I'll Be Your Everything

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Authors: J.J. Murray

BOOK: I'll Be Your Everything
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Outstanding Praise for the Novels of J. J. Murray!
 
I’M YOUR GIRL
 
“Murray writes a gentle romance about cultural differences and deep commonalities in a unique tale about white / black relationships.” —
Booklist
 
“Humor and heartbreak are side by side ... Murray movingly shows emotions ... a wonderful book!”—
Romantic Times
 
ORIGINAL LOVE
 
“Touching, soul-searching ... not only entertaining, but enlightening as well.”—
RAWSistaz
 
SOMETHING REAL
 
“
Something Real
is about a woman finding herself and finding her voice in a community too quick to judge.
Renee and Jay
was a promising debut.
Something Real,
which is a more mature and richer work, is even better.”—
The Roanoke Times
 
“Delightful! Sexy! Touching!
Something Real
is like a burst of sunshine. This release is definitely something special and something real! This is a story that readers must experience for themselves.”
—
Romance in Color
 
RENEE AND JAY
 
“A charming, funny romance and a promising debut... . This
Romeo and Juliet
story is sweet and romantic with lively characters.”
—The Roanoke Times
 
“An update of Shakespeare’s
Romeo and Juliet,
with a twist.”
—Essence
 
“
Renee and Jay
is the interracial
Romeo and Juliet
for the new millennium.. . .
Renee and Jay
is a great read, and I really could not stop reading it until I got to the last page.”
—Shonell Bacon, editor of
The Nubian Chronicles
 
“J. J. Murray has a terrific sense of humor! The ability of the author to write a fast-paced story with funny scenes, outspoken social commentary, and quite a few twists will cause
Renee and Jay
to be one of this year’s most popular reads.”
—Cydney Rax,
Book-Remarks
Books by J. J. Murray
 
 
RENEE AND JAY
 
SOMETHING REAL
 
ORIGINAL LOVE
 
I’M YOUR GIRL
 
CAN’T GET ENOUGH OF YOUR LOVE
 
TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING
 
THE REAL THING
 
SHE’S THE ONE
 
I’LL BE YOUR EVERYTHING
 
 
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
I’ll Be Your Everything
 
J. J. Murray
 
 
KENSINGTON BOOKS
 
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
For Amy
Chapter 1
 
A
n elderly white woman with a fancy camera around her neck waits alone at Tillary and Jay in downtown Brooklyn. I wish I had a digital zoom camera like that. At first, I think she’s a lost bird feeder from one of the nearby parks because she wears a brown wool jacket, matching frumpy hat, and brown corduroys. But she’s out here at 7:30 a.m. in this gross, misty, dirty, frigid weather that screams, “Brooklyn is too cold for people to function in November.”
Tourists are getting as hardy as the trees in Whitman Park.
She steps in front of me and asks, “Will this bus take me to Times Square?”
I want to tell her that any bus will take you anywhere eventually, but she seems so needy. I squint through my misted glasses at the oversized blue sign. B51. I rode that bus once and hated it. A bus is no way to see the world unless you have a window seat and the person next to you isn’t big-boned. I didn’t have a window seat that day, decided to save my money and the hassle of feeling like a sardine, and haven’t ridden a bus since.
“It might take you to Times Square eventually,” I say to the tourist, wiping mist from my lenses and returning my glasses to my face. “But don’t take my word for it. I don’t ride the bus enough to know.”
“You ride the subway instead?” she asks.
Also once. Not a good time. Though I’m five feet tall, slim, and can squeeze into just about any tight space, that trip on the subway gave me major claustrophobia. The fumes, men in suits oozing thick, cloying cologne, little bruises on my booty from slamming into the poles as more people crowded my little body, the intermittent darkness—not my idea of a good time. I kind of miss the booty bumps caused by some random briefcases held by some of the men supposedly reading the
Times
. I never knew briefcases could get so fresh.
“No, ma’am,” I tell the tourist. “I walk.”
She cocks her head to the side. Maybe she’s hard of hearing. Either that or she has to move her head occasionally to focus a wandering eye. “You walk?”
“It’s only a few miles.”
To MultiCorp, America’s number-one multicultural ad agency fifteen years running, and that’s why I’m walking. I can
afford
to walk. I’ve been an administrative assistant at MultiCorp for
five
years. I
know
. Five years is a long time to be kissing anyone’s booty. I’ve had a couple of bumps in pay, and I even earned a bonus last year, an IKEA gift card that I redeemed for a storage combination with three bright pink buckets that hold whatever comes out of my pockets: keys, receipts, Post-its, and change. But mostly, I survive the daily grind. Walking keeps me in my $1,500-a-month apartment that has a “window office” (a cherry desk and my laptop), a narrow kitchen with a skinny oak table and two skinnier oak chairs, and a view of the Statue of Liberty if I put my face flush to the window and squint just right after the sun goes down.
“Well, thank you anyway,” she says, stepping back.
“Anytime.” I turn to leave then remember my Virginia-born manners. “Um, enjoy your visit to Brooklyn.”
The woman leaps in front of me. “I’m in Brooklyn? I thought
this
was Manhattan.” She points in a westerly direction. “Isn’t that Central Park over there?”
Manhattan
was my favorite Woody Allen movie. I can afford to
rent
that. I work in lower Manhattan, and I even like eating Manhattan clam chowder, but I could never afford to live in Manhattan or anywhere near the big ad agencies on Madison Avenue like Young & Rubicam, Doyle Dane Bernbach, and Harrison Hersey and Boulder.
“No, ma’am. That’s Whitman Park. This is, um ...”
How do I make her feel better without confusing her and ruining her vacation? Wait. She’s touring Brooklyn, which she has mistaken for Manhattan, in November. What kind of a vacation is that? At any rate, she seems lost enough as it is. Nothing I say is going to make her feel any better.
“This is Brooklyn
Heights,
” I say. Sort of, but not really. It’s complicated. You have to live here. “Tell the bus driver you want to go to Times Square, and he’ll hook you up.” Again, eventually. I don’t tell her that she’ll probably have to switch buses during the craziest time of the morning in Manhattan.
“I was so sure
that
was Central Park.” She still points over toward Whitman Park. “It looked just like it does in the movies. I got some wonderful pictures that look
just
like they came from that
Law & Order
show. Is Manhattan far from here?”
There’s a loaded question. I want to tell her that it takes forever to get to Manhattan and stick around. “It’s only a few miles,” I say. It’s only a few miles as the crow flies, but there are few straight lines around here.
I check out her shoes. Comfortable black Brooks walkers. I love her corduroys. Her whole outfit is a statement. What that statement is, exactly, I don’t know.
“We
could
walk together,” I tell her. “It will only take half an hour or so, and it may even be faster than taking the bus.”
She squints.
Ah.
The lack of trust inherent in out-of-town people whenever someone from Brooklyn stops to give them assistance. I was the same way when I first arrived and spoke good, southern English to people who sometimes spoke English. I now speak Brooklyn-ese with a slight southern twang. I squinted a lot back then, too.
Hmm.
The Good Samaritan in the Bible just went on and did his thing. I should just grab her arm and get her some exercise. But I had home training, and I don’t twist anybody’s arm—not even my own.
“I work on William Street in lower Manhattan.” Seventeen floors up. “A few blocks from where they’re building the Freedom Tower.”
No bells. She blinks.
“Um, near where the World Trade Center used to be.”
A bell. She nods.
“William Street is about ...” Again, how do I make her feel better for mistaking Brooklyn for Manhattan? Can it be done? This situation is why people write online blogs. “It’s about a cab ride from Times Square.”
“That close?” she says.
Wow. And I thought I was naïve and spatially challenged. “Yes. That close.”
“Well, I think I’ll wait for this bus anyway. Thank you for your help.” She steps back.
I continue walking.
At least she said thank you. So many people don’t. Especially ignorant people, but ignorance is bliss, and she sure seemed quite happy to wait in her version of Manhattan on a rainy Friday morning in Brooklyn.
What people
don’t
know about the world or where they’re going keeps them happy.
Bliss is being lost in America.
I doubt anyone will ever quote me on that one.

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