Like Slow Sweet Molasses (8 page)

Her
eyes focused on the wood sliver he twirled around with his tongue before he
obediently…and with enormous fanfare… withdrew it from his mouth to flip it
away.

“Your
parents are worried out of their minds.” He tried to keep the accusatory tone
to a minimum. The strap that fit between the toes flapped as she examined the
sandal in an attempt to make the repair. Her big-eyed look was so pitiful it
became incumbent on him to give it a try.

“I
tripped.” She let him take her shoe.

 
“Come on. I’ll take you home.” He was an inept
cobbler. Chance folded his big hand around the sandal and rose with his other
hand on her elbow.

“I’ll
take a taxi when I’m ready to go home.”

Scrutinizing
her, he strenuously disagreed. “You might be offered a ride, all right, but not
from anyone with your best interest at heart. Look at yourself, Angela.” Her
soaked clothing left nothing to the imagination as every stitch in her lacy bra
showed through the material of her blouse and her breasts proudly saluted him.

He
was sadly mistaken if he thought she would succumb and go running for cover.
“How did you find me?”

“It
wasn’t easy,” was all he would say. After Lee and Connie came over for lunch
and discovered her a no-show, they asked him for help, omitting the details of
why she would slip off. But he knew, somewhat, for the reasons floated down to
him on the wind. Combing her neighborhood brought him no closer to finding her.
Finally, he called in a favor and had a personal APB put out on her
description.

“As
you can see I’m fine. I just need quiet time to think and I won’t find that at
home with them there.”

“You
don’t look fine to me. You’re soaked to the bone, bleeding at the knee and
risking your future if your hands aren’t cared for immediately.” He knew that
last part got her attention. “I live nearby. You can change and get the
first-aid required for those scrapes.”

She
weighed the pros and cons of his suggestion.

Chance
dashed water from his face since the rain continued to fall. “What do you say?”

“I
don’t want to put you out…after the way I’ve treated you.”

Contrary
to popular belief, he didn’t hold grudges. She said she was sorry for her
insulting behavior and he’d accepted. “Bygones are bygones,” is all he said as
he led her away.

Angela
straddled Chance’s Harley after he fastened his helmet under her neck, her
whole body trembling and not necessarily from the chill as the closeness of his
virile body. Her arms circled his waist causing her to lean heavily against his
back. That was a two-fold act serving to secure her seat on the bike and block
the wind lashing her body. The ride through the French Market was exhilarating
as proven by the grip she had on him. He comforted her with a pat to her hands.

Chance
forced himself to keep his attention on the wet roadway and not the peaks
punching holes in his back. A rush of desire settled in his loins making him
glad for the wind slapping his face. Maybe the sting against his cheeks would
draw blood to that area of his body and lessen the throbbing he had no right to
entertain at her expense. Too bad his home was in the general vicinity and
merely moments away.

It
had been a while since he had a rider at his back and even longer since a rider
instigated the urges worming through him, threatening to reduce his insides to
jelly. Her breath on his back seared his skin, burning her femininity into his
brain where even a surgeon’s scalpel couldn’t remove the residue. Her invisible
brand had him corralled on their initial meeting. He just didn’t realize to
what extent until that moment.

Chance
slowed, revving the motor as he passed a car partially blocking the street. He
rolled to the warehouse door, warily keeping an eye out, shoved down the
kickstand and cut the motor. “Cra-ap!” He helped Angela alight and gave her his
keys. “Go inside and make yourself at home. My sweats and t-shirts are in the
armoire. Help yourself.”

He
was giving instructions, again, in the same tone that enticed her to disobey
the last time. It was his natural attitude. “Lock the door behind you.”

“Is…is
everything okay?” His thunderous black mood shook her up.

“It’s
fine. I wasn’t expecting company. That’s all.” He turned her towards the door,
watched her enter and listened for the bolts, happy she did like he said when
the long iron arm, a battering deterrent, slammed into place.

A
not-so-trusting-look projected from his hooded eyes at the hellishly red
Chrysler 300, splendidly customized with black tinted windows, chrome spinners
and extra wide twenty-fours. The sinister looking automobile harbored its
passenger from the outside world and any curious eyes seeking entrance. Chance
knew who played the cat and mouse game with him.

“I
don’t have all day, Darrell.” He wasn’t surprised as the driver’s side door
crept open, pushed by bejeweled fingers—clay-dirt red, freeing booming bass to
scatter on the wind.

“Big
Brock. Is that any way to treat your best friend?” The grin accompanying those
words held to his lips never quite reaching his malevolent eyes.

“Too
many years and not enough water under the bridge, Darrell.” Chance walked to
the front fender focusing on the apparition in the passenger seat. “Should I
worry about my health?”

“Only
if you insist on scratching the scab off the wound, Brock. We’ve known each
other a long time. I know your operation. You only think you know mine.”

“I
don’t play favorites. You know that, Darrell.”

“I
see after all these years you’ve finally acquired a taste for the
choc-o-lat
.”
His leering eyes lifted to the second floor of the warehouse coercing Chance to
track his gaze.

“Don’t
go there, Darrell.” Chance willed Angela away from the mirrored windows. The
overhead lighting made her a tempting, although hazy, target. “She’s innocent.
Leave her out of this.”

“We
were all innocent at one time or another, Brock. That’s why I’m here, now,
talking as a friend. I’m a
legal,
” he stressed the word, “businessman. I
protect what’s mine. You’d be wise to remember that.”

A
quiet rumble filtered into the conversation as a black on black Dodge Charger
took up residence abreast of Darrell’s car, coming awfully close to chipping
the expensive paint job from the rear door.

“Called
in backup, huh, Brock?” Darrell split his attention between Chance and the
vehicle whose passenger side glass slowly slid down goading the driver to
stretch across the front seat. “Well, well, well. Quantrell Robinson.
What…a…surprise.”

“Heard
you were back in town, Clik.” The newcomer to the unplanned meeting reported.
“Funny finding you here bothering Brock.”

“Yep.
Heard the big N.O. was ripe for picking.”

As
the other two men bantered, Chance pondered the perceived threat against
Angela, fuming for a reason to lawfully retaliate. He’d brought her there for a
little R&R, inadvertently casting her into a situation that reminded him
why he was divorced and single going on five years. He tuned back to the sly
words, with their complex hidden meanings that the others spouted.

“Contributing
to the delinquency of minors, now, Clik?” Quantrell’s jab sliced deep. “Who’s
your sidekick?”

“That
smarts, Truant Officer Robinson.” He leaned against his car, his clean-cut
boyish features deceptively masking his true ire. “This is my sister’s boy.”

“Tell
your sister she should watch the company her child keeps. About thirteen, isn’t
he?”

Chance
reminded them of his company. “You’ve seen what you came for, Darrell. I’m
still here and doing my darndest to help the Crescent City recover.” His
meaning was more transparent than glass to Darrell. “When are you leaving?”

Darrell’s
laugh irritated the atmosphere. “The city needs businesses on the cutting edge
equipped with fresh new ideas to get its economy flourishing again. Black
entrepreneurs can finally catch a break. Now that my place is up and running
I’m just the…backer…to help others with startup costs.”

“Do
us all a favor, Darrell, and don’t create a mess while you’re here. Just
because New Orleans is on her knees doesn’t mean she’s asking to get fucked.”

“Still
a gentleman, I see.” Darrell rested both arms on the roof and with a shameless,
toothy grin sneered before dropping into the driver’s seat. “I’ve found the
opposite to be true in my experience. Later, ya’ll.”

They
watched him jet away spraying water in his hasty departure.

“Cra-ap!”
Chance searched the upper floor windows for any sign of Angela. “Cra-ap!”

Quantrell
Robinson parked and sauntered over to pull on the door. “Are you just going to
stand there shooting bullets with your eyes. He’s gone.”

“But
you and I know he’ll return.” He shook his head in disgust.

“Yeah,
man. You’ll need to watch your back.”

Chance
looked at the man who was a brother to him. “I have a visitor upstairs. Give me
about five minutes then come on up.” Quantrell’s white teeth were beacons in
his mahogany face. “Not that kind of a visitor.”

His
tap on the doorbell brought Angela to the windows. He beckoned her down waiting
patiently for the door to open. Steering his bike inside after she cleared the
way, he settled it in the corner and followed her upstairs to his living
quarters. She remained in her soppy clothes, feet bare and her hair had begun
to poof around her heart shaped face.

“Something
didn’t seem right to me.” She deciphered the look he gave her. “I wanted to be
ready in the event you called out.”

“I
saw you at the window.”

“I
know.” She halted in the middle of the floor so abruptly he almost knocked her
down, catching her close to his chest in rescue. “I have a confession.”

“What’s
that?” he queried. She hadn’t moved and his fingers tightened.

“I
snapped pictures with your camera.” She peeped over her shoulder and his gaze
asked
why
. “Like I said, there was something about that man I didn’t
trust. Also, there was a man on the roof down the street. I got him, too.”
Angela marveled at how his countenance shed that dark troubled look and lit up
his eyes as his roar of laughter ricocheted around the vast open spaces.

“Excellent!”
He gave her a quick kiss on her lips, lingering longer than he should have
against their softness, the sensation intoxicating him like he had too many
glasses of fine wine.

“Hm-humph.”
Quantrell announced his presence.

Angela
startled, relaxing a little after placing his face.

“It’s
okay. This is my brother,” Chance supplied.

“This
has got…to be…a joke.” With that, she jerked free to head towards the stairs.
“They put you up to this, didn’t they?”

“Who?”
he asked.

“You
know very well who.” One foot on the first step and the so-called brother
spoke.

“He
is my brother, lady.” He turned to Chance. “Aren’t you tired of this same
reaction time after time? It pisses me off.”

“You
used to get a kick out of it,” Chance reminded him.

“Well,
it’s old, now.” As an explanation to Angela, “My parents became his guardian
when he was a junior in high school and I was a college sophomore. He’s my
brother.”

“Angela,
this is Trell.” Chance’s hands on her shoulders guided her back.

She
relented, “Pleased to meet you.”

Quantrell
wisely kept his thoughts to himself but guessed something blossomed between the
two. He wondered if they knew. “Nice meeting you, too, Angela.”

“Come
with me. I’ll get the dry clothes.” Angela’s hesitant steps into his walled
bedroom had him reassuring her with a smile. She hung back while he shoved his
guitar aside to retrieve the sweats from the chest. “The bath is that way. I’ll
be downstairs in the garage with Trell.”

“I
won’t be long,” she murmured.

“Take
your time,” he reassured.

Now
that he was out of the way, she had a good long look at his masculine
space—skirting the perimeter of the bedroom, pausing to strum a chord on his
guitar, while noting the wall dividing it from the living area was high but
fell short of connecting to the ceiling. It framed the bathroom and held a door
that also allowed entrance from the main area. Muffled voices scaled the
divider, the intonations hinting at the severity of the conversation. She shut
and locked both doors to the bathroom, closing herself off for a refreshing
shower unknowingly enveloping herself in a cocoon of safety that would later
lull her into a very talkative mood.