"Cry, girl" –Etta James, I'd Rather Go Blind

********************************

I loved my job. The perks were few and far between but they were still there.

First, I got to work only two weeks out of every month. Who could beat that? Secondly, I got the chance to be there for people who genuinely needed me; whose faces lit up the instant I walked into the room. Again, who could beat that? And lastly, the nursing home was a melting pot of various nationalities of staff and patients. Our own UN.

That was kind of an unspoken requirement to get employment at Rose Haven: You had to have an interesting ethnic background. Of course, the HR-slash-secretary woman had never said that aloud but it didn't take rocket science to notice how every nurse there came from a foreign land or, like in my case, had one parent from a different country. It was the kind of discrimination no one discussed, because could it be called discrimination if minorities were given preference over pure, star-spangled Americans?

Aside from the staff, almost all the patients were from around the world. There was a more understandable reason for this. Apparently the rest home's managing director was a doctor who was doing a study on how Alzheimer's affected different ethnicities. He wanted to understand the brain disease, and possibly find a cure. I'd been intrigued by his research from the beginning. My own paternal grandmother had had slowly progressing dementia and I'd had to watch her regress into a childlike state, until she was nothing but what doctors had called a vegetable.

Yes, the pay wasn't anything to scream about so I'd never afford a Birkin handbag, but at least I was part of something bigger than that. Plus, I had a genuine soft spot for older people. They were easier to understand than my generation.

So on my week off, I generally felt lost and aimless, like a plastic bag floating in the wind. I woke up the next morning feeling guilty that I'd left Seb hanging. He'd scribbled out "Rain check on movie night, Sleeping Beauty" on a pink Post-it he'd left sticking on my bathroom mirror.  I ripped it off and crumpled it up, flinging it into the bin with a sigh.

I was looking forward to a day spent alone until my friends got home from work. I knew Kira had parent-teacher meetings until seven this evening, but at least Luke was free from two o'clock.

I need more friends, I thought as I hopped into the shower.

Half an hour later, I was sitting in The Coffee Maker, a café that was only a stone-throw away from my apartment building. They made the best coffee and the best double-chocolate muffins – my two favorite things in the world – so I pretty much lived in the place, especially when I was off work and needed a great breakfast.

Before I even opened my mouth at the counter, Zeke, the barista boy, had my order ready in two minutes. I sent him a wide smile of thanks and paid him before sliding into my regular booth by the wide, panoramic window that looked out onto the street.

"Fun fact," a voice said from above me after only a few minutes. "In South Africa, people of mixed race are considered a race on their own, so if you'd been born there, you wouldn't be considered black."

I rolled my eyes up at one of my best friends, Luke Barnett, who looked like he'd already guzzled a dozen cupfuls of black coffee before six that morning. Laughing brown eyes that crinkled at the corners met mine. They were a liquid brown, almost the same shade as the short dark brown hair on his head and the regularly trimmed beard he kept.

"I'd be happy to just be considered a human being, thanks." And wasn't that the problem? I was either too white, or too black to some people. Having to explain that my white mother was the African, while my black father was American through and through confused people, but I didn't care. As far as I'm concerned, I'm neither black nor white. I'm Maya Fenton and when I look in the mirror, I see both my parents staring back at me.

"Well, you know how much I admire that you refuse to be a Crayola," Luke quipped, sliding his lanky body into the black leather seat across me.

"Aren't you supposed to be watching your back for spitballs right about now?" I asked him.

"Shit, I have some in my hair, don't I?" He quickly ran a hand through his short black hair, chocolate-brown eyes narrowed in disgust. "I swear, those little shįts are possessed or something. It's Black History Month, and one of my students did a little presentation on Drake. Then the whole class got into an argument on whether Drake was black or not, and whether he should even be mentioned as a historical figure, since he's Canadian and all."

"Drake? Really?" I was only marginally interested. Today, Luke was wearing a black dress shirt over frayed black jeans, his version of dressing up.

"I know, right?" said Luke, shaking his head as if he was still dumbfounded. He reached over for one of my muffins and grabbed one before I could mutilate his hand. "Kids these days don't give a damn about the Emancipation Proclamation. All they care about is Nicki Minaj proclaiming that she's never fucķed half of Young Money. It's a disgrace."

I stared at my best friend. "How do they let you teach impressionable youths?"

"Must be the awesomeness I transport to those kids via osmosis," was his response as he ate my muffin in two bites. "Plus, I'm dating the principal's daughter."

I laughed, actually glad to see him so early in the morning. There was no one like Luke Barnett on God's green earth – of that, I was sure. I had known him since grade school, known him even longer than I'd known Kira Blake, and nothing had changed over the years between us.

Luke was actually incredibly good-looking, especially today, which meant that he had a date with Claire, his girlfriend and aforementioned principal's daughter. Luke had the kind of smoldering good looks that made women in the streets do a double take, as if they had to look twice to see that they weren't imagining his existence. First of all, he was extremely tall; so tall that you couldn't miss his big head on Google Maps, aerial view, no less. His staggering height, coupled with his broad shoulders and athletic build, made him a sight for horny eyes – at least, that was what Kira used to say. I knew for a fact that he'd never worked out a day in his life, unless you counted the basketball he played over the weekends with his male friends. Then there was his skin – the kind of brown that brought on images of melted chocolate. Kira called him Shemar Moore behind his back. I never told him this. He and Kira already had a shaky relationship, so I doubted her nickname for him would be taken as a joke, let alone the compliment it was, albeit snidely delivered.

"Oh, in answer to your first question, it's recess. I'm allowed to grab a coffee, aren't I?" Luke was saying, reaching over for another muffin.

This time, I was faster. I held my paper bag away from him. "Get your own, you wretched pilferer."

"Look at the damn queue," he grumbled, jerking his finger toward the line that formed behind him. "My break's almost over. Have pity on me, Maya bear."

I sighed, sliding the bag across the table. "You need to befriend Zeke. He's your in."

"Befriend the guy? Don't you realize that he's into you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. He's just a nice guy."

It was Luke's turn to roll his eyes at me. "Nice? Then what's this, Maya?" He turned my paper coffee cup towards me. "Yeah, he's very nice."

A phone number was scrawled on the side, followed by the initial 'Z'. I felt heat stain my cheeks even as my eyes slid over to where Zeke was currently pouring out a large number of coffees, his attention captured elsewhere.

"I swear, sometimes I wonder if you were beat over your damn head with the naïve stick at birth," said Luke, sounding like a long-suffering sibling.

"Shut it."

"Fine, fine. I gotta get back to my classroom of Chucky dolls, anyway. Still down for drinks tonight?"

"Definitely. As long as we don't go to the crappy bar we go to every week."

"Velocity?" he asked, sounding incredulous. "But that's our spot, Maya."

"There was an orgy in the ladies' restroom last week, Luke. An orgy," I sputtered, trying too hard not to think of the things I'd seen that night that would haunt me forever.

Luke grinned, getting to his feet. "Bring Sebastian. That way, you two could start your own restroom party."

I reddened. "Disgusting, not to mention unhygienic."

He laughed. "You need to live a little, Maya."

In the back of my mind – way, way back – I had to agree.

***

 Seb didn't come and we ended up heading to Velocity.

Kira was still at school, so that left Luke and me to enjoy a weeknight of alcohol – Luke – and Coke – me. The bar was packed, as usual, and I could understand how sardines in a tin felt. I couldn't turn around without bumping into someone, and I'd only been there five minutes before someone had spilled whatever cocktail they were drinking down my front.

"M, use your elbows, for God's sake," Luke chided, showing me how it was done by practically jostling someone in front of him out of his way.

After a thousand "excuse me"s – me – and a few "move the fucķ outta my way"s – Luke – we finally made it to the bar, where Luke ordered our respective drinks.  I was a little bummed that the bar was so packed so early in the evening, and that Luke and I could barely talk over the noise, but this was our ritual and I would just have to suck it up.

"Claire's singing tonight," Luke announced in my ear, dragging my attention center stage, where a lone microphone was set up under about five different bright lights.

I perked up, decidedly more interested in the events of tonight. "Awesome. Is she any good?" I yelled back.

Luke gave me a dark look. "Of course she's good!"

"You're too subjective to give me an honest answer, I think."

"Shut up and let's grab a table," he muttered, grabbing my hand that wasn't clutching my soda for dear life and pulling me through the throng of people on their feet.

There was an empty table at the back, directly to the right of the stage. Remnants of cashews and potato crisps littered the lacquered wooden table and I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

"It's cool. I got it, Princess," Luke reassured me, grabbing a stray napkin and meticulously wiping the table clean. He was a good friend. "Good enough for ya?" And a tool.

"Why can't people clean up after themselves?" I grumbled to myself, taking a seat. Luke took the chair opposite mine, leaning back and gulping down his beer.

"You think biker dudes and prostitutes are gonna worry about who's gonna be sitting in their shit?"

He had a point.

"So when's Claire coming on?" I asked, stirring the ice in my soda with my straw.

"Any minute now."

"'Cause I'm not a great liar, Luke. If she sucks and she asks me how she did, I don't think I could contain the Simon Cowell inside of me."

"You don't have to contain shit. Because my woman doesn't suck." He paused, sending me a mischievous grin. "Unless it's me, of course."

"Dis. Gus. Ting."

"The act of a blowjob is a thing of beauty, Maya. I almost wrote an essay on it in high school, remember?"

I remembered. I remembered how I'd read through his first draft and had to bleach my eyeballs shortly afterwards. Thankfully, I'd convinced him that he couldn't list oral as one of the greatest inventions of all time, unless he wanted to be suspended.

"Can we not talk about this, please?"

In answer, he raised his bottle to me, and we fell into safer conversation, which mostly involved his ranting about some ten-year-old tyrant called Xavier, and my comforting him. Before we knew it, a burly man with tattoos covering any visible skin was announcing Claire Henderson and, clapping the loudest, Luke and I both turned in our seats to be able to see her.

Claire was one of those women who could wear anything, really, because she was voluptuous, kind of like an hourglass. She usually wore her wild, curly blonde hair loose, but tonight, it was held back by a black headband and pulled into a bun. I could tell that she wasn't wearing any makeup, except for black eyeliner rimming her big green eyes. The tight, sparkly pink top she was wearing over white jeans instantly drew attention to her huge breasts, definitely part of the reason most of the men had erupted into infantile wolf-whistling. But then, Claire was just gorgeous.

"She hasn't even opened her mouth yet and everybody loves her," Luke called to me over the noise, his voice full of pride.

"Just ask her to marry you already," I told him, and his face actually turned ashen.

"Stop."

Puzzled, I readied myself to ask him what the hell that was all about, when Claire spoke. After a quick mention of how this was her first time singing in public and how this song was dedicated to the man sitting with me who was all of a sudden looking like he was a ball of tension, she cleared her throat and began, a cappella.

I recognized the first line of Etta James' I'd Rather Go Blind and hazarded a glance at Luke, who looked just as confused as I probably did. Claire had a powerful, beautiful voice that filled the whole room and even quieted down the rowdier patrons of Velocity, who were enchanted by her.

But the lyrics were about a woman seeing her man with someone else – and the song was dedicated to Luke.

"Something you're not telling me?" I ventured, receiving yet another glare from him that evening.

"I'm not a damn cheater," he spat, rising to his feet.

Thinking that he was going to duck out of the bar, I followed suit, only to realize that he was marching for the stage when the song wasn't even half-finished. Claire's eyes went wide, but she continued singing about the tears that were on her face, even as Luke stooped and easily maneuvered her onto his shoulder.

Boos erupted and people cursed him out, but Luke carried his girlfriend out the bar without so much as a backward glance at me. I understood, of course, although our evening had been cut short. Hoes before platonic hoes and all that jazz.

Tattooed Guy returned to the stage, scratching his head and announcing that Dead On Departure was playing next, after a quick sound check. I figured I'd listen to the band, see if they were any good, before heading out. The thought of leaving the bar was what reminded me that Luke had picked me up that night, ergo I was without a ride back home.

Thanks, Lucas. You're a real pal.

I groaned, more especially when I was joined by a beefy biker who looked like he could've been the woodcutter who'd chopped wood to build the Ark. Even his face looked grey.

"Hey, sweetness. You here alone?" he rasped, sounding like he smoked three packs a day. The yellow teeth he flashed me certainly confirmed it.

"Nope," I replied curtly, whipping my phone out from the back pocket of my jeans. I had to grin at my luck. The battery was dead.

"Oh, yeah? Well, you're lookin' awfully alone right now, sweetheart. I can take care of that. Two's company, ya know."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "What do you think you're doing? You're old enough to be my grandfather, maybe even his father. Have you no shame?"

His watery blue eyes widened. "'Scuse me?"

"You heard me. You need to stop wasting your time hitting on young women and focus on your health, Mister, or I predict serious illness and possible death in your very near future."

The leer fell from his face. "You fuckin' with me, girlie?"

"No, sir, I am not."

"You one of them Jehovah's Witnesses?"

"No, I'm Baptist," I replied with a sigh. "I just don't attend church as much as I'd like to. I'm working on that."

"Fucķ this. You women talk too much these days, when all I want is pusşy," he muttered, getting to his feet with some difficulty. It was probably his arthritis kicking in, poor guy.

"Don't fucķin' talk to her like that, old man," snarled a voice I knew all too well.

"Now, now, Ripper. I don't want no trouble. Was just leaving this lady alone, like she wanted," the older man said quickly, sounding panicky.

"Nah, it looked like you were being disrespectful when you know better than that."

"Stop with the theatrics, Jacob, and let him pass," I said.

"I don't want to see you sniffing around this bar anymore. You got me?" Jake stepped aside when the old man nodded quickly. We both watched him flee out the doors before Jake stared down at me with a disapproving look in his eyes. "What the hell are you even doing here?"

Dead On Departure had started playing something soft, with more guitar than drums. The lead singer's voice was breathily husky. I liked it.

"Am I not allowed to go out for drinks now?" I asked innocently.

Jake's eyes cut to my glass. "Coke. Very fitting. Is it Diet?"

I snorted. "Diet? Please. Don't make me laugh."

"Hey, I had to ask." He folded his arms across his chest and, once again, I was forced to look at his biceps. It didn't help that he was wearing a skintight white T. And yep, those were the black jeans currently hugging his muscular thighs. Someone had probably spiked my drink.

"Where's the computer boy?"

I scowled at him, mentally groaning when he slid into the seat the old man had vacated moments ago. "Sebastian is working overtime, not that it's any of your business."

"Fucķing his secretary, you mean."

Heat crept up my neck. "What did you say?"

"Don't you watch movies? Read books? Overtime equals dirty office sex on the dirty office desk."

"He doesn't even have a secretary and even if he did, Seb would never do that to me. He's too good of a person."

Jake sat back in the chair, a wolfish grin on his face. "Shouldn't you have said He loves me? Or some shįt like that."

"Jake, leave me alone."

The smile left his face. "Did you drive here?"

I slowly shook my head. "But if I could use your phone to call –"

"I'll take you home," he stated, already standing.

"That won't be necessary. I just need to use –"

"Maya," he said, eyes full of intent, "I'm taking you home."

Raucous yelling exploded from one side of the room as a bar fight began and I had to concede that Jake was the lesser of two evils.

"Fine."

"Knew you'd see it my way."

He didn't even look back to see if I was following him.

*~*~*

"I'm not getting on that thing."

"You either ride it of your own free will, or I throw you on top."

"Or you give me your fudging phone and I call somebody else!"

"You're not getting my fucķing phone, and that's final."

We glowered at each other for a long time, lights from Velocity illuminating our faces and Jake's motorcycle standing between us. I was not getting on that thing.

"Maya," Jake began, his voice suddenly gentle, "what's your deal?"

I chewed on my lower lip. My deal was that the last time I'd seen my cousin, she'd been sitting on this very bike, behind this very man. Of course, they hadn't been in an accident or anything like that, but it