Read Something She Can Feel Online
Authors: Grace Octavia
Something She Can Feel (21 page)
Like my heart, the faces before me went from worry to wonder and then froze in amazement.
The friend of the girl who almost fell into my arms mouthed, “Who is she?” And I was thinking the same thing. Because listening to what Dame was saying, I was sure he wasn't talking about me. Yeah, he'd made some passes at me and we'd had some heated moments, but his words were the feelings of a man infatuated, a man with a plan to win someone. And that couldn't be me. Of all the women in the room? Outside the club? Out in the world? That couldn't be me. I was wearing slacks.
When Dame was done, he came over and hugged me amid the crowd's cheers and coos. Only this hug was a bit more uncomfortable than the others: After learning what I'd heard, I felt a need to protect myself. It was one thing for me to toy with having a crush on Dame, but for him to pronounce his desire for me in such a public wayâin any way, periodâseemed like a development toward something I neither anticipated nor wanted. Yes, it was exciting being up there and having this half-clothed, successful young man pine for me in front of all of those girls who were probably twelve years younger than me, but all I could worry about was what Dame intended to do next. And how I could stop him.
“Thank you,” I said, as I rose to walk off the stage. My words were gracious, yet distant. Dame looked at me quickly and the same concern I was feeling was in his eyes. It seemed he might be wondering what I was thinking and worried that maybe he'd gone too far.
Benji helped me off the stage and Dame pushed into what he announced was his last song, switching the mood in the room from tender and open back to the raw and rugged excitement he'd injected before.
As I walked toward the bar where Billie was supposed to be waiting, the crowd went on like nothing had happened and the show would never end. But I was wondering what I'd say to Dame when it did.
“Excuse me,” I said, sliding around a couple who was locked in a shameless make-out session in the middle of the floor. When I almost passed, I felt a hand grab my shoulder and turned quickly to be sure it wasn't the lip-locked boy who was literally swallowing the face of his date.
“Journey,” Clyde said, “I was trying to get to the stage to you.”
“Clyde?” I said as if I hadn't seen the man in decades, which wasn't true, but his face certainly wasn't one I'd expected to see there.
He was smiling wide and when he reached to embrace me, I saw that Ms. Lindsey was standing behind him.
“Hey, Journey,” Ms. Lindsey said, waving.
“Karen?” I questioned this time with even less familiarity. “What are you two doing here?”
“This one just had to see Dame perform,” Clyde said, “and because he didn't do anything in Tuscaloosa, I agreed to drive her to Atlanta.”
“Don't act like it's all me,” Ms. Lindsey said playfully. “You were the one talking about how this would be cheaper and we could get out here to have a little fun.”
“And I was right, too, because the show is hot! I'm mad it's already over.”
Behind us I could hear the crowd cheering Dame off the stage.
Considering the near-impossible odds that I'd run into these two people at that club on that night after Dame just confessed his feelings to me on stage and Billie was floating around somewhere in the club with Mustafa, I thought surely the Lord was ...
“But forget us. Why are you here?” Ms. Lindsey asked. “We saw you on stage.” She pulled my arm knowingly as if we were friends.
“It's not like that. That was just a joke up there.... He's quite a jokester,” I said as comically as I could. I even added a chuckle that Clyde and Ms. Lindsey cordially joined in on. “Dame just wanted me to see him perform, so I drove up.”
“All this way by yourself?” Ms. Lindsey said, concerned.
“Is Evanâ” Clyde tried to ask, but Benji came pushing between us suddenly. Ms. Lindsey rolled her eyes at his large frame like she'd come up against him in a fight in another life.
“Dame wants you to come backstage,” Benji ordered more ardently than usual. He didn't even look sideways at Ms. Lindsey and Clyde. “Come with me.”
“Oookay,” I said at his abruptness. “I'll see you two tomorrow?” I looked back at Clyde and Ms. Lindsey.
“Sure,” they agreed, smiling again, but I could tell they still had questions floating in their minds.
Benji took my arm, and we pushed through the crowd that had now turned into a full after-party. I looked around for Billie and Mustafa, but I still couldn't see them. The club was so small and we were just a few feet from the bar. I was hoping they hadn't snuck off somewhere. It was time to go and I didn't want to risk having them run into Clyde and Ms. Lindsey. It was enough that they'd seen me. And I knew it would be a few hours before I had to worry about folks at the school chattering if Ms. Lindsey went and shared the news. And if I knew her like I thought I did, there was no “if” involved. But there was nothing I could do to stop things at that point. I just needed to get out of there.
“So, did you like the show?” Dame asked. He was sitting on a furry red couch that someone had obviously moved from inside the club. I sat down next to him, but left a clear space between us. I didn't want Ms. Lindsey or Clyde or anyone else to walk up and get the wrong idea about us. But even with that space and the rawness of the confession in his lyrics still in my mind, I felt an energy pulling me toward Dame. There was a stimulating shine in his eyes and even though a towel now hung over half of his sweaty, naked chest, it was hard not to notice how solid and flat his pecs wereâlike cutting boards and the tattoos there had been etched with some sharp knife. The beads of sweat looked like drops of thick honey and like all the other women buzzing around Dame, it was hard not to look and wonder what it tasted like.
“It was okay,” I said, giving my best effort at looking away. This was about getting over my crush, not getting closer. The only progress I'd made so far was getting caught.
“You okay? You seem nervous,” Dame said.
“I'mâ”
“No,” he cut me off. “You don't need to explain. I know what it is. I put you on the spot. Right?” A few of the guys he'd been sitting with came over. “No doubt! Tell that nigga to call me, so we can get up in the studio,” Dame said after they had a brief exchange.
“Well, it's thatâ” I tried when they moved on, but Dame cut me off again.
“I know,” he said. “But I had to get it off my chest.”
“What do you mean?” I saw a few ladies from the crowd who'd managed to slip onto the enclosed patio stroll by slowly in front of us, but Dame looked right past them.
“I'm feeling you, Journey.”
Hearing him say my name again, the way he did, all smooth and new, made me feel like lightning was bolting through my body. I was shaken off my axis. And while I didn't realize it then, suddenly, I'd forgotten all about Clyde and Ms. Lindsey and whatever else was waiting outside.
“What?”
“Man, I used to think it was a crush or just an old thing I had for someone in my past, but it's not going away,” he said as openly as if we were sitting in a café and not surrounded by dozens of fans and industry folks who were trying to get hold of his attention. “I'm feeling you. I'm fucking crazy about you. And don't laugh at me, but a part of me thought that when I went home, you'd be all old and married with kids and just wrinkly ... but you're more beautiful now than you were then.”
“D-D-D-Dame,” I stuttered, “I don't think this is the place or time to discuss that.”
“So, you're saying you don't feel the same way, too?” He reached for my hand and pulled me toward him. “Look at me. Tell me you don't feel the same way. That you're not at all interested. Because I heard it in your voice the other day on the phone.”
“Dame, I'm a married woman,” I whispered even though no one could possibly hear me over the chatter. “And I'm ten years older than you.”
“You're not happy.”
“What?”
“I can see how you look at him. You want more and he can't give it to you.”
“That's ridiculous,” I said, looking away from him.
“Did you tell him where you were going tonight?”
“I don't need to answer that.”
“Exactly.”
A nondescript white man dressed haphazardly with two cameras hanging in different directions from his neck came and stood in front of us.
“Let me get a shot,” he said, pulling a third camera from behind. Dame moved closer toward me and smiled and, quickly, the camera flashed and the man disappeared into the crowd.
“So what are we going to do?” Dame asked.
“About what?” I asked with my eyes still blinking from the flash.
“About our feelings. About us.”
“I just told you ...”
“You told me what you have to say. You told me what you think you should say. I want to know what you feel.” Dame paused and smiled for a few other people waiting to take his picture. “Look, I'm not trying to ruin your marriage or change your life. I understand that's who you are and that's fine. I just want to know if maybe”âhe looked into my eyes and it was like everyone in the room just disappeared or stopped talking; there was only usâ“maybe I could have some time ... just breathe the same air as you and talk to you, so I can be reminded in the middle of all of this crazy shit in my life what beautiful really looks like?” His voice was as genuine and true as someone saying a prayer. As cocky and cool as he seemed to everyone else there, he was naked and open to me. And while this might have seemed like a good thing, in a way, it made me feel like I'd led Dame on in some way by coming to see him. Looking at him and knowing what it was like to be with him, I wanted to believe that what he was asking for could beâthat we could just talk, just have our little conversations about nothing and everything and be happy. But right then, listening to his request, I knew it couldn't work. Even in the room that had gone still, sitting there surrounded by drooling women and bottles of champagne and sweet burning cigarettes, grown men in basketball jerseys and Dame with no shirt and tattoos all over his body, it was clear that we were a world apart. Billie was right. I had mine and he had his. There was nowhere we could go.
“I can't do that,” I said. “It's just not the right time. We live different lives.”
“That's still more of what you think you have to say.”
“Well, what about you? How could you be so sure about everything?” I asked, trying to shift the focus from me. “This isn't some romance novel where you can fall head over heels without having any reservations.”
“I'm not the type of man that works with reservations,” he said. “I know what I want and I chase it. This feeling has been with me for too long to play games.”
“Dame,” one of his assistants barked, nearly skidding into the couch with her BlackBerry in her hand, “I need you for some interviews and Naima wants to know when you're ready.”
“Thanks, Emily.”
She pressed the phone back to her ear and rushed over to Benji.
“I guess you didn't count on leaving with me,” I said snidely. I knew Naima had a reason for looking at me sideways earlier.
“Naima?” Dame said. “No, she arranges my exit. That's it.”
“I bet,” I said.
“I don't want to go, but I have to do these interviews or they'll just start making stuff up,” Dame said. “Can I call you?”
“Dame, I just told you, I can't,” I said, watching Benji and the girl walk back over to us.
“I'm gonna call,” Dame said.
“Don't.”
“You ready, man?” Benji asked.
“He's ready,” I answered.
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When I went back into the front, the place was just as packed with sweaty men and scantily clad women as it had been when Dame was on stage. A DJ had replaced the band and it seemed no one wanted to go home. I did, though. My toes were starting to burn and even though I didn't have to drive back to Alabama, thinking of the trip made me wonder if I'd be able to open my eyes and get to work when the sun came up.
Once again, hoping luck would find me and my toes, I headed back toward the bar where Billie promised she'd wait at the beginning of the night, but I still didn't see her there. So I started toward the door, praying she'd gone to the car, but then I noticed a small crowd gathered at the far end of the bar. Even in the darkness, I noticed the tall silhouette of a dark man standing in the middle of the group and as I got nearer, I saw that it was Mustafa and heard angry voices rising a bit above the music.
Many of the people, holding drinks and dance partners in their hands, stopped moving to the beat and just turned and looked toward the center of the crowd that seemed to grow more agitated with each step I took.
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