10. Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Echo
R emi was back with Marina. Wow ! She must have some magic pussy since he couldn't get enough of it. All that talk about how she cheated on him and how betrayed he felt was obviously bullshit.
I was stupid for thinking he was interested in me because he invited me for dinner, came to the lab to have coffee with me, pretended we were friends. We obviously were not. Remi Drake wouldn't be friends with me. I didn't look like Marina—I was not slim with lush hair; I was curvy with boring hair that I tied in a ponytail or in a bun like today when it was crazy hot. She wore designer clothes and was always made up—I wore comfortable clothes, and a good day was when I managed to moisturize with sunscreen and maybe put on some lip gloss. He dated women who came from the Memphis elite; I didn't even know who my father was. He was a Drake, and I was the help, no matter how much I elevated myself.
Lani never let me forget my station; neither did Sierra Drake. From subtle pokes to direct jabs, I'd heard it all.
Well, we want to help you, Echo; after all, you don't have anyone.
Can you leave after you set the table, Echo, and not hang out with Lani? We have guests coming.
Dad invited you? I don't think so, Echo, you should go home before Mama sees you.
Without me, you'd have no friends in school, Echo, remember that.
You're a charity project for my husband, nothing more, so don't start gettin' airs, young lady.
Dallas Drake was the only one who treated me like an equal—and to him, I was his equal because he looked at my intellect and not my pedigree. I was always careful to never take advantage of him. He had offered to pay for university, but I got scholarships and two jobs to stay independent and out of debt. I was proud of myself for building this life on my own.
But even I had to admit, I was lonely. I had made a few friends at the lab, like Martin. He'd left half an hour ago because his brother had set him up on a blind date. I wasn't attracted to my boss, but I wished someone would ask me out. Was I so undesirable? No one ever hit on me. No one ever bought me a drink if I was in a bar. Most of the time, I didn't even get noticed, and when I did, it was in a disparaging manner.
I smiled as the Muddy Waters Tribute Band launched into Mannish Boy , one of my favorite songs. The unmistakable guitar riff sent a shiver down my spine, and I closed my eyes, swaying gently to the rhythm. The grassy slope I sat on was cool beneath me, and the faint scent of barbecue smoke drifted from the food stalls scattered around Tom Lee Park. The moon hung low over the Mississippi, reflecting off the water like silver ink, and the distant twinkling lights of barges bobbed on the horizon.
Around me, couples leaned against each other or danced slowly under the stars, sharing swigs from plastic cups of beer or cider. I held a cup of iced bourbon sweet tea in my hand, savoring the burn of whiskey, which contrasted with the sugary chill of the tea. The band's harmonica wailed into the night, and Muddy Waters' legendary lyrics took me back to my childhood when my mother would sing along to the radio before things fell apart.
I settled back onto the grass, staring up at the stars. The music was a balm, soothing the aches I tried to keep buried deep.
"Hey."
I snapped out of my reverie to see Remi.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked softly, his silhouette against the glow of the stage lights.
I blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by his presence. "Not at all," I managed to say.
He sank down on the grass beside me, his knee grazing mine. He was dressed in a black Henley and dark jeans, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead from the warm night air.
"I see you've got great taste in music." He tilted his head toward the band.
I smiled, taking another sip of my tea. "They're incredible, aren't they?"
"They are." He leaned back on his elbows, his gaze fixed on the stage where the guitarist was tearing through a solo. "Muddy Waters was my uncle Austin's favorite artist to work with."
I glanced at him, intrigued. "Your uncle worked with Muddy Waters?"
Remi nodded. "Austin was a young buck back in the day. He worked with a lot of blues musicians—Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Buddy Guy, to name a few."
"That's so cool." I turned fully to face him. "Did he ever tell you any stories about those times?"
"He did." A wistful smile crossed Remi's lips. "He used to say that blues is like a conversation between the soul and the guitar. That's why I fell in love with it."
We sat in silence for a while, the harmonica's mournful wail filling the night air. The crowd around us swayed and cheered as the band moved on to another classic. The moon climbed higher, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves overhead.
"My mom used to listen to the blues," I spoke softly, not quite looking at him. "Before she became a drug addict and…." Died .
Remi didn't say anything. He sat up, and his shoulder brushed against mine, warm and steady. I took a breath and continued.
"She'd play Muddy Waters, B.B. King, Etta James—all the greats. She'd dance around the living room with me, singing at the top of her lungs. It's one of the few good memories I have of her."
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
"Thanks. Listening to the blues helps me remember those better days."
He nodded, his gaze still fixed on the stage. "Music has a way of doing that, doesn't it?"
"Yeah." I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. "So, Mr. Nightclub Owner, what's your favorite blues song?"
"Hmm," he mused, stroking his chin. "That's a tough one, but I'd have to go with The Thrill Is Gone by B.B. King."
"Classic choice."
"And you?"
" At Last by the one and only Etta James."
He grinned. "I'm not surprised. You've got good taste."
Except in men.
"Where did your Dr. Andersen go?" He looked around as if waiting for Martin to show up.
"He had a date."
Remi quirked an eyebrow. "I thought he was on a date with you."
"No. We're just colleagues and friends."
"Is he a colleague first and then a friend?"
I leaned back and rested on the palms of my hands. "More colleague than a friend. I don't have many or any friends."
"Lani is a friend."
I didn't respond. He knew better than anyone that Lani was no friend of mine. We had just known each other for a long time, and I mostly felt obligated to hang out with her when she decided to request my presence.
"I don't have many friends either," he confessed.
"Oh, pull the other one, Remi."
"No," he sounded serious. "I have acquaintances. I have people to hang out with. Party with. But no friends. No one to talk to about the real stuff. I have my dad, but there are things I can't discuss with him."
"Like what?"
"Like when I'm scared."
"Of what?" The band started to play Baby, Please Don't Go , and I hummed along.
"Of failing. Of losing who I am. Of maybe never even finding out who I really am."
I felt unnerved. Why was he talking to me about this? Was this a game? Or was he really opening up?
"You don't know who you are?" I whispered.
I felt him move his lips close to my ear. "I feel like I'm always having to pretend to be strong, cool, a hot stud—what did you call me once—oh, yes, a smooth operator."
"And aren't you those things?" My heart was beating fast now. His proximity had the effect it always did. My panties were wet, and I wanted him.
"Is that who you think I am?" His fingers were on my cheek, and he turned my face to look into my eyes. "You think I'm some shallow asshole?"
I licked my lips. "I don't know you," I deflected.
"But you have an impression, don't you?"
I cleared my throat. "Who do you think I am, Remi?"
He frowned. "What?"
I smiled sadly and removed his fingers from touching me. "You've paid no attention to me for all the years we've known each other, which is why you have no idea as to who I am. So, why—"
"You're smart and funny. You have a great sense of humor. You are intelligent as hell. You are an introvert," he listed.
I turned to look at him again. He smiled at me.
"I think you're very smart to have made your business a success. You're close to your family, and you'd do anything for them. You're also conscious of being a Drake."
His smile faded. "What do you mean by being conscious of being a Drake?"
"Just that, you know, you have to behave in a certain manner cause of your last name. Lani wears certain clothes and hangs out with certain people at certain places because—"
"You're saying my sister and I are pretentious as fuck?"
"No," I quickly said.
He snorted. "You're one judgmental bitch, aren't you?"
I was taken aback by his rudeness. "That's neither fair nor nice."
I rose quickly, feeling humiliated. Every time I allowed this man to get close, he lashed out at me. It was cruel. And I'd just about had it.
Tears prickled my eyes, and they were rolling down my cheeks as I all but ran from him, not wanting him to see how he hurt me, how he kept hurting me.
I heard him call my name, but I ignored him. I stopped running and started to walk to the parking area. I'd had only a few drinks throughout the day so I could drive, which had turned out to be an excellent idea. I couldn't wait to get away, get home, and hide under the covers. I was sick and tired of feeling this way, always inadequate.