Chapter Eight
CHAPTER EIGHT
Music and Petals
Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
L ennox tri-folded and tucked his grandfather’s letter away in the top drawer of his bedroom bureau. Dressed only in the dark gray jogging pants he’d worn for work at the gym, he pulled back the curtains from his window and opened the blinds to take a look outside.
He stared at his front lawn, then the houses across the street as his thoughts gathered. Then he noticed his American flag flapping aggressively in the wind. The sky was ashen and ominous. The clouds spawned and spoke in broken English, breaking apart then clustering tight as lightning lit up the sky, followed by loud booms. The soft fabric from the black drapes slipped against his fingertips as he released it, and went to sit on the edge of his bed under the dim lighting.
The sounds of JamWayne’s, ‘No Problems,’ played as he closed his eyes and held his forehead. The skin that tightened beneath his touch as each tendril of disgust, each strain of stress emerged. Grandpa had reached out. He’d called and left a voicemail. It was straight and to the point:
“I plan to kill some time.”
He listened, then deleted it. This was a stark reminder that time was not on his side, and his peace was on the chopping block. After some time, he got up, stretched, and walked into his small work-out cave. It was an inviting space, after the remodel he’d put it through. He’d torn down the wood-panel partitions to replace them with ivory walls on which hung framed motivational posters, and on one side he’d filled a bookcase with health books.
He got ready to put on one of his favorite country or rock ’n roll music playlists, but then spotted the old CD that Nadia had handed to him when he was visiting her apartment after dropping in at her job. He’d joked how he hadn’t seen a CD in a long ass time, but she had an old school affinity for them, due to her mother always playing them, especially on weekends, when she was growing up. Now she uses them to create custom mixtapes to practice some of her dance moves for work. Slow jams, rap and hip hop, a little jazz and whatnot.
He picked up the CD, noting the scratches on both sides. Curious to see what was on it, he found an old CD player that had belonged to his mother and plugged it in, hoping it would play without a hitch. He waited with anticipation, then heard a slight skipping and crackling noise, reminiscent of a record player.
‘Make Love 2 Me,’ by Lorenzo, started to play.
“Oh my God.” He chuckled. “I haven’t heard this song in forever.” He only knew about it from some of the parties he’d attended back in the day. Wasn’t his typical kind of music, but some things had a way of sticking with you.
He hopped on the treadmill, his mind relaxing as stonewashed recollections of Nadia playing timeworn 1990s R&B came back to him. She’d had a portable CD player and headphones that she’d bring to work, and would sing as she cleaned and sometimes helped open the Red Rooster restaurant with him. Damn, I forgot all about that. She didn’t have a bad singing voice, either…
‘Come Inside,’ by Intro was the next song. He went to his bench press, lay down, and began to lift weights, his breathing in time with the loud music. Heavy rain pounded against his windows. ‘Moments in Love,’ by Art of Noise shook his memory box within his brain once again. Out poured something haunting and beautiful. His muscles burned and strained as he concentrated on each rep.
The good pain radiated through his body as he pushed himself to and beyond the limit, while melting into the melody that put him right back in The Red Rooster—under the flickering lights, just him and Nadia in the stock room at four in the morning. Arms wrapped tightly around one another. The moisture from her tears soaked into his shirt as he cradled her braided head in the cusp of his calloused palm. Some days she smelled like Jennifer Lopez Glow Eau de Toilette and baby powder. She felt like a soft dream on a hard night. But we all have to wake up…
He finished his reps, drenched in sweat, and sat there, allowing the extended version of the song to play on, vibrating his speakers with the rhythm of years gone past. When it was over, he turned the music up, loud as it would go as ‘Fly Girl,’ by the Boogie Boys, began to play. Then, he headed to his en suite bathroom. Turning on the shower, he made sure it was ice cold and on full blast before he got under the bursting stream.
The music was practically vibrating his entire house as he reached for the soap and started bathing. When he was finished shampooing his hair and rinsing off, he snatched a fluffy white towel from the rack and dried off. He used his mouthwash, brushed his teeth, and made his way into the bedroom. He turned on the nightstand lamp and put on a pair of black pajama pants.
He went to his kitchen and grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter, on the way to his home office. The room was sparsely decorated—an old black metal desk, antique lamp, a few pieces of baseball and football memorabilia, stamps and envelopes for sending mail, and a box of pens and pencils.
‘I’m Ready,’ by Kano, now burst from Nadia’s CD. Sitting at his desk, he took a deep breath, then pulled out a slightly crushed shoebox out of one of the desk drawers. Inside was a layer of dark purple velvet material which protected the items inside. Cherished old photos, a half-empty bottle of perfume in a satchel, and miscellaneous items he’d kept forever. He pulled a handful of the photographs out, reverently holding the corners of yellowed pictures, tracing them as he sorted through the pile, one by one. Pausing, he gripped one in particular a little tighter, and put down the others. He smiled.
It was his mother giving him a big kiss on the cheek. He looked to be about twelve in the photo. He had shoulder length dark hair, sun-kissed skin, and innocence still in his bright gray eyes. He brought the picture closer, and his vision blurred as moisture filled his eyes. I miss you, Mom. With a trembling hand, he transported the photo to his mouth, kissed his mother’s image, then set it back inside of the box. He turned down the music and picked up his phone.
“Thank you for calling Poppy Florist Shop. This is Selma, how can I help you?”
“Yeah, hey, Selma. I’ve never ordered from you guys, but I did a quick search on my phone and saw that you are still open tonight. I know this stuff is usually done online, and I know it’s raining hard tonight, but uh, I wanted to speak to a live person because timing is important right now.”
“Okay, sir, well, what can I help you with?”
“I want to know if there’s any way humanly possible you can deliver some flowers to a special lady in the next hour or two? I want it done ASAP. I’ll pay double…”
Nadia hated storms. She didn’t mind so much if she were indoors, or simply caught in the rain while walking, protected under the safety of an umbrella, but driving in one, especially in heavy traffic at high speeds, made her muscles tense and filled her with fear. One of the few things in the world she avoided. She was glad to be safely home tonight .
In that moment, she relived the experience of her car swerving, then fishtailing until she was spun around and flipping three times—the roof on the ground, and blood trickling down her face. That had been a long time ago, but it wasn’t the only bad thing that had happened during a bad downpour.
She’d had another situation transpire, one that her mother, grandmother, and absolutely nobody knew anything about, and there was no point in discussing it because it wouldn’t change a damn thing. Shoving the memory out of her mind, she put the rest of her fresh fruit and vegetables away. She hadn’t been home long from the grocery store, and was completely exhausted for some reason. Funny how when she’d take an occasional vacation day from work, she felt more sluggish than ever. Earlier in the day, she’d gone through her storage locker where she kept some of her furniture, to try and find a few things she needed for her apartment—to no avail.
Mountains of boxes were crammed in the space, some of them she’d left unlabeled to her regret, in her haste to get the hell out of Atlanta. Now, sorting through the mess seemed overwhelming. Her move from Georgia back to Texas had proved more than she’d bargained for, but all in all, it felt good to be back home. The only problem with being here though was that nightmares had a way of chasing you wherever you went, regardless of whether you were fast asleep or wide awake. She looked outside her living room window and shook her head.
It had been raining practically nonstop for two days straight. At almost seven in the evening, it looked as if it were midnight. She turned on the television and sat back, a smile forming on her face. Not because of the cheesy Tubi movie on the screen but because of… Lennox. He popped into her mind often, more than she’d ever be willing to admit to him.
She’d been evading his most recent calls, but then longed for him to contact her again. When too much time passed, she began to worry, and then would respond via text—just timely enough to let him know she was still there, but not so fast as to stroke his ego. Make him think he’d won anything. Childish? Maybe. She wanted to be chased. Pursued. This time, she didn’t want him to give up on her so easily. He needed to prove to her that he was for real, especially since she was now considering breaking her rule to stay single for a long while.
After he saw her dancing at the club, she felt a sense of vulnerability she’d hadn’t experienced since she was in her early twenties. It wasn’t shame. Not sadness, either. It was like a dark veil being lifted ever so slowly to expose the past, and let the light in from the present and future. He’d messaged her earlier in the day to see how she was doing. It was a nice gesture, especially since he’d been busy at work. She texted him back that she was doing fine. His response was short and sweet: That’s good to hear.
The pursuit she desired? It was working. He was breaking her down. Whittling her to nothing but stardust. He’d said he was going to get her after all and now, she believed him. Every damn syllable he’d uttered. He was making it so hard for her to get him out of her system because he was consistent, still an excellent listener, and not too pushy. It was almost like he’d studied her and found out her weaknesses. She didn’t want to be in a relationship, and she damn sure didn’t want to be in love, but there was no way she could be with a man like Lennox and not fall head over heels. He was kryptonite even for the strongest of Super Women.
So once that door was opened, it was never getting closed. He was so ingrained within her, a part of her fabric of life, there was no way she could completely rid herself of him, even if she tried. I’m so confused… Lennox, you were so easy to talk to back then. You were my friend. Didn’t judge me. Just listened.
She looked down at her phone and pulled up a picture she’d taken of the two of them while he was at her apartment. He was standing right behind her, his wide, hard chest pressed into her back and his chin resting on the top of her head as he held her around the waist. He was smiling into the camera, and she was smiling at the both of them. She looked… happy.
Damn, he is still fine. He looks even better. All muscular, tan, and sexy as hell. Look at his eyes… those lips. Shit. His smile used to always kill me. He smelled so good, too…
Her pussy tightened like a fist, then tickled with a trickle of sweet lust-fueled moisture.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
Her heart raced as the abrupt knock broke into the quiet of her daydreams, followed quickly by the doorbell ringing.
“Poppy Florist! Delivery!” a man yelled out.
She grabbed the television remote control and put it on mute. Standing up from her couch, she made her way over to the door and looked out the peephole. There, on the other side, was an older man sporting a gray hat with stitchwork of flowers, and ‘Poppy Florist’ written beneath it. He was holding a large bouquet of pink and red roses, a thick pink sash wrapped around it, and a small matching pink bag .
“I didn’t order any flowers,” she barked from behind her locked door.
The man chuckled and shook his head. “Ma’am, they’re for you. From a… hold on…” The guy struggled to hold the flowers and bag steady as he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “…From a Lennox Wilde.”
Her heart hammering within her, she undid all three locks from the door and opened it. The man handed her the flowers, then a piece of paper to sign. Off he went while she stood there holding the huge bouquet and little boutique-style bag.
She closed the door, set everything down on the hallway table, then locked the door again. Collecting the items in her hand, she grinned until her face hurt. In the kitchen, she placed the flowers in a large vase, then opened the card that was standing on the front of the bag.
Baby girl, you’ve been avoiding me a little, and that’s okay.
What’s meant to be will be. You’re mine, like I told you. As soon as we saw each other again, sparks flew. I’m not a patient man, but I’ve waited for you for over ten years. A few more weeks won’t matter. I know you’re scared, but you don’t have to be. I’m not the storm you fear, but I promise, I will still get you wet…