“So, what do they call Feds that are girls? ‘G Woman’ don’t have the same ring to it.,” Claire said as she made her way to the table.
Davis worked on his third cup of a mix of Cuban and Hawaiian coffee. Over the years he convinced himself that the distance and the job helped him turn a corner and heal.
Willow’s empty chair brought it all home. Multiple painful skin grafts removed virtually every scar except the one within shaped like her. Davis stared at the empty place at his table and took a sip of coffee. He hadn’t bothered to rinse out her mug—he’d simply poured his coffee in it and tried to remember what side of the cup had touched her lips.
The club wasn’t open but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a flurry of activity around him. But even so, he could still smell Willow’s perfume and, more importantly, her scent wrapped in the folds of the dress that was lying on top of his ledgers. He had to admit, her choice in evening wear was exactly what he liked to see on a woman.
There was something altogether classier about a woman in a simple black gown with a touch of ice or pearls. Anything more made her look like she was trying too hard. Davis breathed in her scent once more and bit down on a curse as an ill-timed erection cramped the front of his jeans.
Willow could have pulled it off in a towel with beads of water shimmering on her skin. The image alone made him squirm in his seat and reach for her mug.
“So, what do they call them, D?” Claire said as she nudged him.
“Special Agent in Charge, Willow Daniels.”
It had a nice ring to it. It was hard and soft like she was. Davis tried not to think of her emerging from his shower in nothing but one of the black super plush Chakir bath sheets. Preferably one of the smaller towels so that it hovered over her sex just enough for him to see the fine lace of curls he imagined resided at the top of her thighs.
“I like her. She good people like you. In fact, you two looked right together last night.”
Davis pulled his ledger from under the gown, trying hard not to breathe in the slight puff of air that he knew was filled with her.
“Which time? Us bickering or the two of us covered in soot?”
“Both. You kinda looked like two bookends.”
“Please.”
“How was her arm later?” Clair asked as she shook out the gown and eased it into the fabric bag he asked for. “She put on a good front, but she looked pretty bad last night.”
The image of her slumped over on his bed made him grab the mug and take a sip. “Any more pressure and he could have broken it.”
“You gotta admire her, though.” Claire said with a shy smile.
“Why?”
“She’s not one of those women that jump in headfirst over a ‘piece of the rock’. She showed me the ring. Nice. I mean, real nice.”
“Where is it?”
“She put it in her jumpsuit pocket. I got that outta your office just now.”
Claire pulled the box out and tossed it to him. Davis caught it and flipped it open then snapped it shut.
“She asked me if I wanted it to hock. I told her no. I’d pay money to see her throw it back in that asshole’s face—just so long as he didn’t hurt her again.” Her smile faded some as she shrugged away from old wounds.
“Don’t worry, he won’t.”
“And how would you know? You plan on escorting her to those festivities?”
“If I don’t find him first.” Davis took a sip of coffee and looked out at his staff milling about.
“She must be something else if she can get you riled up. My hat’s off to her—at least somebody can get some play.”
“Claire.” Davis warned as one of the delivery men walked up with his clipboard. Davis signed off on it and waited for the receipt.
She raised her hands in mock surrender. “Wasn’t like us girls didn’t try. Some of us were like cats in heat with our asses poked out just waiting for you to take a sniff. Big man like you there was no way in hell you were gay.”
“Claire!” Davis barked before waving the delivery guy off.
“I’m just saying.”
“Don’t.” he said before tucking the receipt in his ledger.
“She’s time enough for your ass.”
“Do I have to fire you to get you to stop?”
Clair flashed him a smile that made his scalding fury quiet down. “All I’m saying is that it’s about time. Someone needs to fill that empty space at your side and in your heart. I believe she can do it.”
“You do, huh?”
“Maybe you could fill the empty places in her heart, too. She looks haunted, D.”
“What do you mean?”
Davis knew what she was getting at, but he wanted to hear it anyway. He saw it on her face last night when she first walked in. He glanced at the twin bandstands situated at either ends of the floor and the murals that covered the walls. Langston Hughes, Zora Neal Hurston, Alain Locke, Countee Cullen, and the Duke. Foreplay wasn’t a front. It was real and even after the case ended Davis planned to stay.
One of the perks of deep cover was that sometimes there were instances where a man could fade into the cover. This was his retirement and with enough alcohol in him it was his penance. Davis had every intention of spending the rest of his life lost in his club... their club.
What’s your excuse? Why’d you come back to this place that brought you so much pain?
It was a fair question. Davis wasn’t even angry at Will when he asked. But it didn’t make it hurt any less. He’d been all over the world and seen the things he and Willow read about in history books. He marveled over the artwork in museums and lingered at the landmarks, but it all rang hollow.
Willow was everywhere. IN the air he breathed. In the laughter and the smiles of children. In the music that he heard. What started out as a whisper became a howl. Returning to Shadow Bay was the last thing he wanted to do, but the longer he stayed away the urgency to return became equally as strong. Going home wasn’t an option it was the only thing he could do.
And if on the off chance she was there and married, he would watch over her like a sentry essentially living at the hem of her life. Loving her from a far. But then she didn’t come home and just being around her home, her father and her things made it easier. He thought of the lighthouses all around his home. And if life lasted and no one died, he had every intention in being the lighthouse for her.
He glanced over at the stage and saw the photo of Langston Hughes forever smiling at some snatch of poetry whispering across his soul.
This is the song for the Genius Child...
He still remembered her reading to him at his bedside. The words were a comfort, but her voice was the balm. In the background, Duke Ellington or Bessie Smith sang about a new day dawning and how to shake off the shadows and dust of the past.
It was his name, but she’d understood the meaning of it perhaps even better than he did. He’d even gone so far as to track down the painting of the bowels of the slave ship where the people had been stacked like cordwood end to end, shackle to shackle, ankle to wrist. He remembered how she’d cried so bitterly over the painting and how he’d wanted to rip it up and had tried to until she explained that her tears weren’t of sorrow but of joy.
“Don’t you see, Harlem? This is the stuff you’re made of. If they could survive that and we’re here, you will survive these burns. You’ll live and love again. I promise you that. I promise.”
She had crossed the treacherous waters of his own Middle Passage to find him. Past parched, charred skin she’d reached him. In her own soft silent way, she’d saved his life once at a time when he wasn’t sure he’d wanted to live. Haunted? She’d lost her mother during the time that he was healing and yet she gave to him anyway. She’d made promises and kept them. She gave and gave and for all that she gave him, he’d betrayed her. He’d broken the one promise he’d made to her on the floor of her bedroom with his burns still gnawing at his skin.
He’d left her alone.
Claire sat back and looked at him.
“Now you have the same look she has on her face.”
“Excuse me?”
“Starts at the corners of her eyes and it washes over her face. Happened just now on yours. You sure you two don’t know each other?”