Love in a Carry-On Bag Read Free Page A

she drank the last time they were there, when Erica dedicated a karaoke song to him. Even though she sucked at singing, her theatrics had the audience cheering her on and Warren stood in an ovation.
    Erica knew Warren remembered, even though he kept his eyes on the game. He was a sucker for HD television and the Wizards were playing the 76ers on the mega-sized flat screen. But after dealing with Brandon, Erica needed music. She pulled a five dollar bill from her purse, strolled over to the jukebox, and scanned for a song that would get the party started. Warren acted like everything was cool, but she knew her man: he wanted all of her and the book signing had taken longer than she promised. Bob Marley was the perfect remedy, and seconds later Erica shifted her hips to the sultry sound of “Is This Love.”
    I wanna love you and treat you right;
    I wanna love you every day and every night
    This was their song. They had danced to it on their one week anniversary at Café Creole in the West Village. Erica slid her stool closer to him and laced her fingers through his, humming with the music. Warren ordered a second round. The point guard for the Wizards shot a three-pointer to end the half. Warren pumped his fist and Erica moved in circles to the music. The beer had made her happy and she was singing the lyrics softly but out loud.
    “Who’re you rooting for?” Warren turned.
    “The Sixers of course.”
    “Can’t you ever root for my team?”
    “I am on your team, just not the Wizards’,” she leaned in and dragged her glossy lips over his cheek until he turned and kissed her back.
    Bob Marley, the Wizards ’ victory, and three pints of Raging Bitch beer had Erica laughing brashly on the elevator ride to Warren’s apartment. The hallway was long and narrow with four beige doors on each side. Warren’s unit was on the right and while he unlocked the front door, Erica’s cell phone started ringing. Her mother’s name flashed across the screen and Erica gritted her teeth. What could she possibly want now? Her mother knew better than to interrupt Erica’s weekend with Warren.
    “Yes?” came out sounding annoyed.
    “If you weren’t gonna send the money, you shoulda just said so,” her mother hiccupped.
    Warren closed the door and was fastening his fingers around Erica’s waist, but she shook him off, mouthing that it was her mother.
    “I walked four blocks in the pourin’ down rain, with no long johns, and you know my arthritis in this damp weather.”
    “Ma, I deposited the money last night,” Erica padded down the hall, closing the bathroom door behind her.
    “Wasn’t there and it’s freezin’ in here.”
    Erica opened the vanity and reached for her hair clip. She wasn’t in the mood for her mother’s drama.
    “Okay, let me call the bank.”
    After ten minutes of holding, she was told that the money had been withdrawn from an ATM down the block from her mother’s home. A persistent tapping worked her temples as she listened to her mother explain.
    “Chile, I ain’t crazy. I went down to the store; put the card in the machine, and nothing. Maybe the person behind me stol’ it,” clucking her tongue.
    “Ma, you been drinking?”
    “Pepsi is all. Just tired from that long walk. God as my witness I never got that money. Can you send it again?”
    God was going to strike her Pinocchio ass down. Erica wasn’t a fool. An enabler, yes, but not a fool. The money had been spent on a liter of Bacardi, four Colt 45s and a hard pack of whichever menthol lights happened to be on sale. It was the same story.
    Erica shifted her weight against the pedestal sink listening to her mother ramble. Warren’s white bathroom was spa-like, with jasmine-scented candles and stark white towels stacked in wooden shelves. Ordinarily, it was a room that relaxed her, but talking to her mother had her wound-up and irritated. When she looked at herself in the mirror she wondered why she even bothered. Her mother had