Unsuitable Men (16 page)

Tracy tensed, thinking about the uncomfortable fact of Malcolm in his bed upstairs, propped up by pillows, the left side of his face drooping grotesquely, his hand limp on a pillow at his side. She had followed her mother’s directive to spend at least a half hour with him each day since she’d been home, and that time seemed to drag out for an eternity. He could not speak, and only seemed to be vaguely aware that she was there at all. But still her mother insisted, and as always, despite being a thirty-year old woman, independent and assertive in her own life, she felt helpless to refuse anything her mother told her to do. Particularly when in her physical presence. But having Brendan there relaxed her somehow, and she didn’t quite understand why.

“I did hear he was ill,” Brendan confirmed. “I was sorry to hear that.”

But it was a lie. Tracy had only told him that she had to go home, and had carefully omitted why. She hardly talked about Malcolm with anyone, and certainly hadn’t gotten into it with Brendan.

“Well thank you,” her mother responded. “We’re taking good care of him. Now everyone, if we could . . .” She gestured in the direction of the dining room.

Tracy’s mother led the way, followed by her Aunts Rose and Kay. When Brendan hung back to let them go first, Jocelyn fell into step next to him. Tracy tried not to eavesdrop, but heard as Jocelyn asked him if he’d had a chance to see any of the
city
, and Brendan replying that he’d been out with friends the previous evening.

What the hell?
Out with friends?
Tracy recalled only that she had left him in the hotel looking like he was moments away from slumber. And then she caught herself. Why shouldn’t he go out? He was in “Hot-
lanta
” and it hadn’t even been midnight when she left, primetime for a young, single man of means.

“I could show you a little more of the city if you’re interested,” Jocelyn said. “Maybe later this evening?”

“Brendan has business in town, Jocelyn,” Tracy said, her voice snippier than she intended. “He’s not here to hang out with you and your girlfriends.”

“Oh there’d be no girlfriends,” Jocelyn said without missing a beat. “Just me.”

Tracy glared at her. Jocelyn had been a thorn in her side since they were thirteen, and the sharp elbows that typified their relationship had not dulled with the passing of the years. While Tracy was of the cool, aloof beauty, Jocelyn had more obvious, openly sexual good looks, all hips and boobs and big, Southern hair. She wore—for Tracy’s taste—colors that were way too
loud,
and bright lipstick shades that only called attention to what was a full-lipped, almost lascivious mouth. But men seemed to like that, and Jocelyn had never wanted for admirers, even when in Tracy’s company. Because of it, they had grown up in a constant state of competition and one-upmanship.

Now, Jocelyn almost aggressively claimed the seat beside Brendan’s at the table and Tracy sat near the end, next to her mother. At the other end, Aunt Rose had taken a seat as the eldest of the three sisters. She tended to want her recognition for that, much as her daughter Jocelyn seemed to crave attention for just about everything
she
did.

The meal began with a prayer, offered solemnly, as only Southern Baptists can. Tracy kept her eyes open, wondering at her mother’s insistence on long prayers when she never set foot in a church unless someone had died or was getting married. Across the table, Jocelyn had a small smile on her face and Tracy wondered what she was up to other than plotting to get her claws into Brendan.

“So Brendan, what’s your line of work?” Aunt Kay asked, as the food was passed around.

Aunt Kay was the sweetest of the sisters and was probably just making conversation, but Tracy cursed her for bringing up Brendan’s profession. Her mother was sure to have a raised eyebrow at his answer.

“I’m a music executive,” he responded.

Tracy did not look up, but out of the corner of her eye saw that her mother did.

“That must be very interesting work,” Jocelyn said. “So I assume you know Tracy’s best friend’s husband, K Smooth.”

“Yes. Very well,” Brendan said. “Used to be his manager, in fact.”

Next to her, Tracy could feel her mother visibly tense.

“Really? Oh, so that’s how you and Tracy . . .”

“Jocelyn, could we not interrogate him about his work and the music business?” Tracy interrupted. “Let’s talk about something where everyone can participate.”

“And heaven knows, I have nothing to contribute in a conversation about the music young people are listening to these days,” her mother said, her voice dry.

“I don’t know,” Brendan said amiably. “It’s not all club music and hip-hop anymore, Mrs. Emerson. We’re seeing a lot of new artists who have interesting similarities to a lot of names you’d recognize. Just last month, I signed a young man who, if your eyes were closed, you’d think was Otis Redding. Young kid out of Philadelphia. Big talent.”

“Oh is that right?” Aunt Rose asked. “I always loved Otis Redding. What’s this new artist’s name? I may have to look for him.”

“When we release his CD, I’d be happy to send you one,” Brendan offered. “His name is Sam Gaston. I guarantee you’re going to be hearing about him.”

“Well I suppose even I know something about Otis Redding,” Tracy’s mother acknowledged, something reluctantly.

Tracy smothered a smile and resolved to let Brendan look out for himself since clearly he was more than capable of doing so. Even with her mother sniffing for blood.

After dinner, she played the role of the dutiful daughter, helping to clear the table and putting away leftovers while her aunts and Jocelyn entertained Brendan and stuffed him with Aunt Rose’s rum Bundt cake. From the kitchen, as she and her mother worked, Tracy could hear his voice and Jocelyn laughing a little too enthusiastically at something he said. She hurried with her task, going out to join them before her mother could ask her to do anything else.

When she entered the living room, Jocelyn was sitting next to Brendan on the sofa—a little too close—and listening to something on his phone. Brendan looked up and smiled at her.

“Could I have a minute?” she asked him, her voice perfectly even.

“Sure.”

Brendan stood and she walked him out to the foyer, turning to look up at him, arms crossed. They looked at each other for a moment until he shrugged, waiting for her to speak.

“Don’t flirt with her,” she said. “I swear she has a personality disorder or something. If anything with a penis is within ten feet she turns into the Black Marilyn Monroe. Don’t encourage it.”

Brendan looked amused. “Was that what I was doing?” he asked.

“Were you?”

He shrugged again. “
I
don’t think so.”

“Well are you going out with her tonight?” Tracy challenged.

Brendan closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.

“Tracy . . .”

“It would be well within your rights to go out with her if you find her attractive,” she babbled on. “And for some reason, which escapes me, lots of men seem to.”

Brendan waited for her to finish then sighed. “You’re doing it again,” he said.

“Doing what?” Tracy snapped. She could feel her nerves beginning to fray.

“Trippin’,” Brendan responded matter-of-factly.

“
Am
I?” she asked. “You went out last night after I left, with Lord knows who, so maybe you want to hang out tonight too. And if Jocelyn, Ms. 38 double-DDs in there is offering to . . .”

Brendan looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was within sight and wrenched open the front door, pulling her outside with him by her forearm. Once he’d shut the door again he pushed her back against it and caged her in with his arms.

“God
damn
it, Tracy!” he said, losing his patience for the first time. “I’m not interested in your fucking cousin. While I’m in Atlanta, I’m not interested in anyone. Anyone but you. Is
that
what you want to hear?”

Tracy looked up at him, strangely aroused by his anger, and perversely pleased that she was the only person she knew of who could—without fail—make Brendan lose his cool.

Then she realized what he said.

“Only while you’re in Atlanta?”

“What?”

“You said you were only interested in me. While you’re in Atlanta.”

Brendan leaned in closer. His face was almost touching hers.

“We’re going by your playbook, sweetheart. Are you telling me you want to change the rules? Because if you do, we can have that conversation.”

His voice held the hint of a challenge. Tracy swallowed hard. Was he telling her that he was open to a conversation about being exclusive? And what if he was? Her heartbeat suddenly accelerated. She didn’t even know if that was what
she
wanted, did she? All she knew was that when she thought about him touching someone else, it made her want to throw a screaming shit-fit.

“Thought so,” Brendan said, quietly, nodding. “So let’s just go back inside and finish the evening with a minimum of bullshit.”

She pulled in her lower lip and her shoulders sagged, all of the fight gone out of her.

“You’re something else, y’know that?” he said shaking his head, smiling.

And then before she could respond he was kissing her, an open-mouthed, full-on, usually reserved-for-love-making
type of kiss, his hand spanning her neck, making her feel
tiny. Then he replaced his hand with his lips and pressed himself against her. She could feel the beginnings of his arousal against her stomach.

“Does that feel like I want your cousin?” he breathed against her neck.

“No,” Tracy admitted.

“So stop trippin’,” he said, nuzzling her.

Then he opened the door and pulled her back in. Just inside the foyer, heading toward the front door, probably coming to find them was her mother. Tracy smiled guiltily and noted a flicker in her mother’s eyes that quickly disappeared.

“Coffee for you, Brendan?” she asked; once again the unfailingly polite hostess.

“Would love some.” Brendan said as he released Tracy’s hand and followed her mother back into the living room.

When she walked him out to his rental car later, they didn’t kiss goodbye, mindful that someone might be watching them from the house. Brendan leaned in and whispered in her ear, joking that Tracy should leave a ladder outside her bedroom window so he could climb in when her mother was asleep.

She blushed and shoved him away from her. Every time he looked at her, it was as though he was about to pounce, and what was scarier, she wanted him to. Thinking about the fact that he was flying back to New York without her in the morning made her feel a little uncomfortable.
I’m not interested in anyone else while I’m in Atlanta
, he said. And tomorrow he would no longer be in Atlanta.

Back in the house, Jocelyn was waiting for her by the front door. She arched an eyebrow, and smiled at Tracy, shaking her head.

“So nice cock-blocking,” she said.

Tracy smirked at her. “Hard as it is to believe, Joss, he was not interested in you.”

“And why would you care?” Jocelyn pressed. “I mean, since he’s just a
friend
and all.”

“He is,” Tracy said trying to walk past her.

“So you won’t have a problem giving me his number,” Jocelyn said.

Tracy hesitated. “I told you, he’s not interested.”

“Men are notorious for changing their minds,” Jocelyn said. “Especially if skillfully persuaded.”

“He wouldn’t be . . .”

“Girl,” Jocelyn said, turning to walk away. “You ain’t
foolin
’
nobody
. . .” she paused and looked back. “Except maybe yourself.”

Tracy resisted the urge to smack her.

“And by the way,” Jocelyn said as her parting shot. “Does he know about
your
. . . issues?”

Tracy’s face colored.

That Jocelyn knew anything about that was the result of an unfortunate lapse in judgment one Christmas break during college when Tracy had found herself stranded and with no one else to call after a spending the night with a guy she barely knew. Jocelyn had gotten up even though it was well past two a.m. and had driven twenty-five miles to fetch her after sneaking her mother’s car out without permission. In a rare moment of candor, and largely out of gratitude, Tracy had told her cousin considerably more than she should have.

And Jocelyn had never forgotten it. She only rarely alluded to what she knew, but when she did, it was always intended to embarrass or take Tracy down a notch or two.

“I’m guessing he doesn’t know, huh?” Jocelyn said with mock sympathy. “The way he was looking at you, he probably thinks you’re exactly what you pretend to be—better than every-damn-body.”

Getting relaxed enough to sleep in her high school bedroom was difficult. Tracy was surrounded by pink, lace and posters that reflected the naïve dreams of her fourteen-year old self. The following year, the year she turned fifteen was the last year she could recall having had anything resembling a girlhood fantasy about the male of the species. That was the year she lost her innocence in more ways than one, and she hadn’t been the same since. But now, and much to her surprise, some of what she used to believe—that one day someone would love and want to take care of her—was slowly being revived. And there was no escaping the fact that it was all because of Brendan.