Page 26 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

But Breeze didn’t tell Olive any of this. He was sad and angry—but not insane. Instead, he finished his seltzer and said gently, “Please take no offense, but our music was revolutionary before whites liked it, and it will be after.”

Olive’s eyes widened with surprise.

“Enough about me,” said Breeze with an affable grin. “Let’s talk about Eden Lounge.”

“Are you telling me how to do my job, Mr. Walker?” she asked with a combative spark.

“Me? Never. I can’t tell a writer what to write. I named a song ‘Hotcha Gotcha.’”

With a yelp of amusement, she continued jotting down notes and moved on to her next batch of questions.

A few minutes later, Breeze heard the BANG, BANG, BANG at the back-of-house door, and he jolted upright. Apologizing to Olive, he headed backstage in a flash. Winding past instrumentcases, costume racks, and understudies smoking in huddles, he made it to the door, pushing it open against the brisk November winds.

It was Sonny. A gaunt, haunted figure with two black eyes, and the knee ripped from his trousers. No coat, no hat. He looked predictably ragged. But this time, he had shown up with something new: a mangy mud-colored terrier with eyes as hollow as his. He sat at Sonny’s worn shoes, looking miserable and panting erratically.

“Ezra. Breeze. Cuz. Help me, please. Just a dollar. Fifty cents.”

Breeze peered behind him to make sure no one could hear Sonny in this state. Everyone knew his cousin had turned into a dope fiend. Sonny was past caring what people thought, but Breeze always wanted to protect him.

Last year, Sonny had been caught necking with a white woman, parked in his new Model T Ford down in Brooklyn. Some Irishmen ran out of a bar with bats, bashing the car and then Sonny. But first, they made him take off his clothes. They left him naked, bloody, and humiliated in front of his woman and the cops, who threw him in jail. For a man like Sonny, the incident was akin to death. The attack hadn’t truly killed him, though, so heroin was the next best thing.

They wanna be us, Sonny had once said with faulty confidence. But Breeze knew different.Yeah, they want to dance, dress, and talk like us. But inhabit our skin? Nah.

Breeze had moved Sonny in for a time, but Sonny kept disappearing. One day, he never returned. But sometimes, he’d show up to Breeze’s gigs like this, begging. Breeze handed him five dollars from his billfold, the way he always did. His cousin grabbed it with his scarred right hand—the constant reminder of his status as the only survivor of the Fallon County church fire. “Survivor” was debatable. Yes, he’d been the only person to walk away fromthat fire, but the Sonny that Ezra knew from before had faded to an almost-unidentifiable cipher. Yet another family member lost.

In thanks, Sonny held the cash to his heart. Before he scuttled off, Breeze grabbed his shoulder.

“Hey, remember what you told me?” Breeze asked, his voice unexpectedly cracking. “Ain’t no place in America for a humble Negro. Remember who you used to be, Sonny. He’s still in there.”

Sonny chuckled sadly, most of his teeth missing. “He’s been humbled.”

And then he was gone.

Breeze stood there for what felt like an eternity. It wasn’t until he heard the low, hungry rumble by his feet that he realized Sonny’d left his dog behind.

An hour later, Breeze sat at the bar, fighting off a numbing melancholy and wondering what the hell he was going to do with a dog. The mutt hadn’t left his side since he’d tossed him some bacon from the kitchen.

Breeze didn’t believe in pets. It seemed unnatural to keep an animal inside the house, anthropomorphizing it. But then he looked down into the dog’s watery, soulful eyes and folded.

All right, then. I guess you’re mine now. I can’t save Sonny, but maybe I can save you, he thought with glum resignation.But I still hate dogs.

The band was changing into tuxedos, and the chorus line was pounding out one final rehearsal. Breeze noticed a lead dancer suddenly grab her ankle and limp off the floor. Within seconds, an understudy ran out from the wings, taking her place.

His eyes followed her. The dog perked up his ears.

The understudy was not the best dancer. Nor was she the prettiest. But she was attacking the choreography like she had a point to prove and wrongs to right. She was on fire and impossible toignore. Breeze glanced around the room; everyone’s eyes were on her.

But her eyes fell on him. Her gaze bore into the hollow left by Sonny.

After rehearsal, the new dancer lingered behind. She took her time walking off the dance floor, going out of her way to pass Breeze at the bar. Pausing, she plucked a flower from a bouquet. Bringing the jasmine just under her nose, she inhaled luxuriously, staring at Breeze with unadulterated hunger. Carelessly, she dropped the flower and kept walking, its tender petals smashed under her heels.

The gesture was dismissive, ruthless—destroying such delicate beauty like that.

Her brand of destruction was exactly what Breeze needed.

CHAPTER 7

TRAGIC OR ROMANTIC?

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