My Blue Suede Shoes by Tracy Price-Thompson & Taressa Stovall

Author:Tracy Price-Thompson & Taressa Stovall
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2011-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

“About time,” Mitch fusses as I enter the bar, a popular place where folks come to bolster their nerve, tickle their libidos, and/or drown their sorrows in his expertly mixed drinks. Mitch and I always joke that he put his psychology degree from Emory University to good use as a bartender.

“Great money, no stress, and everybody loves me,” he quips. “How many shrinks can say that?”

He surveys the bar, which is nearly empty, thanks to the early hour, and waves me into a corner booth. I love how Mitch always goes on break when I come in.

“How are you feeling about hubby’s upcoming announcement?” he asks, cutting right to the chase as usual.

“Excited for him. Worried for me,” I confess. “Maybe worried for us.”

He nods sympathetically. “Girl, the minute I heard the news, I said, ‘Oh, shit! I gots to get Mo-Mo in here and get her head straight.’”

Needless to say, no one else on Earth, including my mother, could get away with calling me “Mo-Mo.”

“Well, whatever you have, bring it on, ’cause I damn sure need it today,” I say.

“Be right back.” Mitch sashays off to the kitchen and I chuckle, thinking of Joyce’s sky-high blue suede shoes and wondering how they’d look on Mitch. Not that he’s a cross-dresser. He’s just so gloriously gay that sometimes I want to dress him up like a big, hairy Greek doll.

Who is at least as feminine as I am.

Mitch returns in minutes with a tantalizing slice of broiled salmon, some rice pilaf, and almond green beans. My favorite.

As I murmur my thanks and realize how hungry I am, he switches off to the bar, engages in his signature hocus-pocus, and returns with a concoction the same coral hue as my outfit.

“Isn’t it kind of early to be imbibing?” I ask.

“Not to worry,” he assures me. “Minimal alcohol content—you could even pass a field sobriety test, I swear to God. This is just a lil sumthin’ sumthin’ for those famous nerves of yours.”

“If you say so,” I say, and take a sip. “Mmmmmm. Soothing.”

“Bartender voodoo,” he assures me. Then I notice a look of concern on his face.

“What?” I ask, between bites of my delicious lunch.

“How are things?”

“‘Things’ are fine, I guess. Why?”

He shrugs, lets his gorgeous olive-black eyes with the ridiculously long, thick eyelashes roam the wall above my head for a moment, then looks right at me.

“I just think you need to stay on top of ‘things.’”

“Don’t play games with me, Mitch,” I say. “We know each other too well for that. What exactly are you talking about?”

“Your man.”

“What about him?” I ask, dropping my voice to a whisper, though we’re still the only ones in the bar.

“Do I really have to tell you?”

“You really have to get to the damn point,” I hiss, hating the sudden gallop of my heart. “Because, as you know, in less than two hours, I will be in front of cameras and microphones, every pore and facial expression being recorded and scrutinized, as my husband makes the biggest and most significant announcement of his life.

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