Page 28 of A Smooth Operator

Remi was back with Marina. Wow! She must have some magic pussy since he couldn't get enough of it. All that talk about how she cheated on him and how betrayed he felt was obviously bullshit.

I was stupid for thinking he was interested in me because he invited me for dinner, came to the lab to have coffee with me, pretended we were friends. We obviously were not. Remi Drake wouldn't be friends with me. I didn't look like Marina—I was not slim with lush hair; I was curvy with boring hair that I tied in a ponytail or in a bun like today when it was crazy hot. She wore designer clothes and was always made up—I wore comfortable clothes, and a good day was when I managed to moisturize with sunscreen and maybe put on some lip gloss. He dated women who came from the Memphis elite; I didn't even know who my father was. He was a Drake, and I was the help, no matter how much I elevated myself.

Lani never let me forget my station; neither did Sierra Drake. From subtle pokes to direct jabs, I'd heard it all.

Well, we want to help you, Echo; after all, you don't have anyone.

Can you leave after you set the table, Echo, and not hang out with Lani? We have guests coming.

Dad invited you? I don't think so, Echo, you should go home before Mama sees you.

Without me, you'd have no friends in school, Echo, remember that.

You're a charity project for my husband, nothing more, so don't start gettin' airs, young lady.

Dallas Drake was the only one who treated me like an equal—and to him, I was his equal because he looked at my intellect and not my pedigree. I was always careful to never take advantage of him. He had offered to pay for university, but I got scholarships and two jobs to stay independent and out of debt. I was proud of myself for building this life on my own.

But even I had to admit, I was lonely. I had made a few friends at the lab, like Martin. He'd left half an hour ago because his brother had set him up on a blind date. I wasn't attracted to my boss, but I wished someone would ask me out. Was I so undesirable? No one ever hit on me. No one ever bought me a drink if I was in a bar. Most of the time, I didn't even get noticed, and when I did, it was in a disparaging manner.

I smiled as the Muddy Waters Tribute Band launched into Mannish Boy, one of my favorite songs. The unmistakable guitar riff sent a shiver down my spine, and I closed my eyes, swaying gently to the rhythm. The grassy slope I sat on was cool beneath me, and the faint scent of barbecue smoke drifted from the food stalls scattered around Tom Lee Park. The moon hung low over the Mississippi, reflecting off the water like silver ink, and the distant twinkling lights of barges bobbed on the horizon.

Around me, couples leaned against each other or danced slowly under the stars, sharing swigs from plastic cups of beer or cider. I held a cup of iced bourbon sweet tea in my hand, savoring the burn of whiskey, which contrasted with the sugary chill of the tea. The band's harmonica wailed into the night, and Muddy Waters' legendary lyrics took me back to my childhood when my mother would sing along to the radio before things fell apart.

I settled back onto the grass, staring up at the stars. The music was a balm, soothing the aches I tried to keep buried deep.

"Hey."

I snapped out of my reverie to see Remi.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked softly, his silhouette against the glow of the stage lights.

I blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by his presence. "Not at all," I managed to say.

He sank down on the grass beside me, his knee grazing mine. He was dressed in a black Henley and dark jeans, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead from the warm night air.

"I see you've got great taste in music." He tilted his head toward the band.

I smiled, taking another sip of my tea. "They're incredible, aren't they?"

"They are." He leaned back on his elbows, his gaze fixed on the stage where the guitarist was tearing through a solo. "Muddy Waters was my uncle Austin's favorite artist to work with."

I glanced at him, intrigued. "Your uncle worked with Muddy Waters?"

Remi nodded. "Austin was a young buck back in the day. He worked with a lot of blues musicians—Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Buddy Guy, to name a few."

"That's so cool." I turned fully to face him. "Did he ever tell you any stories about those times?"

"He did." A wistful smile crossed Remi's lips. "He used to say that blues is like a conversation between the soul and the guitar. That's why I fell in love with it."

We sat in silence for a while, the harmonica's mournful wail filling the night air. The crowd around us swayed and cheered as the band moved on to another classic. The moon climbed higher, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

"My mom used to listen to the blues," I spoke softly, not quite looking at him. "Before she became a drug addict and…." Died.

Remi didn't say anything. He sat up, and his shoulder brushed against mine, warm and steady. I took a breath and continued.

"She'd play Muddy Waters, B.B. King, Etta James—all the greats. She'd dance around the living room with me, singing at the top of her lungs. It's one of the few good memories I have of her."

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

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