The Henson Brothers: Two Complete Novels (22 page)

He straightened, his tone cautious. "I have a healthy appreciation, but that's all."

"That's good enough."

"Whatever you're thinking, don't."

Drake grabbed a pad and pencil. "I want you to help me write a poem and then ask Sheffield to read it."

Eric scowled at the objects. "I'm not a damn poet. I work with numbers, not words." He rubbed his forehead. "Wait... I did do an excellent poem on logarithms once, but that's it. You're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?"

Drake scribbled something down on the pad. "Raspberries have to be in it because that's what her lips taste like."

Eric briefly shut his eyes. "I don't want to know this."

"I think I've got the first line. Her raspberry lips capture my heart. I love it when she spreads her legs ap—"

Eric snatched the pad. "This is supposed to be romantic, not erotic. I'm assuming you want this poem to rhyme."

"Of course. Don't all the great poems rhyme?"

"No, but let's not get into that. So her lips are like raspberries."

"Sweetened," he added.

Eric sent him a curious glance, then wrote it down. "Right."

"It was raining outside on our last day together. Mention that. And—"

Eric held up his pen. "Hold on. A poem is not like a recipe. You don't throw in a few words and hope you come up with something." He began scribbling some lines down, then scrunched the page up and tossed it aside. "Leave it alone," he growled when Drake bent to retrieve it.

"But it might be good." He picked it up and began to smooth it out.

"It's not. Leave it or I won't finish."

Drake dropped the paper and sat back. "Poets are such moody people."

Eric worked on the poem for about a half hour.

"Yuh no done yet?" Drake complained, slipping into patois.

"Leave mi nuh. This is crucial." He wrote for a few minutes more, then handed the pad to Drake, who made a few changes and then declared it perfect.

"It will do," Eric reluctantly agreed. "I'll give it to James and hopefully the audience doesn't laugh him off the stage."

Drake grinned triumphantly at the paper in his hands. "It will all be worth the expression on her face."

* * *

The current expression on Cassie's face was disgust. She'd gone through an entire loaf of bread and avoided her computer most of the day. She punished herself by eating nothing for the remainder of the day until she began to feel light-headed and images of Drake occupied her thoughts. Twice she jumped for the phone, wondering if it was him asking to see how she was doing, but the first call was a wrong number and on the second no one replied. She knew Glen was her only chance to break an unhealthy pattern.

* * *

Unfortunately, Glen seemed to be a hard pattern to begin. She tried to hide a yawn as she sat next to him in the cozy bookstore. She couldn't focus on the
mournful
words of the world-weary poet in front of them. His head hung low, his voice was soft, his long dark hair covered his face. Only a straight pale nose stuck out. She couldn't wait until James Sheffield approached the stage. She wished that the event had been televised so she could have taped it and fast-forwarded to someone interesting.

At least Glen was enjoying himself, tapping the rhythm of the poem on his brown trousers. She was glad she came with him. He was a calming presence. None of the disturbing feelings of attraction arose when he was near; his touch was soft and pleasurable like rice pudding, nothing like the sinful rich chocolate caramel sensations Drake raised in her.

She glanced at Glen and saw him blink back tears as the poet talked about death of beauty and spirit in the wake of society's hold on our emotions. She tugged impatiently on the yellow tunic top she wore. Frankly, she wasn't impressed. Wasn't there anything in life to be happy about? Couldn't they talk about flowers, rain, love? Did true poetry have to reflect such doom and gloom? She shrugged, she cared too much. She was happy to be here with Glen. Timothy would have fallen asleep by now and Drake... no, she would not think about him.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Glen asked when there was a break for refreshments.

"Immensely," Cassie said, trying to conjure up an enthusiasm she didn't feel. Why did she feel so bored, so restless? This was what she wanted, right? "I noticed that some of the poet's words impressed you."

He popped a grape in his mouth. "Reminded me of my ex-wife."

"A dead spirit?"

He looked shocked by the suggestion. "No, a prisoner of society."

Cassie sighed, remembering Adriana's words. "You're still in love with her, aren't you?"

"No. I just miss her. I miss what we had, or at least what I thought we had." He lifted her chin. "I have no regrets, Cassie. I'm right where I belong."

Cassie felt her heart flutter and a sense of rightness greeted her with eager cheer. She was right where she belonged too.

She was happily munching on a pineapple slice, when James Sheffield approached the podium and read a poem that nearly had her choking on it.

Sweetened raspberries have been my victory

The gift my lover bestows

For in my arms she lays till morning

Her head against my pillow

Outside the rain tapped and cried

Upon the world below

While patiently I waited

To end her nightly doze

At last, I greet her with a smile

And she replies with a kiss

That reminds me of sweetened raspberries

And a soft, gentle mist.

It couldn't be, she thought when the crowd burst into applause. It was too ludicrous, too narcissistic to consider. Yet...

"Are you okay?" Glen asked, taking her hand.

"I'm fine." She forced a smile. "I'm just digesting the words." They were so powerful and had the hint of a sorcerer's spell, casting their magical tentacles around her heart. She stood. "I'll be right back."

He reluctantly let her hand go. "I'll be here."

Cassie made her way through the seats and the people captivated by the next poetry selection and headed for the restroom. She had almost reached her destination when a hand shot out from behind a bookshelf and grabbed her arm.

"Looking for me?" Drake asked, pulling her to him. She smelled the sweet summer evening on his jacket.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, ignoring the thrill creeping up her spine.

He dismissed her outrage. His arm slid around her waist. "You look beautiful. Did you like my poem?"

"You didn't write it. You don't even like poetry."

"I admit I had some help." His thumb climbed up her spine, sending electrical chills through her body. "But we both know who inspired it." His mouth captured hers for a brief wild moment.

"It was lovely," she allowed, not wanting to encourage him, but unable to pull away. "But you shouldn't be here."

"You know I've waited all evening to see you tell your friend good-bye."

"I'm not telling him good-bye."

"Why not?" He glanced around the bookshelf and stared at Glen with a frown. "He keeps crying."

"That's because he's touched."

"In the head?"

"The poems remind him of his ex-wife."

"How can he be thinking of his ex-wife while sitting next to you? Seems a little off."

She scowled.

He outlined her lips with his finger. "Forgive me, I can't help being unkind to the competition."

She pushed his hand away. "He's not your competition."

His eyes lit up with the confidence of expected victory.

"He's not?"

"No," she said coolly. "You're not even in the running."

The expression in his eyes turned flat—a dull bronze. His arms fell from her waist. For a long moment he didn't say anything, just stared at her in his intense unreadable way. "At least you're honest," he said eventually, his voice neutral. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned.

She was ready to see him go, but something else made her call his name. "Drake—"

He spun around, his eyes spitting fire. "What? Do you wish to soothe me by telling me it wouldn't work? How you'd like to remain friends?" He pointed a finger at her. "Erase it from your mind. Now go back to your drippy friend and do not waste my time or yours. I will not be one of your toy boys." He turned on his heel and stalked away.

Cassie stood riveted, waiting for the feeling of freedom to come crashing over her. Instead a sense of overwhelming loss crawled over her skin, leaving her feeling raw and vulnerable. The sorcerer was out of her life, gone forever, leaving her to the world that was familiar. Why did forever seem more like a sentence than a gift? Tossing aside practical thought, she ran after him. But she was too late. The night had taken him. Life continued. People pushed past her, cars drove by, the stars twinkled above, and she was alone—free. Blinking back tears of frustration and emptiness, she went back inside the store.

Chapter 10

"Aw, hell," Eric muttered when he saw his brother's face as he entered the cafe.

Jackie turned in her seat and said something even more colorful. She looked at Eric. "I guess things didn't go according to plan."

"Yes, the fact that Cassie isn't here says it all."

Drake was supposed to bring Cassie to the cafe so they could meet her and treat her to dessert, but it was obvious that wasn't going to happen.

Drake sat down and reached for the cigarettes inside his jacket pocket.

"This is a nonsmoking section," Eric mentioned as Drake raised the cigarette to his lips.

He sent him a cool glance. "Why would you get a table here?"

"Because we don't smoke."

"And we want you to stop," Jackie added.

"Well, it won't be today." He lit the cigarette.

Jackie snatched it away and stubbed it out while Eric asked for a table in the smoking section. Once seated, Drake lit up another cigarette and stared out at the crowd. "I don't want to talk about it," he said, feeling their eyes on him.

"But you have to," Jackie said. "Perhaps we could help you."

"I don't want or need help."

"You shouldn't have written her a poem." She rested her elbows on the table and shook her head. "What do you two know about poetry? She was probably offended."

He slowly exhaled, watching the smoke float upward. "It wasn't the poem, it was me."

"But what did you do?"

He glared at her. "I don't want to talk about it."

Eric lifted a menu. "Let's at least order something while we slowly die from secondhand smoke."

* * *

"I should give this Cassie woman a piece of my mind," Jackie said as she finished her pecan pie.

Eric studied the bill. "What would you have left?"

"Shut up."

"Don't worry about her," Drake said. "It's over." He tossed some money on the table. "That should cover me."

Eric handed him back the money. "I'm paying."

Drake ignored him and stood. He zipped up his jacket, glanced around the cafe, then looked at his brother and sister. "Don't call me tonight." He pointed a finger at Jackie. "I mean it. No badda mi."

She nodded. He left.

"If I ever get my hands on that Cassie, I don't know what I'll do," Jackie grumbled as she watched Drake leave. "She really hurt him. "

Eric shrugged, shuffling through his wallet. He would return Drake's money later. "He'll live. He's been hurt before." His voice dropped below his sister's hearing. "We all have."

* * *

Dread fell on Cassie as the elevator ascended to her floor. She didn't know how to end the evening without hurting Glen's feelings. She knew he'd want to come in to talk, perhaps share a drink, but all she wanted to do was get rid of him.

"I had a wonderful time as usual," she said, stepping out on her floor. She inwardly sighed when he followed.

He rested a casual arm on her shoulders. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

"Oh, yes," she said, trying to resist the urge to shrug his arm away.

Door 712 creaked open. "Have a good time?" Mr. Gianolo asked.

Cassie forced a smile. "Lovely."

"Where did you two go?"

"Baden's to hear a poetry reading."

"I hope you had a nice nap." He chuckled at his own wit and closed the door.

Cassie turned on the lights and watched Glen make himself comfortable on the couch. "I'm really not in the mood to entertain," she said.

"That's okay, I won't stay long."

She put down her bag, resigned. "What would you like to drink?"

"Juice is fine."

She opened the fridge. Boy, was she hungry! She bit her lip at the sight of a barbecued turkey leg, at the thought of making deviled eggs, or wrapping apple slices in cheese. She grabbed grape juice and closed the door. She'd indulge once Glen left. It took her nearly twenty minutes to get rid of him. He discussed the poets while food called her from the fridge. The stove begged for the smell of sweet blueberry muffins, the toaster asked for a nice crisp bagel, a bag of chips and a box crackers shouted from the cupboards. When he finally stood she nearly wept with joy. Once she'd shut the door behind him, the binge began—when it was over she did cry. She felt like a weak-willed slob. Why had she done that to herself? It was Drake's fault of course. If he hadn't come into her life, she wouldn't be stuffing her face now. But no, that was wrong. She had always done this when she was upset and she was definitely upset, but she'd get over it. She would exercise tomorrow and make up for today.