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YUÑIOR FLEW FROM NEW York to meet Gunther much to the distaste of his personal security guard. He altered the flight plan of his personal plane, sending it ahead to Miami. The subtleties of the call to Andres yesterday put a plan into action. The flights and travel would be an alibi for Yuñior in case the cartel should question his actions. No one would suspect Andres of being behind the shenanigans and upsetting the donkey cart. He met Gunther and the pilot on the tarmac, boarding the plane covered in calmness and braggadocio.
Gunther wasn’t impressed by any of it. More than anything, his personal bodyguard felt some kind of way for not being able to do his job. Gunther also resented Yuñior leaving him behind and making him unaware of the young man’s whereabouts. If anything were to happen to Yuñior, Eduardo Delgado would have his head.
“Jefe, what is the point of having a plane if you’re going to fly commercial. And what’s the point in having a personal security guard if you travel without me?” Gunther asked, almost pouting.
Yuñior entered the plane and secured his luggage in the front closet. The smile on his face was so radiant that even his pilot wanted to hear about his weekend. Gunther also wanted to know the young heir’s train of thought on the matter of having them in one place, and he in another.
“It is simple,” he replied. “There is documented paperwork of me boarding a plane in New York, staying for two days, and flying to Miami. Should the questions ever arise, I have proof of my whereabouts. While others may track the location of the plane, it would be difficult to track my location.”
“Understood, but it is not safe,” Gunther objected.
“Gunther. Gunther,” he said, sighing. “Are you aware that Tonda knew nothing of my father’s courtship of the Señora? There are things in a man’s life that should remain private.”
“You are courting another woman?”
“I’m enjoying being single while I am able,” he said, taking a seat and gesturing at the pilot to get them off the ground and back to Colombia. The flight was roughly four hours, which gave Yuñior time to relive every moment of the most wonderful weekend he’d ever spent in his life.
The smile stayed during the entire flight while Yuñior leaned back in the chair, reliving the details of his time with Diadra Parsons.
****
THE IDEA OF ATTENDING a street festival ranked high on things to not do list, right under the penciled entry of getting his bum hole waxed by Tim. The sheer number of people put him on edge as sweaty hot bodies meandered through the streets, gnawing on open containers of food. The smell of roasting meats and burned vegetables almost turned his stomach, but he maintained a stoic face, walking along the corded off streets next to Diadra, who waved to friends, danced to music, and looked at street art.
“Oh, elote,” she said, getting in line to grab an ear of roasted corn slathered in mayonnaise and cotija cheese. Yuńior’s attention was drawn to the line next to her, spying a dark roasted leg of a bird he didn’t recognize.
“What is that leg of meat?” Yuñior asked, looking at the second line of hungry bystanders.
“It’s a smoked turkey leg. If cooked right, it tastes a good deal like slow-roasted ham,” she said.
“Why not just cook a hunk of ham?”
“Most people want to feel good about themselves by eating the turkey,” she replied.
“I shall try this turkey leg,” he said, moving into the second line to get the chunk of a roasted bird. He’d spent a Thanksgiving holiday at the Busy Bee ranch with his stepmother and the Blakemores where they served the oven-roasted fowl. He wasn’t a fan of the white meat, but the legs he found to be tasty. The lines moved quickly, and he joined Diadra on the sidewalk, holding the foil wrapped goodie. He stared at it, trying to determine the best course of action to eat the treat since he wasn’t furnished with eating utensils.
“You bite into it,” she instructed.
“Bite into it and walk down the street, eating on an animal’s leg like I’m Henry the Eighth,” Yuñior replied.
“Hey, when in Brooklyn,” she said, nibbling on her corn.
She watched ‘her man’ closely, looking for signs of sociopathy, finding none. He dressed well, which she appreciated, wearing a long-sleeved light blue shirt and well-fitted denim jeans. The blue watch glistened in the sun, catching the rays of light on what she assumed to be diamonds. On his left wrist he wore a blue beaded bracelet with a silver bead in the center. He also wore a signet ring on his right hand, which said he was a man of means, but she really didn’t know much about the man who was sharing her bed, prompting her to say, “Let’s play a game called Twenty Questions.”
“Please tell me you are not going to ask me that many questions consecutively,” he said, biting into the leg.
“No, I ask 10, then you ask me ten. We take turns, and it will help sort through the muck of getting to know each other.”
“How personal are these questions?”
“Oh, very,” she said with a wink.
“I don’t think I shall enjoy this game.”
“Don’t forget you get to ask me ten questions as well,” she said. “I’ll go first. What is your favorite color?”
Yuñior watched her face, knowing she would start simple and then go for his jugular. He’d promised to be honest with her and he would, within reason. Playing along meant he had nothing to hide, but he did. For now, he would go along for the sport of the moment.
“Blue, light blue,” he said, pointing at the shirt he wore.
“I just knew you were going to say yellow!”
“The yellow dye mixed with red around my nipples gave me a terrible infection after I got the tattoo which really made me hate the colors red and yellow,” he admitted.
Diadra nodded in understanding, saying, “Okay, your turn.”
Yuñior didn’t hesitate to ask, “Are you an only child?”
“No, I have a brother,” she said. “He’s in the Army stationed in Germany. We have different mothers. Collin, that’s his name, is from my father’s second marriage to a woman who has so much Botox in her face, she hasn’t had a facial expression since 2010.”
“That is funny,” he said, taking another bite of the turkey.
“Next question: favorite sexual position?” she asked, shimmying her shoulders.
“I don’t have one. It depends on the mood, my partner’s response to what I’m doing, and if I need to make adjustments in my ministrations. And yours?” he replied.
“I like it to be hit from behind,” she said to his shocked face.
“Really? I didn’t think any woman liked that position. It seems so degrading,” he said. “Not that I’m saying...”
“It’s cool. The secret is to arch your back so your partner strokes that spot normally not reached if you’re face to face all missionary positioned,” she offered, slowing her walk to a stroll. “Next question, do you love her?”
Yuñior didn’t stop walking when he answered, “I don’t know her, honestly.”
He looked at Diadra, asking his paramour, “Do you think you could ever love me?”
“Easily, which bothers me,” she said, asking in return. “Do you think you could ever love me?”
“What if I told you that I already do?” he asked.
“Then my next question is, are you in the habit of lying?”
“I try to be as honest as possible to lessen the number of things I have to keep up with in my day-to-day life. Besides, if you’re upfront, putting everything that is at stake on the table, people respond more favorably if they feel like they have a hand in the decision-making process,” Yuñior said, stopping in front of an art piece. “Do you like this painting?”
“I do,” she said, looking at the bright vibrant colors of a woman bathing. “Should I buy this for my living room?”
“Yes, or I can buy it for you as a flat warming gift,” he said, asking for the price, which Yuñior felt was too high for a street artist. He talked the man down to $300, paid for the piece, and then stood awkwardly trying to figure out how to carry it and eat the turkey leg simultaneously.
“Last question, Ed. How did you know where I lived?” she asked him, standing next to the painting and admiring the gift.
“In my line of work, I must know a great number of things, plus my friend with the scar specializes in finding objects,” he told her.
“Is that what I am to you, an object?”
“Of my affections,” he said, looking at her. “Yet, you are quickly becoming so much more. And that was only seven questions, you have three more to go.”
“Well played, Mr. Smooth,” she told him. “Tell me what you like to eat when you are sick. What is your comfort food?”
“Calentado Piasa, which is a fancy way of making scrambled eggs with rice,” he said. “My mother used to make it for me when I was small. Often came the time when I wasn’t actually sick, but wanted her to pamper me. Over the years, it became my go-to meal when I was down in the spirits.”
Diadra observed him standing on the corner, looking at home in the midst of wandering native Brooklynites draped in colorful garb, expressing artistic lifestyles. Men, partnered with same-sex lovers, observed the casualness of the man-eating a turkey leg and holding a painting, made comments on Yuñior’s appearance, which he ignored or responded to with thank you when a compliment was delivered.
“I have a question for you, Diadra,” he said softly. “Does it bother you knowing you are sharing me with another?”
She seemed surprised at the question, wondering why he asked when he knew her answer. “Of course, it bothers any woman to think that her man is doing with his mouth what you did to me last night. It is such an intimate act, ingesting the essence of another woman,” she replied.
“You skirted the question. If you are going to play the game, you have to answer the question,” Yuñior said firmly, staring at her with his head cocked to the side.
“Yes,” she softly admitted. “However, I was given a choice in the decision-making process to let you go or allow us to play out. Ed, I want to see how this plays out.”
“Even if it means we both are hurt in the end?”
“We will be hurt in the end because you feel good to me,” Diadra admitted. “Finding someone who feels good in an instant world is scary in more than one way. Knowing in the end that I’m going to lose, challenges my sanity for entering the race.”
“So, what I hear is that you are afraid to fall in love with me,” he said, reaching for a lock of her hair the wind blew across her cheek. Yuñior used his index finger to push the strand away.
“I am, Ed. Are you afraid to fall in love with me?”
He adjusted himself from the wall where he leaned against on the building. The turkey leg was nearly gone, but her question made him feel powerful. Honesty was all he had, and honesty was what she going to get. Channeling Big Sarge, his stepmother’s crotchety old soldier of a father, he pulled out his best impersonation of the black man he called Abuelo.
“I ain’t scared of shit! I sure as hell ain’t scared to fall in love with a woman as fine as you. I don’t give a shit what it costs me, but if you’re game, I’m gonna love you with everything I have for as long as I can,” he said in a tone that was a matter of fact.
“The funny thing is, I believe you actually mean it,” Diadra responded, blushing under the intensity of his gaze. “And what old black man are you channeling with that voice?”
“Because I do mean it, and I’m not a man who has trouble letting you know how I feel or where I stand,” he said, “and the old man is a relative by marriage. He treats me as his own blood and is quick to pass out hugs, which we all find amusing for such a tough old soldier.”
Diadra wanted to go deeper, but she knew better. It did not stop Diadra from pushing just a tad bit more, “What about public displays of affection?”
“Not my thing,” he said. “Loving each other should be done in private. Public displays make you question the man’s intentions or the woman’s self-esteem.”
“Really?” she asked in shock.
“A secure woman doesn’t need to fawn over her man. An insecure man will need that constant reassurance, but if you’re handling your business at home, all of the rigamarole in public is unnecessary,” he said, closing the foil wrapper over the turkey. “Shall we go and hang the painting?”
“Sure,” she said, looking at him with more questions than she dared to ask. However, she had learned a great deal about his viewpoints on relationships, but more importantly, Diadra learned his viewpoint on her. He said he wasn’t afraid to love her and she was ready to be loved.
Yuñior never finished his turkey leg, opting to hand the foil-wrapped fowl to Diadra instead of carrying the large painting to her apartment. After several attempts, he hung the artwork and stepped back to admire the handy work. He seemed very familiar with the use of tools, using a leveler from his cell phone app to ensure the painting was straight. They sat on the couch admiring the ambiance the bathing lady added to the living room. Time had slipped past while they enjoyed the simplicity of a Saturday on the couch holding each other when Diadra’s phone rang.
“Hello,” she said into the line.
“Where are you guys? This place is filling up fast,” Jules said to her friend.
“Oh shoot. Time got away from us. We’re on the way,” Diadra said, grabbing the door keys and waving at Yuñior to follow her. “We’re going to be late.”
“The karaoke thing,” he said, getting up and following her out of the door. They almost ran the four blocks to get to the after-hours spot, and a tall black woman with wild coiled hair waved them over. Yuñior stood back, looking for exits in the small night spot and looking for threats while the guard at the door checked his American ID. He also waited to see if Quita was in the pack of pals, and when he didn’t see her, he followed Diadra to the table.
The friends were a diverse group that Diadra introduced with pride. “Jules, Tony, Margie, Frank, this is Ed,” she said, placing her arm in his. “Ed, these are my friends.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Yuñior said, shaking their hands. He pulled out a chair for Diadra, seating himself next to her. It did not escape his own notice that he didn’t disguise his accent, which he normally preferred in order to keep the questions to a minimum. However, one look from Jules, and he knew she would be a problem.
His attention immediately went to the friend whom he knew, beyond a reasonable doubt, already didn’t like him.
“You don’t look like an Ed,” Jules said, looking at Yuńior as if he were planning to run off with her best friend.
“And you do look like a jolt of energy to force a neutron to displace a watt of power, Jules,” he said, giving her an I-want-some smile.
“Ooh, charismatic to boot,” Jules said, “and smart, but can you sing?”
His eyebrows arched at the offensive tactic she immediately took towards him. The backdrop sound of ice clinking in a glass mixed with lips slurping straws of sludgy drinks, drew his attention away from the table. When he turned around, Jules was giving him that look which made Yuñior assess Jules as a threat. The shift in the tension of his body language put Diadra on defense.
“Jules, don’t put Ed on the spot like that!” Diadra said. “He came along with me to meet you guys and enjoy the evening. Stop being so bossy.”
“I'm not bossy. You show up with your new man looking all radiant and sexually satisfied, we want to see what’s he’s made of,” Jules said, leaning forward on the table while giving Yuñior the stink eye.
“My dear, you have no idea what I’m made of, yet I find this challenge to be stimulating,” Yuñior said, staring her square in the eyes. Jules flinched just a tad, and he knew his assessment had not been wrong.
“Then put your name in the hat and take the mic,” Jules challenged, passing him the list of songs.
He’d been to this type of party before. The close best friend not wanting to let go of the small amount of control she still had over the single gal pal living her best life. Either he would need to get on stage to make an ass of himself to prove his fealty to his woman of choice or decline the challenge. Declining would also prove Jules’ point that Ed didn’t fit in with the group.
Yuñior accepted the book, going down the list of songs. He wasn’t the singer in the family; he left that to his father and Andres, but in a pinch, he could hold a note. The animosity he felt from Jules added a new element to picking a song. The other two friends, as well as Jules’ date, remained quiet, opting to order drinks.
“Ed, you don’t have to sing if you don’t want to,” Diadra said, touching his thigh.
“Of this I am aware, but your friend seems insistent, hoping to start an argument so she can tell you how much she dislikes me,” he said to surprised faces, “or she could simply be testing me to see if I’m willing to make a fool of myself to impress you.”
Jules didn’t like being called out on her play. Scoffing at him and addressing her friend instead, she said, “Diadra, we came out to have a good time. I just want to make sure your man, whom we knew nothing about until this morning, is a good fit with the group,” she insisted.
Yuñior looked up at her. “I’m not dating the group Jules, only your friend.”
“Jesus! I just wanted to see if you were game to sing a song,” Jules grouched.
“Please, don’t call Him unless you need His guidance,” Yuñior said.
Tony, Jules’ date, started chuckling, enjoying seeing the new man in Diadra’s life put the busybody bestie in her place. Yuñior didn’t bother to look up as he responded to her barrage of chides, focusing instead on the song list. His eyes stopping at One in a Million by Larry Graham. He’d heard the song at the wedding of Marecus Roget and Belva Blakemore when the new husband and wife danced to the crooner’s confession of love. After the wedding, in the same week, he purchased the sheet music to learn to play it on his violin.
“Ed, have you chosen a song?” Jules asked, her tone full of mockery, ready to see the man make a fool out of himself.
“I have,” he said, looking at her with dark eyes.
“Then you’re up,” she said, clapping her hands and cheering. Diadra fumed in her seat, angry at Jules for putting her new guy on the spot. She wanted him to like her friends, and they to like him. The evening was going to be ruined.
“Wish me luck,” he said to Diadra, whose hand caressed the side of his face. She provided a kiss for good measure as he rose, his eyes on the stage.
Yuñior took to the stage when they called for Ed, reaching for the lonesome bar stool in front of the mic and taking a seat. He rarely sang, but did on occasion when his father demanded the family perform for visiting guests and dignitaries. Once, at the Blakemore Ranch, he’d sang when the whole family performed Despacito, but this would be his first-time singing solo in public.
“For you, Diadra,” he said into the mic.
The music started, and all eyes went to the stage. A few murmurs came from the crowd with a sole voice yelling, “All right now!” He didn’t look up out of a momentary flash of fear that his courage to do such a public display of verbal affection would unnerve his efforts to win over his woman. Instead of focusing on the negative, he opted to commit to the effort. Yuñior rocked from side to side as the flute played in the background, followed by fingers strumming across the piano keys. He inhaled deeply, raised his head, held the mic and started to sing the opening lines. The crowd hooted and yelled, getting to their feet as Yuñior lowered his voice several octaves.
The bright lights from the stage hindered his ability to see faces in the audience. He wanted to see Diadra’s expression as he sang to her, but he couldn’t discern one dark blot from another.
The first section ended, as his eyes came up to the crowd, to hoots and whoops. A slight shift to the left allowed his eyes to lock onto Diadra. Yuñior didn’t need the words scrolling on the display screen. He knew them by heart as he entered the chorus and rose to his feet. The crowd clapped in thunderous applause when he opened his mouth and heart and belted out the notes. He motioned for Diadra to come up on stage with him. A body moved through the crowd, coming to the stage. Yuńior didn’t stop singing as she came forward where he placed her on the barstool and sang the next lines.
Taking her hand into his own, he sang only to her. Yuñior sang only to his Diadra, in each note, meaning each and every damned word that seeped through his lips. The loneliness which had become his constant companion resonated in the lyrics. The life he lived seemed less daunting, knowing she would be his solace. Emotion crackled in his voice as he rounded out the notes. Digging deep within himself, pouring his soul and everything he had into the song, he came again to the refrain.
He turned to the audience. “Sing it with me!”
The audience joined in with him on the chorus, serenading Diadra, whose eyes watered, watching her man, put on the spot and delivering a show-stopping performance. He ended the song bowing over her hand, offering a small kiss to her knuckles. The tears then ran down her cheeks, he kissed each of them, whispering in her ear so no other could hear.
“Loving you is the easiest part of my life,” he said, taking her by the hand and walking off the stage to thunderous applause. Since he didn’t do anything half-assed, he dropped the mic on the table in front of Jules. “I guess you have to follow my performance, no?”
He took a seat as if he hadn’t just brought down the house in a tiny club in Brooklyn New York. The audience called for a second song and Yuñior shook his head no, looking at Diadra, who couldn’t stop fawning over him. She too was not one for public displays of affection, but he was going to get loads of love for such a lovely serenade. He was a man of many talents and she looked forward to what else he had to offer.
Diadra knew the exact moment when she fell in love with Ed. Stupid was going to be her new best friend because the next turn of events she didn’t see coming. However, she wasn’t afraid to fight for her man.
“If you want to leave now, we can because Ed, you can get it,” Diadra said, running her hand up his thigh.
“We are here with your friends to enjoy the evening,” he said, leaning over to whisper in her ear. “I’m going to get it later. I promise you, my dear, I’m going to get it good, too.”
****
DIADRA PARSON SAT ON her couch, staring at the painting. The more she stared at the naked woman bathing the more she saw in the details. Turning her head at an angle, the profile of the woman could have been a rough sketch of herself.
“Whoa!” she exclaimed, looking closer at the browns and oranges in the image. A gentle vibration came at her hip, her cellphone humming against her thigh, and she looked down to see the message:
Don’t forget the passport.
She didn’t reply. Making a note in her phone to download the application tomorrow and get a passport photo as soon as possible, Diadra shimmied her shoulders in excitement at the possibility of exotic places where they would travel and make love on white sandy beaches. The old companion, Stupid, had returned, but the girl inside her soul wanted the adventure. Diadra wanted as much time as she could get with her Ed.
Inside of his messenger bag, she’d slipped in a surprise. It was a risk, but a calculated one that she prayed would pay off. Life was too short to be dull and uninteresting, in her perspective. The small gift would add a new element to his next visit.
Next time, she would be prepared.
