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Jayla smiled so hard her cheeks ached. It was him! She unraveled her scarf while shouldering her way through the tide of people leaving baggage claim.
Each traveler hauled, some even dragged their personal items. She quickly breached the approaching crowd, catching glimpses of his handsome face between the mix of strangers.
He looked different. Living in London he had matured and changed. He stalked toward her, tall, erect and proud, just like her daddy. His skin was a medium brown and flawless. His smile was bright, with even white teeth. Edward was all she had in the world, and she loved him dearly. It had been one year, three months, twelve days and seventeen hours since she saw him last. Her throat closed with emotion. She leapt at him.
He swept her up in his arms and spun her in a full circle. Jayla hugged his neck so tightly that he wheezed and chuckled a plea for release. She could feel his laughter rumble in his chest. Baby-Boy, as Mama would call him, had come home for Thanksgiving. How was your flight? You hungry? Her smile faded. She managed to mask her hurt as he steered her through those arriving for the holidays, keeping her close. The hotel must be doing well.
I got the pictures. Everything looks so fancy. She said you coming home with a white girl. Edward smiled.
Tell Nadine I only got eyes for her. She could never be more proud of him. He went off to do all the things her mother and father wanted for them. The band is really jamming and I like it. I'm swaying and rolling my hips to the music.
I really hope we get to dance tonight. I rather get a drink and enjoy the show than watch Georgie and Marcel grope and lick all over one another. The number one rule is that Georgie and I never split up when we go out clubbing. So I follow them through an even narrower hall that smells like a mixture of mildew, bleach and pine.
The walls were once blue or gray. I'm not sure. The paint is pealing and there are cracks and moldy chipping. The dive bar is definitely old. Marcel pauses. He's young, tall, dark and handsome.
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My type! He gives me a smile and I give him one too. She grabs my hand and pulls me so I have no choice but to follow. Down we go. With these tiny steps I have to be careful in my stilettos. The below action is sweeter than what I experienced above— much sweeter.
I can breathe. And next the room is less crowded so it feels more spacious. Looks to me like musicians are testing their instruments and harmonizing. Instead of the irritating red light glow upstairs the lights work just fine down here. There are a few tables, with some booth seats against the back wall. And the cool thing is we are the only women in the place.
This here is my baebee! Say hello! The one that I can't help but notice sits in the corner to the left. He's in a card game. His heavy lidded rheumy gaze never leaves me even as he plays his hand. Marcel is handling the one on one personal introductions. I'm waiting and waiting for Marcel to get too this dude. Finally he says his name. How corny of a name.
Shouldn't it be a bit smoother, I wonder. Brick leans in and smiles. He Cajun? I know for a fact that not just anyone can play the saxophone. What goes into it is more than talent. So when a Cajun boy like me does it in the belly of N'awlins he better have the pipes to collect his bones in Dauphines' Bone Room. It also helps that my people own this joint.
The Bone Room used to be a hidden kitchen and storage area of a pastry and praline shop during prohibition.
The way I heard the tale it was owned by the Sicilian Mafia. After prohibition the Bondurants, Cajuns, my people, we took over. My name is Brick. I know society likes to give labels. Blacks, Spanish, Asians, they all can identify culturally as to who they are.
But we Cajuns are considered white trash by society. Swamp-billies by default. We have a culture and identity that we proud of not the Eurocentric one that this country who only sees a man or woman by the color of their skin accepts. We had to hunt, fight, and scrape like any other person in the bayou. This is my place.
The back here, is jazz land. And it's been passed down from generation to generation with us ever since. Pops handed me the deed on my sixteenth birthday. I run it with Smoke, my Pops best friend since they were farm boys. Smoke is a black man who can play any instrument you put before him after listening to a few bars.
A musical virtuoso that has never stepped foot outside of Louisiana. Smoke gave me my name.
I'm the only one out of the Bondurant boys who wants to preserve what this place represents. My uncle Beau tried to talk me and Smoke into putting this place on the historical registry and becoming part of the tours they offer in the Quarters.
To hell with that. Not as long as I can take a breath and blow on my sax. Hell, some of the greats have played here. It's blasphemous to make the Bone Room some tourist dump like the rest of the spots on Bourbon Street.
I'm the keeper of Jazz on Dauphine street and this place stays as it is. Tonight I'm a little anxious. I got a set with Smoke, my mentor since I was three. And Smoke is one of his moods. Smoke took a liking to me as a kid because he saw how much I hung around the musicians instead of getting into sports and hell raising like my brothers. He is credited with my freshness, my blow, my everything.
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And every time I play with him I got to bring my A-game. Smoke is not the only reason I'm anxious. It's the card game I'm in with this cat named Domino. He's a mean fucker, reminds me of Shaquille O'Neal. Tall, black, muscular and can slam an opponent with the swipe of his hand. He's a double bassist with a style that is hot plus soulful. And Domino doesn't like me. We got history. I fucked his woman twice. Almost got my jaw broke when I went back for a third time.
Could have happened if Marcel hadn't tipped me off. He holds a grudge and so do I. Marcel thinks we should get along because he wants to put us with an artist that can take us to the next level. Screw it. I'm stuck in the card game with this alligator eyes motherfucker trying not to lose all my coins. I see her first. The boys are too busy with their poker hands and keeping their eyes on Domino.
Marcel walks toward our table with his girl Georgie under his arm. Georgie is a sweet pampered black-creole girl that lives in one of those million dollar homes out in English Turn.
Her family wouldn't let the likes of Marcel and me on the grass of their front lawn. I still don't know how Marcel hooked up with her. She calls his phone almost every hour on the hour.
Behind them is a sexy mocha dream I've never seen here before. Mocha has on a purple dress that she tugs on the sides after she takes a few steps because it's risen so high up her thighs. And her hair has a side part. It causes her long bangs to fall over her right eye. She's got a figure on her too. Small in the chest and trim in the waist she carries the real curves in the hips, ass and thighs. Most babes if privileged enough to be brought down to the 'bones room' are intimidated by the band and musicians.
There's a heavy stench of testosterone here, even traces of marijuana I wouldn't cop too. You see we are wolves, primates, lovers of music, liquor and fast women. Ladies have a special instinct and can sense our predatory ways the moment they are in our presence. This beauty doesn't even blink when we make eye contact.Besides, these fools around here are losers.
This is my place. A good read, and good writing style , but of course there was but in the story. But everyone needs to recharge their battery. Theyve been separated for weeks.