He unwraps the Dum-Dum and pops it in his mouth. “One thing Mom gon' always have is real estate in her hometown. I spent more than enough time here.”
“That’s how you know how to get around so good?”
He pulls the sucker from between his plump lips with a pop. “Yup.”
There’s more I want to ask, like what he did when his own Mama stopped eating and why she had stopped in the first place, but we’re not on that level yet—at least I don’t think we are. I’m still learning my way around him.
“Hm…” He dangles the stick in front of my mouth. “I hear your stomach growling all the way over here.”
I open my mouth and he pushes it in as he eases to a stop at a red-light.
Now “open” is gone along with “can you?” Stupid Chelsea and Pavlov and his dumb dogs.
The Dum-Dum tastes like Paul Masson and him. He turns the volume to the radio up with a button on his steering-wheel and Dough’s voice pours through the speakers, rapping about always being “a LA nigga at heart.”
I figure this is what it feels like to ride down Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles, but we’re on Westheimer instead and it feels even better. The high rises and condos seem like places I can pop in and visit folks who don’t know I exist. For once, I can say I belong among the Mercedes and Lexus in Ace’s Porsche. I don’t have that tugging at my ego reminding me of my outsider status like I do when me and Mama window-shop at the Galleria.
“Taste good?” He tugs the end of the stick on the Dum-Dum and pulls it out just enough for me to answer.
“It’s a’ight.”
Before I can fix my response, he snatches all of him and Paul Masson out of my mouth while pulling into the parking lot of a shopping center.
“Guess you not as hungry as I thought.” The stick goes back into his mouth and he sucks it so hard I can hear the gushing of wetness draining into my panties as he backs into a parking spot.
He pushes the car in park. “C’mon.”
“C’mon where?”
The only people in the parking lot are a group of white ladies strolling in their Lululemon and gripping yoga mats under their arms.
“To get your nails done.”
“Here?”
Uptown Nails and Spa looks like a retreat compared to MJ Nails where Marcus has a tab with Minh. A black awning covers its entrance and the letters on the door are so aesthetically pleasing I can’t stop staring.
“Marcus didn’t give me enough money to get my nails done here.”
“Damn…” Ace laughs and pulls the solo cup out of the cup holder. “You must know how to do pedis.”
“Hell no!”
“Shit, kid. How you gon’ pay for the fill on them coffin-shaped nails then?” He pushes open the driver’s side door.
I wrap my hand around the passenger door handle. “Hold up, Ac—”
He whips his head around with one long leg dangling outside the car. “I see I already have to make up a second rule for the spaceships on Planet Ace. Stop touching my goddamn door handles.”
I fling my hand back and stare at him, sliding from behind the wheel. He slams his door closed and then gaits around to mine, yanking it open.
I stagger out behind him like I took another swig of that nasty alcohol he let me taste.
That momentary sense of belonging I felt in his Porsche disappears as the sun beats down on my faded leggings, flip-flops, and tank top. He swaggers ahead of me with the cup dangling from his fingers and the Dum-Dum stick in his mouth while I try to calculate what services I can afford in this uppity nail shop he’s got me at.
“Bring your ass, Lourdes,” he calls out over his shoulder. “It’s hot.”
I groan under my breath and hurry past the Lululemon housewives taking up space underneath the awning.
