Page 14 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

Breeze sat back down. And the sounds came to him. The whoosh of the train, snippets of standards that prostitutes had hummed to him, whirring crickets, the tears, the endless hurt, work songs, the fucking South, the unceasing poverty, his calloused bare feet trekking over gravel, his sister’s shimmering alto, his dad’s harmonica, his mom’s ukelele, the groan of his cabin in high wind, the creak in his field-broken back. The explosive bursts and sudden quiet of combat. It all swirled in his head, brewing the suggestion of a new sound, a syncopated rhythm he couldn’t quite grasp, just beyond his still-tobacco-stained fingertips.

Breeze played “Carolina Shout,” all right. Cool as a fan, smooth as a breeze. But he unleashed a torrent of feeling all over it. It was everything he couldn’t say, couldn’t talk about, and was too emotionally obliterated to feel. He played and played, head down, not hearing the crowd, not caring, just pounding out the beat of his heart. He went left when he should’ve gone right, replaced a G chord with a B. It sounded like the instinctual ecstasy of you and your girl reaching for each other midsleep, barely conscious, not thinking, justfeeling. Ezra “Breeze” Walker played “Carolina Shout” like it was a torch song. It was jazz, but the blues, too. Rhythm and blues.

And when he was done, his tears glistened on the keys. Andagain, there was silence. But that was okay. It wasn’t the audience’s job to understand a sound the first time they heard it. Then Fats’s cigarette toppled out of his open mouth and into his scotch, sizzling. James, the Lion, and Duke began to clap. Then the whole place exploded.

Breeze grinned and uttered one word. “More?”

CHAPTER 4

MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR

February 3, 2024

Ricki was standing at her Wilde Things workstation on the heels of the slowest day at the shop thus far. Aside from the delivery guy from Sexy Taco (it’d become her favorite restaurant), no one had rung the buzzer all day. After consulting her budgeting software, she realized that her problem was money. She was spending lavish amounts on the most exotic, precious breeds. Her designs were breathtaking—the kind that had garnered her a massive IG following—but in real life, this “quality over everything” approach was going to bankrupt her.

I need to budget more wisely, she thought, tucking a fancy bougainvillea stem into a wreath.I need to stop… stop…

Stop thinking about him. I need to stop thinking about him.

With a frustrated groan, she squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Garden Gentleman’s face kept popping into her brain. Rudely and unexpectedly. He was a six-foot-two-inch (ish?) intrusive thought.

It was just a random encounter. Just two people startling each other in the dark. So why did her stomach drop fifteen floors every time she thought of him?

Stop, thought Ricki.You’re already dating a perfectly nice person. Yes, Ali thought the vice president’s name was Caramel Harris. But no one’s perfect, least of all you.

“… so, what time should we go?”

Ricki shook her head, coming back to reality. Ali was sitting on the emerald throne, scrolling through his phone.

“Sorry, I zoned out. Where are we going?”

“Sweet Colette bakery is hosting that community art party tonight. I’m one of the featured artists? I get to show three pieces.”

“Oh, right!”

“Yeah, you know, 2024 is all about making profits off this art. It’s time to acquire my own domicile. Energetically speaking, my roommates are cool. But living with a throuple is not gucci.” He fished around in his pocket. “The fuck are my abundance crystals?”

“Which three paintings will you show? The portraits of me, maybe?” Jokily, Ricki batted her lashes.

“You’re so distracted with work, my queen. Remember, I told you the owner used one of my Ricki portraits for the social media invite? And today, he printed it out and stuck flyers around the neighborhood, old-school style. Your face is all over Harlem.”

Ricki had been so focused on the shop, nothing besides her latest orchid delivery had penetrated her consciousness.

“I really need to get out more,” she said, rubbing her bleary eyes. “So, you’re showing one of my portraits. What are the other two?”

“My spirit hasn’t led me to that answer yet. I might show pieces from the New School class I started last week.” He winked. “It’ll be a surprise.”

The evening of February 3, there was a frost in the air, but the sky was crystalline blue, cloudless. Socially speaking, a party was exactly what Ricki needed. Once she’d recovered from themistaken-nationality moment at that networking event, she’d decided to introduce herself to one person a day. The smoothie specialist at her favorite juice bar. The owner of the West African spot where she ate dinner weekly. The clerk at her favorite bookstore who knew her penchant for Eva Mercy’s vampire erotica novels. And after every connection she made, she felt more at home.

An hour into the party, Sweet Colette was thrumming with feel-good vibes. Folks were shoulder-dancing to midtempo bops and helping themselves to sugary cake pops and dry martinis. Ricki was feeling cute in a 1940s lace blouse and a clingy slip skirt. Plus, tonight, she was winning the anxiety battle. She’d bravely introduced herself to Glenroy St. Jermaine, owner of Sweet Colette and fledgling artist, and they were having a delightful conversation.

“So, we’ll be unveiling the art in like thirty minutes. Wait till you see my painting. The subject is an abstract oversized bird,” said Glenroy, a lanky dude in a gauzy kimono and Adidas. “Oil on canvas. Hazy, almost holographic strokes.”

“It sounds surreal,” gasped Ricki. “Like you saw the bird in a dream.”

“I did see the bird in a dream! How’d you know?” Glenroy shoved her shoulder playfully. “We’re twin flames. You get me, my good sis.”

“I always do.” She’d known him for only seven minutes.

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