Part 5 (1/2)

He sloshed the shot gla.s.s as she took it, spilling a dollop of sweet liquor on his fingers. Nora took his hand in hers, brought it to her lips. He watched her tongue emerge, soft and pink and darting, to lick them clean.

When Syd could see straight again, he looked at her. Nora was smiling.

By the time the band took the stage at a quarter past ten, it had started to get truly disgusting, so they moved from the bar to a booth near the back. It was dark and warm, semiprivate and cozy; and from there, things heated up with mind-bending speed.

The first kiss, for example. From the moment they sat her lips were upon his, bluntly bypa.s.sing all pretense of seduction, the better to get to the heart of the act itself. There was no mickeymouse subterfuge, no jockeying for position or storming of the psychos.e.xual ramparts; just a straightforward escalation of intensity that left Syd simultaneously unnerved and elated.

Nora was the kind of kisser for whom the act commanded total concentration, and absolute devotion. He could feel her soul moving through the delicate interplay of lips, the perpetual subtle s.h.i.+ft and glide of her head: nuzzling sideways and leaning in to deliver one liquid punch line after another; then drawing back, to taunt and tease, to let her teeth and the soft pointed tip of her tongue provoke him to pa.s.sionate attack.

She was aggressive, but she knew when to relent, in fact had an exquisite sense of give-and-take. She liked to have her mouth invaded. She liked to let her mouth invade. Her kisses consisted of peaks and valleys and long slip-sliding continuums, wherein nothing existed but his mouth and hers and the hot swirling dance in which they were entangled.

And then she would start to move her hands, ever-so-slowly; and it was as if time had s.h.i.+fted gears and he could glimpse all the subtle mechanisms at play. Suddenly, time was measured in the long, slow seconds it took for her graceful fingertips to glide through his hair, luxuriantly trace the outer whorls of his ear, then slide back to settle on the nape of his neck, where they would inscribe intricate little patterns at the base of his skull.

It was at that moment that the world went spinning away, only to return a microsecond later, strangely amplified. It was as if all of his senses had expanded a bit beyond their normal boundaries, rendering his impressions of the woman before him and the room around him in oversaturated clarity.

And then he would remember that he had hands, too, and the universe would instantly expand to contain the multiple dimensions of the game: one hand cupping the back of her head, basking in the richness of her hair; the other exploring the strong muscles of her back, the delicate ridge of her spine, the long graceful slope to her a.s.s.

And all the while, their mouths would be moving: breathlessly working in tandem, wordlessly communicating their intention. And when her other hand came up to stroke his chest, squeeze one nipple erect inside his s.h.i.+rt, he would run his hand along the firm high crest of her hip, and her fervent mouth would grind into him hard as her body pressed flush against him.

And then he would submerge again, coaxing a moan from deep inside her, fingers circling and probing the secret s.p.a.ce inside her jacket in the seconds before she peeled out of it. Occasionally they would break for a moment, come up for air and each other's eyes.

They had just done both when the ba.s.s drum thudded, and the voice boomed out from the PA's speakers: ”LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASE WELCOME THE FINEST BLUES SINGER THIS SIDE OF THE MISSISSIPPI! LET'S HEAR IT FOR QUEEN BEE AND THE BLUE HORNET BAND!!!”.

The applause that followed was thunderous. Queen Bee was a house favorite, and the place was packed. But Syd was more than a little surprised to see Nora pull back and break the spell. She let out a war whoop, joining in the general clamor. She beamed at him.

”Wow,” he began. He stared at her, slowly regaining his senses. ”You know . . .?”

And then his voice was lost as the band kicked in, a full-tilt boogie that walloped against the walls. There were dozens of folks who had come for one reason. They took over the dance floor and made it their own. The tune was a smokin' instrumental: no Queen Bee as yet, just the Hornet Band a-buzzin'. Guitar Mark's gray fedora was pulled down over his eyes as he dug down deep into the evening's first solo. He had a face like Satch from the Bowery Boys, but d.a.m.n that boy could wail.

”YOU KNOW THIS BAND?” Syd hollered out. He had no other choice.

She nodded with vigor. ”I LOVE QUEEN BEE!”

He grinned, shook his head. ”I KNEW THERE WAS A REASON I LIKED YOU!”

She laughed and snuggled in close, brought her lips to his ear. ”We need another drink,” she said, just barely loud enough to be heard. ”And then you need to dance with me.”

He drew back for a second, made a broad comic grimace, then shook his head sadly and mouthed the words I don't dance.

She drew him back. ”You do now,” she whispered.

At that moment, her hand landed on his thigh and squeezed, thumb sliding up the inseam. Syd sucked in breath, shut his eyes, let them open. It was definitely time for a drink. He found his gaze casting around for the waitress. Jane was at the next table; he brought a hand up and waved. When she looked at him, he saw her eyes were dark with disapproval. Then she nodded, finished up her business, collected her tip and headed toward them. Nora turned just as Jane drew near.

Abruptly, Nora rose.

Syd looked up, startled. Her hand left his crotch, took hold of his as she stood. He could feel the tension coursing through her. She pulled, and he rose as well, confused. He looked at Jane.

Jane had stopped dead in her tracks.

And though Syd couldn't see Nora's face, Jane visibly stiffened, then averted her eyes. Was it fear that he saw there? He wasn't sure. Without another word, Nora brushed past her, heading for the dance floor with Syd in tow. He tried to meet Jane's gaze as he pa.s.sed, could not. Nora was leading him too quickly away.

And then he was weaving through the crowd, following her, in awe of the swath that she cut through the ma.s.ses as he trailed in her wake. The back of her dress was deep-cut and laced, scooping down the exquisite expanse of flesh clear to her sacral dimples. As he moved he found himself torn between the contours of her a.s.s and the sight of all those eyes upon him: familiar faces, transformed by surprise and naked envy, viewing him in an entirely new light. The light her proximity cast upon him.

And he suddenly remembered not wanting to see the p.r.i.c.k she'd come with, or come to see. Remembered what an automatic response that was, how deep it ran, and how ashamed it made him feel. Now somehow, in the course of the evening, he had become that p.r.i.c.k. For all of its perks, it was not an entirely pleasant place to be.

He could see it in the eyes of the good ol' boys, cl.u.s.tered around the bar. He could see it in the eyes of the small hairy man, his shapely companions for the moment all-but-forgotten. He could even see it in his good pal Tommy's eyes: a cold spark of jealousy and pain, beneath the plastic smile and supportive thumbs-up gesture.

He wondered, for a moment, what it was that Jane had seen.

Then Nora was bellying up to the bar, the crowd magically evaporating before her, re-forming at her periphery. He sidled up beside her, and looked in her eyes for the first time since they'd left the table. They sparkled with mischief, only barely contained. At least one significant factor hadn't changed. But there was something else there, too: something hard, and harder to place. It was the knife-edged glint of experience, and it summed up her feelings for the whole room and everyone in it, save himself.

”TWO DOUBLE SHOTS OF COMFORT!” she called across the bar to Jules. He nodded, shot a quick glance at Syd. Syd looked at Nora. ”For us,” she said.

He hesitated a second, then leaned close to her ear. ”I don't do shots,” he said. ”They make me go away.”

”Relax,” she a.s.sured him. ”You ain't goin' nowhere.”

Then Jules was there, with his customary flourish, dispensing the rich red liquor. Nora carried no purse or wallet, save a little woven drawstring bag she dangled from one wrist. From this she withdrew a ten-spot, then slapped it on the bar just as the Hornets brought their jam to a close. By the time they all finished applauding, the ten was gone, and her change had replaced it. She left it where it lay, turned back to Syd.

”To us,” she said softly, in the pocket of silence.

And raised her gla.s.s to his.

The sweet whiskey burned a track down his gullet, made a beeline for his medulla oblongata. Shots always went straight to his head, and this one was no exception. He could hear the applause well up again, Guitar Mark's voice shouting something over it. Over the heads of the crowd, he saw the Queen Bee herself take the stage. ”Come on!” Nora said, taking his hand once more.

And then they were wending once again through the crowd-up onto the dance floor, toward the front of the stage-just as the band broke into its slow shuffling four-bar intro. Queen Bee positioned herself behind the mic stand: a big wide powerful-looking angel-faced black woman, beautiful and gifted and strong. Her face and voice had the kind of character that takes lifetimes to acc.u.mulate. When she sang, all the world's sweet sorrow, heartbreak and pain found embodiment in that voice, that soul.

She was singing now. His favorite Queen Bee tune. The one that he connected with best. He had listened to it just this morning. Before the deer.

Before the wolf . . .

”Every night, about this time I go to sleep, to keep from cryin' . . .”

. . . and Syd found himself thrown back to those moments, that sensation of hollow dread that began in his marrow and emanated outward, felt it well up and nearly subsume him in the moment before Nora stopped and turned and drew him close . . .

”Every night, about this time I go to sleep, to keep from cryin' . . .”

. . . and then he thought about Karen, and all the years he'd already p.i.s.sed away on her behalf: operating under the sway of her illusions, suckered in by his own need. Desperately trying to resuscitate an already-butchered thing. Trying to rebuild a relations.h.i.+p that was rotten to its foundations.

”'Cause my baby, yes my baby Always runnin”round . . .”

. . . and the thought of it-the thought of her-was so utterly toxic to his soul that he flinched from it, constricted against it, tried to drive it shrieking from his heart and mind. Its poison sank deep into everything it touched: the beautiful music in his ears, the incredible woman in his arms.

And then Nora kissed him again: twirling gracefully with him, in time with the music. And it was so altogether absolutely fine that it resisted and transcended the poison, overran the tiny voice in the back of his mind that said what if she's cheating on some husband somewhere? What if she's lying, too?

But the reality of this woman, this stranger, this mysterious Nora who had blown so overwhelmingly into his life was like an island of salvation in a vast and brutal sea. There was substance in her presence. There was power in her touch. It made him feel strong, to be kissing this woman. It made him feel almost immortal.