Crimson Footprints Part 11

An explosion of flavor slipped between her waiting lips, and with it, the fork that had once been in his mouth. She blushed.

"Uh oh," Tak said as he caught chili with his thumb. Quickly, he returned the finger to her mouth; her lips parted to accept it. His breath caught. Their eyes locked and a sudden, painful throb ailed him. It took too long for either to look away, neither speaking, even as he drew thumb from mouth. Wide-eyed, Deena cleared her throat and looked away, red-faced and stiff. Tak stared, a sober and dry-mouthed astonishment on his face. Just what the h.e.l.l was it with him and this girl that made him act as if he'd never known another? He exhaled, and once again, resumed his natural course of his breathing.

Three days in Atlanta. In it, they strolled the lush greens of Centennial Olympic Park, admired the architectural wonders of Peachtree, and danced till exhaustion in Underground Atlanta-Deena's first foray with a nightclub.

Underground Atlanta wasn't so much "underground" as it was downstairs. Furthermore, the entrance to it looked seedy and suspect, but she took Tak's hand and allowed him to lead her in. There were nightclubs down there, at least half a dozen, and that night, he promised, they would dance.

Deena produced a s.h.i.+ny, laminated new driver's license for entrance to the club. The bouncer who took it was tall enough so that the back of his head pressed against the bit of wall above the door. He scrutinized the picture and handed it back as if unimpressed. The bouncer repeated the ritual with Tak before they were finally admitted.

They stepped inside and darkness swallowed them. People were pressed on a vast floor, swaying to a trance-inducing beat. Deena blinked. It was damp and humid as the fumes of sweat and liquor coalesced mid-air. The music throbbed, a light, pop-like tune that was almost disco, paired with an airy voice.

Tak squeezed her hand. "Want a drink?" He had to shout over insistent ba.s.s.

Deena nodded gratefully.

They weaved through the club, hands clasped out of what Deena told herself was necessity, till they reached the bar at the back. He ordered a Heineken draft and a Strawberry Daiquiri before looking down at her hand.

"You okay?"

She blushed, grateful that it was too dark for him to see. Her grip was clammy and tight, her resolve to keep him in reach unshakeable.

"A little nervous." She peered around. "You're probably eager to dance."

At UCLA, he'd been a beer chugging frat boy of a stereotype who partied four times a week. So tonight, he was in his element.

Tak shrugged. "Whatever you want to do."

She lowered her gaze. "Just-enjoy my drink, maybe?"

Tak nodded. "Sounds good to me."

He released her when his beer arrived and tossed back a big swallow. She brought the daiquiri in a big pilsner to her lips for a sip.

"Good?" Tak asked.

Deena nodded. "Very."

She drank the first one and had a second. The music was southern rap now, so it had a slower tempo, claps on the backbeat and constant references to s.e.x, strippers and alcohol.

The liquor had a warming effect. She peered in her gla.s.s. What was in a daiquiri? She had no idea, but it was marvelous.

"You, uh...want another?" Tak smiled.

Deena nodded. "One more. Not too much."

Her words didn't sound right. Running together and enunciating all at once. She frowned.

Another daiquiri was placed before her and again she peered in the gla.s.s.

"These are very good. You should try one."

Tak grinned. "I generally steer away from drinks with umbrellas and sliced fruit adorning it. Not good for the image."

"Fine," Deena said. "Suit yourself." She tossed it back for a big gulp and got brain freeze. "Ow!" She gripped her skull with both hands.

"Just let it pa.s.s," Tak advised. "And drink slower."

She looked up at him suddenly. "Wanna dance?"

He looked surprised. "Uh-sure. If you're okay with that. I'd love to."

She took another gulp of her drink and abandoned it, near full. She started for the floor. Tak dropped a few bills on the counter and followed.

"I've never danced," Deena gushed. "Tell me what to do."

"Not much to tell. Just feel it. Feel it and have fun."

"Feel it. Fun. Got it," she said.

Tak smiled. "Follow me."

The music was club rap, a few intoxicating beats, a breathy male voice and a few s.e.xy and well-placed hooks. He pulled her into his arms and began to sway. She followed with ease.

"Like this?"

Tak grinned. "Just like that."

It was easier than she thought. When she told him that she'd never danced, what she meant was that she'd never danced in public. In her room, with a radio and a broomstick, she'd held jaw-dropping concerts for an audience of none. She'd danced in those days, as a girl all alone. But in his arms it seemed her self-less abandon had found her again.

"Someone told a lie," he teased.

He pulled her closer, till their bodies molded-his arms around her waist, hers at his neck. He was hard and hot and moved like liquid. She imagined him a skilled lover for the motions came so easy. It wasn't the first time they'd been so close, after all, they hugged each time they saw each other, but this was different. This was lingering and indulgent and...stimulating.

She knew what was happening, happening to her, to them-between them. She wanted to stop it, felt like she had to, to avoid pain down the road. But her heart took no heed from the tyrannical rule of her mind. It wanted him near and was willing to do anything to make that happen.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

From Atlanta, it was on to the Big Easy for jazz and jambalaya in The Quarter and riverboat gambling on the Mississippi. For two days they combed the streets of that old historic district, marveling at the Creole townhouses by day and downing hot Cajun food and big a.s.s beers by night.

With New Orleans behind them, they headed for Memphis in a six-hour tear up I-55. There, Tak insisted, they would find the best barbecue on the planet. But they did more than gouge on b.u.t.ter-soft baby back ribs and pounds of pulled pork; they lost themselves in the melancholy sound of blues on Beale Street, danced rooftop at The Peabody Hotel and strolled the banks of the Mississippi by moonlight.

"My mom never said why she killed my dad," Deena said, the Mississippi River to her right as they strolled. The moon was high and shone on the water, s.h.i.+mmering with an imminent fullness as if promising to pop. The air pressed with the heat of the south and summer.

"Not even after conviction?" Tak said.

Deena shook her head.

A white couple pa.s.sed, staring. Tak either didn't notice or didn't care. Deena figured it was the second one.

"You said you didn't remember much. Is it possible you suppressed her explanation?"

Deena shrugged.

"I suppose. But I doubt it. When I say I don't remember much, I mean about the murder. Like, it comes in snippets for me. The blood, my mom with the gun, things like that. Never in sequential sense."

"And when you dream, is it the same way?"

She hesitated. "I don't dream about that much anymore."

Instead, images of her parents were being ousted in dramatic fas.h.i.+on by lurid s.n.a.t.c.hes of s.e.x, courtesy of a sweating and s.h.i.+rtless Tak.u.mi Tanaka.

He glanced at her. "You don't dream about them much? Really?" He sounded thoroughly surprised.

Deena shook her head.

"Well that's odd, considering it went on for so long. When did it stop?"

Instantly, she wanted to say, or right about the time I started wanting you inside me. After all, they were the same moment.

But she cleared her throat instead. "Um, I'm not sure."

When he glanced at her, she looked away. Deena didn't dare look up, so afraid was she that he knew her secret, so certain was she that everyone did.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Four hours separated Memphis from St. Louis, next on their list of "must sees." The I-55 corridor linking the two cities weaved them through highlands and plains before dumping them in St. Louis, the self-proclaimed "Gateway of the West."

They were hurdling towards exhaustion, crisscrossing first the south and now the Midwest at break neck speed. By the time they arrived in St. Louis, they'd clocked better than 1800 miles over two weeks in Tak's Ferrari. More telling however, was the way they traveled-top down, wind in their hair, his arm around the back of her chair.

Deena identified with the conundrum that was St. Louis, Missouri. An independent city, it seceded from its county better than a hundred years ago. It was a speculative place, being equal parts north and south, east and west, and therefore a different thing altogether. It endured extremes with sweltering summers and frigid winters; and whole sections of it had been abandoned. Deena could definitely relate to St. Louis.

They were touring the city, architecture and art museums, sights and tourist traps, when they decided to stop at the Gateway Arch for pictures. A ma.s.sive and gleaming structure of stainless steel, it was the tallest monument in the country.

Deena brought a hand to that iconic image, the ident.i.ty of St. Louis, made not by others, but by what it envisioned itself to be. It was then that her phone rang.

A sort of resigned indifference pa.s.sed over her at the sight of her grandmother's name on the caller I.D. Deena answered with a sigh.

She was calling to complain, to do nothing but b.i.t.c.h. Lizzie had been suspended again, this time for fighting. When Deena breathed a sigh of relief, she nearly laughed. How desperate did she have to be to be relieved that her sister had only been fighting? But as far as Deena was concerned, fighting was a d.a.m.ned sight better than nickel and dime b.l.o.w.j.o.bs on the bathroom floor.

"They talking about putting her out of school, for good, cause she so much trouble," Grandma Emma said. "And when they do, you gonna be the one to pay for private schooling."

Deena chuckled. She loved the way her grandmother thought that a college degree came standard with an inflated bank account. If she only knew, her granddaughter could barely afford the vacation she was on.

In the end, she promised to speak to Lizzie when she returned to town and hung up before the old woman could protest.

"Everything okay?" Tak said, eyes on her expectantly.

Deena nodded. "Everything's fine. Lizzie's suspended. Same as usual."

She offered him a bright and false smile. "Now what were we doing? Pictures, right?"

"Right," Tak said.

Deena pulled the zipper up on the white parka she wore and gave him a grin. "Well, what's the hold up, buddy?"

Tak responded with a smile.

They ventured a good distance from the arch, they waved down a pa.s.serby for pictures. It was a sweet-faced old lady that stopped, took Tak's digital camera, and waited for the pose.

They stood arm and arm, lucky enough to have a pond and good deal of the arch in the shot. In the instant when the old lady went to snap their picture, Tak stole a kiss, a single kiss, on Deena's freckled cheek. She squealed and blushed scarlet as the old lady gushed, insisting they were as sweet as Tupelo honey. When she returned the digital camera with the image of Tak's stolen kiss still emblazoned on it, Deena stood there, her cheeks still flushed. She stared at that frozen screen in silence, the image of Tak's kiss burning into her mind. Behind her, he peered over her shoulder with his four-inch advantage and smiled down at the camera.

"Perfect," he said. "Absolutely perfect."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Lizzie was glad her sister was gone. Unlike her grandmother, who acted like she needed Deena to come and flip the oxygen on each morning, Lizzie could do without the old maid. She spent her days at a desk and her nights in a book, barely existing, if at all. She lived on the beach yet never went there, was pretty and never took advantage of it, and at nearly twenty-five was a jaw-dropping virgin. Had she not known Deena, she wouldn't have believed such a person existed.

Lizzie lost her virginity three days before her twelfth birthday and never once did she look back. A whole world opened up to her that day, a world where clothes and jewelry, money and drugs could come with a few quick thrusts and a moan here or there. It was easy really, once you got past those first painful moments, easy and sometimes enjoyable. She had a pretty face and an impressive body, an inheritance from a mother she never knew, and a curse according to the family she hated.

Everyone thought that the first time she'd had s.e.x was in school or a crack house, or somewhere equally unforgiving. But it wasn't. The first time Lizzie had s.e.x was at home, with a guy they all knew.

Lizzie and Keisha were arguing that afternoon, arguing over Lizzie's tight red dress and jiggling t.i.ts and whether it was all for Snow Man's attention. For that purpose or not, Snow Man took one look at Lizzie, bit his lower lip, and Keisha detonated.

But the girl was mistaken. Lizzie was no Deena. She was no martyr and took no s.h.i.+t. She screamed when someone screamed at her, hit back when someone hit her, and played t.i.t for tat every G.o.dd.a.m.ned chance she got. So when Keisha called her a s.l.u.t, and Aunt Caroline laughed until her makeup ran, Lizzie decided to show them just how right they were.