14. Chapter 11 | Dom
Dom knew she looked good.
She checked the mirror anyway. Black suit, the one she'd had tailored after her first big purse. Perfect fit across the shoulders. Pocket square crisp.
Three weeks. Three weeks of lying in bed while Elle moved through the apartment just out of reach. Three weeks of watching her lean over the bar, laugh at CJ's jokes, exist in the same space without being able to touch her.
And now her ribs had finally healed enough for this.
Dom picked up her cufflinks. Dropped one.
"Shit."
She bent to grab it, and her ribs pulled — sharp, immediate. Not broken anymore, but not right either. She straightened slowly, breathing carefully.
The door opened.
Elle's burgundy sequins caught the light like fire. Deep red against brown skin. The neckline cut just low enough to make Dom forget how to breathe altogether.
Neither of them moved.
Elle's gaze traveled over Dom slowly, taking her time. Dom felt the weight of it settle at the base of her throat, her body answering before her mind caught up.
"You look good," Elle said finally. Her voice had dropped half an octave. "Kind of like you're going to a funeral. But a very chic one."
Dom blinked. "What?"
"All in black. Always." Elle stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. "I've never seen you wear a color, now that I think of it."
Dom looked down at herself. "Black is a color."
Elle laughed — low, intimate, the sound going straight through Dom. She crossed the room, hips swaying in that dress, and Dom's mouth went dry.
Elle reached up to adjust Dom's collar, even though it didn't need adjusting.
Her fingers brushed Dom's throat.
Dom's breath hitched.
She wanted to grab Elle's wrist, pull her close, press her back against the wall and take her time about it—
"There," Elle said softly. Her hand unmoving. No step back.
They were so close. Close enough that Dom could smell her perfume — something floral and warm. Close enough to see the way Elle's pulse jumped at her throat.
Dom's hand came up, caught Elle's wrist. Gentle but firm.
Elle's brows lifted slightly.
"We should go," Dom said, her voice rough. "Before I forget I promised you a proper date."
Elle's smile was slow, dangerous. "Who says I want proper?"
Dom groaned—an undignified sound she'd deny later—and released Elle's wrist, putting half the room between them before her good intentions completely gave out.
"We're going to dinner," she said, as if reminding herself as much as Elle. "I've been planning this three weeks. You are not talking me out of it in the first five minutes."
Elle smoothed her dress, looking entirely too pleased. "Fine. Dinner first."
"Yeah."
"But after—"
"Yeah," Dom said. "After."
The promise sat between them, hot and unspoken.
Elle offered her arm. Dom took it, trying not to think about wanting to do more than just hold it.
Dom had walked to Dooky Chase's a thousand times. Never like this.
Elle's hand in the crook of her arm. The warmth of her body close enough to feel. The way she leaned into Dom slightly when they turned corners. The press of her hip against Dom's side.
Dom wanted to touch. Wanted to slide her hand to Elle's waist, wanted to pull her into an alley, wanted to feel Elle's body pressed against hers with nothing between them but want.
Instead, she walked. Steady. Controlled. Every nerve screaming.
A block in, Elle squeezed her arm. "You're walking like you're bracing for something."
"I am. Every rule I've got about behaving myself on a first date."
Elle grinned. "That bad?"
"You have no idea."
They walked another half block, Elle still looking entirely too pleased.
"Your ribs okay?" she asked, softer now.
"They're fine."
"You're lying."
"They're fine enough." Dom glanced down at her. "I'm not missing this."
Elle's expression softened. She reached up, fingers grazing Dom's jaw. Just for a second. Then she was walking again.
Dom's face burned where Elle had touched her.
They turned onto Orleans Avenue. Music drifted from open windows—somebody's radio, a trumpet from down the block. Saturday night in Tremé, light spilling from open windows, illuminating people chatting with their neighbors on their front porches.
Dom had always loved Dooky Chase's. It fed the movement—quietly, steadily, gave people a room with tablecloths and good light to plan things nobody uptown wanted planned, and Miss Leah Chase made sure no trouble came to anyone while she was around.
Dignity, space, and damn good food, all under one roof.
It was the nicest place Dom had ever been.
Elle deserved nice.
They walked in, and a brown-skinned hostess greeted them warmly. "Good evening. Reservation?"
"LeJeune," Dom managed. "For two."
"Right this way."
The dining room, a vision of white tablecloths, brass fixtures, and the scent of butter, garlic, and sweet grilled char, hummed with Black faces.
Couples dressed for Saturday night, musicians Dom recognized from the French Quarter, and CORE folks huddled at a corner table, deep in conversation over their food.
Dom registered little of it, her focus fixed on Elle, the dress swaying with her hips as she walked ahead.
The hostess led them to a back table. Dom pulled out Elle's chair.
Elle glanced up, amused. "Such chivalry."
"Trying my best."
"I noticed." Elle sat, and as Dom pushed her chair in, their hands brushed. "I appreciate it."
Dom settled across from her, a table's width between herself and the urge to lean down and kiss Elle's neck.
She picked up the menu, her gaze unseeing.
Elle watched her, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.
"You okay?"
"Not even a little."
Elle leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Why not?"
"Because you look like that, and I'm supposed to sit here and eat food like I can think about anything except—" Dom cleared her throat.
Elle's smile broadened. "Except what?"
"You know."
"Say it anyway."
Dom met her gaze, holding it. "Except touching you."
Elle smiled and bit her lip.
The server appeared. "Evening. What can I get you?"
"The shrimp and grits," Dom said, her voice rougher than usual.
"étouffée," Elle said. Then, leaning forward: "And she'll have that extra hot."
The server noted the order and left.
Dom looked at Elle. "I didn't say extra hot."
"You were going to drown it in hot sauce anyway."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I've been feeding you soup for weeks, Dom. You add hot sauce to everything."
"Not everything."
"Name one thing."
Dom opened her mouth, then closed it.
Elle's smile widened. "That's what I thought."
Despite a physical ache, Dom found herself grinning. "You think you're real smart."
"I am real smart."
They locked eyes across the table.
"I bet you bring all your girls to this place," Elle said after a pause.
"I've never brought a woman here before, actually.
" The women she'd been with before flickered up — quick, clandestine, never anywhere with witnesses — and Dom pushed the thought back down.
"Miss Virgie — Oretha's mom — works here.
We used to come for birthdays, anything worth celebrating.
I always liked the chandeliers." She didn't let herself finish the thought all the way — that Miss Virgie might be back there right now, on the other side of that kitchen door.
"Guess that makes this the fanciest restaurant I've ever been to. "
Elle looked surprised. "You're joking."
"Nope. This is the pinnacle for me." Dom cleared her throat. "But I'm sure you've done better. In LA."
Elle's expression shifted, complicated. "That was a different time."
"So what's it like? At places fancier than this."
"It's not as fun as it seems." She traced the rim of her water glass. "Studio restaurants where the food's just a backdrop. Where everyone's performing, even over a meal. Where who sees you matters more than what you taste."
"Sounds lonely—"
Two hands landed on Dom's shoulders.
Every muscle went hard at once — back straightening, weight already shifting to come up out of the chair, the old reflex faster than thought. But the hands weren't threatening. They slid up to cradle her face instead, soft and warm against her cheeks, more like the start of a hug than a restraint.
Dom froze, the fight draining out of her as fast as it had come.
She knew those hands.
Miss Virgie Castle stood behind her chair in a Dooky Chase's apron, her gaze already full. Short and broad-shouldered, hair mostly silver now, wearing thick-soled kitchen shoes. She'd come straight off the line.
"My baby!" she said.
The word hit Dom somewhere below the ribs, a place unrelated to Lewis Jordan.
"Miss Virgie." Dom's voice came out smaller than she intended.
"I miss you," Miss Virgie said. Not an accusation. Just true. "You've been gone too long."
Dom opened her mouth. Closed it.
"Doris Jean asks about you all the time. You'd hardly recognize her — she's almost through the tenth grade now. Wants to know when you're coming back to the table."
Dom's throat had closed entirely.
"Oretha told me about your ribs. You should have called me."
"You already had enough on your plate—"
"Don't." Miss Virgie's voice was gentle but final, the voice that had ended a thousand arguments before they started. "Don't you be worrying about what's on my plate."
Dom closed her mouth.
Miss Virgie held her face, then looked up at Elle.
Dom found her voice. "Miss Virgie, this is Elle. Elle — Miss Virgie. Oretha's mom." A beat. "Kind of mine too."
Miss Virgie's gaze moved over her, slow and thorough, the way she looked at everyone who mattered — like she was already deciding something.
Dom didn't know why it made her so anxious, watching that look land on Elle. She just knew she wanted it so badly her ribs ached with it — worse, almost, than the fight had.
Elle smiled — warm, easy, nothing performed about it — and reached out a hand. "Miss Virgie. It's so nice to finally meet you. Dom talks about you."
Miss Virgie took the offered hand but didn't let go of it right away, studying her a long while — slow and thorough, like she was reading something written small.