Driving Heat (11 page)

This was his first since joining the LA Metro Bus Company almost ten years ago, which should have made Byron feel better. But as he sat at the curb in a slightly damaged Metro bus, following a freak accident caused by a texting teen, all he felt was irritated. In fact, he’d been troubled for the past few weeks, ever since Tanya revived the story that he had two children instead of one. He’d kept himself busy, doing just about anything to not think about that loathsome possibility. With time on his hands as he waited for the transportation supervisor, his mind went straight back to that conversation. Even though it wasn’t her first time for doing so, the jeering way she’d told it this time made mentally recalling the conversation almost as traumatic as when it had actually occurred.

 

 

“Really, Tanya? This money is for Tyra?” Byron shook his head, still cursing the blasted broken condom and overzealous tadpole that tied him to this woman for at least eight more years. A former classmate and all-around go-to girl in between the would-be wifeys, she’d flipped the personality script as soon as the pregnancy test showed two lines—demanding marriage, money, and most of his time—not necessarily in that order. After almost three years of trying, he’d firmly closed the door on marriage, which only left her to threaten and complain about what she loved most.

“Why are you still on this child-support trip, even though I’ve got primary custody and don’t owe you a dime?”

“Eff that stupid judge and what he said. I still need money for when she’s at my house!”

“Aren’t you working?”

“Yes. So what? I have other mouths to feed.”

“And another man to feed them, their daddy, the man who lives in your house.”

“And handles his business, something you couldn’t do.”

“Then why are you on the phone sweating me about his children?”

“Look, Byron, can I get the three hundred or not? I promise I’ll give it back as soon as I get my income tax check.”

Byron knew the truth. If Tanya gave him all the money she owed people, he could retire. He almost said this, but didn’t want to fight. “Tanya, I have said and the court agrees that because I have primary custody, you are not owed additional child support. Alimony either, because—
thank God
—we were never married.”

“Yeah, and that’s probably your biggest regret, huh?”

No, my biggest regret is buying a generic box of gloves. Trying to save five dollars is going to cost me fifty stacks in college tuition.
“Tanya, I’ve got stuff to do. I’m getting off the phone.”

“You’re not going to give me the money, for real? It’s for little Ricky. We’re enrolling him in a baseball league. He needs a uniform and gloves and stuff. All you do is work, so I know you’ve got it.”

“Get it from the man who handles his business.” He’d promised otherwise but couldn’t resist the sarcasm. When they were together, Byron took care of everything. He loved Tanya and Tyra, and manned up to his responsibilities. But he caught her in a lie and soon the whole web of fabrications unraveled to reveal that she’d cheated on him with Ricky the whole time. “Since according to you he’s so much the man, have him take care of his son, like I take care of my daughter.”

“You mean take care of your son?” she asked, her tone as light and airy as carbon dioxide, and just as deadly.

Byron sighed. “You already know that lie won’t work.”

“Who says I’m lying?”

“If that boy were really mine, you wouldn’t be waiting until now to let me know.”

“I didn’t. You knew when I was pregnant that he was yours.”

“I knew what you told me, which isn’t always the truth. You told Rick the same thing.”

“I told Rick what he wanted to hear.”

“Your greedy behind wouldn’t have cared about that. Not if you could get my money. Now say I’m wrong.”

“I’ll say you’re stupid, that’s what I’ll say. Most men are . . . can’t even do simple math. And what happens? Their children end up calling another man daddy. Bye, Byron.”

“No, Tanya, wait—”

But she’d hung up the phone.

 

 

Since then she’d either dodged his calls or his questions regarding the boy, which bothered him as much as her trying to get him to believe that little Ricky was his child. Why had she begun this again after all this time? Was it like his brother Douglas believed, that her and Ricky’s father were on the outs? He tried to convince himself that either this was it or she was lying. But what if she wasn’t? Byron hated the mere thought that he may have a son seven years old whom he didn’t know.

He chased away these thoughts with those of last night’s conversation with Cynthia, which made him remember what Douglas had said when told she’d been invited. “You sure that should be the first meeting? If our family or crazy neighbors don’t frighten her away, the smell of Mama cooking chitterlings surely will.”

Just as Byron pulled out his phone to put in a request to his mom for what not to cook this coming holiday, it rang in his hand.

He put the call on speakerphone. “What’s going on, Ava?”

“What’s up, Byron? You okay?”

“I’ve been better.”

“From what I hear, life’s better than it’s ever been.”

“According to who?”

“According to the person you told about dating Cynthia Hall, when the one who should have heard first is me!”

Byron grimaced as his sister delivered the justifiable verbal punch, glad he knew she was teasing. And glad he hadn’t told his loose-lip brother about the past weekend. “Man, Doug never could keep his mouth shut.”

“Is it a secret?”

“No, and we’re not dating either . . . just went out a couple times.”

“Byron, you are something else.”

“What?”

“How are you going to hook up with my daughter’s counselor?”

“See, it’s not even like that.” He gave the short version of their initial meeting. “I was actually joking when I dared her to go out with me and was surprised when she agreed.”

“I am, too. Actually, shocked is more like it.”

“Wow, sis. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m being honest. She’s so polished and intelligent. I mean, she looks like a friggin’ model! There’s no way I’d ever imagine a woman like her dating someone . . . like . . .”

“Uh-huh, keep digging. That hole will be big enough for you to jump in pretty soon.” They laughed. “The supervisor is finally pulling up. Let me get through this report stuff so I can head home.”

“You’re still at work?”

“Yes, I was involved in an accident. Not my fault and no one hurt, but it blemished a record that lasted ten years.”

“Sorry to hear that, and I’m even sorrier for your supervisor’s timing. I’ll pause this Cynthia tape for us to continue playing later because I definitely want to hear more about you two going out.”

“I’m sure you do, big sis. But you know how Cynthia can’t tell you what’s discussed between her and Leah? I’m under that same, uh, confidentiality situation when it comes to her and me.”

An hour after arriving home, plowing through a plate of chicken and rice his neighbor brought him, and helping Leah with homework, Byron took a nice, long shower. All the while he thought of Cynthia. As soon as he’d dried off and donned his favorite big boxers, he plopped down on his unmade bed and called her phone.

“Can you cook?”

“Hello?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Can you cook?”

“Byron?”

Pause. “No, Harry.”

“Oh, hi, babe!”

Longer pause. “Who the hell is Harry?”

The sound of her laughter erased the frown that had instantly popped up on his face. “He’s obviously someone who thinks that after two, three dates he and I are exclusive.”

“We’re not?”

“Are you going to try and tell me you’re not seeing anyone else?”

“I don’t have to try and do that. It’s easy. I’m not.”

“I’m not either. But that doesn’t mean I won’t, or that you shouldn’t. It’s not like we’re in a relationship.”

“True, but I thought we both felt something a little deeper than friendship this past weekend.”

“Oh, I felt something all right. You’re a really good lover. Before Saturday night I’d only heard about multiple orgasms but doubted whether or not that was even possible.” Her voice lowered. “I am now thoroughly contented proof of that claim.”

The compliment stroked his ego better than he’d stroked her pearl. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for a relationship?”

“I wouldn’t say looking, but eventually I’d like to be married.”

“What kind of man do you consider husband material? Oh, and the answer can be simple. ‘Somebody like you,’ for instance.”

She laughed again, bringing back the frown that her earlier glee had chased away.
What’s so funny about that?

“Husband material . . . let’s see. Someone who complements me and my lifestyle, spends his days in the office and his weekends on the golf course.”

“You play golf?”

“Not much lately, but, yes, I enjoy the game. Do you play?”

“Not at all. Football is my game.”

“I attended a Super Bowl once. So brutish! How can being tackled or hit by a bulldozer be fun?”

“It’s not, unless you’re the bulldozer.”

“Perhaps, but that game’s not for me. Basketball I can handle. Baseball is fine, though overall I’m not a huge sports fan. That doesn’t mean my husband won’t be. It’s just not a prerequisite.”

“So, your dude has to be a professional, a golf lover . . . what else?”

“Comfortable financially, educated, health conscious, and most of all, he has to pass the Jayden test.”

“Your son, right?”

“Yes.”

“Kids are a pretty good judge of character.”

“Yes, they are.”

“So if Jayden likes me, can you forget about the fact that I’m a poor, bus-driving college dropout with a gut hanging over my belt?”

“Ha! You’re too funny.”

“What if I’m serious?”

“It’s too early for us to be serious, and I don’t introduce dates to my son.”

“I guess that puts a hitch in my plan to come over there tonight and pet your kitty cat.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“And you’re not coming over on Memorial Day.”

“Actually, Jayden is spending that weekend and the following week with his uncle. So I’d like to join you.”

“Really? All right, then. Cool.”

“Now, may I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“The other day, when faced with that wretched man holding that gun, you said you’d die for me. Why?”

“Because it’s true. I’d take a bullet before letting any woman I knew get jacked up by some dude.”

“Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“No, I just . . .”

“Thought you were special? Never doubt that, baby love. I’d take two bullets for you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Damn, you got me. I’d take three. But only one to the head.”

“Seriously, I’d never been so frightened in my life. Yet you sat there conversing as if it were about the stock market or baseball scores. He had a gun trained on you, and you weren’t even scared!”

“Did you forget that I wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest and my bullet-stopping Superman cape was at the cleaners?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that while my face looked as calm as a muh-fuh . . . my ass was scared as hell.”

Cynthia laughed. “At least you’re human.” And then more softly, “You still make a pretty convincing Superman, even without the cape.”

They made plans to meet on Friday and shortly after that ended the call. Byron wasn’t happy about some of what Cynthia had shared. But they were going to spend the weekend together. This was enough to send him to sleep with a smile on his face.

“Oh, no! It’s raining!”

It was eleven o’clock on a Friday night. Byron and Cynthia had just left the movie theater after seeing what had been touted as the year’s best movie. Earlier, parking the car a block away in crowded Culver City hadn’t been a problem. But now . . .

Cynthia peered out of the double doors and back at Byron as she subconsciously brought a hand to her freshly flat-ironed, bone-straight hair.

With a brief shake of his head, Byron held up a hand. “You don’t even have to say anything. The hair, I already know. Be right back.”

Minutes later, a dry and impressed Cynthia was seated in Byron’s SUV. “Thank you for being such a gentleman,” she said, once she’d directed him toward her house and they were on the way. “And with an umbrella, even. While living in Minnesota and Chicago, I always stored a variety of weather gear in my trunk. The weather here stays so much the same, I never thought about it.”

“I should just keep my mouth shut and let you think I’m that thoughtful and prepared. Which I am,” he firmly added. “But my mom left that umbrella the last time she rode with me. When we go over there on Monday, remind me to give it back to her.”

“What’s your mom’s name?”

“Elizabeth. Everybody calls her Liz. My dad’s name is Willie.”

“Short for William?”

He shook his head. “Just Willie.”

“You’ll want to get in your left lane before that second light.” He switched lanes. “Have your parents met many of your girlfriends?”

“Mama’s met just about all of them! Growing up, our house was like Grand Central Station. Kids love Mama because she doesn’t pull any punches, and keeps it real. Topics that many parents shy away from Mama takes head-on—sex, drugs, crime—you name it. She can make me blush to this very day!” He followed her next direction. “What about your parents?”

She hesitated, her voice soft when she answered. “Of the few men I’ve dated, they’ve met two.”

Byron glanced over, noting Cynthia’s pinched features. Obviously she was not going to say more on the matter, and just as clearly a story was being left untold. His mind drifted back to the hotel and the time he’d asked about her son’s father. She’d clamped down then, too.
What happened to you, Cynthia? And what did your baby’s daddy have to do with it?

Thinking of her child’s father brought to mind unpleasant thoughts that Tanya’s latest accusations had created. This made him view Cynthia’s unwillingness to talk in a different light. Sure, he’d opened up about family, the job, and some past relationships. But he hadn’t shared everything.

They turned onto a quiet street anchored by condominiums on the corner and single-family houses lining the rest of the street. It was dark so he couldn’t see much, but from what he could make out it looked a little less congested than where his friend who’d moved to Culver City lived. The houses appeared to be a bit larger than Byron’s, by a couple hundred square feet, he guessed, but cost a couple hundred thousand more dollars.

“You’re moving less than ten miles from your current home,” Byron had told his friend.

His friend had shrugged, and kept loading furniture. “Different area code, different life.”

As Byron stepped into Cynthia’s vaulted ceiling living room, he’d have to agree. The place looked as though it had been torn from the pages of an upscale interior design magazine: dark hardwood floors, walls of the palest blue, large windows letting in the flickering lights against a darkened sky seen from her fifth-floor view. Her light-colored furniture looked unused and gave him pause.
Does she really have a son younger than Tyra? If so, this living room must be out of bounds.
Byron knew that within five minutes of being moved to his house there would be jelly on one cushion, a magic marker mark on the second, and a big splat of mustard after Sunday sports.

“Byron?”

Only when his name was called did he vaguely remember hearing verbal chatter. “Uh, yeah, what did you say?”

“Are you okay?”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you haven’t moved since entering my living room and didn’t hear one word I said.”

He walked toward the kitchen, where she was headed. “I was just taking in your place. It’s very nice.”

“Thank you.”

Man, stop acting like you’ve never been inside a nice home.
Except he hadn’t. He’d been in fancy homes, but not one like this. It wasn’t so much the architecture or materials used, although Byron believed it all to be designer and top grade. It was the way everything was put together, with purpose and precision. As he followed her from the living area to the combined dining/kitchen space, he didn’t see a speck of dust or piece of anything out of place.

“What would you like to drink?”

“Some of you.” He quickly closed the distance between them and pulled her in for a smoldering kiss. This scene of seduction was right in Byron’s comfort zone, right in his element.

After a couple minutes, Cynthia gently pulled back, her hand to her chest. “Wait, Byron, you’re taking my breath away.”

“Baby, that’s what I’m supposed to do.”

She smiled and walked over to the fridge. “I feel like a glass of wine. What about you?”

“Since I doubt you have either beer or Hennessy, I guess I’ll join you with a sissy drink.”

She gave him a look but made no further comment while she poured a glass of wine from the pricey case she’d purchased during a trip to Napa Valley and saved for special occasions. In her mind, a man staying overnight at her place, in her bed, for the first time since her breakup, was definitely such an event.

“Here you go.”

Byron looked dubious. “Is it sweet?”

“Not too.”

She took a delicate sip. Byron took one as well. It was quickly followed by another. And then he drained the wineglass.

“That was pretty good,” he admitted, after wiping his mouth and enjoying a healthy burp.

Cynthia was now the one shocked speechless.
Did he just guzzle a glass of sixty-dollar-a-bottle wine as though it were water for ninety-nine cents?

His action and her unconscious reaction brought back a memory as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. She and her mom at the dinner table with then-best friend Natalie, who’d made the egregious error of slurping a spoonful of tomato bisque.

“When eating or drinking, there should be no sound. Only from the uncultured do noises abound.”

First-time guest Natalie, having not understood the jab nor known it was directed at her, had happily gone on slurping the soup before telling Mrs. Hall how much she’d enjoyed it. After her friend had gone home, Cynthia had gotten a lecture on table manners followed by an impromptu etiquette quiz. She passed the test her friend had failed. Their friendship was terminated. The following year, Cynthia was placed in a private academy.

On the tails of this memory came a thought that bothered her far worse than the sound of Byron’s airy discharge. The instant displeasure at such a boorish act had not been in the voice of her mother, but in her own, which proved she was becoming very much like the person she wished in this area to never emulate: Mrs. Anna Marie Hall.

“What?”

She looked up, until now unaware of her expression. “Oh . . . nothing.”

“Then why are you frowning? This wine is pretty good, not like what my mom gets at the grocery. Can I get another glass?”

Cynthia reached for the bottle, emptying almost all of it into Byron’s glass. Who cared that he’d just chugalugged a sixty-dollar wine? For what he’d done last weekend and would likely do tonight, he was worth the whole case . . . and more.