Smoke and Mirrors (62 page)

“You see, that’s the problem with Felicia and women like her. She put me on a high pedestal that I didn’t deserve. I did little to earn it, but she gave it to me anyway, because she is searching for something, and someone, to fill a hole.

We all are…

“I…I used her.” He looked down at his shoes. “I used her mind, her body…and abused her trust. Even if I was a better person at that time, I don’t believe I would have loved her…because, you either love someone or you don’t, you know?”

Several people nodded in agreement.

“It’s not something you can force.” He looked over at Paris. “And it’s not something you can control. For when it hits you, it hits you
hard
, and you’re just gone.” He smiled tenderly. “This woman right here, standing beside me, I
love
her. And it wasn’t something I had to try to
make
happen, to invent, or to create. It just
happened
! I was looking at her, we were talking here and there, getting to know one another, and before I knew it, I woke up one day and said, ‘Oh my God, I’m in love with her and better yet, I
like
how this feels. I won’t run, because she’s a gift to me!’”

Applause rang out as he shook his head.

“Some people thought it was funny, some felt it a stupid move on my part since I was the pursuer and I lost street cred, others thought it was sweet, but most didn’t know what to think of Paris and me getting together.”

He heard some chuckles.

“I have a lot of friends, who I consider family, still in the life.” People nodded. “It’s in our blood! It’s where we come from, and what we do! Sex is beautiful! But…one day, I realized…” He looked back at Paris and wiped a tear from her eye so softly…so delicately. “I understood that I only wanted to be with one woman, and she’d…she’d be enough.” He shifted his gaze back to the crowd. “That woman was Paris. I didn’t care about the flashy cars, the money, the prestige, the acknowledgement anymore. I didn’t care about making my dead dad proud anymore, living up to his legacy, his name. I didn’t care about the big, fancy houses and sucking in the street life like cocaine up my damn nose! Paris became my cocaine!” He pointed to her. “And she became my rehab, too…”

People jumped to their feet, applauding and cheering as he handed the microphone back to the minister. In moments, the noise died down, he was told he could kiss his bride, and before the minister could finish the sentence, he reached for his Pussycat, curled his arms around her small waist, and hoisted her against his body. His cock throbbed against her, and a split second fantasy of ripping her damn dress off crossed his mind, but…it was
only
a fantasy. That would simply have to wait until later. He curved his lips in a naughty grin as he pressed his lips hard into hers, claiming her, while people jumped out of their seats and applauded.

Yeah…he was married now. He was married to Paris Ramón Patterson, and she was the love of his life, the co-pilot of his heart, and the blue around his clouds.

She was his living, breathing daydream, and in his heart, she’d
always
fly first class…

*

Two years later…

H
ere he stood.
After two years, he’d just completed the hardest challenge he’d ever tried to accomplish in his life, because the dedication to tediousness was not something that happened for him naturally. Regardless, he could hold his chin high. He’d made it. The college courses, the extensive pilot training, the back-to-back court cases, fighting for a clean record that finally came to be—all over. Meanwhile, he’d done his best to be there for the woman he owed everything to, while surviving on several cups of coffee and two hours of sleep a night. Needing and desiring to be a husband, a lover, a friend, when many times, all he had in him was the urge to sleep, and even that was compromised. The worst of it came when his aunt contacted him, a woman he hadn’t laid eyes on since the age of twelve, to let him know that his mother had died.

He calmly thanked her for the information, and stated he would not be attending the funeral for he’d already attended his mother’s ‘funeral’ years prior. Still, once he hung up that phone, he walked into his bathroom, quietly locked the door, fell to his damn knees and cried harder than he had in his whole life. Between that news, school, work and the pressure, sometimes he didn’t think he was going to make it. Sometimes he’d think, ‘I’m ready to give up.’ But something inside would push him forward, to see this thing through. He’d look at the love of his life doing what she loved—being his inspiration—and then, he’d remind himself,
If my wife can leave it all behind, start clean and work herself to death but love every second it, so can I…

They’d argue every now and again about his rigorous schedule and dumb shit that newlyweds say and do while trying to adjust, but then she’d kiss his lips, wink, and tell him all was forgiven. She’d state it was all worth it; that she had his back, his front, and everywhere else, too….

She missed her husband, and how could he find fault with the woman? She was doing everything she could to keep things afloat and she deserved acknowledgement, for she was faithful, loving and patient. When he heard his name called to receive his certification, he was certain he’d fallen into a dream he never wished to wake from. Was Brent daydreaming again?

“Pilot Brent Jeremy Patterson…”

In less than four months, he’d be finished with his bachelors. The accelerated online courses became his bitch. He asked for more work in order to speed up the process, and got an A on practically every paper he wrote, every team building activity, and every assignment he turned in. And lucky for him, Benjamin had pulled so many damn strings, the business was tied up tight like a damn puppet doing a tap dance special. Brent practically had a job waiting for him; he just had to complete a few more hours, and it was a done deal. This was no luck—this was nothing short of divine intervention. Pimps ended up in one of two places, in prison or dead, just like gangbangers. Death could come from stress, a self inflicted end to it all, a whore who decided he needed to drink some ‘act right’ juice, a dangerous john, or another pimp who determined he didn’t want the competition. Brent realized that if he was going to die, it needed to be for something worthwhile, and peddling pussy simply wasn’t it. He preferred to pilot planes.
That
‘double ‘P’ sounded much better…

He looked out in the audience, and there near the front stood his beautiful Paris, her heavy stomach jetting out in the designer mint green maternity outfit that paired nicely with her skin tone. ‘A Day in Paris’ was doing so well, she had to hire five people over the past twelve months to assist, and she probably needed more. Despite his rigorous schedule and exhaustion, he’d kept his promise. He went to
every
single doctor’s appointment. Sometimes he’d have to meet her there and scurry back off, but he was there, damn it, and that meant the world to her.

When he looked at the sonogram and the nurse said the baby was a boy, he began to laugh uncontrollably—the sound of pure joy—and didn’t stop for at least five minutes. He would have been pleased with whatever sex the baby was, but with a boy, he knew he could take the curse by the neck and toss it into the depths of Hell. His surname meant something. Here was
another
generation of Patterson men, like himself, his father and his grandfather before him—but
this
boy would be different. Yes, times were changing because Brent would make sure his son felt loved…

The loud applause shook him out of his thoughts, and confetti shaped like tiny airplanes fell from the rafters of the auditorium. He grabbed his graduation hat and tossed it in the air, watched it fly up, surrounded by sparkling shades of red, gold, and glittery pearl. Soon he felt the wonderful hardness of Paris’ stomach bumping against his side. She smiled and clutched him close.

“Congratulations, baby!” she yelled, practically rendering him deaf, but he didn’t mind. Everything was just right…just right indeed.

*

“…And they lived
happily ever after.”

“Read it again, Daddy!” Ian begged as he grabbed his short toes with one hand and pointed with the other to the big book chock full of fairy tales and glossy, colorful paintings.

“Noooo, Sir!” Brent shook his head at his precocious two-year-old. “It’s late. Time to go to bed, buddy.” He patted the thick cream comforter.

The boy began to pout, roughing up his covers as he kicked his little light tan legs to and fro in a silly fit.

“Settle down.” He grinned as he leaned over and kissed his son’s forehead.

“When you comin’ back, Daddy?” the little boy asked, his big light brown eyes shining up at him while he yawned and got established between the sheets.

“In two days, Ian. Then, I’ll be home for a week, and gone another two days.” He knew the kid wouldn’t remember and ask him all over again, but he didn’t mind; his son just needed the reassurance. The little boy nodded and yawned again, his poker straight jet-black hair sticking straight up at the top like a porcupine’s quills. He’d gotten into the hair gel again…

Brent leaned over and kissed his cheek, pulled the Spider-Man print sheets and the comforter snugly over his son’s long, thin body, and headed out to the master suite bedroom. When he walked inside, he placed his finger up to his lips, also reminding himself to keep quiet. There, on her side of the bed, sat Paris, holding their month old son, Camden.

He slid off his slippers and got under the cool white sheets, his tired bones welcoming the reprieve. Leaning forward gently, he kissed Paris’ cheek and took hold to little Camden, whose eyes looked like mirrors of a peaceful blue sky. Cradling him just so in the football position, he began to slowly rock the baby back and forth against him.

“Did Ian fight going to bed again?” she whispered as she reached past a vase full of cream calla lilies to grab a small glass of water.

“Of course.” He shot her a look out the corner of his eye. “He wouldn’t be Ian if he hadn’t.”

She took a sip of her water and crossed her ankles. He looked down at her feet, the way the skin was so smooth, so soft, the light creamy brown contrasting with her French pedicure. He never got tired of looking at the woman, as was evident from the arrival of their second child—a ‘surprise’ baby and proof that he simply couldn’t keep his damn hands off her. He caressed along the baby’s cheek, checking out his vibrant blue eyes, just like his own. He could see his reflection mirrored back to him. He lived in his children, and his children lived in him. He reached for his wife, but kept his eye on their newborn. She set her glass down and took his hand, gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Camden and Ian, my wonderful boys.” He bent low and kissed the baby’s forehead as he rolled in thoughts. He turned to Paris, who made him feel like a man with her mere presence. “Thank you for my children, Pussycat.” He choked it out; his voice cracked, while his heart swelled in the moment.

Her pretty smile grew larger. She squeezed his hand a bit harder, tighter. After a few moments, Camden fell asleep in his arms. Brent gingerly got up from the bed and carried the little one across the room.