Driving Heat (5 page)

Anyone listening to the cacophony that greeted Byron as he stepped into the Carter household would have thought there were thirty people in the Carter living room. Instead, it was just his dad (the loudest), three brothers, Tyra, and a cousin who was around Tyra’s age. As he entered, they ran out of the room in search of more age-appropriate, girly entertainment. Byron greeted them and then entered the living room and immediately made his presence known.

“How can y’all hear the TV with all this hollering?” he yelled loud enough to be heard over the din. “Stop all this yakkity-yak. I’m here to watch the game!”

“Shut up, fool. You’re louder than anybody!”

“Nobody cares why you’re here.”

“You bad, come over and shut me up!”

“Hey, big brother, we learned from the best.”

“Byron, go sit down.”

Barry, the youngest son, delivered this command and got bopped upside the head for his trouble. Byron sat down beside him. “Shut the hell up.”

“Hey!” Elizabeth “Mom Liz” Carter walked into the room wearing a scowl. “Cut out all this ruckus! And stop all that got damn cussing in my house!”

The room erupted into an even louder cacophony as all but one of Byron’s brothers—Douglas, Nelson, and Barry—verbally reacted to her comment. The girls, Tyra and her cousin, ran back into the living room, looked at their grandmother with wide-eyed glee, and plopped down on an oversized floor cushion in a way that suggested the best entertainment was in this room. Liz was a walking, talking tornado who made no apologies for who she was. At five-foot-eight, she was just two inches shorter than her husband, and outweighed him by about fifty pounds. Both bark and bite, with a heart of gold. Would curse you out one minute and feed you the next. Her family loved her to death.

Byron jumped up to give her a hug. “What’s up, Mama Lizzie?”

“My blood pressure. What’s up with you?”

“The price of gas. You want to sit here, on the couch?”

“Since it’s my house I’ll sit where I please. You’ll know where that is when my ass hits the cushion.” She sat in the place Byron had vacated. “Now move out the way. The game’s back on.” Liz reached for the remote and turned up the volume.

“Gram, when’s the pizza getting here?”

“When the doorbell rings, Tyra, now stop asking. You and your cousin go play.”

Byron looked around as the room quieted. “Where’s Marvin?”

“Out sniffing after some feline.” Willie grew up in the south, Mississippi, and brought his slow speech and pronounced accent to LA. It never left and neither did he.

“What’s a feline?” the young cousin asked.

Liz’s brow furrowed. “Your kitty cat.”

Now Tyra was confused. “Uncle Marvin is smelling her cat?”

“Not an animal, girl. Your vagina, coochie, beaver . . .”

“Beaver!” This description sent the young cousin into fits of laughter.

“Dang, Mom!” Byron shook his head, eyes glued to the screen.

“What? She asked? Would you have preferred I said p—”

“Come on now, Liz . . .” Willie’s speech sped up a notch or two.

“I can’t say pocketbook?” Her eyes twinkled as she gave Byron a wink. “That’s what they called it back home. Told us to keep it closed and put a lock on it.” She looked at the girls. “Did you hear that? Closed, and locked.”

Tyra frowned. “But, Gram, how do you—”

“Tyra. If you want a slice of pizza, I suggest you go play like Mama told you until it arrives.” Once they’d gone, Byron fixed Liz with a look of exasperation. “Really, Mama?”

“Humph. It’s a good thing I’m talking, from the looks of things. She needs to know about her body and she needs to know early. Before some cute little boy with a wink and a smile comes shopping for a purse.”

His brothers chuckled. Byron sighed. “Never mind.”

“I never do. And you’re welcome.”

“Ha!” Knowing few people won an argument when Liz was the opponent, he left the living room in search of a beer, thinking about Cynthia, and wondering what she’d think of his crazy family.

 

 

On the other side of the city, Cynthia was trying to convince the girls that she wasn’t the crazy one. It was their Sunday afternoon telephone powwow, a staple event in these best friend’s lives since Cynthia had left Chicago for Los Angeles two and a half years ago. Only a job like the one at H.E.L.P. could have pulled her away from these BFFs who all still lived there.

“I don’t see anything wrong with it.” Lisa had cut off an appalled Gayle to make her point. “If she was talking love and a future, then, yes, concern would be appropriate. But this is just dinner, no big deal.”

“We don’t do dinner with bus drivers,” Gayle, a truly snooty sister, retorted.

“We don’t marry bus drivers,” Lisa corrected. “But hey, why turn down a free meal?”

“Where is he taking you, Cynthia . . . Pizza Hut, Subway?”

Even though she knew they couldn’t see it, Cynthia rolled her eyes. “I love you, Gayle, but I swear sometimes your uppity ass gets on my last nerves.”

“Don’t pay attention to her nonsense.” Dynah sounded equally annoyed, before her tone changed. “Cynthia, I do have a concern.”

Coming from the mother hen of the group, Cynthia wasn’t surprised.

“Is it okay for you to go out with this guy since he’s part of your client’s family?” Dynah asked.

“Before this year, the answer would have been an unequivocal yes. But this year, for the very first time, the American Counselor Association has added a section to the code of ethics expressly prohibiting personal relationships with a client, of course, or their family, which the H.E.L.P. Agency defines as immediate family members.”

Having similar restraints in the field of education, Dynah pressed the issue. “How can the definition be left up to interpretation?”

“A lot of counselors are asking the same thing and so far there is no one, right answer. But again, this is dinner, not a date.”

“At least you’re going out,” Dynah finished, obviously placated for the moment. “Besides Gayle, did anyone else have a date this weekend?”

“I did.”

“Not a booty call, Lisa, and not a club pickup. A date, when the man comes to your house, opens the car door, pays the bill, and kisses you good night.”

“He came to my house and kissed me, in a few places. Does that count as a half date?”

The women laughed.

“Why are y’all trying to make so much out of this? I’m going to a casual dinner with someone whose conversation I enjoy. End of story.”

“Tell us more about him.” Mother Dynah, always the voice of reason. “He isn’t a professional, but does he have the other required qualifications?”

“He went to college.”

“Did he graduate?”

“Not everyone can be summa cum laude, Gayle.”

“Or even praise de Lawd,” Lisa mumbled.

Dynah snickered.

“Lisa?”

“Yes, Cynthia?”

“Stop drinking.” Even Gayle laughed at this. “He went to school on a partial football scholarship, but got injured in his junior year. Without the scholarship money, he couldn’t finish. So he took a job with LA’s Metro system. He’s worked there ten years and is a homeowner.”

“That’s good,” Dynah said.

“You have to have good credit to get a home loan,” Lisa added.

“In a desirable neighborhood?”

“Gayle, calm down.” Lisa was one of the few who could get Gayle to actually do this.

“Okay, fine. He’s got a mortgage. But he’s not a college graduate or business professional. Are you willing to settle for one out of three?” Gayle asked.

Cynthia bristled at the overall tone of the conversation. When hearing these required standards used against Byron, they didn’t sound good.
And if I tell them he’s a single father . . .
There was no need to get into that. It wasn’t like their sharing a meal would become a regular event. “Listen, I have touted the notion of DHOP or die single as fervently as any of you. A degreed, home-owning professional is still my ideal. You guys are reacting as if he and I are shopping for rings.”

“Cynthia Eileen Hall, don’t even try it.” Lisa’s use of her full name showed she was serious. “If it was one of us, you’d be talking the same way.”

“Maybe so, but the point is I’m not dating Byron. We’re meeting for dinner, as friends, nothing more. I enjoyed his company yesterday, more than I thought I would. The hours I put in at work and caring for Jayden have left very little time for making friends here or developing a social network. The company felt nice. Yes, he is a blue-collar brother. But one who’s intelligent, funny, interesting, considerate—”

“Are you attracted to him?” Asked in a way that showed Gayle was not only incredulous, but clearly not on board.

“He is totally not my type.”

“That’s not what she asked,” Lisa said. “Are you going to give him some? That’s what we really want to know.” No immediate answer. “I would. He could be shorter than Kevin Hart and look like Flavor Flav. But if my dictation drought had lasted as long as yours, I’d let his pool cue sink an eight ball!”

The conversation turned silly then, with each woman talking about how they’d sex someone after a lengthy celibacy. Lisa’s foolishness made them forget about the question, but even after the call ended, it stayed on Cynthia’s mind.

Byron wasn’t her type. His niece was her client, a potential conflict of interest. He was not a DHOP, her standard for potential liaisons. So if given the chance, would Cynthia have sex with Byron?

Absolutely not! The idea in and of itself is ridiculous!
Or was it? Time would tell.

Cynthia had never gone to the restaurant that Byron suggested and had given herself plenty of time to get there. She arrived early. Byron had as well. He stood as the hostess brought her to the table, and helped her with the chair.

“Oh, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Men like me don’t do what we have to do. We do what we want to do.” He returned to his seat. “It’s how I was raised.”

“Well, compliments to your father.”

“This is for you.” He handed her a medium-sized black box wrapped with a purple ribbon.

“What’s this for?”

“Really? Okay, since you feel most comfortable wearing your professional veneer, let’s say it’s a token of my appreciation for your working with Leah and keeping her out of the system. How’s that sound?”

“I’m just doing my job, Byron, the same as I do for every case file that lands on my desk. I’m not sure accepting this would be appropriate.”

“Then would you please be inappropriate and open the gift? Otherwise, you’re being rude to a client’s relative, which probably isn’t appropriate either.”

Cynthia shook her head as she pulled on the satin ribbon to undo the bow. “You’re something else.”

“I know.”

The box was lined with purple satin that held two crystal flutes filled with silver-wrapped kisses.

“These are gorgeous. Wow. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You really shouldn’t have, and not”—her hand came up quickly, silencing the protest on his lip—“because of our professional relationship. You’re acting as if we’re on a date, and that’s not what this is.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“Two people meeting for dinner.”

“And what’s a date?”

“You know what I mean!” she said with more attitude than intended. His cool, confident demeanor was getting on her nerves. It was so sexy!

His gaze was thoughtful as he looked at her and said nothing at all.

Several more seconds went by, during which time the waiter came and took their drink orders. She felt best when their conversation centered on subjects held in common: kids, exes, home-owning, travel, less personal topics such as those they’d shared yesterday. She picked up the menu.

“I’ve never spent time here, in Silverlake. The area is a bit unkempt, but the atmosphere here is nice. How’d you find this place?”

“I basically grew up in LA, remember?”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean one knows the city. When I first arrived I was shocked to meet young clients, native Angelenos, who’d never gone ten miles outside their neighborhood. Who’d never been to any of the landmark tourist attractions such as Hollywood, Disneyland, Universal Studios . . . even the beach! Visitors pay thousands of dollars to visit what is in their own backyard.”

“One of my college buddies grew up in this area. His parents still live here. I used to come and hang out with him and his family. But you’re right. I know people who’ve lived most of their lives within twenty or so square blocks, maybe less. When your focus is on avoiding drug dealers and gang bangers, not getting pulled over by the police, or worse, trying to find food because your mom is an addict and your dad is in jail, there’s no time for Mickey Mouse.”

Without thought, Cynthia shifted to counselor mode. “Is that how it was for you?”

“No, not at all, thanks to my mom. While Dad was deployed, she had to hold down the fort with six rowdy kids. Books, videos, games, TV . . . not the stuff kids want to watch, but the PBS, History, or Biography channels, documentaries . . . that was our entertainment. She’d quiz us, too, to make sure we watched. We had a white Volvo station wagon and on the weekends, we’d pile in and head off to places unknown. The beach, museums, different parts of LA . . . it was always an adventure. I didn’t like it then, wanted to run the streets with my friends. But those trips are what made me curious, and well-rounded. So I appreciate it now.”

“Hmm. That reminds me of the family trips we used to take, my brother and I, and our parents. Every summer we took a road trip to a different place. We’d laugh, play CDs and car games. Good times for sure.”

“How old is your brother?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Four years younger than me. How old are you?”

“How old do you think?”

“Here we go, a woman who doesn’t want to tell her age. Well, are you older or younger than your brother?”

“All of these appetizers sound delicious. What do you recommend?”

“See, that’s what I was thinking about earlier and you just did it again. When I tell you something that’s accurate, you say I’m being presumptive. But when I ask a question, you don’t always answer.”

“Which I admit is a perfectly legitimate, if somewhat annoying choice.” Once again, she perused the menu. “Anything in particular you’d suggest?”

Byron picked up his menu. “Everything I’ve eaten has been good, but they’re known for their pasta. If you like veal, that dish is an excellent choice.”

“I don’t recall ever eating veal.”

“Then try it. Let go of that rigid, controlled persona you hold on to and live life on the edge.”

“I. Am not. Rigid.” Of course, when she said this her back was as stiff as a board.

“No?” He chuckled, that low, slow sound that started deep in his chest before rolling up and out into the atmosphere.

Cynthia refused to acknowledge its effect. “No,” she dared say again, thankful for the loose-fitting top she wore that hid her pebbling nipples.

His eyes swept over that very area, almost as if he not only knew what he was doing, but knew he’d succeeded. His words further unnerved her. “I guess we’ll see.”

They placed their appetizer and entrée orders. As the food arrived, the conversation moved to the safe zone that Cynthia wanted. They talked, laughed, and learned more generalities about each other’s lives. But something was different. Both of them felt it. Neither brought it up. Attraction. Desire. Hot. Pulsating. Weaving itself around them, and not letting go.

The waiter came for their entrée dishes and suggested dessert.

Byron deferred to Cynthia, who reached for her purse even as she was speaking. “I have absolutely no room left. But everything was delicious. Thank you.”

“Why are you reaching for your wallet?”

“Why not? You treated me to coffee yesterday.”

“Yeah, and that buck fifty almost broke me.”

Put that way, Cynthia’s statement sounded stupid to her own ears.

“This isn’t a date, I get it. We’re just eating. But I’m paying for it. If it means that much, you can pick it up next time.”

Cynthia wasn’t touching that one. “It’s not nice to eat and run, but I have a few things to do before work tomorrow.”

“No worries. Give me a minute. I’ll walk you out.”

She waited, but barely. Byron caught up with her as she walked out the door. “Where are you parked?”

“Around the corner.”

“Okay.”

They reached her car. She turned to him. “Thanks for inviting me to dinner, Byron, and introducing me to this place. I’ll definitely come back here.” She held out her hand. “And thanks again for the crystal glasses.”

Byron ignored her outstretched hand. Closing the distance between them, he wordlessly pulled her to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. “Handshakes are for the office. Hugs are for two people who’ve enjoyed each other’s company.”

He released her. “Look, just so you know, I don’t want to date you either.” An arched brow confirmed her surprise at this news. “But I do like to eat. So . . . can we go on another . . . dinner?”

Cynthia tried to hold it in, but the twinkle in Byron’s eye was impossible to resist. “You are so silly,” she said, while laughing.

“This time you can choose the place.”

“How are you so sure my answer will be yes?”

“Are you turning me down?”

Cynthia spoke through gritted teeth. “You drive me crazy doing that!”

“If asking a question drives you crazy, wait until you see what else I can do.” He opened her door and held it as she slipped inside. “Call and let me know where I’m going on Friday.”

“Good night, Byron.”

“Good night.”

Cynthia couldn’t pull away from the curb fast enough. “
Arrogant Negro!
I am not going to go out with him again.” At the light, she programmed her GPS to guide her home. True, she was unfamiliar with the area, but she could have been a block away from home and would have still needed help to get there.

He’s got nerve to be so sure of himself.
Merging onto the highway, she pressed on the gas pedal and quickly reached seventy miles per hour.
And to think he knows all about me when we just met? Pure arrogance.
Changing lanes to pass a vehicle, she quickly resumed a high rate of speed.
You’re not even a DHOP.
A cop on the side of the highway was motivation to reduce her speed. Would that she could rid her thoughts as easily.
Gayle is right. Dating him is out of the question.
Cynthia could just about imagine her parents’ reaction at bringing someone like Byron home. A bus driver with no degree? No matter how good his character, Anna Marie the socialite would never accept him as family. And with Cynthia having already been responsible for one stain of disgrace on the Hall family name, she dare not risk seriously dating a commoner as another. Taking the Olympic Boulevard exit, she shut down her mind until she got home. But once in bed, she could no longer deny how she’d felt in Byron’s arms.

Monday was busy, passed before she knew it. The constant activity kept thoughts of Byron at bay. She worked out and then went to a play with a coworker.

Tuesday was tougher, a day filled with meetings. That night she had a glass of wine to help her sleep.

Wednesday was the day she stopped fighting the feeling. A long shower followed her workout; then she reached for the phone.

She got voice mail. “Byron, it’s Cynthia. Do you like Indian food? If so, I have a great place in mind to go on Friday night. Let me know.”