Matchmaker 04: April

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not."

"Because I'm a woman?" He nodded. "How quaintly chauvinistic of you."

He shrugged. "That's not how it's done down here. Women don't buy their dinner on dates."

"Why not?"

"Because they don't, at least my dates don't. Never have, never will."

"Because I'm a woman?"

"Yep."

I didn't know what to say to that simple acknowledgement, so I tucked my card away and let him pay.

"Wait here and I'll go get the truck." It had been raining all damned day and I was tired of it.

She was so damned prickly about the strangest things, I never knew what would set her off, and I was getting tired of that too. I had to keep reminding myself that she was from a different place. Compared to Texas, California wasn't another state, it was another planet.

"Okay."

"Just like that? No arguments about gender equality?" I asked with a smile.

She glared at me. "Are you trying to start a fight?"

"No. Just trying to figure out where I stand. Wait here."

I trotted out into the rain. Gulf's Bounty was a large place and I'd had to park well away from the door to find a place I could squeeze my truck in. I eased the door open so I didn't bang the Honda sitting in the next spot, and inched myself inside. I'd meant what I said to Tara about needing my truck, but that didn't change the fact it was a real bitch to park sometimes.

I started the truck and got the heat blasting to knock the chill off the interior. I carefully backed out and made my way to the door. I wasn't the only guy picking up his spouse or date at the door, and I waited my turn. As I rolled to a stop, she dashed out before I could get out and open the door for her. She threw herself into the truck.

"Does it rain like this all the time?"

"I have no idea. I hope not or this is going to be a soggy month."

"Thank you," she said as we turned onto the road that would take us back to the house she'd rented.

"For what?"

"For dinner. For picking me up at the door."

"My pleasure."

"Your name, Charles Dalmer... have I heard of you before?" she asked after a moment.

I rolled my eyes and then smiled at her. "Probably not. You're not thinking of Jeffery Dahmer, are you?"

"Jeffery Dahmer? Maybe. Where have I heard that name?"

"He killed a bunch of people and ate some of them." It wasn't the first time someone got my name confused with that freak. It used to bother me, but not anymore. I placed my hand on my heart. "Hand on heart, I'm not going to kill and dismember you." I paused for a heartbeat. "Eating you doesn't seem like such a bad idea, though," I continued with a smile.

She smiled at me and then looked away. Dinner had done much to thaw the tension between us. We drove in silence for a bit longer, the only sound the soft clatter of the diesel engine and the hiss of the tires on the wet pavement.

"You want to see if you can find your song on the radio?" I asked to break the growing silence.

"Okay, sure." She fumbled with the unfamiliar controls until I showed her how to skip from station to station. "Is every station country or classic rock? Wait. Maybe this one."

We listened to the station, but her song wasn't one of the two that were played by the time we reached the house. We crept into the garage. I had to be careful. With a three-car garage, there was plenty of room side to side, but my long wheelbase crew cab was a tight squeeze front to back.

I switched the truck off and she opened the door. If she'd waited, I'd have done it for her, but I said nothing. I wasn't a chauvinist, as she accused me, but my momma taught me manners, and one of those manners was men opened doors for ladies.

We went inside. The silence was getting awkward because I didn't know what was expected of me, so I opened the refrigerator to offer her something to drink. It was totally empty.

"Well, shit," I muttered.

"What?"

"Looks like one of us needs to go to the store or we'll have to eat my boots for breakfast in the morning."

"One of us?"

"Yeah. I guess I mean me."

That won me a small smile. "Unless you want me trying to drive that ship you call a truck. People in L.A. have apartments smaller than that thing."

"Yeah. Great place to live. Okay, I'll go. What do you like, or not like?"

"Why don't I go with you?"

I smiled. "Okay, sure."

We tromped back into the garage and I opened the door for her. Back out in the rain, we drove back toward South Padre Island, pulling into the first grocery store I found. We wandered up and down the aisles as we piled items into the cart. I lived by myself and was comfortable shopping, but Tara seemed amazed.

Even though she had what I considered some strange ideas and hang-ups, she was a stunningly beautiful woman. She was petite, probably not much over five-two, and barely reached my chin, or would if she weren't wearing heels, and likely weighed less than 120 pounds soaking wet. Beyond her obvious physical charms of full breasts and an ass that wouldn't quit, she had the most amazing brown eyes that seemed enormous, like a baby's eyes, along with full, sensuous lips that begged for someone to kiss them.

She kept adding things to the basket, seemingly on a whim, and I couldn't help but smile as I pushed the trolley along. "When was the last time you went shopping?"

She paused, looking at the cart and seemed embarrassed. "Too much?"

"I don't care what we get, but seriously, when was the last time you went shopping?"

"For food?" She paused. "Maybe never."

"Never?"

"I can't remember doing it."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. You must think that's weird."

"Yeah, a little. How old... never mind, I know I'm not supposed to ask that. But how do you live?"

"I have people that do this stuff for me."

"So you were born rich?"

She seemed to sag a little. "No, but... I'll tell you later, okay?"

I shrugged. "It's really none of my business, but can you cook?"

"Why? Because I'm a woman?"

I sighed. "No, because if you can't, you probably should let me do most of the shopping."

I saw the look of chagrin pass over her face again. "Yeah, you're right."

"I don't care what you pick out, but some of that stuff I'm not going to eat."

"Like what?"

"Kale chips? That's all on you."

She smiled. "I want to try them."

"Knock yourself out."

By the time we made it through the store we were well sorted for junk food. I'd added meat, vegetables, and other staples like flour, sugar, coffee, milk, and basic spices, in case there were no seasonings in the kitchen.

I started to pay for our bounty, but she pulled out her card and stood so that I'd have to reach around her to pay, so I let her. The junk food ran the bill up, and I had the opportunity to have my first three hundred dollar plus grocery tab.

We paused at the door, our buggy piled with plastic bags. It was pouring, raining harder now than it had since I arrived. "Wait here, I'll go get the truck."

She shoved the trolley into the rain, walking quickly. I followed, trotting ahead of her to get the rear door opened and the seat folded up. When she arrived with the cart, I quickly loaded the food into the back. As she settled herself in the truck, I stowed the buggy in the corral. I was dripping when I threw myself under the wheel.

"I don't think I'll need a shower tonight," I said as I squeegeed water out of my hair so it would stop dripping in my eyes.

"Can we get the heat going? I'm cold," she said, shivering slightly.

"So I see," I said, staring pointedly at her breasts where her nipples were tenting the fabric. She grinned as I started the truck and set the heat on 'blast furnace' while clicking her heated seat to high.

The truck was still warm from the drive and the heat was instantaneous. She shivered. "Thanks."

Three minutes later, as we were halfway back to the villa, the rain slowed to a drizzle.

"Typical," I muttered. "At least I got a show!" I added with exaggerated enthusiasm.

She sniffed out a brief laugh. "Would you stop?"

"Warm?"

"Can't you tell?"

It was my turn to snicker. "You told me to stop so I didn't look."

"Uh-huh."

"Okay, maybe a little peek."

I again parked in the garage, and we lugged bags into the kitchen.

"So, you can cook?" she asked as we closed the door for the last time.

"Yeah. I can't eat out all the time," I said as I began putting items away.

"I guess."

"Let me guess, you have a chef?" I could tell from the hardening of her face she didn't like the comment. "I don't mean anything by it, but if you've never been grocery shopping, how could you cook?"

She softened slightly. "Yeah, okay. Yes, I have a chef that comes in and prepares meals. She makes sure I eat healthy and avoid things that make me fat."

I nodded. "She does a damn good job of it then, but I bet you spend a lot of time in the gym too."

She nodded. "Some."

"How long?"

"Two hours a day. Do you go to the gym?"

"No. By the time I'm done at work, all I want to do is sit down and put my feet up."

"You work a lot of hours?"

"I can."

"Is it hard? Hard work, I mean?"

I shrugged. "Can be. I have help, but still, I'm constantly running up and down ladders, picking up and moving wood around, hanging cabinets, and nail guns aren't exactly light. Then there's running wire, some of that can be hard to pull."

She nodded. "Maybe you don't need to go to the gym."

"It wouldn't hurt me, but I don't have the energy."

Her lips quirked to the side. "I haven't done a day's work like that in my life. My mom saw to that."

I paused in putting the food in the refrigerator to look at her. "What do you mean?"

"My mom always wanted me to be famous, so I spent all my time with voice and acting lessons, and stuff like that." She paused as a shadow of wistfulness crossed her face. "She was a single mom, and I think she was living through me."

I hated parents like that, pushing their children because of their dreams, not the dreams of their child. "What about your father?"

She looked down. "I never knew my father. She didn't know who the father was."

Her shame was obvious. "Why didn't she have a paternity test?"

She looked up, her eyes sad. "To have the test you have to know who the guy was. I'm the result of a long series of no strings attached, anonymous, one night-stands."

I had no idea how to respond to that. "I'm sorry."

She shrugged, forcing a smile as she tried to shrug off her memories. "It is what it is. Mom wasn't a great mother, but she tried. Her problem was she couldn't say no to a man. At least she had a steady job that kept a roof over our heads and food on the table, but she wanted something better for me. Singing was it."

"Do you stay in touch with her?"

The sadness appeared again. "No. As I began to have success, she became too overbearing. She tried to control what I ate, the people I was seen with and where, how I dressed, everything. She said she was managing my career, but she was actually trying to manage my life. I was losing who I was, becoming what she wanted me to be, so a couple of years ago I cut her out of my life. I send her ten grand a month and a Christmas card, but I haven't seen her over a year."

"I'm sorry," I said again. My parents were still married after thirty-five years, and apparently still very much in love. I had nothing to compare her life experience to.

"Like I said, it is what it is. She did get me started, though, so I owe her that."

"Have you always wanted to be a singer?"

"Yeah. I love to sing."

"Apparently you're good at it too."

"I've been lucky."

"Nobody gets by on just luck. You may have had a few lucky breaks, but I bet you work your ass off too."

"Not like you."

"Yeah, but I can't sing. Just because you don't swing a hammer every day doesn't mean you don't work hard."

She held my gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For saying that, for understanding. A lot of people think everything has been given to me my whole life. They don't... understand."

"They're probably jealous." I smiled, trying to steer the conversation away from her dark memories. "With good reason. So you're taking a month off from being famous?"

She smiled, the darkness leaving her face. "Yeah. I'm supposed to start filming a movie in June, and as soon as I get back the producer wants me to start working on the songs from the movie. I wanted to get away, to get my head straight, before I start work on that."

"Damn! A singer and an actress?"

"Not yet," she said. "This is my first part, and it's not very big. I'm playing a singer strung out on drugs. I'm killed off in the first act to give the hero something to do."

"Still, you have to start somewhere."

She nodded and smiled. "That's what I think, but my agent was bitching about where my name fell in the credits and all sorts of crazy shit. I don't understand it all, but for some reason, that's important."

"I wouldn't know."

I finished putting away the food. She could be easy to talk to, when I wasn't pissing her off. It was raining harder again, and the wind was starting to pick up, the rain splattering against the glass wall. I poured two glasses of wine, cubed some cheese, and started a fire by flipping the switch on the wall.

"Nice," she said as she took her glass.

"Yeah. Nothing like a fire to take the chill off."

She nodded. "So, are you between houses now? Is that why you can take time off"

"Sort of."

"What does that mean?"

"It means we build houses one at a time. They are very high end, two to five million-dollar homes. I haven't taken more than a few days off in almost five years, and Dad hasn't either. It was time. He's taking a couple of weeks before we break ground on the next house. That gives me five to six weeks before I start. When I get back to Houston, I'll have to bust ass to get it wired, but I needed this."

"I can imagine."

We sat in silence, sipping our wine. I tipped the last few drops out of my glass and rose. "I think I'm going to turn in. It's been a long day." She looked up at me expectantly. "You don't have to come. It's what, only nine o'clock for you."

Her face hardened again. "Okay."

"What?"

"Nothing."

It was certainly something, but I didn't know what. Screw her. She could get her panties out of the wad as easily as she got them in there. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Okay."

I was brushing my teeth when she appeared. "Do you have a problem with me? Should we call this off right now?"

I didn't stop brushing until I finished. I washed the toothpaste out of my mouth and turned to face her. "I don't know, should we? You're the one that seems to have all the problems."

"Me?" she demanded. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

She glared at me. "You don't have a problem with me?"

I sighed. "The only problem I have with you is you seem to be looking for things get upset over. My gun, paying for dinner, asking if you cook..."

"So it doesn't matter to you I'm African American?"

"No. Does it bother you I'm probably German American?"

"Well, no, but then why did you give me the brush off?"

"What?"

"You don't want to sleep with me?"

"Is that what this is about? You're offended because I didn't try to take you to bed." I stared at her a moment. "For Christ's sake, Tara. We've been sniping at each other all evening. I thought I'd give you some space. Is that what you want?"

I couldn't read her expression. It was a mixture of confusion, disbelief, annoyance, and probably a half-dozen other emotions. Women were hard enough for me to understand, but California women were im-fucking-possible.

"Isn't it what you want?"

"Well, yes, but I just met you."

"So?"

"So, do you always go to bed with a guy you met four hours ago?"

She watched me a moment, slowly softening. "It's what people do."

"Not here. Okay, maybe some do," I amended, "but most don't."

"So you don't have a problem with me being black?"

"What gave you that idea?"

"You seemed surprised when you first saw me."

"I was."

"Because I'm black?" It was worded as a question, but her tone made it a statement.

I decided to be honest. "Yeah, a little, but also because you're so damned beautiful. I wasn't expecting that."

"Why?"

"Why?" I asked, surprised she asked the question. "Isn't it obvious? Rich, famous, beautiful? Why do you need help meeting someone?"

She softened a little more. "You think I'm beautiful?"

I could hear the question in the question. "I think you're stunning. I don't care what color your skin is. I know the 'oh so sophisticates' in all the big cities think everyone in the south are nothing but a bunch of racists, but if you give us a chance, you might find out we're not nearly as backwards as you think we are." I could see that stung. Good. She needed a slap to wake her up, but I decided to soften the blow a little. "We even have indoor plumbing."

She swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."

"May I make a suggestion?"

"What?"

"Don't believe everything you've heard about us. Try looking at us with an open mind and making your own determination."

She nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll try."

"Now, if I kiss you good night, will you bite my head off?"

That won me a flicker of a smile. "I don't know. Why don't you find out?"

I woke to the smells of breakfast. I stretched and groaned. Charles, Chuck I amended, wasn't anything like I imagined he would be. He might not have fucked me, but his kiss good night had been soft and warm, and I'd laid awake thinking about it afterwards.

When I'd tumbled into bed last night, I couldn't decide if I couldn't stand him for his beliefs or admired him because he didn't give a good shit what anyone else thought. He didn't try to force his opinion on me, but by the same token, he didn't care that I didn't agree with some of them. That was incredibly refreshing. It was rare that anyone openly disagreed with me or told me no. It often pissed me off when they did, and I'd reacted the same way with Chuck. The difference was, when I was pissed off at home, people scurried around trying to make the situation better. Chuck, on the other hand, more or less told me to get over myself.

I decided to take his advice to heart, if I could. I'd try to forget everything I thought I knew about Southerners and make up my own mind. It'd be hard because my whole life I'd heard about how backwards and racist people in the south were, but if I were honest, nobody had treated me any differently than I'd been treated anywhere else. Were there racist Southerners? Probably, just like everywhere else, but that was no reason to condemn an entire section of the country while giving everyone else a pass.

So far, every time he and I got snarly with each other, I'd started it. Over his gun. Over paying for dinner. Over his question of if I cooked. And finally, when he didn't try to fuck me. I made up my mind that as long as he didn't start waving his gun around like a crazy person, I'd assume he was no different than my security and knew what he was doing. He hadn't made a scene at the grocery store, so if it made him feel better to buy dinner, then I could live with that. The fucking... I smiled. He'd kissed me like I wanted to be kissed, not like he was disgusted by my skin color or I was nothing but a black whore purchased for fucking.

If I were honest with myself, I kind of liked the fact he hadn't assumed I wanted to fuck. Sex and drugs were so embedded in the music industry, certain assumptions were made. Thus far, I'd managed to steer clear of the drugs, but I'd fallen into the casual sex that meant nothing, and I'd assumed that was the way it was everywhere.