“Remy LeBeau! It’s been too damn long, baby!” Alison’s voice was shrill in her excitement. She trotted across the slick tile floor in ridiculously high, pink metallic Steve Maddens and molested him. “Give Mama some sugar.”
“Hey, petit. Whatcha got goin’ on?”
“I’ve always got it goin’ on.” She stared at the woman standing slightly behind him as she looked around her salon. “Who’s this?” she said accusingly.
“Hi.” Ororo gave her a small wave and looked her fill of the petite, bubbly fashion victim who left a huge pink lip print on Remy’s cheek.
“Oh, my sweet Lord, please don’t. Tell. Me. This. Is. Your hair.” Ali circled Ororo like a vulture on the scent of a dead buck, her heels clicking as she did a slow perusal. Without so much as a by-your-leave, she reached for Ororo’s hair, bunched beneath the collar of Remy’s borrowed spare coat. To Ororo’s credit, she wore it as well as he did due to her height and coloring, but the rest of her wardrobe was still a lost cause.
Carefully, Alison tugged the heavy mass of waves loose in thick handfuls. “I can’t believe this. How long have you been torturing this poor hair?” Alison made cooing noises over it, rubbing a handful of tendrils against her cheek, practically petting it like a wounded baby bird.
“Figured ya could still work wit’ it, chere. Ya love a challenge.”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t,” she snapped, rolling her eyes at him. They were made up in smoky shadow and were a warm, golden hazel. They then beseeched Ororo. “So, c’mon. Do you trust me?”
“Um…”
“C’mon! Do you? You trust me, right? Do I look like a woman who can save this hair? Are you willing to put yourself in my capable hands?”
“She can’t wait.”
“Jubi, clear my book for the rest of the afternoon! I’m working through, I have a new project that needs my complete attention!” The Chinese receptionist at the desk cracked her gum and waved her hand dismissively, crossing off the rest of the day’s appointments in the book with a huge black ‘X.’
Ororo wasn’t through answering her first question. You trust me, right? The concept was as far from Ororo’s realm of experience as the moon. When had she ever been able to trust anybody?
Ororo bunched her hair and tugged it over one shoulder protectively while Alison began readying her style chair and station, nagging her assistant to sweep up the bits of hair and put her combs in the sterilizer. Jubi, or Jubilee, as her name tag claimed, came by and pressed a cup of coffee into her hair.
“You’re gonna be here a while. Take a load off. Here, we got People, Us Weekly, OK!, Redbook, we even got sudoku, NY Times crossword…” She plopped a stack of magazines on the counter beside the dryers.
“Remy t’inks ya gonna be fine, petit,” he told Ororo, noting how worried and subdued she seemed. “Y’okay?”
“Rem…she scares me.”
“She don’t bite, chere. Not unless ya don’ leave a tip. Den she gets a mite cranky. But don’ worry. Ali’s a lil’ ol’ pussycat.” Ororo remained unconvinced as Alison gave her assistant hell.
“Tell Sal down the street that I want a roast beef on rye, not that corned beef crap. And don’t let him use that light mayonnaise, either, my cholesterol’s practically in single digits, I want real fat. Got it? Real. Fat. And don’t forget my diet Pepsi.”
“But-“
“Have you ever seen me eat sugar? Have you? I think not. And here’s an extra buck, just because I like you, keeps you honest. Don’t take any wooden nickels, don’t talk to strangers, and be careful before you cross the street.” Alison gave her a swat on the hindquarters and shooed her out. Alison beamed as she came back, clapping her hands together.
“Get ready for the biggest change of your life, sweet pea.”
“Please don’t cut my hair!” Ororo blurted, then felt sick. Alison’s smile drooped.
“Aw, don’t be afraid.”
“Please, just…just wash it if you want, don’t do anything else!”
“You’ve got tons of hair, sweetheart. It has the potential to be incredible, but look, it’s damaged.” She tried to touch it again, but Ororo’s fist twisted it away and she turned from Ali, closing off her posture. Remy looked annoyed.
“We talked ‘bout dis in de cab, chere. Ain’ no big overhaul we talkin’ here, but Ali’s an artist. She’s been doin’ hair since she was old ‘nuff fo’ a trainin’ bra.”
“Earlier than that, if you count my Barbies,” she pointed out. She sat beside Ororo and leaned in toward her, reaching for the cool hand she had tucked in her lap.
“It’s just hair. It grows back,” Remy shrugged.
“Idiot,” Alison shot back. “Just ignore the big silly man, sweetie, he’s impaired. Humor him if you have to. The point I’m trying to make is, your hair is supposed to be your crowning glory, but you wear it. It doesn’t wear you. It should make a statement.” Her hand crept around her back, rubbing it. “You okay?”
Only when the soft Kleenex was pressed into her hand did Ororo feel the hot tears slipping down her cheek.
“Sorry,” she hissed, dabbing at her eyes. “It’s…just…it’s always been this way. I’ve always had long hair. It’s…”
She left the words unspoken. Remy felt sympathy welling in his gut. It’s all I have.
“It has emotional value. Like a security blanket. Someone you cared about felt strongly about your hair, too?”
“My mother,” Ororo admitted.
“I didn’t know, chere,” Remy murmured, kneeling before her and tugging her grip from her hair, holding her hand in his. “Gotta learn ta stop me before I jus’ blather on. ‘Specially ‘bout shit like haircuts, if it’s gonna make ya cry.”
“All right. Coffee. Take more of these.” Ali became brisk and efficient. “Then lunch. You look tired. Have you had anything to eat yet?”
“That was next on the agenda.”
“What is your agenda?” she demanded while she handed Ororo her cup and led her to the styling chair. Ororo obediently seated herself and finished wiping her eyes and nose.
“Got coupla appointments. One with Cass at one.”
“Ooh.” Ali made a face. Remy sighed.
“Need ta head ta my lab ta develop some shots, too.”
“Ooh!” Ali repeated, this time with much more enthusiasm. “Who are you shooting now?”
“You’re lookin’ at her,” Remy said, reaching out to Ororo. He kneaded her shoulder and began to help her out of her coat.
“Wow,” Ali said, impressed. “Can I see the shots when they’re done?”
“Ya know I’d never deny you, sweet thang.”
“That’s the secret to men like him, Ororo, you’ve got to beat ‘em into submission, let ‘em know their place,” she scoffed, smacking his rump. He caught her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Brat.”
“Give her de full treatment. Whateva’s gon’ make her camera-ready for more black an’ whites.”
“Will do. We’ll have fun.” She prodded Ororo, who watched them with amusement. “Tell ‘em we’ll have fun.”
“We’ll have fun,” she parroted dutifully.
“Den I’ll scat,” he promised. “Got my cell if ya two need anyt’in’, petite.”
He was gone. Ororo was left alone with a manic version of Frenchie from Grease.
“Shampoo. Deep protein treatment.” A huge black shroud was draped over Ororo and tied behind her neck. The bedraggled hair elastic was thrown in the garbage. “You’re never wearing one of those again. Get some decent hair clips if you want, I’ve got some great stuff behind the counter, but those rubber bands are the tool of the Devil. Understand?”
She nagged and pried over the next twenty minutes of having her hair lifted and studied. Alison took a wide-toothed comb and began to pick through it in an attempt to detangle it. “You’ve got about five different lengths going on in here. It’s actually pretty healthy, you’ve got a great scalp.”
“Thanks.” I guess…
“What’ve you been using to wash this?”
“Whatever I could get my hands on?”
“What does that mean? Please, tell me what that means. Are we talking Joico, Pantene, or Johnson’s Baby shampoo?”
“Soap. From whatever bathroom that I can find.” Ali paused mid-stroke with the comb hanging in the air. She eyed Ororo levelly in the mirror.
“I didn’t know.”
“What’s to know?”
“Everything.” She continued her combing. Despite the sharp sting and pull against her scalp from the snarls, Ororo enjoyed the feel of being pampered and cared for. “Tell me everything.”
It was the start of a beautiful friendship.
Alison Blaire was the owner of the Looking Sharp Salon and Spa, which operated at three sites in the city. Ororo’s eyes scanned the studio as they chatted. The warm water and foam felt good as Ali rubbed her troubles away, massaging the thick shampoo through her mass of hair. There were several awards from the local chamber of commerce, two magazine covers with Ali on the cover, and a picture of Ali accepting an Emmy for best on-set stylist. Ororo’s favorite was a black and white photo of Ali at Fenway Park, hugging a baseball mascot; it captured her essence perfectly.
“Remy took that one.”
“I’m not surprised.” Ororo was beginning to recognize his style. “You take a great photo.”
“Liar. It’s smoke and mirrors. When you see me getting up first thing in the morning, sugar, I look like hell, but keep that to yourself. I love hair, I love makeup, and I love bringing out a woman’s personal best using those tools. I know how to create an impression.”
And what an impression she made. Ali’s hair was cut in a chin-length bob and teased at the crown, razor-cut at the ends and dyed a luscious shade of fuschia. Platinum blonde chunks framed her face, bringing out her eyes. Her complexion was fair and delicate. She enjoyed bold styles, if her nineteen fifties black and white polka-dotted dress and pink button earrings and pearls were any indication.
The protein pack smelled slightly fruity as Ali slathered it over Ororo’s hair, running her fingers through it.
“Much better. My hand are sliding right through this. It was too dry before. No breakage. It’ll feel like mink when it’s dry. You’ll love it. So, let me lay this on you. Your ends are a mess. I’m going to heat-set the conditioner, give you a rinse and a cut. Not drastic, but definitely different. We’re going to show you the potential your hair has, and then we’ll have fun. Mani, pedi, facial, you name it. Oh, and here.” She handed Ororo a small tube of something clear and green.
“What is it?”
“Aloe vera numbing gel. I’m going to zap your lip. That helps to keep it from stinging when I yank out your mustache!” she sang as she swept away to grab her lunch from the front desk.
“Wait…what?”
The hours ticked by quickly. Ororo was trimmed, combed, blown dry, buffed, polished, moisturized, exfoliated, depilatoried “ painfully with Alison’s electrolysis probes “ brushed and styled. Her cuticles and upper lip ached, but she felt exhilarated. Ali kept her so engaged as they talked that she hardly noticed the clippings of white hair piling up on the floor.
Ali finished rubbing a glosser leave-in into Ororo’s hair and gave her waves one last flick with a round brush. “Well, baby, was it good for you?”
“It. Was. Fabulous.”
“I just wish I had a killer Prada dress to send you out the door in. You’d stop traffic. But in the meantime, Rem’s balls’ll turn blue when he sees how you look right now.”
Ororo sat behind the front desk with Ali while Ali finished her half-eaten sandwich, so Remy didn’t see her as he breezed inside.
“Where’s Ali?” he asked Jubi. She nodded to the desk as she rushed to the back with an armful of color packs. Alison grinned and stood up, blocking his view of Ororo behind her.
“What do YOU want?” she demanded, hands on her hips.
“Came ta collect my model. Thanks fer babysittin’.”
“No trouble at all. And she’s the sitter, not me. Someone’s gotta keep me out of trouble.”
“Tell me anudder one, petit. So…?” he shrugged. “Where is she?”
“Ta-daaaaaaah…!” Ali gave a flourish and runway twirl and stood aside, reaching down to help Ororo out of her chair.
Remy’s jaw hit the floor.
“Ho. Lee. Shit.”
“Uh-huh,” Ali grinned, bursting.
“She…she…you…”
“Uh-huh!” she repeated, just getting warmed up.
Ororo’s smile was hesitant. “Whaddyou think?”
“I’ll let ya know when m’heart starts beatin’ again.” Remy took a long swig of his bottled water to moisten his dry mouth.
Ororo’s manicured hand reached up and toyed with a lock of hair. A shy smile toyed with the corner of her mouth, glossed in a rich plum. “Well?” she asked.
“Am I. A Bad Ass. Or What?” Ali gave Ororo a cat that got the cream smile and a little hug.
“Thank you. For everything.”
“Here’s my card. My cell number’s on there. Whenever you get settled in with any kind of schedule, we’ll do lunch. And here’s more leave-in and a decent comb. And a nice freeze and hold…” she ticked off different items that Ororo needed in her style arsenal as she loaded them into a paper sack. Remy only listened with half an ear.
“How ya feel ‘bout dis, chere?”
“It’s different. I think I like it.”
“Ya should.”
“How…how do you like it?”
“Honestly?” Ali was running on autopilot, ringing everything up on Remy’s platinum card and nagging her assistant to set up her next day’s round-up of colors and up-dos.
“Please.”
“You’re a different woman. Ya don’ look like de woman I met in de street.” Except for her shabby clothes. Remy decided to remedy that posthaste. In the meantime, he couldn’t stop staring…
“Maybe it’s time to stop being that woman,” she said hopefully as he held out her coat for her to slip into. Remy freed her hair from the collar, spreading it over her shoulders reverently. It felt like mink.
Ororo watched him with curiosity and confusion as he deftly buttoned her coat. “My hands work,” she reminded him. He looked down at his own hands and jerked them away. The dazed look fled his face and he scowled.
“I think she can manage, Mom. Next thing you’ll be wiping her face with spit on a hankie,” Ali said in disgust.” Remy stepped back and jammed his hands in his pockets.
“You ready?”
“Let’s go.” She turned to Alison and leaned down to peck her on the cheek. “I’ve never had such a good time. No one’s ever done this much for me.”
“Thank me by keeping up with your ends. Use that leave-in and wrap up your hair at night.” She gave Remy a pointed look. “You’re my next victim.”
“Book me fo’ Monday.”
“I’ve got a two o’clock with your name on it.”
“Ya can have me whenever ya want me, chere.” His grin was wicked.
“Honestly, I don’t know how Bella puts up with you and your shit.” Ali shooed them out. “Call me.”
The sunshine was stark and glaring despite the bitter wind. Ororo paused when she reached the corner, impatiently freeing a few strands of her hair that got stuck to her lipstick.
“I’ve gotta tie this stuff back.”
“Non. Jus’ tuck it in.” It was hard not to touch her hair…irritation with himself mingled with temptation as he carefully gathered her hair and pushed it under her collar. “An’ ya forgot dis.” He added the comfortable winter cap.
“I’ll get hat hair. Ali would kill me.”
“As opposed ta an ear infection,” he pointed out. But she was beaming.
He was surprised when she wove her hand through the crook of his elbow as they walked. She was still skittish around him, even after three days of staying in his apartment. Whenever he brushed too close in small spaces like the kitchen or bathroom, she went stiff as a board. It puzzled him more that her nerves didn’t extend to touching him.
She reached out and wiped off a speck of spaghetti sauce from his chin at dinner the night before. Her light touch surprised him; she didn’t see the baffled look on his face when she went back to her business, washing the dishes.
So Remy took it in stride. He was a perfect gentleman.
It was killing him.
He tried to be subjective; photographers had to know their models, strengths, weaknesses, best sides, how light and shadow transformed them in front of a lens. Having some knowledge of their moods helped, too, for facial expressions and body language. Remy knew which buttons to push, guaranteeing the best poses for the fewest number of frames.
But there was something intimate, a connection made from looking someone in the eye, prompting them, probing them, examining them, daring them to leave themselves open and expose their essence.
*
Belladonna had been his greatest success and biggest personal failure. She was named one of the Top Ten most beautiful supermodels in the world and one of the highest paid women in Forbes. Remy’s camera work brought her into the limelight and made her a household name soon after she’d gone on her first go-see. Promotion was anything, certainly; Bella’s agents and publicists were a pack of barracudas at best, but the cliché “A picture says a thousand words” was something Bella lived by and how Remy brought home a fat check.
Their photo sessions were explosive. For nearly a year, they hated each other. Remy made a habit of bringing coffee to their shoots.
Bella curled her lip as her stylist drew on her eyebrows. “Did you spit in that?”
“Call it seasonin’. Remy’s special blend.”
“Fuck you.”
Her lips promised candy-flavored kisses. Her eyes offered poison. Her body was lean and graceful, curves rivaling an upright bass. She flaunted it, every incremental turn and flick mocking him, every step grinding him into paste on the pavement. Bella despised Remy.
He ate it up.
“Looks like ya didn’ get ta’ run dem extra miles at de gym dis week, neh? I ain’t hatin’, chere, Remy likes his women wit’ some meat on dere bones.”
“Glad one of us can deliver in that regard.” Her eyes zinged to his crotch. He winced.
“Ouch.”
“I hope they turn blue and fall off.” She leaned seductively over a rail and blew him a kiss, treating him to a full shot of her cleavage.
“Shriveled up inta raisins five seconds ago, chere. Lick yer lips. Pretend ta put some effort into it.”
Sparks.
It was like watching a soap opera, working on-set with two prima donnas like them. Fire sizzled up Remy’s nerve endings even when they inadvertently brushed in close quarters or crowded changing rooms. Her pulse sped, even tripped during shoots, making her clumsy, dropping props and tripping over furniture. They resulted in spontaneous shots but pointed to a sickness ten times grander than the symptoms.
She saw herself reflected in his eyes, and a missing piece of her soul. There was fire. There was heat. There was energy and electricity and sex-
One of Ali’s house parties for thirty of her closest friends found them overheated and tipsy. Remy just watched her as she worked the room; every time she looked up or had her glass refilled, his eyes were on her. Devouring her.
She couldn’t stand it. Each time she took even a bite of food, it lost its taste and her wine left her tongue unquenched. No one else’s conversation appealed to her and her mind wandered. Eyes wandered, craving him.
Her feet didn’t heed her command to stay near the fireplace. A Bavarian import, Pietro, sulked in her wake as she left him mid-sentence. His words evaporated on his lips as he watched her drift into the kitchen.
Belladonna swam into Remy’s line of vision, blue eyes flashing. Her slender hand darted out and fisted itself in his lapel.
“Dance wit’ me, chere.” She pulled him away from the doorframe. Desire rocketed through his body and she felt a frisson of excitement.
Ali looked up from an argument she was winning over the appeal of white jumpsuit Elvis and skinny black leather Elvis and watched with awe as they wandered into her living room. They danced like two people shortly before last call, needy, clinging, groping, two minutes from getting a room. Her guests were deep into the grape, so Remy and Bella weren’t misbehaving that creatively, she mused.
Still…
It was like watching a train about to run off the tracks. Her gut screamed at her to do something, anything to put off the inevitable.
Bella whispered into Remy’s feverish neck, “C’mon. Let’s get de hell outta here, chere.”
“Don’ wanna be rude.”
“Don’ wanna rip yer clothes off right here. Actually, dat’s a lie.”
“Remy’s shy.”
“Non. Not all o’ Remy’s shy.” She ground herself against the throbbing knot of nerves pressing itself into her belly. Her teeth caught the edge of his earlobe and grazed it. A whiff of steam from her lips shot into his ear, and his nipples pebbled in response.
“Damn it,” he hissed. His grip on her wrist almost hurt as he whipped around and tugged her before him. They shouldered their way out of Ali’s apartment, shouting a goodbye as Remy retrieved his coat from the closet by the front door. She didn’t try to find her own wrap; he bundled her into his coat in the elevator, punched the ground floor and waited only long enough for the doors to close before he mauled her.
She burned him, branding him with her touch, her passion rushing into his lungs like incense. He consumed her and drank her and prayed to her, satisfying months of yearning, answering weeks of questions, leaving nothing to doubt.
Bella felt him molding her, sculpting her with his touch, his mouth. She begged him for release, to never stop, whimpering his name between kisses. She relished the give of his supple flesh as she clawed his back or bit his neck.
“Can’t see anyt’in’ but you. Don’ matter when. Or where, chere. Want ya.” She didn’t want his words, except for the curses as he bucked and neared his own peak. Or her name, which he chanted into her skin, into her mouth.
Hours later, they lolled beneath the tangled blankets, replete and touching each other in quiet wonder. She read his thoughts as he stared up at the ceiling. Bella felt part of him slipping away, where she couldn’t reach.
“Ain’t gonna be any different ‘tween you an’ me.”
“Sure. Business as usual, chere.” His lip curled. She pinched him.
“Bella means dat, chere.”
“Remy b’lieves ya, chere.”
It was almost true.
They still argued. They still communicated through the camera between them. They fought. They fucked. They made thousands of dollars and her face littered billboards and magazine covers. After two more years, it was still “business as usual.”
*
“Are they kidding? Remy, please. Tell me they’re kidding.” Remy looked up sharply and met Ororo’s troubled look. Her hands trembled slightly as she showed him the price tag of a lilac cashmere sweater. “Three hundred. For this.”
“S’cashmere,” he shrugged, but she grew more worked up.
“No. It’s a sweater. A top. Something you just throw on to keep warm.”
“Non. Ya don’ jus’ ‘throw on’ cashmere, chere. Ya wrap yerself in it and ya own it. And ya work it. But ya never jus’ ‘throw it on.’” He took the sweater off the rack and held it up against her. “Nice choice, though, chere. Works on you.” It was an understatement. He wanted to see it on her, bringing out her eyes and accenting her hair.
“I can’t do that. That’s ridiculous. I can’t afford that!” Her face looked stricken. “I…I can’t afford any of this. I can’t let you walk out of here with this.”
“Non. Ya gotta try it on first.”
“But-“
“Might look nice wit’ dese.” He meandered to a rack as she followed him incredulously, mouth agape. “What size are ya, chere, ‘bout an eight?”
“I don’t know.”
“Built a lil’ different den Bella, I’m t’inkin’.” Ororo’s hips were slightly broader, her ribcage was narrower, and she topped Belladonna by about two inches, he guesstimated. He took up a pair of black trousers and draped them over the crook of his arm.
She argued with him. “I can’t let you do this.”
“Sure ya can. See?” He took a white dress off a nearby rack and nodded to the display. “Like it in black instead?”
“Yes. No. I don’t like you spending mon-“
“Look,” he stopped her, eyeing her levelly. His grip on her arm was firm. Her breathing quickened. “It ain’t ‘bout de money. Remy ‘kin afford it jus’ fine, sweet pea. Ya need ta be outfitted properly. It’s cold out, ya hardly have a decent coat or hat or so much as a pair of mittens or decent socks t’keep yer piggies warm.”
“The socks don’t need to be Prada.”
“Where’s de fun in dat?”
“Remy, please…”
“Whatsamatter, baby?”
“It’s just…could we maybe find a section of the store that doesn’t involve a second mortgage or selling your firstborn?”
“After ya try dese on.” He thrust a hefty armload of clothes at her and spun her around. The clerk in the fitting room looked up with interest as he pushed her forward.
“Take care of her. M’gonna be findin’ a few other goodies.” The clerk grinned at him, enjoying the view of his retreating back.
“He. Is. Hot.”
“He’s all right,” Ororo said hollowly. The girl stared at her like a zealot finding a blasphemer at Mass before leading her into a changing cubicle.
Ororo’s fingers fumbled with hangers and clasps. Her own clothes drifted to the floor as she began to try on each new piece, but butterflies took wing in her gut. She despised the mirror that was too close, giving her no room to back up and take an objective look. The lights overhead were no more flattering.
She didn’t see her smooth, flawless skin, narrow waist or graceful limbs. Her worn undergarments and fraying, faded bra were eyesores. Her elbows and collarbones looked knobby under her own inspection. The hollows beneath her eyes were still too deep.
The dress whispered against her skin and fit her like a glove; once she’d protested herself hoarse, every word landing on deaf ears, Ororo declined Remy’s choice of the white and selected the black dress instead.
She walked out in bare feet, feeling ashamed of the holes riddling her socks. Remy was unfortunately nowhere in sight. Ororo hugged herself in embarrassment, feeling like a little girl playing in her mother’s closet. Where was he?
The clerk didn’t help matters any. “Ohmigod. Ohmigod.” She gasped and circled Ororo like a hungry lion. She tweaked the folds of the dress, tugging on the hem, fluffing Ororo’s hair over her shoulder all without permission. “Look. In. That. Mirror.”
“Er…?”
“Look. Go ahead. That…is perfection. Perfection.” She eyed her levelly. “I hate you.”
“I’m sorry…”
“You need a belt. Wait here.”
“But…”
“Wait. Don’t move a muscle.” She scurried off. Ororo just felt confused and was about to drift back into the cubicle when she heard her voice again. “Hey. Yeah, you. Get over there and get a look at her in that dress. If you don’t buy her that, I will.” Ororo watched in amusement as she practically strong-armed Remy back to the misses’ section.
“No need ta drag out de brass knuckles, petit, I’m goin’, I’m…oh, my. Damn.”
“Well?”
He said nothing else. He numbly handed the clerk the other hangers he juggled in his grip, which she dutifully took back to Ororo’s changing room. He circled her slowly, closely, gently laying his palm at the small of her back. She shivered beneath his touch, even though the department was stifling and warm.
He turned her toward the mirror. “Look. Ya own it. Dat dress was made fo’ ya, chere. No one walkin’ in here today an’ tryin’ dat dress on is gonna look like you look in it right now.”
“It’s a nice dress,” she murmured.
“Non, chere. It could be a dishrag tied on wit’ a piece of dental floss, an’ ya could make it work. An’ yer standin’ up nice an’ straight. Get used ta doin’ dat. Posture’s essential an’ yer best friend.”
“I feel funny. Can I try something else?”
“Be Remy’s guest. Hurry up, I wanna see all of it, petit.”
“Fine.” She pulled herself from him almost reluctantly. Remy regretted the slight draft he felt once she took away her warmth. Her gait made her muscles roll in a sinuous dance in that dress, rippling over her curves like liquid velvet.
Two hours later, Remy looped two heavy shopping bags over his wrist and watched their clerk package everything else into boxes. Several boxes.
“I can give you a discount on the delivery charge for the amount you spent today. Can I put it on your store card?”
“Please.”
“This is insane. It’s obscene.” Ororo shook her head in awe. “I can’t believe we just did this.”
“Ya had fun, though.” Ororo tried to hide her smile. “C’mon, now. Ya did. Like a lil’ girl in a candy store.”
“No,” she insisted, but her smile widened. A range of emotions charged it, guilt mingling with sin. “Maybe a little.”
“Better den sex, non?” The words slipped free before he could give it any thought. The store clerk giggled as she wound her roll of tape around the last box. Ororo cleared her throat.
“Are we gonna eat soon?”
“Feed her. She deserves it,” the clerk suggested.
“Thanks,” Ororo said. “For everything.”
“No. Thank you.” Visions of a fat commission check danced in her head. “That. Was fun.”
Lunch was less lush, which Ororo had no problem with. They stopped at a tiny café and Remy ordered them both chicken salads with an appetizer of falafel. Ororo watched Remy as she ate.
“Why do you do that? You stare a lot. Just…at everything.”
“Everyone, petit. Dontcha ever people-watch?”
“I guess. Yeah, sometimes I do.” Ororo wouldn’t have given it a name. Most of the time, it felt like she was watching life pass her by, literally, as people went to jobs and to homes she didn’t have.
“It inspires me. Gotta find t’ings dat inspire ya, chere.”
“I’m still figuring that out.”
“It’ll come to ya.” He dragged a ball of falafel through a pool of hummus on his plate. “Find those t’ings dat move you and dat make you feel a certain way, put ya in a certain mood. It’ll come through in yer face, chere. It’s all ‘bout creatin’ a mood.”
“Remy?”
“Yeah?”
“Think this place is hiring?”
“What? You t’inkin’ bout a job?”
“Well…yeah. Now that I have a roof over my head…” her voice trailed off. Remy studied her. His eyes grew dark.
“Ya have a place as long as ya need one, chere.”
“I don’t want to just sponge off of you indefinitely. Let me…do something for you. Not just to repay you, but to help. Something. But if not, I need a job.”
He nodded. “Okay. I get it, chere. Yer right.”
Their idyll the past few days were a luxury. Remy knew he’d have to face his day planner and personal assistant soon enough. Business as usual.
“Ya can use my address whenever ya need ta put in an app, chere. An’ Ali won’t mind bendin’ de truth a little if ya need another reference.”
“Thank you.”
“Take dis up an’ pay de bill. I wanna head home and check my messages.” He handed her his Visa platinum card and the tab. She nodded and headed to the front desk. Appreciative male glances followed in her wake. Remy smiled.
She was already doing it, creating an impression. Possibly a memory.
*
They separated at the subway tunnel. Remy handed Ororo the shopping backs and tucked a twenty into her palm. She tingled at the graze of his fingertips as she curled her grip around the money.
“G’wan home.” She flushed with happiness that those words had meaning. “I’ll be back. Gonna head out an’ meet one of my publishers.” He patted his carryall, which contained several small folios.
“Will you be gone long?”
“Why? Gonna be lonely? Miss Remy already?” He bumped her playfully. She rolled her eyes, then stared at the ground. Her lips twisted into a shy little smile.
He stroked a lock of her hair back from her cheek, toying with it. It was hard for him not to touch her hair. Ororo grew warm beneath his gaze. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Ain’t against the law, sweet pea.”
“Well…it’s weird,” she told him, backing away a step, but she licked her lips. He stared at her mouth. She saw the faint flare of his nostrils and his eyes dilating before he shook it off. Remy chuckled.
“Meet ya back. Here.” He tucked a second item into her hand. It was cold and hard. Ororo peered down at his spare apartment key. “Don’ lose it, petit.”
“I promise.”
“Lock up de dead bolt as soon as ya get inside. Stay in de habit of doin’ dat, Ororo.”
“Should I fix anything? For when you get back?”
“Surprise me.” Before she could offer any other suggestion, he leaned in and brushed the corner of her mouth with lips. Her skin still tingled when he rushed off.
“Bye,” she called hollowly. She walked back into the flow of foot traffic, dazed.
Had Remy…kissed her?
She tried to dismiss it. Sure. Air kisses. Just like handshakes and claps on the back, exchanged between people who sometimes didn’t even like each other.
Sure.
But…didn’t she like Remy?
She argued with herself down the next three blocks before she remembered she needed a cab. She waited on the corner as she bought a newspaper from a nearby vendor box. Three cabs gradually rolled into view, two of them making a drop. Ororo rushed to one as an elderly woman climbed out with her purse-sized dog and an eco-friendly sack of groceries.
“Do you already have a fare?” Ororo asked breathlessly as she hurried forward to the passenger-side window. It rolled down, letting out the scent of cigarette smoke, air freshener and coffee. Ororo wrinkled her nose.
“Ya need a ride?”
“If you don’t have anything else right away?” Ororo cocked her head and waited for the driver to click on his roof light.
It was the same grizzled driver from before.
His stare ate her up. Ororo impatiently smoothed back a bit of hair from her lipstick, which she’d replenished in the café rest room.
“Trust me, darlin’, I can make the time. Hop in. Gonna freeze yer ass outside.” He beckoned to her, resetting his meter to zero.
She climbed in and slammed the creaky door. “Don’t hafta bang it, darlin’. This car’s old. Be nice ta her.”
“Sorry.”
“Where to?”
“Park Avenue and Twentieth.” Ororo didn’t remember Remy’s apartment building number, but she wouldn’t need it. She basked in the warmth and took off her new gloves, enjoying her French-tipped manicure.
“What is it about you women and those nails?”
“What?”
“Y’know. The white crap. Ya get a manicure ta make it look like ya didn’t have a manicure. Pink cuticles, big white band across the ends ta make it look like plain ol’ long nails. What’s the appeal?”
“It’s not distracting. It doesn’t take away from everything else you have on, I guess.”
“So even you don’t know why? Ya didn’t choose that fer yerself?”
“No,” she snapped. “Does it matter? I think it looks nice.”
“It looks okay.” Ororo was staring down at her nails defensively, fighting the urge to pick at them. “Ya look different. Like ya got done up.”
“You could say that. I did.”
He stared at her in the rearview periodically as he stopped at each red light. Ororo silently willed them green, but they didn’t listen to her whims.
“It’s a big difference. Ya got somethin’ big comin’ up?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“What, this just for show? Gotta impress somebody?”
“Is there anything wrong with impressing someone?”
“Depends on who yer tryin’ ta impress.”
“I’m looking into different things.” She settled on an easy tidbit, offering “I’m jobhunting.” He shrugged.
“Goodie for you. These days, that’s askin’ fer the moon. Economy sucks.”
“I know.”
“Looks like ya got an easy break,” he remarked.
“Excuse me?”
“Saw ya before. Looked like life wasn’t goin’ yer way.”
“It looked that way,” she repeated. Heat rose in her cheeks and she heard a low buzzing in her ears. He was working her nerve.
“Who was that guy? Yer sweetheart?”
“He’s a friend.”
“So yer headin’ back ta his place?” He chewed on his cigarette and took a thirsty drag.
“Does it matter?”
“No.”
“Okay, then.”
“Are ya?”
“Not that it should be important to you, but yes.” She really wanted him to mind his own fucking business but swallowed the words.
“Sorry, sweet cheeks. Sheesh!” He held up his hands in defense, smirking at her. She glared, then turned away to watch the street lights zooming by.
The sky was shifting to that deep blue that she loved, just as the black clouds mingled with it, turning it into a murky soup. The stars weren’t out yet. The street lamps and stoplights threw prisms of light over her caramel skin. The driver made a sound of approval in his throat.
“Damn,” he muttered. Ororo glanced back at him. He licked his lips. She sighed.
“Do I have something on my face?”
“Naw.”
“You’re staring like I do.”
“Just enjoyin’ the view.”
“Makes it hard to keep your eyes on the road.”
“Ya do that, anyway, darlin’.” She was grateful as he turned the corner onto Park. Finally.
She was out of her seat before he could even get out to open her door, scrambling for the money in her pocket.
“Take it.” It was just enough for the fare and a meager tip, but Ororo wasn’t embarrassed. She just wanted to get away from him. “I don’t need change.”
“Damn right ya don’t.” He left his light on and continued to stare. “Hold up, darlin’.”
“Excuse me?”
She was taken aback when he reached up out of his window and tugged on a lock of her hair, stroking it. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Sorry. Had ta…sorry.” He held up his hands. “Sorry, darlin’. I know, look, don’t touch. My bad.” He didn’t look sorry at all. She gave him a withering glance.
“Ugh,” she muttered as she turned on her heel. “Thank you,” she called over her shoulder.
“Naw. Thank you.” She stifled the urge to flip him the bird.
She didn’t realize as she headed for the comfort of Remy’s loft that it was unfortunately the first of many “my bads” in a certain smelly cab.
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