Just trying to get my muse to come back, so ignore the mistakes please. Not mine, not making any money. The song referenced to is Havana by Camila Cabello.
If the pounding in my head was any indication, last night must have been a blast. Too bad I only had flashes of memory from the events that left me feeling like road kill. With a groan, I realize I must make it out of bed somehow and hunt some painkillers or at the very least some coffee.
Time to face the day, Stephanie! my alarm clock informed me, bright and chirpy. My mother had decided I could use better habits and one of them was starting the day the way normal people do, waking up at the crack of dawn to brave the traffic and the smog and get to work. I suspected my mother was not so subtly giving me hints about getting a regular job too, but I frequently chose not to get that particular hint. For mom, I was a trial and if I was true to myself, I was a trial for most everyone I got into contact with, including myself.
I was a self-appointed BEA, heavy on the luck and bravado and skimmish on the apprehension techniques. I got my captures by sheer luck and stubbornness, though I could work the puzzle of a skip's whereabouts pretty well. It was the capture that usually resulted in garbage throwing, name calling, bitch slapping and clothes ruination. Usually. Okay, sometimes that happened in traffic or at Macy's during a sale as well, but hey this is Jersey we're talking about, so that didn't count.
The band of midgets with the pick-hammers partying in my head decided to give me a helping hand, easing up the drilling while I boiled myself in the shower, as much as you can boil yourself on a faulty boiler and limited hot water supply. Walking on auto-pilot, I started the coffee and hunted up some crackers for Rex. I would've asked him about his night but I was afraid I'd have to tell him about mine and I didn't want to give him a bad example of what adulthood implied.
A flash of memory had my heart beating a bit faster. Sometime during my night out I was dancing on the stagein some club. I remember my hips undulating to the sultry music. That was a very real possibility, as I'd spent the night on a girls' night out with Lula, Connie and assorted girlfriends at a club called Spicy, celebrating one of Connie's friends' engagement. Francine Colombo was getting married to Vincent Asaro, which wasn't much to get too excited about normally, but in Jersey, their wedding was the merger of the year, bringing together in sickness and in health, or at least until a drive-by got to you, two of the remaining factions of Italian mob still sharing the town and their business. Independently, their families had been the root of criminal activities for over a century in Trenton and god knew what they'd cook up once the marriage was in place. I just hoped I didn't have to apprehend any of that Family.
The party was mob-princess meets bridezilla themed and Francine kept telling us there's a surprise appearance from the Chippendales later on. It seemed as, Francine started celebrating early and would probably be sleeping off a monster headache during that performance.
Lula was throwing back shots, hips already swaying to the music, eyeing up the men on offer in the club. She was dressed as only Lula could be. A tight fuchsia mini skirt that would qualify on most women as a belt and a neon green top with strategically placed cutouts were paired with blond hair, killer heels and out of this world, but well soaked in alcohol attitude. Across from her, Connie looked a lot more subdued, in a red skirt and leopard print top. She had a look in her eye that told me that while this might be a girls' night out, she wouldn't be going home alone tonight.
Francine was loud, extravagant and definitely having fun, dancing and singing her lungs out, proclaiming her love for Vinnie and Italian ancestry to anyone within earshot.
I'm so happy I could sing! Francine screamed to cover the music.
I could go for some singing, Lula decided. As a professional, I'm bound to sing up in your honor.
You're a professional? Francine went googly eyed.
In more areas than one, said Lula. I was a ho for a long time. You don't make it long as a ho if you can't do the vocals right. And I'm singing in a band now with Stephanie's granny. We tore down the Seniors' Club last time we rocked. I'm waiting for a call from my agent any day now. You sing much?
Oh, not as much as I'd like to. You have to sing for us. We all have to sing. Screw the Chippendales!
I sure hope to, Connie muttered to general cheers and laughing. I'm not sure the club does karaoke tonight though.
It's my bachelorette party! They'll do karaoke if I tell them to, or Daddy'll just have to pay them a visit!
Oh boy, I thought! I sure hope Vinnie knows what he's getting into. I'd worked my way through a few cocktails and singing sounded pretty good to me at the moment. I'll start! I heard myself announcing. Warm up the crowd for you and Lula. Hoping off the stool, I realized the cocktails had a lot more kick than I anticipated, but Lula was already dragging me towards the scene. What the hell, why not have some fun? I spent a good three minutes choosing lyrics on my phone, but one song in particular got to me.
Making my way up the stairs and onto the stage was challenging, but seeing as the music had already started playing and it was a sultry number, I guess my wavering could pass for a seductive walk and not a drunk-as-a-skunk parade.
The lights went off, the spotlight shining on me in my tight little red sequined dress. It did good things to my body, so much so that some of the patrons started clapping before I even opened my mouth.
That's when fate decided I needed a good kick of reality to go along with my alcohol induced bravery. Somewhere to my right, almost out of reach of the spotlight, I noticed my once on-and-off boyfriend. A beer in his hand, open checked shirt paired with jeans molding to every part of him, cop face fixed in place, Morelli sat across the table from a girl I remember seeing around the burg. She had a blue dress on, that spoke of comfort and a little bit of flirt, nothing you'd find in my closet. My wardrobe went from the jeans-and-t-shirt attire for running down skips to short, tight and exposing dresses for picking up skips in bars.
It gave my heart a sharp little jab, but things between us had never worked out. I guess I would always have that reaction to him and another woman. We'd spent a good part of our lives trying to fit into each other's expectations. Mine were still not very defined, but his certainly didn't include regular bombings and explosions.
And because this is me we're talking about and fate couldn't resist the opportunity to get in another kick, I felt the tingling on the back of my neck like a caress. I couldn't see him, but Ranger was in the club. Suddenly I felt very warm in a lot of places. Oh boy! To say things between us were complicated was an understatement. Friends. We were friends, sure. I mean, I always let myself get kidnaped for Lula and Connie jumps off a bridge after me every other week. Friends could spend scorching nights together and undress each other with every occasion, rights? So what if some of the activities were adult rated, they didn't come with commitment from either of us.
Here I was, trying to have some fun with my friends. I spent most of my days running down idiots who got drunk and decided Mrs. Griffin's rosebushes were a fun place to take a leak. I lied, cheated and forced my way into taking them back into custody for skipping their court date, barely managing to scrap up enough money for rent and food and the one night I decide to actually do something for myself and have some fun, they'd both be here complicating things. I was already a bundle of weird experiences, bad luck and tragic magnetism for creeps and assholes. I didn't need telenovela romance added to the mix. Rhino mode was trying to nose its way through the margaritas, but it didn't have a lot of success. There'd been a lot of margaritas. But enough mad got to me to decide not to give a crap about either of them. I turned my back to the crowd, hips swaying, getting into the rhythm, feelings coursing through me, adding just a bit of smoke to my voice. By the time words started coming out of my mouth, I was fully immersed into the song.
The music spoke to me, it felt right. It felt empowering and liberating. Spinning around and fixing my eyes on Joe's, I sang. I loved him when I left him. Letting my eyes caress the darkness in the club, I continued My heart is in Havana. The air around me was electric, the feeling of being watched, being desired addicting, egging me on. I finished the song and made my way back to the table, among cheers and applause I wasn't sure whether my dress or my singing evoked. The party went on and it got hazier with each drink. New faces and bodies blurred together, spinning me around on the dance floor, caressing me, letting me touch and explore.
I felt him again, coming from behind me, drawing me into the circle of his arms, my back against his chest, hips moving together in rhythm. Somewhere in a very far away corner of awareness, I registered that the music had circled back to the song I'd chosen for the stage. His hand rested on my lower belly, guiding my movements, guiding me. He spun me around, his eyes hypnotic on mine and for once I couldn't find a single reason to pull back and protect myself from his intensity. My arms circled his neck, resting on his shoulders, pulling his head towards me, meeting his intensity with mine and not backing down. His lips found my ear and even over the loud music and the noise of the club, I heard him whispering the lyrics to me, Papa says he's got malo in him. He meant it as a warning, I could read it in his eyes. Half expecting me to turn him away, cut him loose. But the touch, the fire in his eyes, the hint of Spanish in his voice and just his very presence were intoxicating. And judging by his reactions, so was I. For the second time that night I sang, All of my heart is in Havana.
I didn't need to jog my memory for what happened next, the limberness in my body told the story. The only question I still had at this point was what happens now? There was always fire between us, but last night felt different. Like falling off the ledge you'd been contemplating for a while. Thrilling, scary but promising. After all, there's no way to fly without making the jump, is there? The locks on my apartment tumbled and Ranger walked in, bag in hand.
Car's waiting, Babe. Pack what you need, leave the rest.
Rex? I asked. That's when Tanks stepped in, nodded his head at me in salute, picked up Rex's tank and left. Where to? I asked.
East Atlanta, he let me know with a hint of a smile. Havana next. Then you can choose.
I nodded and picked my brown cookie jar off the counter. I'm set.
You sure, Babe? he asked me, handing me an object that had be grinning.
Oh yeah, I said walking out my door for the last time and tossing in the firebomb. I guess, there'll always be fire between us.