Tastes Like Chicken Read online

  “So what you getting into tonight?” Reesy asked.

  “A party,” he said. He juggled Harlem in one hand as he sat on the couch. Peanut was in his lap, fascinated by his ever-beeping two-way.

  “Oooh, that sounds like fun. What kind of party? Where?”

  “No, ma’am,” Sleazy said. “You’re not coming to this. It’s not your kind of scene. It’s probably gonna get buck wild up in there, and I don’t want to be responsible for introducing you to that type of thing.”

  Reesy was in the kitchen making pastrami sandwiches. She walked over to the doorway and watched him.

  Sleazy had no idea of her background as an exotic dancer and she planned to keep it that way. She found it amusing that he had categorized her as the polar opposite—a Pollyanna that needed to be sheltered from everything that wasn’t fit for polite society.

  “So what is it, some kind of sex party?”

  “Well, it’s just a party party. At least, that’s how it’ll start off. But my girls Chloe and Zoe be gettin’ kinda freaky. Some porn stars might roll by, you never know. It’s a pretty thugged-out, hoeish kinda scene, but, you know, sometimes that’s who I be.”

  “Ew,” she said.

  “Ew is right.”

  “Is Rhiannon going?”

  “Hell, naw,” Sleazy said. “That’s like taking sand to the beach, baby. I don’t need her breathing over my shoulder while I’m trying to wax me some neezy.”

  “What’s neezy?”

  “New ass.”

  “You’re stupid.”

  Reesy went back into the kitchen to finish the sandwiches.

  “So how do you know I might not wanna check it out?”

  Sleazy picked up Dante and put him on the couch.

  “Because it’s not for you. That’s all there is to it. End of discussion.”

  Dandre was sitting by the water’s edge, watching the sun go down. He was drinking Courvoisier straight from the bottle. He’d been there awhile and now the tide was coming in. His sweat bottoms were soaked and there was a sharp chill in the air. He seemed oblivious to both.

  It had been more than twenty-four hours since Reesy had hung up on him. He kept replaying their conversation over in his head. What did she mean about seeing him with that woman? Did she know about Rejeana coming to his house?

  There was no way she could have. She would have confronted him before now. He wondered if Rick had said something to Misty. He didn’t think his best friend would be that casual about something so grave. He hoped not. It could destroy his chances altogether.

  The part about him trying to replace their baby with dogs had hit him like a foot to the gut. Bruce Lee’s foot.

  “Why can’t I get this right?” he asked, his arms raised, the bottle extended. “How come everything I try to do with her keeps turning out wrong?”

  Random beachgoers and lingering lovers walked by, wondering at the drunken nut sitting in the middle of the advancing surf.

  Zoe had given him the bottle of liquor.

  “Here, cuz,” she’d said just a couple of hours earlier. “You look like you could use a good kick.”

  He hadn’t eaten and his head was light. He stood, brushing sand from the backs of his legs. He grabbed the bottle and walked over toward the house.

  “I’m going to bed,” he said.

  There was no point in going out, he figured. He had come to L.A. to get his woman back, and so far, his plan was failing him.

  Better to sleep it off and restrategize in the morning.

  “Tomorrow’s another day,” he said, taking a swig from the bottle. “Yup. Tomorrow’s another fucked-up day.”

  “He’s out, girl,” Zoe whispered to Chloe.

  They both stood over Dandre, watching him sleep. He was curled in a fetal position on the bed. The empty bottle of Courvoisier was lying on the floor.

  “Good lookin’-out, Z,” Chloe said. “He’s done for the rest of the night.”

  She high-fived her sister.

  “And you know what happens when Big Brother’s not watching,” Zoe said.

  The two girls stared at each other and grinned.

  “Par-taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay,” they both squealed.

  They grabbed each other’s arms and danced a jig around the room.

  * * *

  By midnight, the beach house in Hermosa was so rowdy, any attempt at quality control had long been abandoned by either of the twins. People were doing coke, smoking chronic, and popping not just X, but some Y and Z.

  The sounds and smells of things carnal were everywhere, as threesomes formed and fractured off like small galaxies in a universe of sex. The hot tub was bubbling with nastiness, the scene of some girl-on-girl action that one of the fellas—a pathetic would-be-entrepreneur sort—filmed for his own version of Girls Gone Dumb.

  Sleazy watched from inside the house, then turned around, scoping for any new action that might have arrived unnoticed. He spotted a petite girl in the corner. She was no more than five feet with long black shining hair, bowed legs, and slanted eyes.

  “Oh shit,” he said under his breath. “She’s Asian and a midget. I done hit the jackpot.” He made his way over to the girl, already chalking it up as a victory and future anecdote to share with the boys.

  Chloe and Zoe were both on the couch with Ebay, who was trying to get his weed together.

  “Wait,” he said. “Let me roll another blunt.”

  Chloe dropped between his legs and grabbed his joint.

  “Not before you let me smoke this first.”

  Dandre was deep into a dream. He and Reesy were together again—in love, in bed, into it—the way they used to be when things were good.

  Reesy was on top of him, her hands on his chest, riding him with an urgency that seemed equal to his.

  “I’ve missed you,” he whispered. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  “I missed you too, baby,” she said.

  “Is it still mine?” he asked. “Do you still want to give it to me?”

  “Why are you asking what you already know?” Reesy an swered. “I’m always gonna give this to you. I’m never gonna give it to anyone else.”

  He flipped her over and pinned her against the bed, pounding her hard with profound desperation. She thrashed beneath him, calling out his name. He thrust harder, the cold feel of her tongue against his balls driving him…

  Dandre shifted in the dream, still thrusting, wondering how he could be inside Reesy but still feel her tongue down below. He opened his eyes.

  He was thrusting, but it wasn’t into the woman he loved. It was a dark chocolate thing with scant brows, hazel eyes, and big silicone breasts. His mouth was on one of them. Her expression was savage as she bucked around.

  Someone else was between his legs, licking his balls. He looked back in terror at yet another woman, this one blonde with breasts so large and artificial in appearance, they threatened to become airborne and float her away. She had a tongue like Gene Simmons, and it was no longer on Dandre’s nuts. Now it was making its way up the crack of his behind.

  Dandre screamed—a sound not unlike Dante’s—and tried to dislodge himself from the girl below him. He kicked the balloon blonde away with his heel. An Asian girl stood to the right of the bed, an enormous black strap-on attached to her waist. She was preparing to mount the blonde, but Dandre’s bitch-scream had canceled it all.

  The shrieking could be heard downstairs, over the bumping sounds of the newest Tupac. Chloe raised her head from between Ebay’s legs. She glanced over at her sister, who was sitting on Ebay’s face.

  “The Tonies,” they said.

  Both women abandoned a startled Ebay and made for the stairs.

  The guy who had been filming the hot tub scene followed them.

  * * *

  Dandre was huddled in a corner of the room, covering himself with a sheet. The Tonies—Tonita Green, Toni Cole, and Tonishi Wang—were doing each other on the bed. All three women were porn stars, but Dandre had
never seen them before. He glanced at himself under the sheet. He was wearing a condom. While that was a partial relief, he was still terrified at the thought of what might have already occurred while he was asleep. He was sluggish, the dregs of way too much Courvoisier still polluting his system.

  Zoe and Chloe appeared in the room, the camera guy right behind them. At the sight of the minicam, Dandre became hysterical.

  He lunged at the guy and snatched the thing, smashing it against the floor again and again. Springs, metal, screws, and plastic ricocheted away as the man tried to get his equipment back. Dandre shoved him off as he removed the tape and tore it apart, ripping, tearing, pulling at the reel.

  “Get out,” Zoe and Chloe said to the Tonies and the guy. “Go. And tell everyone downstairs to get out too.”

  “Awww, Z,” said Tonishi, “this is wack.”

  “Just go,” Zoe said. “We’ll catch you later in the week in the Hills.”

  Dandre kept tearing at the tape, the thought of Reesy seeing it enraging him. His breath was heavy and he was dripping sweat. He looked up, glaring at the twins.

  They stood before him like naughty schoolkids and, except for the absence of clothes, that’s what they felt like.

  Dandre’s eyes were red, wet, clouded with anger.

  “I think he’s crying,” Chloe whispered without moving her lips.

  “I think he’s still drunk,” Zoe answered in a similar fashion.

  “He might not remember this tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I’ll remember it,” he said. “I’ll never forget what the two of you did.” He wrapped the loose tape in a bundle and shredded it again. “You’ve got two days.”

  “Two days for what?” asked Chloe.

  “To be outta here. That’s all I’m giving you, then you’re on your ass.”

  The naked twins flailed their hands, their eyes filled with fear.

  “But, Dandre, how can you do this? We don’t have anyplace else to go.”

  “I don’t care,” he said, getting up. He went into the bathroom.

  “I want you out. I asked you to respect me and you didn’t. So don’t expect me to have any respect for you.”

  He slammed the bathroom door. They heard the shower come on.

  Zoe and Chloe stared at each other, the tattooed tongues on their asses licking at the air.

  Scenes from a Psychic

  “I know this lady in Chicago. She’s really good. You should call her.”

  It was a day later, and they were at Painted, a salon on Robertson in Beverly Hills. Reesy was having a margarita pedicure, complete with limes, tequila, the whole nine.

  She found herself spending quite a bit of time with both Rhiannon and Sleazy, though not together. Rhiannon knew a little about the Dandre issue. Not much, just that it had been a bad scene for Reesy.

  “I believe you still love him,” she said.

  “Of course I do, but that doesn’t mean I want to get with him again.”

  Reesy wasn’t sure how truthful she was being. Dandre was now haunting her dreams. That had happened once before, when she was trying to win him back after the Helmut debacle. Every night, like clockwork, she’d have a nightmare about him having unbridled sex with some beautiful celebrity.

  This time, her dreams were different. There were no crazed sexfests. Now her sleep was filled with peaceful, loving images of her and Dandre holding hands and walking along the shore in Martha’s Vineyard, strolling down Ocean Drive in South Beach, sharing a pretzel on Sixth Avenue in Manhattan. In one of the dreams, they were in bed and he was rubbing her very pregnant belly.

  Each morning when she awoke, the yearning was stronger, no matter what she threw herself into to shake it off. When she opened her eyes the first thing she saw was always the dogs, staring into her face, walking reminders of the strong connection that remained between her and Dandre.

  Then she would think about seeing him and that woman on his doorstep, and her confusion would begin all over again.

  Rhiannon brought the subject up almost as much as Misty did. At odd moments, like now.

  Reesy sat in the chair reading two books at the same time, one of which Rhiannon had raved about. Something by that Dickey guy— Friends and Lovers. She was surprised to discover Rhiannon was right. The book was juicy, well layered, with lots of killer sex. Shelby and Tyrel’s yo-yo love affair made her vida loca seem calm.

  She alternated between that and Junot Diaz’s Drown, a collection of short stories about life and love set against the backdrop of New York and New Jersey that she connected with at once. Dickey and Diaz were as different as skates and scallions, but both were entertaining. She made a mental note to get her hands on as many books as she could by authors of color. Things had changed, she realized, and she had lots of catching up to do.

  “You really should call this woman,” Rhiannon said again.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This lady, Miss Flora. She’s a prophet. She’s really good.”

  “You mean she’s a psychic,” said Reesy.

  “Same difference.”

  “Not really.”

  The attendant poured a pitcher of ice water over Reesy’s feet. Her margarita pedicure was on the rocks. She clenched her shoulders until the chill passed through.

  “I’m not into that kind of stuff anyway,” she said.

  Rhiannon was getting a fill. She held her hands in a dainty position, like dog paws, as she rambled on about the talents of Miss Flora, the psychic prophet.

  “She really is very good. She knows her gift comes from God, so she gives Him all the credit. I’ve never seen anybody as accurate as her.

  “I think we should call her. She knows me pretty well. She’ll read you for free if I ask her to. Most people have to pay her a fee, and trust me, they’re pretty happy to do it.”

  “Of course,” Reesy said, switching over from Dickey to Diaz.

  She glanced up just as Malik Yoba, the actor, sauntered in with two very tall, L.A.-perfect women who, Reesy thought, if they weren’t models, were doing a great impersonation of them.

  “Rhiannon, girl, what’s up?” he said, stooping and kissing her on the cheek. “Long time, long time. You look good, girl.”

  Rhiannon gave him a casual smile.

  “You too. How long you been back on the left coast?”

  “You know how I do it. Back and forth. I’ve got a place in the Valley.”

  “Right, right.”

  Reesy watched in silence, impressed at both Malik’s in-the-flesh good looks and accessible demeanor and Rhiannon’s relaxed, almost cavalier response. Considering the fact that she was a walking Ms. Potatohead of assembled pieces, she was pretty smooth, very together.

  Malik walked over to an attendant who had been expecting his arrival. The two would-be supermodels sat off to the side and waited. Both were talking into headsets.

  “By the way, Rhi,” Malik said. “Thanks for that hookup with that woman in Chicago. She was good. She told me about a big gig I had coming, and I’ll be damned if she wasn’t right on the money. I’ve been keeping in touch with her. I’ve never had anybody read me that well and be that accurate.”

  Rhiannon raised her brow at Reesy.

  “You talking about Miss Flora?” Rhiannon asked.

  “Yeah, man. I’ve met my share of people who make crazy claims and talk mad smack, but she’s good. I’ve put a few of my friends on to her.”

  “Yeah,” Rhiannon said. “I’ve been trying to do that too.”

  Reesy turned her attention back to Junot Diaz and his crazy Dominican world.

  Reesy and Dandre were riding horses on the beach. It was raining, but neither of them cared. She laughed as her horse galloped ahead. She looked back over her shoulder but he had already caught up. His horse raced alongside hers in perfect step.

  “You can’t outrun me,” he said with a smile.

  “But I had you for a minute.” She grinned. “You had to fight to catch up.”
r />   Reesy sat up in bed with a jolt. Her heart was thumping as she stared into the darkness. She glanced over at the clock. It was early. Just 10:08 P.M. That meant more hours of sleep. And in that sleep was the threat that more dreams of Dandre might come.

  She reached for the phone and dialed.

  “Hello?” came the perky voice.

  “Alright,” Reesy said without preface. “Call her. I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Let us pray first,” Miss Flora said.

  They were on a three-way call. Reesy was in her bedroom at home. Harlem and Peanut were at the foot of the bed. She no longer bothered putting them in the pen. The dogs had followed Peanut’s lead and were now sleeping with her.

  Rhiannon was at home in Lawndale. She had patched the calls together. Flora was in the Windy City, deep in a windy prayer about wanting to please God and do His work. Reesy listened to the long and vehement plea. She was sitting in the dark, fingering her ring, an unconscious habit. Flora shifted the focus to her.

  “Are you pregnant?”

  Aha, Reesy thought. Already this woman was wrong. She knew all these so-called seers were crackpots.

  “Nope,” Reesy said in a smug tone. “I don’t have any children.”

  “Well, I see a little girl very strongly. Have you had an abortion?”

  Flora’s voice was heavy, each breath a labor. Reesy was astounded.

  That was a lucky guess, she thought. Just because the woman asked about an abortion didn’t mean she knew anything about her miscarriage.

  “There’ll be other children,” Miss Flora continued. “Boys.”

  Now Reesy knew the woman was lying.

  “You have so much energy,” Flora said with a chuckle. “My goodness, you just never sit still. I’m glad you gave up that other kind of dancing you used to do. There’s a higher calling for your talent and skills.”

  Reesy dropped the phone.

  “Hello?” Flora said. “Hello?”

  “What other dancing?” Rhiannon asked.