Any Way the Wind Blows - E. Lynn Harris [54]
“Yancey, I could never look at you that way,” Basil said.
“What’s so important that you need to come over here and talk to me? You didn’t even call first! In case you’ve forgotten, women don’t like pop callers. So what do you want?” I had to get him out of my house fast before he started to ooze his dangerous arsenal of charm and sex appeal.
“This song of yours. Is this your way of getting back at me?”
I laughed out loud, like Rita Hayward in Gilda, making the object of her affection feel small.
“So you think I’ve been spending my precious time worrying about getting revenge on you! How dare you! Basil, let’s get one thing straight, if I can use that word with you. When I left New York, I left you and all the shit that came with our alleged relationship behind,” I said. “And you’d be wise to stick to my version of the story!”
“You know that’s cold, but I feel you. People are talking about your song, and I just wanted to ask you not to use my name when you talk to the press,” Basil said.
“Don’t you worry about that. All the publicity is about my talent and me. My CD. My career. This is not about you. But I will say this. If somebody puts two and two together, I’m not going to lie. Matter of fact, some woman called me asking about you. So I can’t sweep it under the rug, even if I wanted to.” I started to break into singing the Carly Simon hit “You’re So Vain.” But I wasn’t doing free concerts.
“What did you tell her? Was her name LaVonya?”
“Yes, and I guess you’ll have to read the rest in the paper,” I snapped.
“Yancey, you know that we could never get married. What I did was best for both of us. Let’s just move on with our lives.”
“I have done that. You’re the one who seems worried about the past. What’s the matter? Are you worried about a new girlfriend or a new boyfriend?”
“I’m not involved with anyone right now,” Basil said quietly. I had to admit that he looked like a little boy who’d just lost his first puppy, but I couldn’t resist delivering one more body blow.
“Can’t decide whether to eat fish or beef?” I asked sarcastically.
“Do what you gotta do. If making me feel small makes you feel better, then knock yourself out. I was just hoping that we wouldn’t have to share our past with the public,” Basil said as he put on his jacket and walked out the door.
Don’t It Make My Gray Eyes Blue
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by the way Yancey treated me. After all, I had left her at the altar and beat her at her own game. What surprised me most as I hailed a taxi on Third Avenue was the touch of jealousy I felt when I thought about some other dude smashing Yancey on a regular basis. I knew somebody was hittin’ it. I just didn’t know who. Yancey could be every bit the Broadway star one moment and a sex kitten the next. One of the things I loved about her was that Yancey loved sex just as much as I did. Bart wouldn’t have gotten anywhere with me if I’d still been with Yancey. The girl knew how to make my toes curl.
Yancey still looked damn good, even though she was trying to give off the impression that my visit surprised her. She looked fabulous with her hair whipped around her face like a gust of wind had placed it there. She reminded me of Raquel Welch on the movie poster for the flick she did with Jim Brown. Yancey is forever the actress and an undeniably sexy woman, and I did love her. Once. I guess now I was going to pay the price for falling in love with Yancey, with a large part of the public hearing the anatomy of a breakup blow by blow on the radio. Love sure can take a destructive slide when it ends, like lava from a volcano covering a bed of roses.
Maybe I should have been more forceful with Yancey rather than letting her do all the talking. I still had the master tape of Yancey and Ava scheming and plotting all sorts of stuff, and I kept copies in my safe-deposit box.
I wondered if Yancey had a change of heart about the child she’d had out of wedlock. With all the press she was receiving now, the news of a deserted child could negatively affect her career. I wondered if that bitch