Vulnerable (19 page)

Sicily's latest girlfriend—Rawn remembered her the second he laid eyes on her. It was a while back, but the last time he was at Kingfish Café, he saw her there with Henderson Payne. She came across as being comfortable in her skin and deliberately threw her sexuality around because she knew it would get the attention of men; and more to the point, women would be provoked by the attention she received from the men they were with. Rawn knew enough about Tamara's history with Henderson because his best friend, Khalil, was his agent.
What the hell is she doing with Sicily?
She stood at the opposite end of the room, near the naked paned windows and the exposed-brick wall, holding a glass of white wine. Provocatively, Tamara wore a pair of black skin-tight straight-leg suede jeans. Her white sheer poet's blouse with extended cuffs was see-through and cut low to expose a tattoo that was at the start of her cleavage—the letter H, oversized but in lower case.

At once, D'Becca was captivated with Tamara, and Rawn picked up on it even before she started in on her compliments and strange attentiveness toward her. D'Becca's world—and the world Sicily
once knew; the same world Khalil was a part of—lacked boundaries. They were uninhibited people, hugging and kissing and touching. It was not a judgment so much as it was an observation. While the three women seemed to have an enigmatic energy between them, Rawn felt out of his depth. D'Becca, Sicily and Tamara started chatting and laughing and acting like old friends from back in the day. They talked about people they had in common, Paris and Milan and Manhattan. Rawn, feeling somewhat excluded, could not stop looking at Tamara. She must have picked up on his curiosity because occasionally she glanced his way. Subtly, she began to flirt, and the amorous nature of her looks was premeditated. Sicily's new friend began to annoy him. And yet he was unconsciously drawn to her; almost hypnotized by her sex appeal. He wondered if she was still involved with Henderson, and if that were the case, why was she with Sicily? The way she had spoken of Tamara, Sicily was desperately
in
love with her, and what started between them happened on the fly. In the end, Rawn presaged the outcome: It was inevitably that Sicily would get hurt.

Before he could catch himself, Rawn broke up their girl-talk with, “Where did you two meet?” Even he could hear the tightness in his throat.

Sicily flipped her hair off her neck, holding her glass of white wine in her naturally feminine way. When he first noticed that she was drinking Chardonnay, Rawn was unconsciously surprised. It was in large part because she mentioned on their first trip to Chateau Ste. Michelle winery that she did not like white wine; red was her preference. Everything about her—her attitude, body language, the gentleness, the quiet glow that scattered like ashes over a woman's aura when her life was right where she wanted it to be—suggested Sicily fell, and deep. She was different in this setting—with Tamara in the room. The influence over her was remarkable, and Rawn was not sure what to make of it all.

“I should have known you weren't paying attention. I told you where we met,” Sicily replied.

Tamara tilted forward, her toned legs crossed while her hard cocoa-brown nipples were visible through the sheer poet's blouse. “I first saw Sicily at Kingfish. She was with you. But we met three weeks ago. A friend and I had left Elliott Bay Books, and we bumped into Sicily. She was alone and we rescued her from whatever she would have done had we not met her that night. My friend invited her to join us. It was all very—what did you call it, Sicily: a contract between souls?”

Rawn had no intention of being sarcastic. “Just like that?” he said.

With a delicate touch, D'Becca placed her hand on his thigh. “Rawn!” And with the look of surprise on her face.

“Just like that,” Tamara said straight into Rawn's soothing eyes. She wet her tongue with a nip of wine.

The energy in the room shifted and D'Becca decided to change the mood. “Rawn and I met in a similar way.”

“How so?” Tamara asked.

Rawn knew she couldn't care less.

“Well, back during the summer I'd just returned from two weeks in New York. It never got below ninety. It was unbearably sticky and I couldn't wait to get away from the exhausting energy in that city. I mean I wanted to walk out onto the sidewalk and not meet nearly eighty percent humidity. I made an appointment with Gene Juarez first thing. I spent all afternoon…”

“I love that place,” Tamara interrupted.

“Do you?” Sicily asked, looking over to Tamara.

“Oh, lady. There's this masseuse…her name escapes me, but…I'll get the name. Try her, luv. Trust me.”

Flirtatiously, Sicily said, “I do, and I will.”

“D'Becca, you were saying?” Tamara's eyes left D'Becca and for a split-second, she met Rawn's gaze.

“I'm a block from Café Neuf and it starts to pour down rain,” D'Becca continued. “All day I spent in Gene Juarez and for…naught!”

Sicily and Tamara were quite amused while Rawn had no clue what was so droll.

Sicily picked up the expression on his face and said, “It's a girl thing, Rawn. You don't know what it's like to spend hours in a salon and then in ten minutes, your hair is a hot mess.”

“You see why I wear mine short. I used to have hair down to here,” Tamara said, pointing a tad above her elbow. “I finally said to hell with it and chopped it off.”

“Rawn was amused by the fact that I'd ruined a perfectly good pair of shoes
and
my hair was ruined. But a few weeks later I ran into him at Street Two and we—we clicked. Maybe we experienced a kinda soul contract, too.”

“Hmmm,” said Tamara.

“Yeah, our experiences are similar. I never even realized that.” In that moment, Sicily was exceptionally happy.

“Who made the first move?” D'Becca asked.

A hush fell over the room for several slow moments.

“It's something you know,” Tamara said, picking the subject back up. “Neither one of us actually made a
move.”

“Well, someone had to do something,” D'Becca said.

“Who—between you and Rawn—made the first move?” Sicily had never bothered to ask Rawn, but it was not for the lack of curiosity that she failed to inquire.

“D'Becca did.” Rawn looked straight at Sicily.

“I did,” she admitted. “Rawn can put a spell on a girl. Watch out, Tamara.”

“You haven't met Khalil yet, I take it?” Sicily asked D'Becca.

“I know a Khalil.” Tamara's voice was so blasé, and because she was one-dimensional, she failed to make the connection.

“Not yet, but we're going skiing in Vail with him and his girlfriend, aren't we?” D'Becca looked over to Rawn, seeking confirmation.

Rawn, his head lowered, said in a quiet voice, “It's a plan.” His cognac-colored eyes roamed to Tamara and that's when he decided she was hollow.

From the moment they arrived, a burning question stayed at the tip of his tongue, although Rawn felt it impolite to ask it. But then D'Becca broached the subject without him having to.

“Tamara, I've been dying to ask.”

Tamara extended D'Becca a cunning look.

“Weren't…didn't you…you're the one who had a thing with Henderson Payne that was splashed all over the tabloids?”

“I like that. You're direct.”

“I know Daphne. We've worked together.”

“Well, Henderson and I are very close friends. I love him, of course.”

“Wait!” D'Becca placed her wineglass on a decorative coaster in front of her on the perfectly squared table. “Threads! By appointment only. I've been to your boutique. You are
the
Tamara that owns Threads, right?”

“I
knew
you looked familiar! I couldn't place you.”

“Well, D'Becca's a model. You probably saw her modeling something in an ad, or in one of those My Little Secret catalogues that every woman gets in her mailbox.”

“I remember D'Becca from fashion week a few years ago. But yes, you've been to Threads. I believe you're on my mailing list.”

“I love your designs. That dress BabyGirl wore to the Grammys was stunning!” She retrieved her wineglass with a happy grin. “Not
pas cher,
but quite chic. A friend of mine modeled one of your originals at Ebony Fashion Fair. And I bid on a dress for an AIDS charity in L.A. Someone else out-bid me, though.”

“How much?” Sicily was interested to know.

“I bid two thousand. I'm not sure what the final bid was.”

“Goodness, Seattle's too small for my blood,” Sicily said, in an exhaustingly good mood.

“Are you bi?” Rawn asked.

“Rawn!” said D'Becca.

“Really, it's okay.” Tamara said, “I don't define myself. My mother's Jamaican and my father's Caucasian, from Washington, D.C. They're politicians. And much to my mother's chagrin, I don't identify myself as any one race—black, white or biracial. Straight, gay, bi. It's all labels. Who cares? I play by my own rules.”

When Sicily kissed Tamara and their tongues stroked, Rawn, unconsciously, crossed his legs. D'Becca leaned into Rawn and said, “Sicily's like so hot.”

A Scandinavian pine table was perfectly set for four. D'Becca loved the elegant centerpiece and candleholder, and the Kenyan dinnerware. With tears in her eyes, she said, “Sicily, maybe you haven't outdone yourself, but this, it's absolutely lovely. I am so touched for being included.”

It was an elysian meal. There was no other way to describe it. Rawn and D'Becca stayed long enough for seconds of dessert, which they shared—an espresso sweet potato cheesecake Tamara made from an online recipe that was beyond decadent. While Rawn watched the ending of a football game, D'Becca, Sicily and Tamara washed, dried and put away the dishes and leftovers while they gossiped.

Good-bye felt terribly long to Rawn.

D'Becca could not stop talking about Sicily and Tamara. In the car, speeding across the floating bridge, she went on and on about the two women who were so “majestic” to her, and how much she enjoyed Thanksgiving and how long it had been since she had a night like “this one.” “Holidays,” she told Rawn, “can be so wonderful when they are shared”;
but her words were meaningless to his ears. And he listened intently to D'Becca, hoping to feel a connection to her, and optimistic that she would touch his heartstrings. But nothing, nothing she said meant anything to him. D'Becca could have been any woman he picked up off a street corner who was hitchhiking for a ride home. And for the first time since he had known her, Rawn felt nothing for her; his mind was quite preoccupied. He needed to be alone. Firstly, because making love to her would most likely create more chaos in his head; and secondarily, he was not exactly sure he could even be
with
D'Becca.

“D'Becca, please,” he butted in on her rambling conversation. Rawn failed to know what on earth she was talking about. “Take me home,” he directed.

“What?” She yielded at the stop sign a block away from her townhouse.

“Turn here; take me home.”

D'Becca followed his instructions. Presumably, he wanted them to sleep at his place instead of hers. When she pulled up to the curb and turned off the engine, he said, “Let's pass tonight, D'Becca.” Gingerly he caressed her cheek with his warm lips, his breath bitter from alcohol, espresso and the spices that enriched the Thanksgiving dinner. “Good night.” A voice in the past always alive and tender was now cold, detached, and tight.

D'Becca was so astounded she felt tears dampen her bare lashes. By the time she was home, she was not sure what route she took to get there. For at least ten minutes she parked in her garage and stared into the darkness. She blinked when she heard her cellular ring. She reached for it in her leather jacket pocket, and once she identified the caller, she spoke softly, “Hi, Troy.” Thirty minutes later, after making herself a cup of soothing Ginseng tea and
hoping it would relax her, she curled up with her cat, Chai, and Pricilla Miles's best seller which she borrowed from Sicily, it registered: Rawn was jealous of Sicily's relationship because he was very attracted to Tamara. The sexual energy between them was fervent and she could not avoid it if she tried. And if D'Becca did not miss it, certainly Sicily could not either.

H
e could not sleep, and Rawn knew he was going to battle with the sheets. On impulse he called Khalil because he was a night owl. When he answered his landline, Rawn was relieved. He shared with his best friend in great detail how Thanksgiving at Sicily's unfolded, and it managed to make him feel better. Perchance he needed to voice his confusion.

Khalil lived above Sunset Boulevard in a cottage that hung off a cliff and offered an awesome setting of L.A.'s sprawling panorama. With a bottle of beer in his hand, he leaned against the patio door taking in the sights down below. He could hear, although faintly, music coming from a popular nightclub on the famed boulevard. Rawn said on one of his visits: “Man, I sure hope the ‘big one' doesn't come any time soon, because this place will slide right off this hillside and land straight on the Strip.” It was a quiet West Hollywood night and Khalil was feeling a little lonely; he would never confess that to Rawn, though. “Man, sounds like to me you're in the middle of a ménage à trois. I'm seriously feeling this, bro.”

“What's the deal with Tamara and Henderson?”

“That's outdated. He's back on track,” Khalil said. “Hell, I think Tamara's fine and everything, but a little too… She's too demanding. Henderson's head got turned around for a minute, but Tamara's not the kind of woman you lose everything for. Now Daphne? Man, she's the ultimate!”

Rawn bent over and looked inside his refrigerator. He was talking more to himself than to Khalil: “I should have brought some leftovers home. I'm hungry.”