Rock Star (7 page)

He’d even tried to convince her to try canoeing or kayaking, but she had declined, citing a lifelong fear of drowning in a tiny boat with a madman. The hiking trip to Little River Canyon had been frightening enough.

They’d set out very early on a day hike along the perimeter of the canyon. Bryan had been intrigued by the prospect of hiking along the only river in the world that flowed for its entire length along the top of a mountain. On this very warm fall day, they both wore hiking shorts and boots. Bryan’s long muscular legs were lightly peppered with dark brown hair, and she couldn’t stop staring at them. She could almost feel that rough hair rubbing against the smooth sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. Fortunately, Bryan was leading so he wasn’t aware of her fixation, but it was still terribly awkward. To make matters worse, during a brief descent they constantly brushed against one another, and her heightened awareness and nervousness had made her unusually clumsy. She’d slipped on some loose stones and Bryan had caught her just in time to prevent a nasty fall over a ledge. It wasn’t the first time she’d been amazed by his stunning reflexes. The wind was knocked out of her and when she couldn’t seem to catch her breath, Bryan laid her down on the ground to check for injuries. His heavily callused fingers tenderly probed her flesh and inadvertently triggered every erogenous zone in her body. Callie brought the once-over to a halt as his touch was actually compounding her breathing difficulties. She inadvertently glanced down at the front of Bryan’s shorts and realized that he was not immune to the contact either. Seeing evidence of his arousal only intensified her own response. Her body definitely longed to explore that impressive bulge. She was ashamed to admit, even to herself, that she was proud of her ability to arouse such an attractive man. But on the other hand, it was at least as frightening as the near miss off the cliff. She tried to dismiss it by telling herself that most men would be aroused by groping a woman, but somehow that argument wasn’t particularly convincing.

For the most part, they only parted company when she attended church and sorority functions. Not that he hadn’t tried to wrangle an invitation to join her at those events, but she didn’t even want to think about the ramifications of bringing a white man to her all-black Baptist church. It was very difficult to turn him down for other things because it was so nice to have someone to explore the area with. He made even the most mundane things interesting and exciting. Tonya spent almost all her free time writing, leaving Callie alone and bored. Comfortable in her own skin, Callie enjoyed her solitude, especially as it occurred so rarely, but she always relished Bryan’s company, even when he had the look that indicated a dark mood and grievous thoughts. She took immense pleasure in teasing him out of his depression. She already dreaded the day he would return to California.

* * *

Bryan leaned forward with his chin on his hand studying Callie’s lowered head. He felt slightly ashamed for interjecting himself into Callie’s life this way. He knew it wasn’t a good idea, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He had to be with her as much as possible, and she certainly would not agree to a normal date. With a jolt he realized that he’d probably never asked anyone out on a “normal” date, and wouldn’t have the foggiest notion as to how to proceed to do so. Over the years he’d had innumerable “hookups” with a multitude of women, but never a date with a nice girl. So he pretty much just followed Callie around, at least as much as she allowed. That’s how he’d ended up spending the previous Sunday with her in Huntsville with her “loctician.”

He’d never been inside any type of beauty establishment with a woman, but when he’d called Callie and discovered that she couldn’t see him because she had a hair appointment, he’d asked to tag along. He hadn’t seen her the previous Sunday as she’d gone to church and wouldn’t let him come with her. He probably should be relieved that she wouldn’t let him go to church. He couldn’t recall the last time he was in one, and the probability that he’d be struck by lightning or descended on by a horde of locust was pretty strong. Having been deprived of his one free day per week with her increased his determination not to miss another one. It took some doing, but his persistence eventually won her over, especially when he offered to drive as an incentive. Callie hated driving, viewing the activity as a colossal waste of time. He smiled to himself as he imagined her reaction to L.A. traffic where it was commonplace to spend hours in gridlock each day. She’d been exasperated, and he suspected maybe even a bit uncomfortable with the idea of taking a white man to a black beauty establishment, but she’d agreed. During the trip over to Huntsville, she’d told him that he was probably the first white man who had ever been in this salon.

He’d had no idea that watching a woman get her hair washed could be such a sexually stimulating experience. He reflected on the double shower in his home in California and imagined giving Callie a shampoo within its steamy confines. He could almost feel Callie’s coily hair against his bare flesh and became immediately aroused. He was disturbed from his reverie only when he heard the beautician ask Callie who he was. He couldn’t hear Callie’s response, but it sounded like a fairly noncommittal one. It seemed to satisfy the beautician anyway. After Callie paid for her service and they turned to leave, he heard the woman mutter under her breath, “Well, what’s the sense of having a white man if he can’t even pay for you to get your hair fixed!”

Callie had paused and turned as if to say something to the woman, then shook her head as if thinking better of it. In his truck on the way home, Callie made a frustrated sound then said, “See, that’s why I didn’t want to take you with me! You hang out with a white guy, everybody assumes he’s taking care of you.”

Bryan couldn’t believe his ears. “You mean people just assume that black women are only with white men for money?”

“Exactly! Like I’m some type of whore or something. It just pisses me off.”

“Why didn’t you say something to her about it then?”

“What would be the point? If somebody thinks you’re a whore, what can you do to convince them otherwise?”

His confusion evident, Bryan asked, “But, why would they assume that?”

“Bryan, you mean to tell me you’ve read all those books about the Civil War, and you don’t know anything about slavery and the relationships between black women and white men?” Callie snapped, disbelief evident in her tone. “You know, the masters in the slave cabin?” she added sarcastically.

“Of course I do. But what does that have to do with us, almost two hundred years later?”

Callie blew out a harsh breath. This was maddening. “Forget about it!”

“No, I don’t want to forget about it. I mean, I’ve noticed the looks we get, but I didn’t know that folks were thinking that you were a whore or something. I guess I’m just used to being stared at.” He thought about the ramifications of the issue for a moment, and then continued, his breath whistling between his teeth. “But now I’m pissed. How dare they jump to those sorts of conclusions?”

Callie was in no mood to explain why this ancient history still had an impact today. “Bryan, why are you sweating this? It’s not like we’re a couple or anything, so I don’t know why it concerns you at all.”

“Well, it does concern me. I—I care about you, and if being with me makes people think less of you, then yes, it does concern me.”

Callie, not really wanting to think about that statement, continued as if he had not spoken. “That’s just the way it is, Bryan. In case you haven’t noticed it, white men have always had a much higher social position than black women in this country. Black women certainly aren’t the beauty standard. Most folks see us as either sex objects or baby-making welfare queens. If a white man is with us, it has to be for easy sex. Otherwise he would be with the much-preferred white woman. So they figure we’re living out some jungle fever fantasy with sex as the only common denominator. I know you’ve heard all the stuff about black women supposedly being so incredible in bed…”

Bryan scoffed her remarks. “What do you mean about black women not being up to the beauty standard? I see gorgeous black women all the time.”

Callie smirked. “Bryan, I’m not talking about models and video babes. Haven’t you noticed that most of them don’t have typical African features? To be black and thought beautiful in this country, you have to be as close to white as possible. You know, aquiline features, black but not too black. And you definitely have to have long, flowing hair, even if you bought it at the local wig shop and glued it in.” She tossed her own freshly groomed locks to emphasize her point.

Bryan frowned with concern. “Now that you mention it, I guess you’ve got a point. I’d never really thought about it, but you don’t usually see the darker black women in movies or anything.”

Her voice tight with anger, Callie continued, “Exactly. So if we’re together, and I certainly don’t meet the beauty standard, then you must be using me for sex. Now do you get it?”

Bryan was taken aback by her angry tone. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard all that stuff. But women are women.”

Callie pursed her lips. “Yeah, I suppose you’d be in a position to know.” She paused. She’d been curious about this from the beginning. “I assume you’ve been with a black woman before?”

“Of course. I grew up in East L.A., there were all types of women. I’ve never discriminated.” Bryan shifted uneasily in the driver’s seat. Hopefully Callie wouldn’t ask any more questions about his sexual history.

Callie sighed. That was not a subject she had any intention of pursuing. “Anyway, that’s just how most folks see it. There’s not much that can be done about it.”

“You mean to tell me that every time I’ve ever been out with a black girl, people have assumed that I’m paying her?” Bryan was flabbergasted and more than mildly insulted at the notion.

“I don’t know about how things are in California, but I’d say in most of the country, yes.”

“That’s incredible! Why haven’t I heard about this before?”

“I guess none of your women bothered. Maybe they were all caught up in your rock superstardom. I’ve heard that fame transcends race.” She added dryly, “At least as long as you don’t murder your ex-wife. Or maybe y’all never had a run-in like this one. Anyway, Bryan, can we please change the subject? I really don’t feel like talking about this anymore. It’s not a subject I like to spend a great deal of time pondering. The situation is as it is. I don’t think sweating it now will be of any benefit to anybody,” she finished wearily.

Bryan, fascinated by stereotypes he’d previously had no knowledge of, wanted to continue, but he acceded to Callie’s wishes. “What was that she was doing to your hair after she washed it?” he asked, referring to the technique of tightening Callie’s locs.

Callie then spent the rest of the trip answering his myriad questions about black hair care, and the care of dreadlocks in particular.

* * *

All in all it had been a very illuminating trip, but Bryan had discovered yet another obstacle in his pursuit of Callie: public opinion and stereotyping. This football game sounded like a nice neutral opportunity for him to spend time with Callie, and as a bonus he would get to meet her family.

“So tell me more about your family,” Bryan insisted once again. “You hardly ever mention them. Are you an only child, too?”

Callie smiled, “Not hardly, I have two younger sisters. They’re sixteen.”

“Two younger sisters? Twins?”

“Yeah, identical twins, they run in my family. My mama was a twin, and both her sisters have twins, too. They love your music, by the way. They’ll be thrilled to have you at the house,” Callie replied.

Accustomed to the racial stratification of the music industry, Bryan was surprised to find that Storm Crow had any black female fans. He’d encountered a few black guys at their concerts, but no girls. Apparently this was a demographic that B.T. had missed despite his rabid attentiveness to every aspect of Storm Crow’s sales. He would enjoy ribbing him about that.

“Have they always listened to rock music?” he asked curiously.

Callie nodded, “Yeah, our schools here in Maple Fork are pretty small. Most of the classes are too small to break up into racial cliques like bigger schools. I think there’s only about twenty kids in Addie and Cynthia’s class. They hang together pretty closely. They seem to listen to just about anything. Mainly it’s hip-hop and alternative rock. It was the same when I was in school. But you know, we grew up listening to all kinds of music. My daddy is a big Hank Williams fan, and I’d bet we have as much Patsy Cline as we do Aretha Franklin in our house. I mean, I see folks on TV and in articles talking about ‘black music’ and ‘white music,’ and I don’t get it. Around here, good music is good music. Maybe it’s a big-city thing. Anyway, I graduated twelve years ago, and we were seriously into grunge at the time. But I’ve mellowed with age, and primarily listen to soft rock and pop.”

Bryan grabbed his head, feigning a mortal blow. “You mean you’re not a Storm Crow fan?” He cringed as the rest of her statement sank in. “So you’re the person who listens to soft rock. I wondered who they played that crap for.”