Love in a Carry-On Bag (2 page)

Chapter Two

Dream Crusher

They had barely made
it through Warren’s front door before they began sipping, tasting, and gorging on each other’s body like starved animals. Clothes were strewn throughout the living room and Erica was splayed on the sofa, basking in the afterglow. Warren sat opposite her in his boxers, pushing the muter into his trumpet. A plushy sound emerged, clear and full, and with each note Warren slipped further between the rhythm and cords, filling the air with a thick sweetness. The music soaked into Erica’s pores, as she stored him up like she did every weekend; his scent, sound and touch. It was the only way she made it through the week without him. He lowered his horn.

“Nice,” she leaned up on her elbows.

Warren placed his trumpet in the hard case, then propped it in the corner next to his vinyl collection. Everything in his apartment had a place. “Did you eat?”

“I nibbled on the train,” she reached for the chenille throw. Warren strolled into the kitchen and then returned with two beers and a bowl of salt and vinegar potato chips, Erica’s favorite. After her fourth scoop, Warren offered, “I could order you something. I think Chinese is still open?”

She shook her head. It was late, and she hated going to bed on a full stomach. They found a West coast basketball game and settled into their usual trash talk about the other’s team.

“Come on, take the Spurs with me? The Mavericks can’t buy a bucket,” Erica teased.

“They’ll be back.”

“I doubt it. You have a knack for picking the worst teams,” she made an L with her thumb and pointer finger.

“Yeah, it’s called loyalty. I don’t bounce around based on who’s winning like you do.”

“Well, you should. Maybe you’d win an office pool or two.”

She popped another handful of mix into her mouth. Warren leaned in closer to the television, and she reached for his chin.

“When was the last time you washed your hair?”

“This morning, why?”

“Here, sit,” she dropped a pillow on the floor in front of her, grabbing her purse wedged in the corner of the sofa. Warren eased onto the floor and rested his shoulders against her thighs. She carefully parted his curls, then dipped her fingers in jojoba oil and slid them through his scalp. Warren’s hair moved like short balls of cotton, and as she worked she found an easy rhythm.

“I have this first time author who is making the most ridiculous demands.”

“Really?” Warren’s head was pressed against her inner thigh, and she could tell by his voice that he was being lulled.

“She’s crazy, telling me that she needs to stay at the Ritz-Carlton. With the budget that marketing gave me she’ll be lucky if I can afford the Marriott.”

“Hmm.”

“I hope Claire pulls me in on Reverend Black’s campaign. It’s high profile and will really give me the experience I need.”

“How’s Edie?”

“Tacky and pregnant. I can’t wait for her to go out on maternity leave. She called me at home last night complaining about a
typo on the Chang schedule.”

Warren shifted his head so that she could grease the other side.

“Meanwhile I’m thinking isn’t that what you have an assistant for.” Her fingers moved as if she was buttering a piece of bread. When all of his hair was oiled she moved into a head massage.

“What’s up for tomorrow?” Warren muttered. He usually left the weekend plans to her, and Erica hesitated before telling him she had to stop in on a book signing.

“That’s two weekends in a row.” He turned to face her.

“I’ll be ten minutes.” She tilted his head back towards the television and started raking the comb over the tiny hairs above his neck. “I just need to show my face.”

“I’m not going.” He stretched out his legs and slipped from between her knees.

“Please, honey, we’ll be in and out.”

He reached for his T-shirt and pulled it over his head. “Why can’t someone else handle it? You do too much.”

“Because I’m here, and I’m trying to line things up so that when Edie leaves I slide right into her director’s position.” She stood next to him smoothing down the back of his shirt. “I did a good job on your hair. Doesn’t that feel better?”

He nodded without distraction. “It just seems like it’s always something.”

“I know, Muffin.” She wrapped her arms around his waist. “Soon you’ll be moving back to New York and this won’t even be an issue.”

Warren pulled away from her and slipped on a pair of sweats. “You want anything from the kitchen?”

“Nope, I’m good.”

Erica took his question as a truce, picked up her beer and
then patted the seat next to her on the sofa.

Late the next morning
,
Erica slipped out to the corner shop for food and was placing their continental brunch on the living room coffee table when Warren walked in yawning. “What’s this?” His shawl-collared robe was open at the waist.

“Bagels, morning glory muffins and a few slices of melon to get the day started,” she handed him his coffee. “Your blackberry kept ringing this morning but I didn’t answer it.”

“Probably one of the geeks from the job. We have our monthly metrics meeting on Monday.” Warren worked under contract as a software engineer for mobile telephones.

“How much longer on your contract?”

Warren shrugged. “What time do you need to be at the bookstore?”

“Two.”

“I’ll go with you. But ten minutes, tops.”

Erica hugged his neck.

When they arrived at
the Books a Million in DuPont Circle, Warren held the door for her and reminded her once again not to take all day.

“Promise,” she said and was off.

Brandon Sykes was a midlist mystery author that Erica’s company was trying to build, and like many of her authors, he was demanding and filled with self importance.

“I asked for navy Sharpies, not black,” he chided. “I never write in black, it’s too easy for people to forge my signature,” Brandon tapped his wire-rimmed glasses. His eyes were the same storm gray as his receding hairline, and matched his wool vest.

“I’ll take care of it,” was her signature line, but when she
returned with the correct pens, he continued to complain.

“I can’t go to the podium and pour my heart out to a handful of people. It kills my creative flow. How was this advertised?” he demanded. Erica turned up her publicist smile and told him to give it five more minutes. She asked the events manager to make another in-store announcement.

Warren had strolled to where Erica could see him and mouthed, do you need any help? She winked at him and shook her head no. Turning her attention back to the stack of books, she lifted the dust jacket and flapped the books to the title page to make them faster for Brandon to sign. A few stragglers arrived, and once the folding chairs were half-filled, she pushed Brandon to begin.

He cleared his throat, took a sip of water, adjusted his glasses and read. Erica had not intended to stay, but after the first few minutes, she could tell that Brandon needed help with his presentation. She took out her turquoise note pad and jotted a few notes.

1. He’s speaking too slowly; the audience is falling asleep.

2. Start the reading with chapter 1, instead of 13. I’ve read the story and I was lost.

3. Don’t wear so much gray.

Brandon took a few questions, autographed books, and posed for a picture with the staff, which was clearly the highlight of his day. It was the first time Erica witnessed a hint of a smile. Gathering Brandon’s things, she walked him out to his hired town car and pressed a business card into his hand.

“
Call me if you need anything,” she said, deciding to wait until she got back to her office in New York to give him her notes.

“Oh, I intend to,” Brandon called from the window as the car pulled away from the curb.

Warren walked out of the store with a bag biting his bottom lip.

“What did you buy?”

“Nothing. You ready?”

“Sorry, the guy was terrible, I just couldn’t leave him stranded.” She reached for his hand.

“It’s cool.” Pulling his skull cap down on his head, he started towards the car.

The problem with long distance relationships was that there was no time to fight. With only seventy-two hours together and a good portion of that reserved for sleeping, things needed to be resolved and fast.

Warren put the key in the ignition. Erica reached over to the dashboard and pressed the buttons to warm their seats. After driving a few streets south, he parked on Wisconsin Avenue down the block from one of their local hangouts.

The Big Hunt was an unpretentious dive bar that offered twenty-seven varieties of beer on tap, flat screen televisions, a pool table, lots of seating, and a jukebox with good soulful music.

Warren held the door open and then led her over to empty seats at the bar. “What’re you having?”

“The Raging Bitch I.P.A,” she said, and watched him hold back a smile. It was what she drank the last time they were there, when Erica dedicated a karaoke song to him. Even though she sucked at singing, her theatrics had the audience cheering her on and Warren stood in an ovation.

Erica knew Warren remembered, even though he kept his eyes on the game. He was a sucker for HD television and the Wizards were playing the 76ers on the mega-sized flat screen. But after dealing with Brandon, Erica needed music. She pulled
a five dollar bill from her purse, strolled over to the jukebox, and scanned for a song that would get the party started. Warren acted like everything was cool, but she knew her man: he wanted all of her and the book signing had taken longer than she promised. Bob Marley was the perfect remedy, and seconds later Erica shifted her hips to the sultry sound of “Is This Love.”

I wanna love you and treat you right;

I wanna love you every day and every night

This was their song. They had danced to it on their one week anniversary at Café Creole in the West Village. Erica slid her stool closer to him and laced her fingers through his, humming with the music. Warren ordered a second round. The point guard for the Wizards shot a three-pointer to end the half. Warren pumped his fist and Erica moved in circles to the music. The beer had made her happy and she was singing the lyrics softly but out loud.

“Who’re you rooting for?” Warren turned.

“The Sixers of course.”

“Can’t you ever root for my team?”

“I am on your team, just not the Wizards’,” she leaned in and dragged her glossy lips over his cheek until he turned and kissed her back.

Bob Marley, the Wizards
’ victory, and three pints of Raging Bitch beer had Erica laughing brashly on the elevator ride to
Warren’s apartment. The hallway was long and narrow with four beige doors on each side. Warren’s unit was on the right and while he unlocked the front door, Erica’s cell phone started ringing. Her mother’s name flashed across the screen and Erica gritted her teeth. What could she possibly want now? Her mother knew better than to interrupt Erica’s weekend with Warren.

“Yes?” came out sounding annoyed.

“If you weren’t gonna send the money, you shoulda just said so,” her mother hiccupped.

Warren closed the door and was fastening his fingers around Erica’s waist, but she shook him off, mouthing that it was her mother.

“I walked four blocks in the pourin’ down rain, with no long johns, and you know my arthritis in this damp weather.”

“Ma, I deposited the money last night,” Erica padded down the hall, closing the bathroom door behind her.

“Wasn’t there and it’s freezin’ in here.”

Erica opened the vanity and reached for her hair clip. She wasn’t in the mood for her mother’s drama.

“Okay, let me call the bank.”

After ten minutes of holding, she was told that the money had been withdrawn from an ATM down the block from her mother’s home. A persistent tapping worked her temples as she listened to her mother explain.

“Chile, I ain’t crazy. I went down to the store; put the card in the machine, and nothing. Maybe the person behind me stol’ it,” clucking her tongue.

“Ma, you been drinking?”

“Pepsi is all. Just tired from that long walk. God as my witness I never got that money. Can you send it again?”

God was going to strike her Pinocchio ass down. Erica wasn’t a fool. An enabler, yes, but not a fool. The money had been spent on a liter of Bacardi, four Colt 45s and a hard pack of whichever
menthol lights happened to be on sale. It was the same story.

Erica shifted her weight against the pedestal sink listening to her mother ramble. Warren’s white bathroom was spa-like, with jasmine-scented candles and stark white towels stacked in wooden shelves. Ordinarily, it was a room that relaxed her, but talking to
her mother had her wound-up and irritated. When she looked at herself in the mirror she wondered why she even bothered. Her mother had celebrated her fiftieth birthday last year and Erica didn’t understand why she couldn’t get it together. Every conversation with her was the same, beginning with a need, ending with what she wanted, and Erica was exhausted.

“It’s so cold in here, I’m wearin’ my coat. ’Member that red one Aunt Mavis gave me with the big black buttons?”

She remembered.

“Well, Mr. Handy won’t fix the heater without the money. Tues-dee’s first of the month and I told you I’m selling my pills. I’ll pay you then. Promise.”

Promise? If Erica had a book for every time her mother broke a promise, she could build a library.

“I don’t have it,” she responded flatly.

“Come on Slim, I’ll pay you back.”

“Ma, I’m with Warren.”