Love in a Carry-On Bag (6 page)

Chapter Eight

Distant Lover

Blanche forced an egg
roll and coke on Warren as he was hustling out the door, but he couldn’t eat anything. His appetite and thoughts were only on making the game. After a few tries, he persuaded Erica to leave his ticket at will-call, promising to meet her inside by halftime. But that didn’t happen either and for the third time that day he served her with bad news.

“Where’re you now?” she shouted, battling the noisy crowd.

“There was an accident on the turnpike. I’m doing like ten miles per hour,” he yelled, aggravated.

“The Wizards are down…” she said and he could hear the roar of “Defense” before the call dropped. Warren tried phoning back but didn’t have a signal and threw his mobile against the dashboard. Frustration became his roadside companion.

WBGO-FM pumped through his hi-tech sound system but even his favorite jazz station failed to mollify him. From exit 5 to where the New Jersey Turnpike split traffic crawled at a mind-dulling pace. Once he passed exit 8A, three truck lanes opened on the left, ending the gridlock. For the remainder of the ride, Warren’s speedometer stayed on 80. But he was still late. When he pulled into the arena’s parking lot, boozed-up fans were pouring into the street waving Nets banners c
elebrating like it was the championship. Warren stopped an older man wearing a Wizard’s cap to find out the score.

“Damn fool hit a three-point shot at the buzzer,” the man said, unfolding his portable cane. While he complained about the referees, Warren caught sight of Erica and his stomach turned to slush. She was here. His baby. The one he drove two hundred and thirty-two miles to see in traffic, with no water, no stops, just highway, and a feverish yearning to touch her face. Erica was his cure-all and even with thirty-feet between them he felt amazingly well.

On thin heels she glided, swinging her hips and smiling. Warren opened his coat to her.

“Hey, babe,” she mashed her body into his with her cheek brushing his chin. While they rocked and touched hello, Warren’s hands slid down the slope of her ass, which felt like marshmallow, spongy and plush, and he held it with both hands as he pressed into a kiss. Her mouth tasted melony and, like a glass of champagne, it went straight to his head.

“I can’t believe you missed the whole game. It was so damn exciting,” she tilted, and the glow from the street lamp made her brown eyes sparkle. Warren got lost watching her.

“What?” she traced his nose.

“Just missed you,” he said. “Where’s my surprise?”

“Oh, that,” flashing a toothy grin. Erica took two steps back. Keeping eye contact, she slowly unzipped her waist-length jacket.

“Is this X-rated?” He looked around to see if anyone was watching, but everyone who passed was either shouting about the Nets or rushing to their car trying to avoid the inevitable traffic.

“You tell me,” she flirted, spreading her jacket and flashing him. The Nets tee stretched across her curves, and it took Warren a few seconds to realize what she was doing.

“You’re so corny,” he snickered.

“And your team stunk. I was so close I could have been the towel girl.” She pretended to shoot the ball.

“I heard they won at the buzzer.” He took her hand, helping her into the car.

“And it was oh so pretty,” she threw back.

Warren rounded the vehicle and hopped into the driver’s seat. “The Nets got lucky, is all,” he put the car in reverse, merging with the departing traffic. “I can’t believe I missed it.”

Erica reached across the console for his trumpet hand, caressing his calluses. “I’ll make it up to you,” she said, kissing each finger.

Traffic into the city
was minimal and they made it to Lafayette Street with ease.

“There’s someone coming out,” Erica pointed and Warren swerved, ducking in front of a yellow cab for the parking space. It was a tight fit, but after cutting the wheel twice he was in.

“Wish you could drive like me?”

“Whatever,” she said, checking her reflection in the mirror. After clipping his mobile to his waist, Warren got out and walked to the nearest parking sign. He had received too many tickets in New York City and needed to confirm the space was legit. Satisfied, he went back for Erica. It was chilly, and they walked the three blocks with their arms wrapped around each other.

The entrance of the Moroccan-style lounge was dim, but when they crossed into the main area the room was draped with white, sheer curtains. Mini stuffed sofas sat in shades of oranges, purples and reds, with round mahogany tables. A glow of candles lit the way as a hostess in a ruffled mini showed them to their cushy corner booth. It was still early by New York standards, so the place was mostly empty. Warren ordered a round of drinks.

“What happened at work?” She flipped through the menu.

“Damn program stalled.”

She gave him a blank look. “And the contract?”

It was just like Erica to lead into the weekend with business, but Warren wasn’t ready to discuss the unpleasant obvious, so he reached for her chin and told her she looked beautiful, over and over until her face flushed.

“Gorgeous.” He leaned in, letting his nose linger over her throat and ear until she stirred in his arms. Bending their bodies towards each other, their foreheads touched and their fingers laced.

The waitress dropped off the drinks and they ordered dinner. Middle Eastern instrumental music had started playing in the background and on the big screen near the bar a belly dancer, dressed in purple and gold, undulated her hips while twirling a veil between her fingers. They watched while sipping.

“I’ve always wanted to learn to belly dance,” Erica shared.

“So take a class. I’ll pay for it.”

She touched his thigh.

The hostess escorted in two other couples and Warren could see a DJ off to the side setting up equipment.

“Is this going to turn into a club?” he asked.

Erica nodded. “I hope so.”

Their food arrived and they shared red snapper and lamb with a tangy yogurt sauce while conversing about their week apart. By the time their dinner plates had been cleared, the Middle Eastern music faded, a few couples had sauntered onto the dance floor, and it became difficult for them to talk over the music. The DJ was spinning and mixing a string of top-twenty
songs and even though they played the same tunes on the radio every hour, there was something electrifying about hearing music full-blast through high-definition speakers.

Erica excused herself for the ladies room. When she returned she was wearing a linguini-strapped camisole cinched at the waist.

“What happened to the Nets?”

“Time and place for everything.” She slid against him. Warren had ordered another round of drinks and she tipped her wineglass. A few beats later, she was throwing her hand in the air.

“This is my song,” moving her head to the beat. “Let’s dance.”

“I’m good right here,” Warren sipped. He wasn’t big on dancing, but Erica would move her body to anything.

“Come on, please,” she pleaded.

He shook his head.

“If you won’t, I’ll find someone who will.” She scooted out of the bench and moved past him. Her jeans fit her curves like a wet suit, and Warren grabbed her hand before she got too far.

On the floor she snapped her fingers and popped to the beat while Warren kept up a basic two-step. Then a popular reggae song by one of the Marley brothers came on and the crowd lost its mind. A few lighters flickered in the air while couples danced liked they were at home alone. Gyrating her hips, Erica turned around and backed into Warren’s pelvis. Then he placed his fingers around her throat and gave a light squeeze. She moaned, closing his hand tighter.

Sweaty and aroused, Warren breathed, “It’s time to go, baby.” Clasping onto his belt loop, she followed.

Erica stumbled into her
bedroom, pulling a pack of baby wipes from her bedside drawer. Warren was in the bathroom and she quickly freshened-up the key areas. Feeling tipsy, but not quite drunk, she removed her boots and slipped into a pair of ultra high heels that Warren had picked out for her at an adult novelty shop on St. Mark’s Place in the East Village. They were stripper shoes and she only wore them in the house to entice him. The heels were six-inch glass platform with thick red patent straps across the toes, and when Erica spread her feet into them she felt herself transform.

The curls were gone and the roots of her hair had frizzed out on the dance floor. Since she couldn’t comb the hair, she gave it a fluff and wild tug until she looked like a red-headed lioness. Clicking her heels against the wood floors she moved into the living room. The table lamp against the window was turned up just enough to keep the mood. Warren entered from the bathroom drying his hands on a paper towel. His pants were unbuttoned and his arms looked like two strapped guns against his white tank. They had stopped for a six-pack on 125th Street, and she could smell the fragrance of his anticipation as he handed her an uncapped bottle.

“Nice shoes.”

Warren moved to the futon and sat gap-legged like he was preparing for a show. The moon was high. Al Jarreau sang low. Seduction like this could take them all night.

“Take your jeans off.” His voice entered her like a sex pill. But Erica lingered near the brick wall sipping her beer, smiling.

“Excuse me?” she teased. Thirsty chill bumps sprouted along her forearms as the straps of her cami slipped to her elbows. Patience was one of Warren’s strong suits, and he gulped down his beer while waiting for her to serve up his request.

Swaying her hips to Jarreau’s “Ain’t No Sunshine,” Erica could feel warmth bubbling between her legs. Resting her shoulders against the brick wall she let the music move her. With her eyes closed, her hands glided over her breasts and then drifted down to the V of her thighs. The snap of her jeans cracked open as she pulled her ribs in tight while pushing the zipper down. Red lace panties peaked through the open slit of her pants. Warren’s bottle clanked against the table as she used both hands to peeled back her jeans and push the material down to her knees. He watched her as if in a trance. With her jeans around her ankles, she moved her ass slowly to give him the view an ass man like Warren longed for. She sensuously made figure eights in the air.

“Damn baby,” escaped his lips and Erica felt egged on. The beer had revved her past tipsy but she managed to get the jeans off and platforms back on. Erica was a traditional “good girl,” so she knew that Warren enjoyed it when she completely let go and went all the way to the other side.

“Bring that sweet ass here,” he commanded, and again the timber in his voice went through her. Slower than the music Erica dragged her heels across the floor, careful not to wobble away what she hoped was a sexy picture. Then Warren was reaching for her, and she was in his lap. His tongue spread and traveled, causing Erica to drizzle like a neglected scoop of ice cream, and Warren, master of her body, didn’t waste a single drop.

Chapter Nine

Jammed

T
he sticky sweetness of
their fluids permeated the air. The cotton bed sheets were stretched to exhaustion. Styrofoam containers with soggy sprigs of parsley and salty fries littered the floor. Warren had propped three pillows behind his head and was reading a news clip on his laptop. Erica rested at his elbow flipping through a copy of
Travel & Leisure
magazine. College basketball served as their backdrop. Saturday’s sun had come and gone.

“I think this stock is going to perform,” he turned his computer screen toward her.

Erica nodded with as much interest as she could muster before rolling onto her belly. “What should we do tonight?”

“I wanted to head down to Smalls so that I could shed. Haven’t played much this week.”

“Good, I need some air.” Finding a clip on the side table she pinned her wild hair. Warren closed his laptop, hung his long legs over the side of the bed and then made his way to the bathroom. The room was lilac with a full frosted glass window facing the tub and looking out over the alley. Once he had the shower running Erica followed him in, carrying two plush towels.

“Thanks, baby,” Warren slapped her on the ass.

“Don’t start nothing,” she pulled back the shower curtain and gestured for him to go first. Warren made room so that she could stand closest to the showerhead. The water was very warm, instantly steaming her skin. Erica soaped the cloth and handed it to him. His lips were on the small of her neck.

“You are so hot,” he breathed. “Damn, my woman is fine,” he rubbed his pelvis against her booty.

“Hmm,” she let her head fall back. Warren moved the sudsy cloth up and down her back and then around to her breasts and midsection.

“You ain’t trying to go to the club tonight,” she backed against him while wetting a second cloth. Lathering it with liquid soap she turned to face Warren and moved the cloth from his ears to his shoulders and then brushed both thighs. When she let her hand rest on his manhood, pleasure flashed across his face.

“We’re going,” he kissed her deeply. “Just stealing an appetizer to hold me over.” He tongued her ear.

“Okay then, trumpet boy. Dip your head,” she removed his hands from her waist and switched places so that he was in front closest to the water.

Erica shampooed and rinsed his hair, making sure all of the suds were off their bodies and down the drain before she shut off the water. Wrapping him in a towel, she led him into the bedroom where she oiled his skin, paying close attention to his feet.

“You need a pedicure.”

“I have you,” he said when she was finished.

“Whatever,” she switched her hips, purposefully giving him something to smile about as she went to her closet to search for something to wear.

Warren tore his eyes away from her long enough to rummage through his tote, though the outfit choice for him tonight was obvious.

Most musicians have superstitions, quirks and rituals that they
perform before taking the stage. Warren’s drummer always wore mismatched socks. His pianist: gold bracelets on each wrist with his baseball cap twisted backwards. Warren dressed in black from head to toe and rubbed a drop of frankincense on his throat and on the crown of his head. The dark clothing was his invention; the frankincense his late mother’s
.

Warren’s mother Alma had grown up in the swamps of Louisiana. She believed in voodoo, church and essential oils, and was always rubbing Warren and his older sister down in something. Peppermint was used for upset stomachs, clove for teething babies, lemon increased circulation, and lavender helped with a good night’s sleep.

As a classically trained pianist, his mother shared with him her love of music. Warren was taught piano at four, banged on the drums at seven, settling on the finger pattern of the trumpet by ten. Weekly music lessons gave way to recitals, all unattended by his father, who refused to acknowledge Warren’s musical gift.

“My son won’t end up a needle-pushing junkie. Warren’s getting a good job,” he’d say. And that was how Warren came to earn his Masters in computer engineering. But what his father didn’t understand was that Warren’s music was more than a hobby. Playing his instrument was like a choice between living and dying slowly.

With just a sprinkle of frankincense in his palm, Warren could already feel the balsamic oil seep into his skin. Erica walked over to him as he tied his shoes on the sofa. She had decided on wearing a red sweater dress. Her beauty sucked up the oxygen in the room.

“Pretty.”

“Handsome,” she winked, holding out her wrist with a bracelet she wanted him to fasten.

Warren loved jamming because
it separated the men from the
boys. At any given time there could be as many as ten, twelve musicians on stage with four playing the same instrument. The choice was either play or be played and Warren never fell victim to the latter, especially at Smalls, a well-known jazz club in the West Village where the top musicians in the industry came to flex their genius.

Smalls stayed open all night and there were photographs on the wall of Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, Betty Carter, McCoy Tyner and Sonny Rollins, who all sharpened their skills on the very same stage.

“Look who’s traveling on the wind.” A fair-skinned man wearing a black beret limped toward them. “Come to jam?” His voice was raspy like he smoked two packs a day.

Warren held up his horn case and the men slapped five.

In the ten minutes
that it took for his name to be called, Warren closed his eyes and visualized warming his instrument. It was a talent he had picked up playing in the band at Howard University. Once on stage, he tipped his horn to Erica and waited while the pianist counted.

“One, two, a one, two, three.”

The quartet played a standard, “Never Let Me Go.” Roy Hargrove had redone the song on his third album and Warren knew the piece well. During his solo, Warren spit the notes. Even when he stumbled on the wrong note, it was right. Musicians rotated in and out, other brass instruments jammed with him and against him, but time didn’t tick. Warren played like a man possessed until his lips swelled with the satisfaction of a familiar kiss.

Warren’s black shirt was
soaked through and he left the stage feeling like Superman. At a bistro table in the corner, Erica was
slouched over asleep with her head resting against the cushiony padded wall. He had played so hard that he hadn’t realized that she had slept through it. In the chair next to her, he rubbed her hair softly.

“What time is it?” She opened her eyes and ran the back of her hand over her mouth.

“Seven.”

“You played for five hours straight.”

“It felt like five minutes.”

“Good, honey,” she readjusted her dress and stretched her arms overhead.

Two busboys were clearing off the table and she could smell the bucket of water with bleach and disinfectant.

“You hungry?” he asked, helping her into her coat.

“Think the Pink Teacup is open?”

“Should be.” Warren gave the man with the limp a pound and told him he’d be back soon. Once they made it up the stairs and out onto the street, Warren draped his arm over her shoulders. The sun had risen but was cloaked behind pregnant clouds. Warren could have used his sunglasses to help adjust to daylight but they were in the car.

“You were snoring louder than the music,” he teased.

“Whatever, I don’t snore. How long did you think I’d last?”

They walked three blocks over to the Pink Teacup, a soul-food restaurant that had been in the same location on Grove Street for five decades and owned by three generations of the same family. The restaurant was painted pink inside and out with black-and-white celebrity photos hanging from the walls. Because it was early, they had their choice of window seating. The waitress dropped off menus they didn’t need with fresh squeezed orange juice and a saucer of homemade biscuits.

Erica watched Warren. He had that far-away, detached look in his eyes and she could feel her body counting down the minutes until he had to leave. The weekend had once again gone too fast and she was sick of saying goodbye.

“Why don’t you stay one more night and leave first thing in the morning?” she tried.

“I wish, but there’s so much work waiting for me.”

“Have you signed the contract?”

Warren’s eyes flashed down at her and she could see the wheels turning in his head, like he was choosing his words wisely.

“Is it a secret? My life is affected by this, too.” She became impatient.

“Yeah, I signed,” he confessed.

“Why?” She wanted to pound the table with her fist. Her cell phone rang from inside her clutch. It was trapped in a pocket being smashed by her wallet, keys and lip gloss. After taking everything out the caller-ID flashed that it was her mother. She silenced the phone. This was not the time for one of her silly emergencies. Erica was having a crisis of her own.

Warren reached across the table. “I’m telling you nothing will change.” But what he didn’t understand was that Erica craved change. She wanted every day with him, all night, and no more filler.

The waitress returned to the table with the heaping plates of steamy food and Warren ordered more orange juice. Erica watched a couple who had just walked in pushing an infant stroller. The man smiled with the goofiness of a new dad as he looked for a place to stow the stroller.

Salmon croquettes and cheesy grits were her favorite, but when Erica looked at her plate she felt nauseated. Nothing ever deterred Warren from eating and he explained while stabbing a
bit of fried chicken and a slice of waffle with his fork. Erica’s disappointment suddenly gave way to anger.

“You just don’t want to move,” she pointed.

“It’s not that, honey, but I need to make a living.”

“New York is a major city. I find it difficult to believe you can’t make a living here.”

“This opportunity that they’re offering me is huge. Trust me, I want to be with you too.”

“If you wanted to be with me, you would.” She pushed the food around on her plate. “Well, at least your dad is happy.”

Warren swallowed hard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Erica watched the rosy cheeked mother scoop her swaddled baby from the seat, sliding the child beneath her shirt, and said nothing.

Her silence seemed to have ticked a nerve with Warren because he ground his teeth and said, “If I hadn’t signed, we’d be broke.”

“Why is it always about money for you?”

“Because we have bills. And you,” it was his turn to take a jab. “You have your mother. I’m sure that was her ringing your phone.”

Erica’s fork clanked against her plate.

“I know you aren’t bringing my mother into this. Don’t worry, you’ll have your money next week.”

“It’s not about the money.”

“Well apparently it’s not about love or we wouldn’t be having this conversation, again.”

“You are so fucking unbelievable,” he reached into his pocket for his money clip, peeling off enough bills to cover the check. “Must be nice thinking that the earth revolves around you.”

“You are one to talk,” Erica tossed back. She gathered her purse, slipped into her own coat and followed him out. At the door,
she glanced back at the couple, wondering how she and Warren would get from where they sat to happily ever after.

Outside, he walked too
quickly up Seventh Avenue while Erica struggled to keep up in her heels. Her toes were pinched, a misty drizzle had started to fall and she didn’t have anything to cover her head. Warren walked several paces in front of her and Erica cursed him in her head.

“Why are you walking so fast?” she shouted.

“’Cause I know you are cold.”

“Well, slow up.”

Warren turned to wait for her, but he didn’t grab her hand. When they reached his SUV he rounded the car to the front window, checking for a parking ticket. The rain had started to drop and the breeze was bone chilly. When Erica stepped into the SUV the slit of her dress flew open exposing her thigh, and it was so unlike Warren not to notice.

Their argument continued up the West Side Highway.

“If you don’t want to be with me just say it,” Erica tossed.

“You still haven’t told me how we’re supposed to live? Off you?”

“That and your music.”

His laugh was bitter. “Get your head out of the clouds, Sweetie; I just played all night long for free.”

“Well, when I become director…”

“Your mother’s hand will be in your pocket and you’ll still be too chicken to tell her no.”

“You are such an asshole.”

“And you’re a selfish bitch.”

Warren footed the gas hard crossing 125th Street and Frederick Douglass. Anger had been trickling into his skin like
fluid through an IV.

“Who do you think you are talking to?” She whirled around in her seat as if just slapped. “I’m not some ho off the street.
”

“Just shut the fuck up.”

“You shut up and show me some damn respect,” she said, continuing to pull him in a back and forth match determined to get the last word.

Warren found a space right in front of her building. Erica jumped out of the car first and stormed up the front steps of the building. Warren waited in silence while she fumbled with her key. When they reached her apartment, Warren went straight to her bedroom and started shoving his clothes into his bag. He was so mad he didn’t even fold them.

“What are you doing?” she stood in the doorway.