A Sultry Love Song

Chapter 4

“Something doesn’t look right.” Joi tilted her head slightly to the right, trying to look at her painting from a different angle. But no matter how she stared, it still bore little resemblance to the potted white orchid she was supposed to be re-creating.

She was sitting on a low stool at Wine and Whimsy, taking their Saturday-evening class. The wine and paint shop, owned by her older sister, Joanne, was her favorite weekend hangout. While she didn’t think she had any talent for painting at all, she recognized the stress-relieving power of creativity.

Joanne, clad in her bright blue apron, eased over to where she sat. “Complaining about your painting again? I could hear you grousing on the other side of the room.”

Adding another stroke of white paint to one of her misshapen petals, Joi blew out a breath. “Mine doesn’t look anything like the display. I suck at this.”

The woman next to her, who was about halfway into her second glass of merlot, said, “It looks pretty good to me. Maybe you just haven’t had enough wine.”

Joanne chuckled. “Loretta’s right, in a way. Relax, and stop being such a perfectionist. Art is all about interpretation, and self-expression.”

Joi looked from her sister to the painting and back again. “Well, that must mean I interpret this flower to be crooked, and I’m expressing it that way.”

“Whatever, girl. I’m going to help somebody who’s actually paying for this.” With a shake of her head, Joanne moved on to converse with another “budding artist.”

Watching her sister waft around the room like a cool breeze, Joi smiled. Growing up, the two of them had occupied very specific roles in their household. Joanne, three years older than Joi, had been the tall, graceful sister with a talent for the arts. Joi had been the shorter, more awkward tomboy, who’d excelled in sports. Both of them had performed well academically, but while Joi pursued her criminal justice degree at North Carolina Central University, Joanne had gotten her bachelor of fine arts from the Art Institute of Atlanta. Following in the footsteps of their mother, Emma, a seamstress who owned a small clothing boutique, both Joanne and Joi had gone on to find fulfillment and success in entrepreneurship.

After spending the remainder of the class trying to even out the crooked petals of her painted orchid, Joi threw in the towel and put down her brush. Her hands and the blue smock she wore were stained with paint, as was the plastic wineglass she’d been drinking rosé from. Narrowing her eyes at the painting, she had to agree with Loretta. Now that she had a full glass of wine in her system, her painting did look a whole lot better.

Once the other women had emptied out of the shop, Joanne returned to her side. “Are you ready to hang it yet? Because I’m technically closed, and I would like to go home sometime tonight.”

Lifting the painting from the easel, Joi handed it over to her sister. “Yep. But hang it in the back, by your office.”

Joanne accepted the canvas, and Joi looked on as she took it to the short hallway that led to her office, the break room and the restrooms of the shop. Once the painting was hung, she returned. “It will only be there for a few days, until it dries. You can come pick it up then.”

Joi nodded. “I will. I’m not sure I want you to keep it on permanent display.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Joanne narrowed her eyes. “Joi, what’s up with you?”

Feeling a little uncomfortable under her older sister’s knowing gaze, she started cleaning up her paint station. “What do you mean?”

“Girl, please. You’ve got something on your mind, and we both know it, so you might as well spill it.”

With a sigh, Joi tucked her brushes into the well of cleaning solution. “Remember I told you I won that bank contract for Citadel?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Well, what I didn’t tell you is that Marco Alvarez is the bank president, so technically, I’ll be working for him.”

Joanne’s brow creased at the mention of Marco’s name. “Marco. Marco. The name sounds familiar, but where do you know him from?”

Sliding the stool under the table, Joi said, “He was Ernesto’s best man.”

Surprise widened Joanne’s eyes. “Oh.”

“Oh is right.”

“I’m guessing he wants some answers about what happened back then.” Joanne grabbed a cloth and began wiping down the ten paint stations scattered around the main room.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I ran into him at Mimosa Grill last night, and he brought it up.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing, except that what happened between Ernesto and I is a personal matter that has nothing to do with my work.”

“Hmm.” Joanne probably had something else to say on the matter, but she kept it to herself.

“I don’t know if he’ll bring it up again, or what I’ll say if he does. And if that’s not bad enough...” Joi let her voice trail off as she picked up a second cloth to help her sister with the closing duties.

“What? What aren’t you saying?”

“I...well...I kind of like him.”

Joanne stopped scrubbing, turning wide eyes on her baby sister. “Joi, are you trying to tell me you’re attracted to him?”

“He’s fine, Joanne. I mean, he was good-looking back in the day, but now he’s completely, totally, utterly, five-alarm smoking hot.”

Still staring, Joanne stammered, “But he’s your ex-fiancé’s friend, Joi. And he’s about to be your boss! Ain’t nobody that damn hot.”

“I beg to differ.” Joi pulled out her smartphone, and did a quick internet image search. When she found Marco’s photo on the bank’s website, she sidled over to where her sister stood furiously scrubbing a blob of red paint off the tabletop and showed it to her. “Look at him.”

Joanne’s eyes rounded even more, and her bottom jaw dropped so fast and far, Joi though it might hit the floor.

“Well?” Joi waited.

“Damn.” Joanne’s one-word response was half sighed, half spoken.

A vindicated Joi tucked the phone back into the hip pocket of her jeans. “Like I said, five-alarm hotness.”

Joanne, staring ahead into space as if she could still see Marco’s photo, had a look of amazement on her face. “He has that whole tall, dark and handsome thing going on. But he took it to the max.” After a few seconds, she seemed to snap out of it, and went back to scrubbing.

“I told you. How do you think I felt when I walked into his office for my appointment? It was all I could do not to drool on his desk during my proposal.”

Joanne, having finally removed the stubborn paint stain, tossed her cloth back into the bucket and shook her head slowly. “Congrats on containing your drool, I know that wasn’t easy. But you do know that if you start something up with him, you’ll be asking for trouble, right?”

“I never said I was going to start anything with him, I just pointed out how fine he was.”

Joanne hit her with a side-eyed glance. “Girl, please. If you’re standing here telling me all this, you’re thinking about it. Not that I blame you. That man is finer than frog’s hair.”

Joi made a fist and punched her sister in the shoulder. “Stop teasing me, Jo.”

Feigning injury from the playful blow, Joanne grimaced. “All kidding aside, be careful, Joi. I don’t want to see you get hurt, nor do I want to see your business go down in flames, all because you couldn’t resist getting busy with the Casanova banker here.”

Joi, shrugging into her coat, smacked her lips. “I’m not planning on anything like that happening, Joanne. I can’t just think about myself. I’ve got a business partner and several employees to consider, so I can’t afford to be frivolous.”

“I just hope you remember that the next time you’re alone in a room with Marco.” Joanne tightened the belt on her own coat.

“I will.” Even as Joi spoke the words, she wondered if she could really deny the intense attraction sparking between her and Marco, or if she even wanted to.

“Let’s go. I want to get home before too late, so I can look in on Marlon.” Joanne smiled as she spoke of her six-year-old son with her husband, Victor.

“Cool. I wouldn’t dream of keeping my nephew from his mommy.” Joi walked toward the door her sister held open for her, and after Joanne locked up, the two of them got into Joanne’s minivan and departed.

* * *

His eyes settled on the big-screen television displaying the Carolina-Atlanta football game, and Marco popped a cheese fry into his mouth. The open window blinds at the Brash Bull allowed the deceptively bright sunlight to stream into the sports bar’s interior, casting thin beams of light on the concrete floor. Glancing out that window might make one think it was warm outside, but Marco knew better. He’d ventured out into the biting chill of this mid-November Sunday. If it weren’t for his affection for football and the company of his friends, he would have stayed home. Again he wondered if he’d ever get used to the chill that hung in the air this time of year, making him long for the balmy shores of his home back in Limón.

Seated around the table with him were his three friends and bandmates, Darius, Rashad and Ken. Together, the four of them were the jazz quartet known as the Queen City Gents. Darius, retired and wealthy at thirty-seven thanks to his tech-savvy invention, played the upright bass. Rashad, a museum curator, sang lead vocals and played piano. And Ken, an architect originally from Japan, acted as the quartet’s drummer. Marco’s tenor saxophone rounded out the group. He liked to think his skills on the golden horn added a special depth and richness to the Gents’ music.

Rashad, who had recently returned from his honeymoon in Trinidad and Tobago with his new wife, Lina, pounded his fist on the table. “Damn. We’ve got more turnovers today than a bakery.”

Marco chuckled, his friend was right. Cheering for Carolina could sometimes be difficult, but the four of them weren’t fair-weather or bandwagon fans. “Don’t worry. Remember, we really come alive in the second half.”

Darius, draining the last of the root beer in his mug, groused, “Yeah, but we need to start playing all four quarters. This is bad for my nerves.”

Ken, looking up from the screen of his tablet, snorted a laugh. “Statistically, the odds are in Carolina’s favor. So don’t sweat it.”

Marco shook his head. They all knew that Ken never got very excited about anything, hence his nickname, “Ken the Zen.”

Washing down his buffalo wings with a swig of lemonade, Rashad smiled. “Even if we lose, knowing I get to go home to Lina makes everything all right.”

That comment split the group into two factions: the married men, and the single ones. Marco and Ken both offered groans, as if offended by Rashad’s sentimental observation.

Darius gave Rashad a hard slap on the back as he nodded in agreement. “Amen to that, man. Nothing like the love of a good woman.” He shared a knowing grin with Rashad, as if they were members of some kind of secret club.

With a roll of his eyes, Marco remarked, “You two are so whipped. A year ago neither of you were even interested in a relationship. Now suddenly you’re the poster boys for upstanding husbands?”

“Stop hating, Marco. You know you want what we have.” Darius cut him with a hard stare.

“Why would I want to give up my freedom?”

Rashad shook his head. “I used to think I was giving up something, and I guess, in a way, I did. But what I gained is worth so much more.”

“Right. My life is a thousand times better now that I have Eve in my life.” Darius leaned back in his chair, a wistful look on his face. “And with the baby coming, my life is really going to be complete.”

“Wow. You two are really drinking the marriage Kool-Aid.” Marco looked across the table at the men, his closest friends. The grins Darius and Rashad wore spoke to their happiness, but it was still difficult for him to wrap his mind around it.

Their transformation from single guys to family men was something he still hadn’t gotten used to. Deep down, he supposed they were still the same guys he’d met all those years ago, when he’d first showed up at rehearsal to answer their ad for a saxophonist. Still, the sappy nature of their recent conversations had begun to stick in his craw.

“Whatever. I know it was the best decision I ever made.” Rashad redirected his attention toward the television, now showing the halftime show.

Marco stuffed another cheese fry into his mouth. He would never admit it aloud, but he felt a twinge of jealousy at his friends’ declarations of bliss. Who wouldn’t? They made marriage sound like the best thing since the invention of twenty-four-hour sports coverage. He’d had his share of experience with marriage, from watching his parents. They’d been married more than forty years, so he knew true love wasn’t a myth. He also knew that with love and marriage came children, bills and more responsibility than he ever wanted to have. No, he wasn’t marriage material, but then again, not everybody was meant for marital bliss. “I can have any woman I want, so why should I settle for just one? Am I right, Ken?” Marco dug his elbow into Ken’s forearm.

Ken, seated to Marco’s right, glanced up from the glowing screen of his tablet, a confused look on his face. “Sorry, what did you say?”

Marco scoffed. “Thanks for the backup, man.”

“You’re welcome.” With a shrug, Ken dropped his eyes back to the screen, and kept right on scrolling.

As the halftime show ended and coverage returned to the game, silence fell over the table. Marco felt a modicum of relief. While he didn’t begrudge his friends living their lives as they saw fit, all that stuff about wives and babies really put a damper on the whole male bonding thing.

The rest of the game went by with only conversation surrounding cheering for the home team to crush the visiting squad. In the end, Carolina won out by three points, thanks to the kicker’s flawless field goal attempt. That got everybody at the table on their feet, laughing and exchanging high fives.

While the waitress cleared the table of their empty plates and mugs, Darius spoke up. “Oh yeah, guys, I almost forgot. I got a call from Dave, and it looks like we’re in for the Winter Jazz Festival.”

Marco’s ears perked up at that. “Awesome! Who are we opening for? Who are we following?”

Ken, having finally tucked his tablet away, asked, “What are we making on this gig?”

Darius snorted a laugh, shaking his head. “All right, Gents, one question at a time. We’re going on before Mint Condition, and following Eric Jackson. So step your game up, sax man.” He looked at Marco and gave him a playful thump on the forehead.

Marco thumped him back. “My sax game is always on point.”

Rashad, leaning against the short dividing wall behind their table, chimed in. “I’m with Ken. I wanna know how much we’re getting paid. Lina’s got expensive tastes.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“The deal is four grand up front, plus two percent of the ticket sales. In other words, if we advertise the festival every week at our shows, we can raise our take.” Darius fished his phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. “The festival is the second weekend of December, so keep your calendars clear.”

Ken remarked, “Us? Isn’t your wife due around that time?”

Darius nodded. “She’s due at the end of this month, and if she’s late, they’ll induce her.”

Rashad snickered. “Based on what Lina’s been telling me, Eve’s miserable. Trust me, she ain’t holding that kid in any longer than necessary.”

“Quit teasing my wife. You’ll be there soon enough.” Darius gave Rashad a fake punch in the shoulder.

Marco laughed to himself at their horseplay. Yeah, they were definitely the same dudes he’d grown to know and...tolerate. “Sounds good. Even if we don’t do anything to help them sell tickets, we should still make a decent amount of cash on top of the up-front money. What are we doing with it this time?”

Darius gestured to Ken, who was shrugging into his dark brown trench coat. “It’s Ken’s turn to pick.”

Ken, busy patting his pockets in search of something, replied, “Children’s Miracle Network.”

Marco nodded his approval. “Good deal, man. By the way, your keys are on the table.”

Ceasing the fruitless patting, Ken finally spotted the keys among the pile of crumpled napkins on the tabletop, and picked them up. “Thanks.”

Each time the Gents performed at a paid gig, they donated half the money to a charity and split the difference. Since the four of them were all pretty well set financially, they’d all agreed to put that portion of their earnings toward helping causes they supported. In the past, they’d donated to veterans’ charities, homeless shelters and organizations that provided services to battered women.

As the men exchanged goodbyes and left the Brash Bull, Marco thought about the coming week, and everything it would hold. Most of his concern centered on Joi, and the attraction buzzing between them like an electric current. He wasn’t fully sure he could trust her, yet he couldn’t stop himself from admiring the woman she’d become. Shaking his head, he unlocked his car door and climbed inside the cabin.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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