Texas Heat

"Is the boss lady here?"

A moment of silence passed between us before he said no, but I could see Pedro looking me over as if I'd grown another head. After recovering from the shock of my own question, I could see his mind working a mile a minute. None of the guys had been able to convince me to go out with them. If indeed the boss lady was a dyke, and I felt pretty comfortable making that assumption, then I just confirmed whatever suspicion they had about me. Guys are notorious for thinking a woman is gay if she doesn't want to fuck them. It couldn't be that a woman was just not interested, right?

But what the hellwasgoing on with me? That woman had unnerved me yesterday. Had erased every thought from my mindtwice. No one had ever had that kind of effect on me. Ever. So, why the hell was I looking for her? Was I attracted to her? I took a moment to recall my reaction to her yesterday. It didn't feel like the reactions I had toward men I found attractive. There was something else...I wasn't sure what. I was curious about her. Maybe I was just lonely and she seemed like an interesting character? I didn't have much going on besides work and a few polite neighbors right now. When I moved to the Poconos the friends I used to hang out with in Jersey disappeared. I wasn't upset with them, distance did that to friendships sometimes. But I hadn't really hung out with anyone in over a year. Yea, that was probably it. I was just looking for a new friend and she was...interesting.

Reassured, once again, that I was not a lesbo and was only looking for friends, I climbed behind the wheel of my car and headed off to work. I'd been there for a few hours, working to finish up some projects Michael claimed were needed immediately, before I had a moment to myself. I'm not sure why, but I plugged "Pasadena Williams" into Google and got a few hits. A few shocking hits actually. A local New Jersey paper listed her as one of the most fascinating African American millionaires in New Jersey. Okay,thatwas a surprise. I recalled those large, calloused hands, the simple clothes streaked with grease and oil, the muscles and the cornrows. A millionaire? The article stated she owned four gas stations/garages in different parts of New Jersey. Her first station had been left to her when her parents died in a car accident years ago. I devoured every word of the article, realizing she had been only 20 when her parents died, calculating that she was now 42. The article also mentioned she'd been an amateur bodybuilder. The picture of her was not flattering, but then, as I noted yesterday, she was not a very attractive woman. Still, the navy double-breasted suit looked good on her. It was a man's suit and I could see a hint of gold at her wrists. I smiled, realizing she was wearing cuff links. A millionaire? This plain looking, rude woman who had kept me waiting forever yesterday? I found it hard to believe.

I was reading over the last Google hit when Julie stopped by my desk and asked if I wanted to do lunch. I shut down my computer, grabbed my purse and followed her from the office, thankful for a chance to clear my head.

My days went pretty much the same as they always did over the course of the next week, except I added a new step. I always looked for the Boss Lady when I was at the gas station. I hated myself the first few times I asked for her after I read the article, wondering if I was a gold digger looking for someone to help pay my bills. But then I relaxed a bit. Befriending someone, even a millionaire, did not make me a gold digger. I didn't want anything from her considering I wastotallyattracted to men. And to prove it to myself, I promised to place a personal ad and try dating again. Maybe it was time. I would do it as soon as I had a free moment.

After a week, I stopped asking about Pasadena. Either she had no interest in befriending me, or the guys were not telling her I asked about her. Either way, I didn't have time to waste on someone who clearly had no interest in me. So, I decided to place that ad (which I did later on that afternoon) and go on a date. That would probably boost my spirits.

I had my first date a few days later. He was also in the accounting field so I thought we would have a lot to talk about. Well, it turns out he lied about a few things. He was not in accounting, he was 66 instead of 46, and he was white (my ad specifically said African American men). Even though he turned out to be quite funny, I was still annoyed. We had dinner, went to a movie, and he kissed me on the cheek after escorting me back to my car. He said I should call if I wanted to see him again, but I already knew I wouldn't. Where I came from, there were rules about dating white guys. You just didn't do it. Inevitably he, or some member of his family, wound up calling you a monkey, eggplant or nigger. I wasn't in the mood to deal with that kind of baggage.

I tried three more dates, all the appropriate race and age. One was a male nurse, one was a lawyer and the other was a high school teacher. They were all perfectly nice, but I wasn't interested in a second date with any of them. So I convinced myself that I simply had too much on my plate and that I should wait a little longer before diving back into the dating pool.

It had been about three weeks since I'd last seen the boss lady. So, when I pulled up to a pump around 6:30 one morning, I was shocked to see her walking toward me. Juan was also on his way, but she waved him off. My mouth had gone dry and I was too nervous to remember to shut off the engine.

"Cut the engine, Princess."

I did it without a second thought, slightly annoyed that she called me princess again. I was also slightly out of breath for no reason at all. I glanced in my rear view mirror, taking in the diamond studs again. Fuck, she would catch me on a day that Michael needed me to look professional. He had a conference in New York City today and I was going with him to take notes. So, I had on another power suit, this time a navy one with fine pinstripes, another pair of overpriced pumps, black sheer stockings with seems up the back, and my hair and make-up were tasteful. I sighed, so much for second impressions.

She moved to the front of my car to clean the windshield and I took a moment to just watch her. She wore another white wife beater, although it was now mid November and really too chilly for the tee. Her muscles were rippling, even the ones in her neck. Her face was expressionless and still as plain as ever. And yet, I could feel my pulse trip just a few times as I watched the play of muscles across her shoulders and down her arms. Goddamnit, what the hell waswrongwith me?!

"Oh-uh...Ummm, th-thanks for fixing my car the other day."

She only offered a nod in my direction and I wondered why I was stuttering like a fucking idiot. Who cares if she's a millionaire? She didn't look or act like one in my opinion. Her hands were rough and calloused, her clothing streaked with all kinds interesting browns and blacks, and those cornrows hailed straight from the ghetto. She probably lived in the inner city and had a hood-rat braiding her hair. I bit my lip, wondering where that uppity, bourgeoisie rant originated. Considering I was raised in West Philadelphia, and not the nice part either, who was I to talk about cornrows and hood-rats? I watched her move toward the rear of the car and top off the tank. When she screwed the cap back on, I stood from the vehicle to hand her my credit card. She handed the card to Juan who was lounging against a nearby pump. He dashed off to the office to run the card.

"Heard you were looking for me."

That deep, raspy voice washed over me and I forced myself not to react. I was just looking for a friend, no more than a friend...I kept repeating the mantra.

"I-uh, I just, um, wanted to thank you."

"No thanks needed, it's my job. Have a good one, Princess."

She turned and began to walk back toward the office, but I wanted more. I had to think quickly.

"Uh, is your name really Pasadena?"

Okay, yes that was a dumb question, but what was I supposed to say?!

She stopped, turned to look at me, raised a brow and then...turned around again and went into the office! Ugh! How fucking rude was that? Juan came over to me with the credit card slip and I signed it absently. I didn't realize the embarrassment I felt was written all over my face. Even Juan noticed it.

"Don't worry, Negrota, she no talk to no one."

I handed the small clipboard back to Juan.

"Is she seeing someone?"

Okay,thatquestion really shocked the hell of out both of us. I couldn't believe I'd asked it!

Juan just looked at me for a moment and then a slow smile spread across his face.

"Ah, Negrota, I no know you like chicas."

"I don't." I snapped out immediately, realizing how stupid the response sounded.

Juan shrugged and shook his head, "I no see no ladies with her for a long time."

For some reason, that made me feel better. I have no idea why considering she clearly had no interest in me. And, of course, I was straight...right? I handed Juan a $5 tip, a bit more than I usually gave, and climbed behind the wheel of the Mercedes. I decided, at that moment, to find another gas station. Whatever was going on with me regarding Pasadena Williams was unhealthy.

*

That mindset lasted exactly a week, and then, just like an addict, I found myself at my old gas station again. The guys seemed happy to see me. They didn't appear to be freaked out that I obviously had a thing for their boss. She was, of course, no where to be found. I was disappointed, but also relieved. I had not spent much time thinking about my feelings for this aloof woman, so it was best if I didn't have to face her right now. Anyway, the guys asked where I had been and I lied and said I'd been out of town. Truthfully, Michael and I had gone to Chicago for two days last week, so it was only a little lie.

My spirits were a little higher when I left the station and made my way to work. Clearly I had missed my gas station pals more than I was willing to admit. It was nice to see them again. The day passed quickly (Michael was out all day) and on the way home I did something I normally didn't do. I stopped by the gas station. I had run quite a few errands during the day, so I rationalized that I needed more gas for the morning trip. But if I was honest with myself, that's not why I stopped at the station. I probably had enough gas to get home and back to the station in the morning. I just really wanted to see her.

At first glance she wasn't around. None of the attendants on the pumps looked familiar and for once it felt as if I was at any ol' gas station. Pedro, Juan, Miguel, Ben...none of my pals were around. It was a little depressing.

The attendant pumping my gas didn't offer a friendly smile and he didn't clean my windshield. That annoyed me...but then, considering none of my friends were there, and Pasadena wasn't around, anything would have annoyed me. I signed the credit card slip and was pulling away from the pump when I saw a tall, muscular form appear from behind an oversized SUV. She walked gracefully and I couldn't help but watch that lithe form as it made its way toward the tiny office. I was so preoccupied that I didn't realize I had hit my breaks when I saw her. The driver behind me also didn't realize it until she rear-ended me. Startled, I blinked and then stepped from my car to assess the damage. My bumper was horribly dented and the paint was scratched in a few places.

"Shit, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize you were stopping. Are you okay?"

The young blonde woman was frantic. Her hands were shaking and I could see tears in her eyes. I looked at my bumper again and then looked at the front of her SUV. She barely had a scratch. I sighed.

"Look, don't worry about it. It was totally my fault. If you don't mind covering the cost of the damage to your own vehicle, I'll take care of mine, okay?"

She looked at me as if I was an alien. She'd probably never hear those words again in her life. She looked at the damage done to my car again and then looked at me.

"Did you bump your head or something?" She teased a little nervously.

I laughed and shook my head, "don't worry about it. I'm serious."

She hesitated for just a second longer before she disappeared into her monster-sized SUV and drove off without getting any gas. I guess if I rear-ended someone in a Mercedes and they told me to forget about it, I would also high-tail it out of there before the person changed their mind.

I squatted down at the rear of my car, examining the damage more carefully. It would probably cost at least a thousand to fix, if not more. Fuck. There went my annual vacation to New Orleans.

"I have a friend who'll fix that for a decent price."

I hadn't realized she was near me and the sound of her voice shook me so badly I toppled right over onto my ass. Now I was doubly annoyed considering I had on winter white slacks. I ignored the large, calloused hand reaching out to help me up, scrambling to my feet and craning my neck to check out the damage done to my pants. Yup, there was some kind of brown stain on my rather nicely shaped plump ass. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I looked up into that plain face, not at all amused by the smirk on her face. Damnit, this was allherfault anyway!

"No thanks."

She shrugged, turning to walk toward the garage. "Suit yourself, Princess," she tossed over her shoulder.

"Will you stop calling me that!"

The outburst was...well, embarrassing for me, surprising for anyone else watching...and clearly amusing to her. She turned to face me again, that damn brow raised once again.

"My name is Evelyn. Evelyn Smallis. Everyone calls me Evy."

She peeled a thin white glove off of her right hand and held it out to me.

"Pasadena Williams. Dee."

I hesitated before I took her hand although I'm not sure why. My reaction told me why. The feel of that roughened palm against my flesh, the strength of that grip...it sent of bolt of electricity right up my arm. Her touch answered all of my questions. I might not be a lesbian, but I sure must be bi-curious because I was definitely attracted to this woman. Attracted to her in a confusing, absolutely inexplicable way. Never had my body responded like this before. I had goose pimples all over, my heart was pounding in my chest, and I felt a little lightheaded. I yanked my hand from her grip, confused, ashamed, embarrassed. What waswrongwith me?

I couldn't meet her gaze so I just slid behind the wheel of my car and drove off. I had a lot to think about.

*

As was my childhood practice, whenever I have something difficult to deal with, I just avoid it. I decided to visit a different gas station for the next few days. I had to take some time off. I'd never wanted a woman to just throw me down and take me in every way possible before. But that's what I'd been thinking when I'd masturbated that night. Pasadena Williams. Dee. Jesus, I had the hots for this woman in the worst way. Better to stay away, lest I make a complete ass out of myself...as if I hadn't already.

When I arrived at work the next day, Michael seemed more devastated about the condition of my car than I was. He had someone from his Mercedes service center come over to assess at the damage. I needed a new bumper, a rear panel had to be replaced and, of course, it needed to be painted. Estimated cost? $1,750. No vacation for me this year for sure. The Mercedes rep said he could give me a loaner and would have my car fixed in two days. When Michael asked me about insurance I told him what I'd said to the woman and he looked at me as if my IQ had dropped 70 points. When he suggested I tell the insurance company it was a hit and run, and I said I couldn't because that was insurance fraud, he just shook his head. For the rest of the day, whenever he saw me, he just shook his head. I silently wished his head would explode at least five times that day.

The rest of my weak went as smoothly. I botched an assignment I had been working on for weeks, the receptionist's computer crashed so we all had to pitch in and answer phones, and I lost my purse (it turns out I had neglected to remove it from my car; thank goodness no one stole it). And every night, after driving an hour and a half to get home, I tossed and turned, dreaming of a tall, muscular woman with caramel colored skin, cornrows and intense, chestnut brown eyes. After more than a week of this, I gave up. I decided that I needed to figure out what was going on with me instead of running from the problem. I would ask her out on a date. I swallowed past the lump in my throat. I hadneverasked anyone out on a date, men always approached me first. The fear of rejection made my palms sweat. But if I wanted to figure out what was going on I had to do this. I had to talk to her, had to spend time with her. Had to...I don't know what else I had to do but I had to dosomething.

So I dressed for the occasion in blue jeans, a black tee shirt, old sneakers and a Philly's baseball cap, worn backwards. It was Saturday, I had no idea if she would even be at the garage. I drove the 50 minutes it took to get there and then pulled off into a parking lot about a mile away from my destination. I needed to figure out a plan of action. If she wasn't there? Well, then I would just pay for my gas and be on my way. Or maybe I would leave a note for her. If any of my pals were there, I would tell them I was working today. If she was there but she was too busy to talk? Well...I would probably leave my phone number for her. I closed my eyes at the thought. She probably wouldn't call. I didn't even know what kind of women she was attracted to. What if 'pleasantly plump' wasn't her style? What if—I cut myself off, realizing if I kept going I would turn around and drive home. Okay, the final scenario? What if she was there and actually had a minute to talk? Well, then I would take a deep breath and ask her if she wanted to come over to my house for dinner. No, no, I should ask her out for dinner, my house was too much too fast, right? I mean, she could be a serial killer or something. But I would be more comfortable at home and I was a pretty decent cook, so shouldn't I aim for comfort on my own turf? I took a deep breath, wondering if I would even go through with it. I really, really wanted to turn around and drive home.

Okay, okay, I told myself, if I could get through seven years with Michael, I could probably get through anything. Besides, I was a relatively attractive woman. I had my fair share of admirers. What's the worse that could happen? She'd say no? Then I would just find a new gas station and move on with life. No harm, no foul. Another deep breath and I felt brave enough to drive to the gas station. I didn't pull up to a pump, parking in front of the tiny office instead. No one was inside and I was relieved for just a moment. All of that preparation for naught. I was no longer facing immediate rejection. Whew!

Well, the relief was short lived. I was writing my name and phone number on a piece of paper in the office, prepared to leave it on the desk, when I saw her out of the corner of my eye. She was examining the rear of my convertible. I slipped the paper into my pocket, squared my shoulders, and made my way back out to my car. She was kneeling down, examining the repairs closely.

"Not bad. How much?"

I hadn't been thinking about that information so I was back to stuttering, "uh, around, uh, a thousand, no, it was, uh, ummm, actually it was around seven-seventeen hundred I think."

I rolled my eyes at myself. God, I was a bumbling idiot.

She sucked her teeth, "my friend would have fixed it for half."