Driving Heat (12 page)

He’d asked for a second glass of wine, so when she handed him the glass and he set it right down, it surprised her. Even more confusing was when he gently took the glass out of her hand and placed it on the counter.

“Why’d you do that?”

“So I could do this.”

The next thing she knew, Cynthia’s butt was on the counter, her legs were in the air, and her eyes were even with the backsplash peeking through a stainless-steel toaster and a bowl of fruit.

“Byron! This granite is hard. What are you doing?”

He answered by releasing the single button at the top of her jeans and impatiently tugging them off her. Her panties dangled off her right ankle. He bent his head, pushed wide her legs, and proceeded to lap, lick, suck, and sip until the only thing Cynthia felt was the party happening between her legs. Granite, what?

The orgasm that resulted from this oral assault sent her bucking off the counter into Byron’s arms. The only thing missing from the scene was a judge with a card, holding it up and shouting, “Ten!”

He walked out of the kitchen. Cynthia placed noodle-limp arms around his shoulders. Before she could recover from the unexpected kitchen encounter, she found herself being tossed over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes as he mounted the stairs.

“Byron, put me down.”

Pop. The feel of Byron’s firm hand on her bare behind sent unexpected tingles through every part of her body. Her first thought:
Did you really just smack my ass?
Her second:
Can you please do it again?

Ping!

“Ow!”

This tap was a little harder, the thrill a little higher. His hand ran lightly over the trail of goose bumps caused by such unexpectedly sweet torture. He popped the fleshy part of each fleshy cheek one more time before they reached the bedroom. Cynthia was so totally and thoroughly stimulated that when he laid her on the bed, she nearly pounced.

“Get your clothes off,” she demanded, reaching for the buttons on his shirt with focused determination.

“Whoa, wait a minute, girl!” Byron laughed, happy to see the ever-so-composed Cynthia Hall—hair tousled, eyes fixed, ass blushing—meeting this part of herself.

“No,” she panted. “You did this.” Last button conquered, she pushed the shirt away from his chest, nearly tore off the undershirt and fairly pushed him onto the bed. “Wait, baby, where’s the con—”
Well, damn!

Cynthia had jumped on his strong erection with the precision of a bucking bull rider at a Bill Pickett rodeo. Head thrown back, mouth slack, eyes closed, she went in search of magic buttons and back-to-back orgasms.

“Ooh . . .” she moaned, her body in motion. Had there been a twerk competition right about now, she would have won hands down.

“Eek!” Faster and faster she twirled her pelvis as a seismic explosion built in her core. Seeing her fast-approaching nirvana, Byron grabbed her hips and pushed upward, tilting his pelvis—left, right, front, back—until she erupted. In mid-climax he flipped them over as if they’d practiced the move for
America’s Got Talent
and grunted out his own primal release.

“Oh, my word, oh, my goodness . . .” Cynthia took in quick bursts of air, trying to recover. She’d heard of people having heart attacks during sex. Now, she knew how such a thing could happen. Orgasmic aftershocks produced slight jerking motions, encouraged by Byron’s magic wand, still hard, still inside her.

After several minutes passed, she looked over at Byron. “What just happened?”

Byron, on his back with an arm thrown over behind him, didn’t open his eyes as he answered. The workout had obviously been good for him, too. “I think,” he began, continuing to force slow, even breaths from his body. “I think I just served up a Carter classic.”

With breathing finally under control, Cynthia rolled to her side and propped up her elbow. “Where’d you learn to . . . do that?”

“Do what?”

“You know, everything you just did, throwing me over your shoulder and spanking my behind.”

Byron opened his eyes and slid his gaze over to meet Cynthia’s inquisitive eyes. “I haven’t been practicing the move on a dozen other women, if that’s what you’re wondering.” He reached over, grabbed a lock of hair, and twirled it around his finger. “I guess you bring out my mannish.”

“What?”

“My mannish, you know, like me Tarzan! You”—he looked over, waiting for what should have been a no-brainer response. “What? You’re going to leave Tarzan hanging?”

“Isn’t that what he does?”

He cocked his head the way a dog might, and bugged his eyes. Cynthia laughed, a deep belly laugh that was patently unladylike, yet couldn’t be helped. His facial expressions were priceless. She adored him.

He rolled to his knees and pushed out his chest. “Me Tarzan!”

She tried to hold it in, but the laugh escaped through her nose in an unrefined snort. “You’re silly.”

Beating his chest, he went deeper into the impersonation. “Me. Tarzan. Who are you?”

Shaking her head, she continued to laugh.

“Oh, you’re not going to say it? You think you’re not going to say it?” He pinned her to the bed with his body, found her rib cage, wiggled his fingers.

“Stop! That tickles! Byron, stop it!”

“Who are you?”

“Cynthia!”

“Who? Me Tarzan. Who are you?”

She howled. “Byron, stop it! You’re going to make me urinate on the sheets!”

“Me. Tarzan! Who are you?”

She was now in an all-out guffaw. “I’m . . . I’m Jane.”

Byron jumped up, beat his chest, and bellowed.

Tarzan would have been proud.

It rained all weekend, but by Monday, Memorial Day, the clouds had disappeared and the ground was dry. Byron turned up the volume on the Hip-Hop/R&B 2000 station he’d personally programmed to blast from the speakers of his SUV. The Wu-Tang Clan went Outkast while Common compared water to chocolate. After stopping at a neighborhood grocery chain store for the cans of soda and other drinks he’d promised to bring, the holiday car concert continued with Marshall Mathers using country grammar to ask the real Shady to stand up, Destiny’s Child paying homage to independent women, and Shaggy swore that it wasn’t him. He neared the street for the block party and turned off his stereo. Even Bow Wow’s bounce couldn’t compete with George Clinton’s “Atomic Dog,” especially when played on Uncle Johnny’s jimmy-rigged sound system with a woofer the size of Byron’s first car.

Said uncle lifted his red plastic cup as Byron turned the corner, doing a wobble inspired more by what was in the cup than on the stereo.

Clearly, the seals had been broken and the liquor was flowing. By the time he’d navigated around the citizen-erected barricade, playing children and waving neighbors, to park his car in front of his parents’ house, he was pleased to note Cynthia’s face had gone from looking nervous to looking startled. He could handle that reaction. The Carter clan alone was enough to scare anybody.

He turned off the engine and reached for her hand. “Remember what I told you. My daddy’s slow, my mama’s a trip, and my whole family’s crazy. So don’t take anything personal. They love anybody who loves me. You do love me, don’t you?”

“I don’t recall ever making that declaration.”

His eyes swept her body. “You may not remember, but your body told me last night.”

“You wish.” Said even as a nice flush of embarrassment crept from her neck to her earlobes.

He reached over, ran a soft forefinger down her cheek. “I did . . . and it came true.” Her eyes darkened with the pleasure his statement aroused. This noted before his gaze slid to her succulent mouth, and his body leaned forward of its own volition to initiate another tantalizing tongue tango....

“Byron! Get your ass out that car and bring the drinks over to the tub. That spit-swapping is probably why you’re just now getting here.” Liz was a tornado in motion—voice booming, hands gesturing—as she moved across the lawn. Byron and Cynthia dutifully obeyed Liz’s command.

Liz stopped a boy on the sidewalk. “Baby, go get your cousins to help carry this soda and ice over to the tub. Nothing in there now but water, wine coolers, and Colt 45, and Johnny don’t need to drink a damn thing else. Even though it’s hotter than hot grease next to a straightening comb.”

She reached the car. With eyes trained on Cynthia and one brow arched, she launched into a ping-pong monologue, splitting her attention between her two-person audience with the skill of an actor onstage.

“Hi. I’m the mama of the man who made you late. Boy, you didn’t tell me you were peeing in high cotton. I see why you didn’t want chitterlings. You are one beautiful girl. I bet you hear that all the time, huh? How in the hell did you get her to come with you, kidnap her or something? Baby, if you’re here against your will, I’ll take you home. We don’t want any trouble today.”

“Mama, stop!” Byron could barely talk for trying to keep from laughing. In Liz Carter’s presence for less than a minute and Cynthia’s expression conveyed shock and awe. “Don’t tease her like that when she barely knows you.”

Liz gave Cynthia another dubious glance. “Are you sure she’s ready for this? You know how Johnny is once his Henny gets to seeing, and Della’s brandy-laced coffee had her turned up at ten a.m.”

“No worries, Mama. I already warned her.” He placed an arm around Cynthia’s shoulders. “This is Cynthia Hall, Cynthia, my mother, Elizabeth Carter.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Carter.”

“That’s Mrs., honey, not Ms. I worked too damn hard at trapping my husband for you to not put an
r
between those letters.”

“Oh, please forgive me. In today’s society—”

“Baby, don’t try and explain yourself. She’s just messing with you.” He tried to scowl, but Liz’s twinkling eyes smoothed his face’s rough edge. “It goes this way with all of the people she feels good about meeting.” He reached for Cynthia’s hand. Her stepping away was a reminder of the holiday rule he’d sworn to follow, one that would be hard to remember—no touching. When Byron told Leah about Cynthia coming, his niece hadn’t reacted. People from all over came to this celebration. However, if Leah caught them showing affection, that would be a different situation.

They reached the corner in front of the Carter house. “Mama, where is everybody? I want Cynthia to meet the fam.”

“They’re around here somewhere. Except Barry, who’s got his nerve to be at somebody else’s picnic. I told him their enchiladas weren’t going to compete with my ribs.”

“Where did he go?”

“To some park with the family of the client he’s ‘training
.
’” She used air quotes. “He’s probably using something besides a treadmill to lessen the curves on that moon over
muchacha.
” Byron’s brow creased in confusion. “A pretty Mexican girl with a bright smile and a big ass.”

Cynthia couldn’t hide her shock at the unexpected response.

Byron’s mouth twisted in annoyance. “Dang, Mama. Go easy. Cynthia just met you.”

“And? She might as well know the truth from jump street. No matter who’s around me, baby, I’m Liz Carter all day long.”

Liz went into the house while Byron and Cynthia walked toward a group of men in lounge chairs under an awning erected for shade.

Byron gave a general greeting before addressing his dad. “Dad, this is Cynthia Hall, Leah’s counselor and my guest for today. Cynthia, this is Willie Carter, my hero.”

“Boy, get on way from here with that foolishness.” His voice was gruff, but Byron knew these words made his dad’s heart soar. “You must be needing a loan sometime soon.” Reaching out his hand, he added, “A pleasure to meet you, miss.”

“Likewise,” Cynthia said, giving his a firm handshake. “It’s easy to see why Byron has such great character, Mr. Carter. He tells me you’re an army man as well. Thank you for your service.”

“You’re quite welcome. So, you’re taking care of Leah, huh?”

“We’re working together to secure her bright future.”

“That’s good to hear. So thank you for
your
service.” He sat down just as a strong hand clamped Byron’s shoulder. He turned around. “What’s up, Dougie Stale?”

Douglas laughed at this childhood throwback. “It looks like you, man.” They did a shoulder bump hug. “For real.”

Byron knew that Douglas’s words were for him but saw his eyes were on Cynthia, as were those of all the men sitting in the shade.

“Hello there, lovely,” Douglas said, stepping over and reaching out to take Cynthia’s hand. “My name is Douglas, the brother who signed the papers to let Byron out this weekend and talked the staff into exchanging his straitjacket for civilian clothes.”

Her smile widened. Byron’s family was simply . . . indescribable! “Hi, I’m Cynthia.”

“Well, uh, Cynthia . . . it appears you’re new to the neighborhood, so why don’t you let me show you around.”

Byron’s look was WTH. “Really, bro?”

“Hey, I’m just being friendly to Leah’s counselor.” He turned to her. “That is why you’re here, right, because you know Leah?”

“Yes, I work with Leah and met Byron when he escorted her to a session.”

“That’s what I thought,” Douglas said, his voice casual and smile telling as he winked at Byron and took Cynthia’s arm. “Hey, man, Marvin was looking for you earlier. Why don’t you go and try to find him. We’ll be back.”

Byron watched them walk away, the humor at Douglas’s audacity showing on his face. They’d had a conversation about Cynthia being there, and how the two of them would have to appear as nothing more than friends. Making a mental note to later punch out his younger brother, Byron turned and went in search of Martin.

The day became a whirlwind. After tracking down Marvin, the two rejoined Cynthia, Douglas, Ava, and about a hundred other people socializing up and down the block. Neighbors who’d known Byron since childhood were more than happy to enlighten Cynthia on his boyhood exploits. Older men flirted and younger women threw shade. Leah joined the other teenagers who, in typical nonconforming, no-socializing-with-adults fashion, congregated at the opposite end of where old school ruled, rocking their new beats while some sneaked illicit sips and tokes. Kids were everywhere—laughing, fighting, screaming, crying—watched by adults who cracked jokes, argued, reminisced, and played games. Cynthia’s feelings went from appalled to amazed, and from uncomfortable to relaxed. When she informed Liz that she didn’t like greens, she learned about a black card that had nothing to do with shopping, one that Ava said she’d lose, along with her mother’s good favor, without putting at least a forkful on her plate.

After a fun-filled day and lots of hugs, Byron and Cynthia wished his family good night. The barricade had been moved, making it easy for him to head down the block and reach Slauson Avenue, a direct route from Inglewood to Culver City, within minutes. As he turned from one block to another, making small talk about the day, Cynthia remained quiet.

“Cynthia, what’s wrong?”

“Just thinking; taking the opportunity of not driving to survey my surroundings.”

“You’re probably shell-shocked. I told you my peeps were full throttle.”

Her smile was brief but genuine. “The behavior was not that of which I’m accustomed . . .” She looked away from the passing scenery and focused on him. “But I think your family is wonderful. I had a great time.”

Byron let out a relieved sigh. “You don’t know how happy it makes me to hear you say that.” He reached for her hand. “I thought they might send you running away. I like having you around.”

“We’re very different, Byron. Our backgrounds are worlds apart. Still, I find myself attracted to you. Those differences are probably some of the reasons why.”

“Explain that.”

“You’re very comfortable in your skin and move through life with an ease that I’ve never experienced. Your family is loud and rambunctious and carefree, where mine is conservative and quiet, very aware of and beholden to societal standards. That’s how I was raised as well. To scream like your mom did when they were playing cards and she went to Baltimore? Totally unacceptable.”

“Baby, that’s Boston. Please get your card-playing cities straight.”

“Whatever city it was made her superexcited. My mom would die if I did that.”

“Mama loves bid whist. She loves life, period, and is Liz Carter all day long!” His was a very close imitation.

“I like her. It was an adjustment, but everyone was friendly and made me feel welcome.”

“You know that makes me feel good. There is one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“To hang with my family, you’re going to have to urban up a bit.”

“What does that mean? Oh, wait, I know. Drop the proper English that cost my parents thousands and replace them with words like muh-fuh?”

“It’s muh. Fuh.” Byron shook his head in exasperation as she slaughtered the lingo some used to replace the harsher MF. “Girl, we’re going to have to work on your slang skills.”

Cynthia gave him the side eye. “I’m not sure I’ll ever master muh-fuh, but I do like diddly-squat.”

“Ha!” So shocked was he at hearing one of Willie Carter’s favorite sayings spill from her pearl-pink lipstick-kissed mouth that Byron was silent for the next two miles.

Music filled the void as he absorbed all of what Cynthia had said. That she was attracted to him.
I knew that.
That she’d had a great time.
Of course, she was with me.
That she thought his family was wonderful.
That sounds nice but is a bit of a stretch.
Byron adored his family and embraced his neighborhood, but he had no illusions about the difficulty of Cynthia ever totally fitting into his world. She’d already made it clear that she had no plans to remain in his.

That was her story, and she’d stuck to it. As long as they kept seeing each other, he didn’t care what they called it.