All eyes shot to Floyd. Jacques’s spinetingled.
“Don’t look at me,” Floyd said, making a shooing motion with his hands. “Them’s hiswords.”
Pal pinned him with a sharp look. “You gotta young lady, T-boy?”
Jacques rolled his eyes. He hated when Pal called him T-boy. At six-foot-one, it had been a long time since the nickname fithim.
“I’m having dinner with someone, yes,” he hedged. “And I need to getready.”
“You feedin’ her noodles?” Netty asked, her nose wrinkling with disapproval. “You should bring her here for some stuffedpeppers.”
Jacques fought his smile. “I’m sure they’re delicious, Mrs. Netty. Maybe another time, though,” he sidestepped. “Besides, between Albert and Floyd, there’d be too much competition for herattention.”
The three old folks tipped forward withlaughter.
“Mais, Net, I think we’d be gettin’ in da way of dat neckin’,’” Pal said. His two friends howled with laughter while Jacques cleared his throat and made hisexcuses.
Upstairs, Jacques turned on the shower and stripped down while the water warmed up. He stepped under the hot stream and let the spray spill over his hair, his scalp, hisneck.
Noodles, North, andneckin’.
A shiver danced over his shoulders. Floyd’s prediction didn’t necessarily mean he and Rainey would kiss, though if he were honest with himself, he had every intention of doing just that as soon as the right momentarrived.
Jacques poured shampoo into his palm and scrubbed it through his hair, letting his fingertips work along his scalp and down his neck. He snickered at Floyd’s old-fashioned expression for making out, but when he closed his eyes and pictured the porcelain skin of Rainey’s long neck, the term suddenlyfit.
The thought of putting his lips and teeth to that delicious, white flesh sent his blood rushing south. Jacques rinsed the suds from his hair and grabbed the soap, resisting the urge to take matters into his ownhands.
Not losing any time, he finished his shower, dried off, and went to his closet in search of a decent shirt and a clean pair of jeans. By no means was Jacques a slob, but laundry always seemed to be an afterthought, something he did when the need arose. And the need had arisen. He managed to find an olive-green Henley and a pair of black-washed jeans, trading his army surplus jacket for a charcoalblazer.
Checking his phone, Jacques saw he still had a good twenty minutes before Rainey expected him, and their neighborhoods weren’t far, so he descended the stairs and headed for the living room. He moved to the middle shelf on Pal’s bookcase. The structure held a few books, but mostly it heldmusic.
Sheet music, vinyls, CDs, even some oldcassettes.
The middle shelf housed Pal and Grandma Lucille’s old records, but it also held what belonged to his father, Xand. Jacques hadn’t touched them in years, but he knew exactly what he was looking for. It just took him a little while to find the U2 album, and judging by the dust that lifted from its neighbors as he pulled it free, it hadn’t been touched for years. Probably not since Grandma Lucille got sick and stopped emptying the shelves yearly to“clean behind and below,”as she used to say. Maybe not even since his dad’s collection had been stored there after he wentaway.
The jacket, with its brick-red border, gold lettering and central image of a ruined castle, wasn’t in perfect condition, but it was close. Jacques nodded in approval, tucked it under his arm, and made his way to thekitchen.
“What you got dere?” Pal asked as Jacques grabbed his keys and tucked his phone in hispocket.
He held up the album. “The girl I’m seeing tonight has all of U2’s albums except this one. I thought she might likeit.”
The line of Pal’s mouth crimped as he pressed his lips together. “Das yourpop’s?”
“Yeah,” Jacquesadmitted.
Pal nodded. “Don’t think he’ll mindnone.”
“Nope.” It was all Jacques would let himself say. He failed to add that he didn’t care much whether Alexandre Gilchrist minded or not. If the album helped Jacques win the attentions of a beautiful girl, it would be one less thing his father owed him for throwing his life away and jettisoning Jacques’s in theprocess.
He walked over to Pal, kissed his balding head, and tucked the album under his arm. “Goodnight,y’all.”
“‘Night,cher. Be careful on da roads,” Pal toldhim.
“Willdo.”
As Jacques drove, he listened to “Space Song” by Beach House, hoping its slow-drip rhythm and his own thoughts of Heroine would take his mind off the butterfly tremors in his stomach. That quickening in his gut he hadn’t felt since highschool.
He didn’t question what it was about Rainey that did it. What little he knew about her called to him. And he wanted to knowmore.
