.

Tony dialed Wendy’s number and gnawed on his lip when the phone rang. It was only sort of late, closing in on midnight, but if her parents happened to be around, there’d be no way she could answer.

The sound of her voice told him they were working third shift at the hospital.

“Dude,” she blasted. “You were supposed to call hours ago.”

A smile found its way to his lips.

“I had an emergency, Wend. The satellite’s out. Even prison has cable.”

He could imagine her rolling her eyes. Wendy never needed more than a channel willing to air reruns of M*A*S*H for happiness. All else was drivel.

“What did you get into tonight?” Tony said. “And don’t say anything that starts with Gage Sawyers.”

Gage Sawyers was the newest edition to Edinburgh Academy, the sort of school where status was measured not by designer brands—after all, everyone had those—but by a weird amalgamation of legacy status, familial prestige, and exoticism for extra points. Tony, who had once been a pariah at the same school, had risen in standing alongside a rise in his parents’ wealth and prestige—matters other students seemed better versed about than him. The Porsche in his drive had given him extra oomph, it was the best thing going and a strong frontrunner to the Audis, Infinitis, and Benzes that peppered student parking.

Gage Sawyers had none of that. A drop-in from a netherworld, he was the indifferent, angst ridden boy who played basketball on scholarship and shirked all company. Well, all, except for Wendy’s. In the lunchroom at school, in the hallway, he had a lazy half smile on standby for her alone. The light in his eyes faded the second she left. It reminded Tony of his early days at school and how Wendy had been his first friend, his best friend, until Lizard came along. What Tony had taken to be some real connection between them seemed to be some variation of Wendy’s pity. She gravitated to the new lonely boy, whoever that was, it turned out.

The thought filled him with a bitter sort of ache.

“We had pizza,” Wendy said.

“Hope that was all he had,” Tony bit, without knowing he would.

All he did know, in fact, was that Gage Sawyers made him want to thrash something, preferably the smile on his face.

“He’s nice, Tony. If you’d only get to know him. You have so much in common—”

“Like what? Being black?”

“That’s stupid,” Wendy said. “I’m black, too. Why would I say that?”

Tony squinted at the Peppers Montane guitar before him. Was that a smudge? Had Noah been here fingering things again? If he had—

“You’re going to see her tonight, aren’t you?” Wendy said.

Tony sighed.

“So, she doesn’t even have a name anymore?”

Silence met him on the other end. He used it to switch the phone from his right ear to the left.

“I don’t like her,” Wendy said. “I wish you wouldn’t…chase her so.”

His breath came in subtle drafts, his rising annoyance battling with the fact that this was Wendy. Silly Wendy, as he sometimes called her. Whatever she said, however she said it, it was never meant for harm.

“You know it’s not like that,” Tony said. “There’s chemistry between us. That’s all.”

He didn’t know why he felt pressed to explain, but a glance at his watch said that it would have to wait.

A quarter after midnight and the house stood quiet. Everyone should have been asleep.

“I have to go,” Tony said.

Wendy drew in a sharp intake of breath.

“Be careful,” she said. “Don’t carry all your credit cards or a big wad of cash. Leave your passport at home. Stay away from dark streets and strangers—”

“Wendy—”

“Make sure not to give out directions; I don’t care how nice the people look. Stay away from locals and neighborhoods and if someone tries to mug you—”

“Wendy—”

“Give them whatever it is they want.”

Tony sighed. He hadn’t really been expecting to skate past Wendy’s flood of paranoia; still, he’d managed to rush her through it. Leaving her to her monologue could have him watching the sun rise while waiting.

“Don’t go anywhere with her,” Wendy blurted. “She’s a local.”

“And you’re being a snob. Talk later.” Tony hung up.

He managed to get in a quick shower before slipping into a dark tee, ripped jeans, and Jordans and riding the banister down to the first floor. A fifty dollar bill slipped from his hand to the driver they’d hired for the trip. Destination, Oranjestad. The driver already knew just where.

Tony sat back, fingers drumming out rhythm bass on his thigh. Coastline rushed by on one side, with ocean water lapping turf as they threaded the Boulevard. One road ran the length of the island, a single thoroughfare as the artery of the island.

The drumming of his fingers incited some never-heard whistle, something funky and shredding with flavor. Were he home, he would have filled out the sound’s nether regions with a bit of flirting winds, an incision of mocking brass, before tearing it all down with a thunder of percussion. He could hear how it should be. He could always hear that.

Nestled between squat, square adobe fixtures in mango, pistachio, turquoise, and white, Tony’s destination came into view. A nothing from the street was what it looked like by day, but at night, neon and drumming and liquor had it pulsating with life. Tony threw open the door  as the driver pulled up, sprung free, and sprinted to Lila Dahl in the swallow of a breath. He snatched her up, high and by the waist, before burying the last of her squeals in a kiss.

When she pulled away from, her cheeks flushed from his affection.

She stood tall before him, nearing his six feet in heels, with her brush of hazelnut skin and burst of cherry lips glistening under flash of blue light. Her dark hair fell in loose curls to her waist. Lila Dahl smoldered in tank tops and burned hot in the simplest of tees with curves melting to slimness and narrowing into nothing of a waistline.

She kissed him again, in that way they always kissed. Never steady, never sure, but with just enough hunger to sate for an uncertain next time.

“I didn’t think I’d see you so soon after summer,” she said. “Ronnie, Tito, and Paul will be so excited to know you’re back. Everyone will, really.”

Tony pulled her in as snug as she could fit. She could save the guys for another day.

For the moment, he wanted him and Lila and a little touching, maybe even a splash or two of alcohol. After all, he was of legal drinking age in Aruba.