Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall) (5 page)

But all-in-all, we’ve remained friends, best friends through it all. I was there, holding her when her father was diagnosed with Prostate Cancer, crying with her, tear for tear. I was even there when he went into remission. We celebrated with Tequila and nachos, shot for shot, chip for chip.

Sydney was there for me when I discovered that my father had been cheating on my mother. Syd was actually the mastermind in getting them back together and into counseling. Syd saved my parents. I owe her. Our friendship has withstood the test of time, and we’re still here, bickering like enemies and loving each other like sisters. But man, sometimes she is such a witch. Like today.

“What can I do to make you see how hot you are?” Sydney asks, leaning in closer to me. Okay, maybe she isn’t so bad.

“It’s not that I don’t think … I mean, I know I’m not butt ugly. But Syd, this guy … he’s … I don’t know how to explain it,” I respond.

“Who does he look like?” she asks. Sydney likes when people are compared to famous people. If you can piecemeal a visual description from multiple celebrities, then she’s satiated. For instance, saying something like “The girl had Sandra Bullock’s hair, Megan Fox’s eyes, Julia Roberts’ mouth, Leighton Meester’s wardrobe …” would make Syd’s day and paint the perfect picture for her. She’s very visual.

“I don’t know who he looks like … like … I don’t know. Like every hot fantasy, I’ve ever had.” I admit truthfully.

I’m stalling, because I know she’s going to freak when I tell her. Sydney won’t be able to handle what I’ve already come up with. I spent a good portion of last night thinking about it—figuring out his perfect physical “movie star” description.

“Alright, I already thought about it, because I knew you were going to ask me again. But, you can’t think I’m delusional, okay? Promise?”

“Scout’s honor,” she says, using the wrong gesture, unless of course, the Scouts are really mad at the world these days.

“Dre looks like a triple combination, a twisted delightful perfected version of …” I stall, knowing she’s going to laugh at me and not believe me.

Syd glares at me, motioning for me to continue. “Okay … okay … Paul Walker.” Sydney’s eyes widen. “Taylor Kitsch,” I add, while Sydney, licks her lips vulgarly and suggestively, “and Wilson Bethel.”

“Fuck me now! Are you serious? Why didn’t you do him on the hood of your car as soon as you saw him?” she squeals, a little louder than necessary. Heads whip around over to us, gawking at her profanity. We slink down and lean in a little closer.

“I know! That’s what I’m saying. This is … this is … unchartered territory for me,” I admit, taking out my credit card to finally pay the server who’s been circling us and eyeing my check booklet.

“Syd, I’ve never scored this high before. But believe me, I want to get in this game.” Her face lights up. She’s always urging me to meet guys and hook up.

Analyzing it more, I say, “I want to win the whole dang tournament, take home the championship trophy … four years in a row. Retire the jersey and call the game.”

“Not that you put any thought into it,” Syd laughs, switching my card out for hers. “It’s only fair; I made you eat alone.” Okay, maybe she isn’t the biggest bitch ever.

“Thanks,” I say. “Yeah, I sure haven’t thought about it at all.

As I get out of the shower, Rory tosses me a towel. I wrap it around me quickly, knowing what’s coming.

“I don’t fucking get it. I work out all the damn time and can’t bulk up. You carry some old bitch’s groceries, and you look bigger the next day,” Rory whines.

I don’t know what his deal is. Rory’s ripped; he’s just not huge. Neither am I. And girls always flock to him, especially older women. Rory loves cougars; that’s his thing. “Hurry up too, we gotta get going.”

“You need more protein, and more reps,” I offer.

For the past year, Rory and I’ve been working out at his hotel’s gym right before lunch hour. Vacationers tend to exercise in the early morning hours before they hit the beach or the Market. Some people work out late in the evening, right before dinner. Other than that, the fitness room is a ghost town. Typically, we have the room to ourselves, avoiding the questions and complaints of all the hotel guests.

“I can’t do any more reps without my arms falling off. I couldn’t even raise my hands to jack off yesterday,” he jokes.

“Dude, too much information,” I say, pulling a shirt over my head. “Your masturbatory practices are not of any interest to me. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

Changing the subject, “Alright, so what’re you gonna do? Ya gonna see her again?” he questions.

“I have to. Can’t get her off my mind,” I confess. “I’m sure that once I fuck her, she’ll be out of my system.”

“Whatever you say, Bro, whatever you say,” Rory says, waving me off.

“What?” I ask, raking my hands through my hair.

“Dre, you haven’t as much as looked at a girl since you got to Charleston last year, and now … now, you think fucking some chick is going to ‘cure your month-long, obsessive crush?” Rory asks.

“This is more than “baby Dre” wanting to come out and play. This chick got under your skin. This is more than just your pants talking.” Rory argues.

“Ro, it’s not. I’m not getting serious. This is just going to be a one-time hook up and out … pun intended … And who’re you calling ‘baby Dre,’ Tiny?” I jab, knowing that I just fueled a fire I’d never put out.

“Tiny? Awwww fuck no. You know what they say about black men … that ain’t no myth. Do I have to show you again?” he asks, unbuttoning his pants. “Don’t make me show this Kathryn chick why white men just don’t add up. She’ll lose interest in you the second this thing’s free.”

“Okay, okay, okay … just leave that anaconda under wraps. Ain’t no one safe with that thing out in the open,” I joke, backing away from him.

Rory Carlson (Reginald Briar Carlson Jr.) and I have been friends since college. He was one of the only black guys in our fraternity. Thinking back on it now, they were probably trying to hit some minority-required quota. I didn’t exactly pledge the frat with the highest levels of tolerance.

Man, college seemed like ages ago—not just five short years ago. Rory was the only friend I made worth keeping. As soon as he graduated with his Business and Hospitality degree, he moved back to Charleston to take over one of his dad’s hotels. So my party-animal, crowd-surfing, best friend was now the general manager of one of the five-star, old-fashioned hotels in downtown Charleston.

Rory can handle the job. He exudes charm and has a mind for business and marketing. He however has the title of general manager, but he’s really a glorified bellman. Rory’s dad, Reginald Briar Carlson Sr., doesn’t trust him to handle anything, other than luggage and dinner reservations for tourists. It’s sad really, because the hotel has that air of history that tourists love, but does need the updates and innovation that Rory would bring to the table. His dad won’t hear of any of it. Yes, Rory is getting a big fat paycheck, but his ego is taking a demotion.

“Wanna sandwich?” Rory asks, as we enter the hotel’s large, dilapidated kitchen. The place is definitely in need of some updates and a few stainless steel appliances. Despite its age, the hotel offers the finest cuisine and guest services, complete with all the upscale amenities. I sound like a goddamn advertisement for the joint.

“Seriously, do ya have to ask?” I say, grabbing the bread from the shelf.

“I don’t understand,” Rory admits. “Why don’t you just bring her here, wine her, dine her, and—”

“Don’t finish that sentence!”

“Dude, I was just going to say ‘and see where it goes.’ Relax man, I’d never disrespect your woman,” Rory states.

“She’s not my woman,” I argue again. “Plus, I don’t think she’s a hoity-toity kind of girl. She wouldn’t fall for this shit.”

“Fuck. All girls fall for this top-shelf romance. This is the shit that makes their panties disappear into thin air,” Rory boasts as he spreads mustard all over both of his sandwich buns. “You bring her here, and you’re in a honeymoon suite by midnight and ‘getting her outta your system’ by 1:00 a.m. guaranteed,” Rory challenges.

“I’m not bringing her here,” I finalize, adamantly. “I just want to be with her. Talk to her; just ya know, hang out,” I admit. Rory raises his eyebrows at me, questioningly.

“Okay fine, and nail her after that,” I relent. Rory’s fists pump in triumph. He’s really had a problem with my newfound chosen abstinence. Abstinent Dre is much different than the Dre he went to college with.

“Do you hear yourself?” Rory questions. “Saying shit like ‘talk to her’ and ‘hang out.’ Dre, you’re kidding yourself. This ain’t just about fucking some bitch and sneaking out an hour after she dozes off.” Rory takes a bite of his sandwich, smearing mustard on the sides of his cheeks. Maybe his dad’s right; maybe a little refinement wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

“She’s different. That’s it. Total physical attraction. Nothing more, Man, I swear,” I say, wondering whom I’m trying to convince.

“Alright buddy, nothing more, got it,” Rory says, rolling his eyes. “Hurry up and eat, I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes with the board of trustees; whatever the fuck that means.”

“Little late getting back from lunch, eh?” I ask as Kathryn gets out of her car.

“I didn’t realize my stalker was keeping track of the time clock,” she says, uncapping her lip-gloss.

Fuck. She is not going to put that on in front of me. Don’t do it. Don’t. Don’t. Aww fuck, she is. The stick thing glides over her bottom lip, layering her lip in a thick, wet shine. Holy shit. I can think of quite few other things that I’d want to trail over those sexy lips.

“Hey Dre, cat got your tongue?” Kathryn asks, winking at me. Well, well, well, what do we have here? Kathryn Howell is flirting with me. This is a strange turn of events.

“No Ma’am, the cat most certainly does not have my tongue. I can do anything you’d like me to with my tongue … anything,” I say, seeing her sexual innuendo, and doubling and raising anything she may add.

Fanning herself, she says, “It’s getting too hot for my blood; I fold,” she announces, walking to the office door. “Seriously though, what brings ya back to the Agency?” she asks coyly.

“I wanted to see if a certain literary agent wanted to have dinner tonight,” I admit.

“If she’s an agent, then she’s probably ‘booked’ for the night,” she says, cracking herself up. I groan at her cheesy joke. “Ba-dump-ba! I’m here all night, folks.”

Kathryn Howell is adorable. She’s corny, quirky, and sexy too. I can’t take my eyes off of her. Smiling, Kathryn says, “Well, what’s her name? I’ll ask her when I get inside.”

“Katie something or other. Just tell her I’ll be out here tonight at 5:30,” I say, starting to walk away. I stop, turn around, and add, “If she’s not here by 5:45, then I’m hitting up that waitress, ‘Allie with i.’ I hear she’s got crabs, but I’ll take my chances.”

Laughing, she says, “I’ll let her know. Wouldn’t want those all-you-can-eat-crabs spreading all over town.” Kathryn waves, turns to leave, but stops, and then looks back at me to add, “Oh … and Dre, please don’t call me ‘Katie.’ I hate it.”

“Then you’ll never hear me say it again,” I promise her. A grin travels all the way across her face; you can even see the smile in her eyes. I thought she might be a little hard to get, but this was going smoothly—very smoothly.