Chapter Six
Patch of Light
Daisy
“If you’re feelin’ the
love for rock ’n’ roll, tonight at Herman’s Hideaway, hit up a new band that’s
made the scene, Stella and The Blue Moon Gypsies. The lead singer has been rockin’ clubs in Denver for a while. But she’s found her
groove with the Gypsies. Trust me, I caught them as an opening act at the
Gothic last weekend and they blew the roof off. To get you into the feel, I’ll
play a song Stella and her crew kill when they cover it. La Grange, by
ZZ Top.”
The radio was playing while I was getting ready for Marcus
to take me out to dinner.
I was a Southern girl, which meant I was a country girl. I
could kick back to the sound of Patsy, Loretta, Barbara, Tammy, Emmylou,
Shania, Wynonna, Trisha, Reba, and the best of all time, Dolly.
But there were times in my life when I had to switch to
something else with deep Southern roots.
That’s when I hit up my rock ’n’ roll.
And in my getup, it was a rock ’n’ roll night sure as
certain.
Obviously, I’d decided to go out with Marcus.
He wanted to convince me we were meant to be together, he’d
been kind enough to me he’d earned that shot.
But he was going to know what he was getting.
To this end, I was wearing my leopard print (or one of
them). A skintight mini-dress that only went down to there. The back
was scooped all the way out and the front was scooped to maximum cleavage
potential (and with the maximums of my cleavage, this might be awe-inspiring to
some; heck, it was my cleavage and it was still that to me).
I was going to pair this with my sky-high platform sandals
with the black patent across the balls of my feet, open toes to show off the
new fire-engine-red pedicure I’d given myself (along with the same in a
manicure, but on my long talons, I’d added a curve of amber rhinestones all
along one side of the outer edge of each ring finger). The platform and heel of
the shoes were covered in leopard.
My hair was even more sky-high than my platforms. Teased to
mammoth proportions at the top and sides, I’d smoothed that back and then
curled the hell out of the rest of my tresses so they fell in soft, defined
swirls from a high-rise at the crown all the way down my back (the bangs were
blown out straight and brushing my forehead).
My makeup was how I’d do it if I was stripping, which was
how I’d do it when I wasn’t stripping. My eyes weren’t smoky. They
were smoke. My skin bronzed. The sides of my nose and under my
cheekbones shaded. My cheeks a dewy tangerine. My lips a nude-y, super-glossed,
glittering peach.
I had in bronze chandelier earrings that nearly swept my
shoulders and were liberally dosed with black and amber beads. A bronze
statement necklace practically covered my upper chest and I had so many dangly
bracelets on, if Marcus got through the night without the noise of them
tinkling driving him to murder me, he’d definitely pass an important
test.
I thought I looked divine. I had a cute little
body, fantastic bosoms, a whole lot of thick hair, and skin to die for, and
everything I’d done to augment it only made it that much better.
I also knew that not a lot of people agreed with me.
But Miss Annamae had told me to embrace my style when I
found it (and boy had I found it) and not to let anyone cut me down.
Personally, I thought every woman should have at least one
leopard print item in her closet. I didn’t care if it was just a clutch and I
also didn’t care if that woman usually wore oxford shirts and loafers. She
still needed leopard.
If someone didn’t agree with me on that, or my platforms, my
big hair, and my heavy hand with eyeliner, they could go fuck themselves.
This was my thought as I leaned over the basin, whisking on
one last coat of lip gloss and listening to ZZ Top when I heard, “Daisy.”
I jumped a mile, whirled, and cried, “Lord!”
I also saw Marcus lounging in the doorway to my bathroom.
“You scared the dickens out of me!” I snapped loudly,
shoving the wand of the gloss back in the tube.
He sauntered in, reached out to my portable, and turned down
the music.
He then leaned a hip against my bathroom counter like it was
his bathroom counter, crossed his arms on his chest and stated, “I
knocked. For five minutes. To ascertain if I needed to purchase a ticket to
Timbuktu, I let myself in. Not easy for you to hear a knock over that music,
honey.”
“It isn’t seven yet,” I retorted.
“It’s twelve past.”
I didn’t have a clock in the bathroom and I wasn’t wearing a
watch, and further, there was no reason for him to lie. So I just did the only
option available to me.
I formed my mouth into a pout.
He grinned at me.
“If it’s twelve past and you knocked for five minutes,
either you’re shit at pickin’ a lock or you’re late,”
I noted.
His grin became a smile I felt in my coochie.
God!
“Just something to know about me,” he began, “I’m not shit
at picking a lock.”
“I’ll file that away,” I replied but didn’t stop speaking.
“Just something to know in order to just know it, it ain’t
polite to sneak up on a woman and it really ain’t
polite to interrupt her gettin’ ready for your date.”
His eyes did a sweep of me.
I felt that in my nipples (and my coochie).
“You’re not ready?”
I was.
I just needed to put my shoes on.
“I don’t have my shoes on.”
“Not sure shoes can make all that better,” he said low. “But
I bet if anyone could manage that, it’d be you.”
I tried to remain annoyed; I just couldn’t.
“You’ve messed up the opportunity to see the full show,” I
pointed out.
“Trust me, darling, when I get it, it won’t be
unappreciated.”
With his response, I finally took him in.
He was wearing a blue suit, a crisp light-blue shirt, and a
silk tie in a blue that was three shades darker than the suit and had a
matching pocket square. His dark hair was thick. The cut gave him fullness at
the top without it looking overly styled, short but not buzzed at the sides and
back, and unlike that morning, when it was messy and falling over his forehead,
it was now swept back from his handsome face.
He looked GQ.
I looked like Dolly Parton impossibly created a love child
with Peg Bundy (no, I rocked that look).
But suddenly, my stomach felt like it was sinking.
“Daisy?”
My focus returned to him.
He’d sensed the feeling I had.
How had he done that?
No. No. Marcus Sloan being scarily adept at tuning himself
to me was something I was not going to think about. Not then. Not anytime soon.
Maybe not ever.
“Daisy,” he prompted gently.
“We don’t match,” I said quietly.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re GQ. I’m Peg Bundy.”
He gave one nod, declaring, “Yes, and lose the cigarette,
Peg Bundy was gorgeous.”
I stared.
Then I asked, “Are you being serious with me?”
His brows drew together. “Are you being serious
asking that question?”
I nodded my head and felt my hair go with it.
Marcus watched my hair. His lips quirked then he looked at
me.
“She was supposed to be funny, she was in a sitcom,” he
reminded me.
“Right,” I whispered.
“That didn’t make her any less beautiful.”
“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled, wondering if he was real or if I’d
slipped into a coma after that jackass raped me.
Maybe I’d slammed my head against the asphalt. I didn’t feel
it happen but then I wouldn’t. I’d have been in a coma.
“I prefer blondes, though,” he stated.
Lord, help me.
“You of course know,” he began informatively, “that one of
the most attractive things a woman can be is knowing exactly who she is,
embracing that entirely, and not giving that first fuck what anyone thinks
about it.”
“You’re freakin’ me out,” I
informed him right back.
“Freak out in the car,” he ordered, leaning into me,
grabbing my hand, and dragging me out of the bathroom. “I skipped lunch. I’m
starved.”
I yanked on my hand when we were in my bedroom but he didn’t
let it go.
Though he did stop.
“You skipped lunch?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered.
“You shouldn’t skip a meal, sugar. Your body and
brain need nourishing regularly to take on the day. My guess, your line of
business, you need to stay sharp. Losin’ focus due to hunger pains don’t say
sharp.”
Bizarrely, his reply came in a growl.
“You need to put your shoes on, get your bag, and get in my
car, Daisy.”
I again stared at him, doing it this time asking, “Pardon?”
“I’m trying to take this slow,” he answered. “You being
sweet is not conducive to me taking this slow.”
Yep.
Right in the coochie.
“Oh,” I mumbled.
“Yes. Oh. Get your shoes, your bag, and I’ll meet you in the
living room.”
My head (and hair) nodded.
“Fuck me,” he muttered, watching my hair move.
He squeezed my hand, let it go, and sauntered out of the
room.
I got my shoes on, dropped my lip gloss in my bag, and met
him there.
“Tell me something good.”
I was shifting the stem of the glass of my vodka martini
this way and that with my red-tipped fingers.
We were at The Broker.
I’d been hither and yon since leaving home, all in the west,
but I’d been in Denver for five years. The instant I hit the city limits, the
Front Range spread out across the west as far as the eye could see, I knew it
was the place where I’d die.
I’d always wanted to go to The Broker but I’d never been.
It was a date place. A special occasion place. A pricey
place. A historic place. A place you went on a night you wanted to remember.
I didn’t have many of those.
And there I was, sitting next to the handsomest man I’d ever
seen, the kindest, the gentlest, and the most gentlemanly.
This last part in the last half hour Marcus had exercised
greatly.
After we’d left my apartment, he’d opened the door of his
black Mercedes for me (Ronald was not in attendance that evening; neither was
Brady).
He’d opened it again to let me out of his Mercedes.
He’d also done the same when he’d let us in the building and
he’d escorted me down the stairs and to our booth with his hand at the small of
my back, light, warm, gallant.