The Cookie Said Red

Chapter 2

My friend worried about me. She wanted me to be happy and leave heartbreak behind. I’d been in and out of so many relationships that I qualified as my own dating manual, entitled How to Meet the Wrong Man In Ten Easy Steps. But even with the good and bad that had come with those experiences—admittedly more bad than good—I’d never given up hope, even at the advanced age of thirty-five, which, for most men in the gay world, was definitely shelf material.

I knew it was hard for Amy to find good in the world, though she’d gotten better over time with the love of a good man and children in her life, and a job she enjoyed. She’d been through a rough childhood, ending up on the streets when she was seventeen. Luckily, Amy hadn’t been there long before she was able to get into a home for displaced teens, which led her to a job in social services, and eventually her husband, Lawrence.

I, on the other hand, was the only child of loving parents who’d smiled and shaken their heads when I was five while I modeled my mother’s high-heeled shoes in the living room. What? Heels made my calves pop on those occasions when I chose to play dress-up. I checked myself out in the full-length mirror next to the dresser. Turning from side to side, I decided after a few minutes that this was as good as it got. Self-confidence had never been a problem of mine.

I leaned closer to study my reflection, searching for wrinkles on my face. Thankfully, I didn’t have any frown lines or crow’s feet…yet. My parents’ genetics were a godsend. Thick, curly hair came from my father, who hailed from Mississippi originally. His skin was as black as coal, with a beautiful smile and pearly white teeth, and warm dark brown eyes that drew you in. I thought it was the dimples and eyes that my mother had fallen for when they’d met. As for Mom, she’d been the only child of Indian immigrants who’d ended up in Mississippi for some god-awful reason. It was like something out of that Mississippi Masala movie.

They’d moved to Atlanta when I was three, and still lived here, in the Kirkwood neighborhood. I was grateful daily for their choice. My propensity to wear tiaras and pink feather boas might not have gone down well in our former small town residence in the Magnolia State.

While doing my final prep for the date, the doorbell rang. Ohmigosh, he’s here. “Coming!” I yelled as I dashed through the living room into the kitchen to grab my cell phone and wallet before running to the door and opening it.

There he was, like a breath of fresh air. Jamie Coltrane was like butterscotch ice cream, with golden brown eyes, slightly flushed cheeks and dark, carefully styled blond hair. “Hey, Cisco. You look good enough to eat.” He smiled and leaned in to kiss my cheek.

I fanned myself a little, ever the drama queen. “Thank you, darling. You’re not so bad yourself.” And he wasn’t, with his snug, red long-sleeved shirt that left nothing to the imagination—those n*****s stood out, begging for my tongue to lick them—and his black leather pants that advertised everything, to my everlasting joy. He was my height, too, so hard to find when I was six-foot-four myself.

“You ready?” he asked, reaching out to grab my hand. I loved his firm grip and take-charge attitude.

“Am I ever,” I replied with a sunny smile and a coy wink. He laughed at my silliness, and I shooed him back so I could lock my door. “Lead on, McDuff,” I said, gesturing down the hall.

“You know that’s a misquote, right?” he replied as we stopped before the elevators and waited, patiently enough, for our ride down to the lobby.

I placed a hand over my heart, pleased beyond belief. “Yes, I do. It’s a test I use to find out just how literate my dates are, and you passed with flying colors.”

Jamie chortled. “I should have known you’d be devious. You have that look about you.” He leered at me. “I like that look.”

I stood as close to him as I possibly could—once we were in the elevator—without humping his leg. “You bring it out in me, sweetness.”

He put an arm around my waist and hugged me to his side. “So, tell me. Where do you want to go? I’m up for anything.”

“Anywhere but Denny’s,” I said, still recovering from my most recent encounter with that establishment, and my companion at the time.

“Wow, Denny’s?” Jamie replied, horror written all over his face.

“Date from hell, best relegated to the annals of time. Don’t ask.” We reached the bottom floor, and, still with his arm around my waist, Jamie escorted me past the security desk behind which Benjy McCrae, head of security for the building, sat, looking as inscrutable as ever. He nodded when I wished him a good evening. That was one seriously hot, if a little uptight, man.

Jamie and I exited the building and walked toward an early model SUV, his arm still around me. A man who showed affection in public. This couldn’t get any better.

He opened the door for me. “How about Mama Picasso’s, over on Crescent? Best Italian food in town.”

I sat and batted my eyelashes at him. “Deal.” He smiled and closed the door, leaving me to buckle myself in as he entered on the driver’s side.

“Let’s go,” he said, and started the engine.