His Uptown Girl

She clicked her key fob and the Volvo SUV chirped to life. “Civic-minded? Yes. Divorced? No.”

“Wait, you’re still married?” His hand fell from the door handle.

“No.” She gestured he should climb into the passenger’s seat, waving at the strange dude who owned the stationery shop. “See, I’m already busted.”

He hesitated to open the car door because he drew the line at messing around with married women. Once he’d slept with a barfly he hadn’t known was engaged and it had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

She gazed across the top of the car at him. “You do know I’m widowed?”

“Was I supposed to?”

Pressing her lips together, she shook her head. “My husband was Skeeter Theriot.”

“Skeeter? You don’t look like a Skeeter’s wife.”

“He was a New Orleans Theriot. Actually he was running for the U.S. House of Representatives when his mistress killed him and then herself. You didn’t see it in the papers...for, like, weeks on end?”

For a moment he could only stand and stare. How did one respond to an admission like that? “I don’t pay attention to politics much. Sorry.”

She stood still as a puddle, her face unreadable. “I am, too.”

Then she opened the door and slid inside. Dez stared at the streetlight festooned with a Mardi Gras mask, grappling with that tidbit of information. Eleanor had been married to a man who had cheated on her and then been killed by his mistress. Heavy shit.

So did she still love her husband? Was she grieving? Or maybe mad as hell at the bastard? He couldn’t read her enough to guess.

Leaning over, she peered up at him from inside the car. “Are you coming or not...? ’Cause I really do need a drink.”

He climbed in. “Think I need one, too.”

Pulling away from the curb, Eleanor performed a perfect U-turn and drove down Magazine toward the Business District. Silence reigned as she kept her eyes straight ahead and chewed on her bottom lip. Finally, she pulled into a vacant spot in front of the Bulldog Bar and Grill.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” she said with a heavy sigh. “This is weird.”

She sat, hands dangling on the steering wheel, lips glistening from the constant attention she’d given them as they drove. Again, it struck him how soft she looked, like a Monet painting, slightly out of focus but begging for contemplation. Pink lips, delicate throat, velvet skin. She made him want to breathe her in, explore the feminine curve of her neck. Relish her essence. “I thought we were going to have a drink. Get to know each other better.”

“Yeah, but why? So you can change my mind?”

“Actually I hadn’t had lunch and I figured any bar in New Orleans worth its salt has a burger on the menu.”

She shook her head. “Don’t play games. I’m too old for you. Too—”

“Too old for me? What? You’re thirty-three, thirty-four tops?”

The groove between her eyes deepened. “No, I’m thirty-nine.”

“Really? Don’t look it.”

“Yeah, really.” Eleanor seemed put out. “This is stupid.”

Dez tried not to laugh. He really did. But she looked so adorable, so flummoxed at the thought of admitting her age.

“What are you laughing at? This is serious. I’m too old for you, and you’re too...too—” she waved a hand at him “—sculpted and hip.”

“Sculpted and hip?” He leaned his head against the seat, a deep belly laugh welling up within. “That’s the strangest word combination ever.”

“Stop,” she said, punching him on the arm. “You know what I mean. We’re from two different worlds. This is a Volvo.”

Dez couldn’t stop laughing. Her reasons were so funny. He was sculpted and she drove a Volvo?

“Dez,” she said, her eyes plaintive.

He stopped, pressing his lips closed. “Huh?”

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re funny...and beautiful...and I really want to kiss you.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened. “You do?”

He clasped the back of her neck, drawing her to him. Her hair was silk, her neck small. She came to him willingly, breathing notched up. With his right hand, he brushed an errant strand of hair from where it stuck to her lip gloss. Wild horses couldn’t drag him from kissing Eleanor.

With his lips hovering close to hers, he stared her straight in the eye. “I wanna kiss you ’cause I totally dig old ladies.”

Her mouth fell open just as he intended and he took full advantage.

“Mmm,” she said, struggling for only a moment before succumbing. Desire, hot and heavy, raised its head in his belly. She tasted like spring rain, healing and fresh. Cupping her jaw, he drank from her, thrilling when her tongue met his. Pulling her closer, he embraced the essence of Eleanor...and wanted more.

She broke the kiss, pulling back, her breath quick and her eyes clouded with passion.

“I’m not an old lady,” she breathed, her eyes crackling. “And if this is some crazy ‘needing a mother’ thing, climb out, buddy.”

“You think I’d kiss my mother like that?”

“God, I hope not,” she said, swallowing hard and looking out the window, avoiding his gaze. She pressed a hand to her chest and sucked in a deep breath. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“You didn’t. I kissed you.”

Her eyes met his. “But—”

“I kissed you because you’re all I’ve been thinking about since last night, because you’re beautiful, desirable and sexy...even if you are a few years ahead of me. You think age matters that much?”

She searched his gaze. “It should.”

“Age is a number.”

She gave a wry chuckle. “Spoken like a man who brushes convention aside.”

“I brush aside what doesn’t make sense. You’re a woman. I’m a thirty-year-old man. Not a kid.”

“God, this is silly. Let’s go get that drink and slow this down a little.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m thirsty,” she said, tugging on the door handle. “By the way, I hope you have your fake ID.”

He opened his door. “What?”

Her teasing gaze met his over the top of the car roof and he caught a taste of a mischievous Eleanor. “I’m not contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”

“If you’re going to contribute to the delinquency of a minor, I’d rather it be for something more exciting than a tequila shot.”

“Yeah?” She arched one eyebrow.

“Oh, lady, you’re so in trouble.”

Eleanor shook her head. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

He gave her his best charming smile. “We’re just having a drink. Relax, okay?”

“Feels dangerous, Dez. Like we should stop this right now.”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

CHAPTER FOUR

TRE STARED AT CICI sprawled on the couch and shook his head. Passed out in the middle of the day, which meant she hadn’t gotten Shorty D up for school. More important, it meant she’d missed work again, and this time the manager of the Pet Pro wouldn’t give Cici the benefit of the doubt. Three strikes and you’re out. That’s how it worked in life. Everywhere.

He kicked the couch. “Get up, Cici. You missin’ work.”

She didn’t move.

“Cici,” he said, kicking harder. Twice. Three times.

“Mmmf...” she groaned, throwing an arm over her face. She still wore the clothes she’d gone out to the club in—a bright blue skintight shirt and a skirt that rode over her thin thighs. “Damn, Tre, I tryin’ to sleep.”

“You missed work. Kenzie’s been crying for an hour straight, and it’s my damn day off. I shouldn’t have to do your job for you.”

Cici smacked her lips and groaned, rolling over as if she could hide from his words. “I don’t give a shit. I’m sleepin’, bitch.”

“Bitch?” he said, anger curling in his gut. “That’s all you got to say to me? Callin’ me a bitch?”

Cici didn’t say nothing. Just nestled into the back of the couch, dismissing him. She was still drunk. Probably high, too. He beat down the fury inside because Kenzie needed to be dealt with. Along with his brother.

Tre grabbed the empty beer can tottering on the edge of the scarred coffee table and walked toward the bedroom where Cici slept, where her three-year-old daughter stood wailing at the threshold. “Come on, baby girl.”

He scooped up Kenzie, ignoring the snot pouring out of her nose, and strode into the kitchen. After tossing the beer can in the trash, he sat his cousin on the counter, shoving a dirty cereal bowl aside. Kenzie didn’t stop crying. He figured if his mama was a drunk ho and ignored him, he’d cry, too. “You hungry, baby girl?”

Kenzie immediately stopped crying. Sniffling, she rubbed her eyes. That meant she was.

Tre grabbed a paper towel, wiped Kenzie’s face and looked for a sippy cup in the nearly empty cupboard beside the sink. There were obviously none clean.

Shorty D came in holding a bag of chips and a game controller. “Ugh, she stinky.”

Tre hadn’t noticed, but, yeah, Kenzie needed a diaper change. Panic rose in his throat as he surveyed the sink full of dirty dishes, the stack of unpaid bills, the toddler sitting in her own crap, and his brother, who’d stayed home from school for obviously no good reason.

What the hell was he doing?

All those dreams he’d woven in his mind, wearing a nice business suit, with a sweet ride in the driveway of a condo in a nice Uptown neighborhood, were so ridiculous...so damn far away he couldn’t even taste them anymore. The money he’d squirreled away in an old Nike shoebox in his closet laughed at him—it wasn’t enough to buy the books he’d need for college much less pay for a semester of tuition.

And the only thing he’d taken pleasure in, his music, was gone. The saxophone rescued from his bed many years ago by the police had been sold last summer.

His life was shit.

“What you doin’ home?” Tre asked his brother, giving Kenzie a somewhat stale granola bar from a box sitting on the counter.

“I didn’t get waked up and missed the bus. Besides, I don’t feel good this morning,” Shorty D said, picking up a drinking glass sitting beside the sink and squinting at it to determine if it was clean.

“You look fine to me so go get dressed. You’re going to school.”

“No, I ain’t,” Shorty D said, not even looking at his older brother.

“Yeah. You are. You already missed three days this semester and I saw that progress report. You gonna get held back.”

“Nah, I ain’t.” Shorty D went to the fridge and grabbed a two-liter bottle and poured a glass of soda. “Ms. Barre don’t even take roll some days. We don’t do nothing in her class no way.”

Tre grabbed a package of diapers he’d picked up at the dollar store the day before and walked toward the bathroom, Kenzie in his arms. “You’re going, Shorty.”

Something set Kenzie off and she started screaming in his ear, drowning out the curses Shorty D popped off. Pieces of granola dropped onto his clean T-shirt as Tre realized he’d left her sippy cup on the counter.

“Yeah, yeah. I could use a drink, too,” he said, walking behind the couch and kicking it as hard as he could. “Get the hell up, Cici. I gotta take Shorty D to school since you didn’t do it, and your baby needs to be fed.”

Cici’s reply wasn’t fit for Kenzie’s ears, but that never stopped his aunt. Disappointment filled him. This wasn’t good for no one. His mother’s younger sister had fought against her addiction problems ever since she’d been Shorty D’s age. Tre’s own mother had led her sister into a life of drugs, booze and prostitution. Talia had kicked her habit before Shorty D had been born, but Cici never could pull that monkey off her back. Cici had Kenzie while in jail, and he and Big Mama had been taking care of the little girl, waiting for Cici to get clean and straighten the hell up, but it was a daily fight. And with Big Mama not in the house to pray over Cici, fuss at her and force her hand, Tre was just plain tired of fighting for his auntie.

He cleaned up Kenzie, combed her hair into two puffy ponytails and put her in a clean dress Big Mama had sewed. The dress was too small, but Kenzie liked the funny green frogs on it. He tied green ribbons in her hair with looping lopsided bows. After brushing her teeth and finding her shoes, he dragged Shorty D’s clear plastic backpack from under the coffee table. With sorrowful brown eyes, Kenzie watched her mother as she slept on the couch, its stuffing peeking out the arm.

Cici’s snores made him want to punch his aunt.

Lazy-assed bitch needed to go back to jail. He didn’t need nobody else to take care of.

“Maaa?” Kenzie asked, touching her mother’s face, making Tre’s heart hurt. He pulled the small girl back but not before Cici’s hand slapped the child’s hand away. Tears trembled on Kenzie’s lashes, and she stayed away as if she understood there was no hope left in the woman.

Tre jerked his thoughts away from the pain and sadness—two feelings he had no use for. A man can’t change the world around him...only himself. He had to keep moving, sheltering Kenzie and Shorty D because they were innocent. They shouldn’t have to pay for everyone else’s selfish choices. Yeah, life wasn’t fair, but he’d do his best to even it up for them.

Shorty D appeared in the doorway of the living room, wearing khaki pants that sagged too low to meet dress code and a wrinkled school-uniform shirt. Normally, Tre would make his brother change, but today he had to choose his battles.

“Let’s go,” Tre said, picking up Kenzie, settling her on his hip before pushing out the wooden door of the old house in Central City. He stepped off the porch, wishing he’d grabbed his shades because the sun wanted to battle him, too, but he didn’t turn around. The bus would stop at the end of their street in five minutes.

“Shorty D, today, son.”

“I ain’t your son.” Shorty D slammed the door as laughter bounced across the street. Tre turned his head to see Grady Jefferson and Kelvin “Crazy Eight” Parker leaning against Grady’s Charger, a new 2013 model with twenty-inch rims and a custom paint job.

“Damn, son. You runnin’ day care or what?” Crazy Eight called out, his laugh high and clownish. Tre didn’t like Crazy Eight much, but Grady was cool.

“Yo,” Tre said, giving them a nod as Kenzie turned her little head toward the two gangsters. “What up?”

Crazy Eight giggled again but Grady nodded. “A’ight. Later, bro.”

Tre nodded, ignoring the knot in his gut. Grady ran with the 3-N-G boys and he’d mentioned a couple times about some easy ways Tre could earn money. Tre had always resisted the thug life, but lately he wondered why he bothered. He told himself it was because he’d made his mama a promise to take care of Shorty D, but couldn’t he do that a lot better with a roll in his pocket?

He kept his chin high as he marched down the street, pretending like he wasn’t carrying a little girl who should have been potty-trained by now, followed by a ten-year-old who had remembered to grab his shades and who kept darting glances back at Grady like he was the man.

Tre couldn’t blame Shorty D.

Grady looked cool as shit.

Tre would want to be him, too...if that kind of life didn’t lead to prison or getting his ass shot by a rival gang.

“Hurry up, Shorty D. You already late.”

“Man, this is bullshit. I’m tired of school and livin’ like this.”

Tre didn’t say anything, because he couldn’t make things better for Shorty D at present. The kid had to go to school. Cici needed to beg for her job so they could pay the electric bill. And Tre had to figure out some way to get Big Mama strong again so she could take care of Kenzie. The woman who’d been minding his little cousin while Cici worked had just taken her own job. She’d told Tre he’d have to find someone else by next week.

No one to help him and he needed to make more money than what he did lugging furniture around town for little more than minimum wage.

He pulled out his bus pass and said a small prayer.

God, help me through another day. Help me be strong and be the man You want me to be. And, please, God, help me say no to Grady when he asks me to ride with him.

As he reached the bus stop at the corner of Carrollton, he caught the exhaust as the bus pulled away, heading toward the city and away from them.

Shorty D looked up at him with a smirk. “Now, that’s some bullshit.”

“Watch your language around this baby girl.”

Shorty’s eyes were an old man’s as he slid off his sunglasses. “Like she ain’t goin’ find out soon enough.”

Maybe God was tired of listening to Tre.

Maybe, despite his best intentions, life was some bullshit.

* * *

ELEANOR LOVED THURSDAYS because it was delivery day, and today she was getting a new carton from the Cotswolds.

However, the carton arrived late. There were only twenty minutes left before closing time, and the afternoon was dead. Maybe just a peek? She shoved the keyboard back and pulled her screwdriver and hammer from the bottom drawer.

“Hey, Pans,” she called out her open office door. “Want to open the crate and see what’s inside?”

She accidentally dropped the screwdriver and rooted under the desk for it. Grabbing it, she emerged to find Pansy staring at her thoughtfully.

“Creepy Gary said he saw you and the jazz pianist climbing into your car together the other day. Is there something you want to tell me?” Pansy asked, bending over Eleanor’s desk, dropping her pointed jaw on her folded hands and batting her eyes like a deranged debutante.

“No.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes. “No?”

“Why does everyone make a big deal about going for a drink?”

“Uh, because your girl parts haven’t been oiled in a decade, and you went for a drink with sex in a pair of tight jeans....”

Eleanor leaned back in her chair. “Oh, Jesus, Pans. It’s liquid and they pour it in a glass.”

“Is he circumcised?”

Eleanor stiffened, causing her office chair to shoot upright. “What?”

Pansy giggled, doing a little finger-pointing thing that accompanied a jaunty wiggle. “Come on. Spill the beans. What’s he got down there?”

“You’re seriously cracked.”

Pansy dropped into a wing chair with carved cherubs etched into the wood. The dressing chair had been damaged in Hurricane Katrina, but Eleanor couldn’t bear to part with it even if it were no longer worth kindling. “That’s why you keep me around.”

“Who told you that? Your dusting skills and witty repartee with the customers are the only things that keep you gainfully employed.”

“You call this gainful?”

“As gainful as it gets, chickadee.” Eleanor rose from her chair and tugged one of Pansy’s farm-girl braids. “Let’s go see what Charlie sent us this month.”

Pansy sighed, but struggled to her feet. “Right-o,” she said in a bad British accent. Charlie Weber was a buyer from England who scoured auction houses and estate sales for the perfect antiques for Eleanor’s store. The man had a notoriously good eye for spotting masterpieces beneath grime and paint, even if his stuffiness and fondness for responding with right-o drove Pansy bonkers whenever she talked to him on the phone.

“Just one crate today, but there should be an eighteenth-century cupboard inside along with some rare French books. Charlie said he wasn’t certain about the quality, but several were first editions. And there’s a painting he found in a widow’s attic that could be a—”

“You’re a pro at avoiding things, you know that?”

Eleanor moved some empty cardboard boxes aside and ignored her friend.

“So you’re not even going to tell me about Dez? About the drink? It shocked the hell out of me when Gary sidled over and spilled those delicious beans. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Eleanor spun. “Why? Like I can’t do something...atypical? Besides, it was a drink.”

“With sizzling-hot Dez Batiste. So is he still the enemy?”

“Having a drink with him doesn’t change the opposition I have for the club he’s opening. I needed vodka and Dez wanted to convince me his club could be an asset to the community. That’s it. Practically a business meeting,” Eleanor said, not daring to meet Pansy’s gaze. The woman could have been Sherlock Holmes had she been male, British...and a fictional character. She didn’t want her friend to see how much her odd afternoon escape with Dez had affected her. Even now she couldn’t sort out what it had meant.

“So did he?”

Eleanor studied the nails in the crate. “Did he what?”

“Change your mind?”

“No.” But he’d made some good points.

“Oh,” Pansy said, holding out her hand.

“What?”

“The hammer and screwdriver. I’ll break the fingernail this time.”

Eleanor handed Pansy the tools. Pansy had better leverage with her height.

While her friend struggled with the crate, Eleanor allowed her mind to drift back to her strange afternoon at the Bulldog pub. Back to the way Dez looked gulping down the bitter German beer, his neck strong, masculine, nicked by the razor. The way his hands had cupped the mug, the flash of his teeth, the hum of electricity between them, unacknowledged but allowed to hang in the air. She’d wanted to touch him again, but didn’t.

It had all felt too dangerous.

Had there been three or four years between their ages, she might not have worried. She might have asked him to come to her house for supper. Or a drink. Or a roll in the bed she’d slept in alone for too long.

But she was eight years and nine months older than him.

Too much to bridge.

Even for mere sex.

Maybe it didn’t matter—just like Dez said—but she saw the difference in the way they approached life.

He ate a double cheeseburger with hickory bacon along with a side of fries and a hearty beer to wash it down. Dez wasn’t far removed from the buff frat boys her daughter chased, who didn’t know what statins were and had never thought about cholesterol intake.

And then the phraseology he used. Some of the words she wasn’t familiar with. He knew the music played in the bar. He caught the eye of college girls. He dressed like a twentysomething...even if he was nearly thirty-one.

As she sat there, discussing the weather, the Saints and the music scene with Dez, she felt more and more he wasn’t the man to take her first steps back into the dating jungle with.

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