Marlon Brando, a rising star, finds himself captivated by Cheyanne Gooden, a talented dancer at the renowned Cotton Club. Despite the disapproval surrounding interracial relationships in the era, Marlon feels an undeniable pull towards Cheyanne and...
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The smoky haze of the Cotton Club clung to Marlon like a second skin, even after we'd escaped the clamor and heat into the cool night air. He followed me up the rickety fire escape to my tiny Harlem apartment, a hesitant smile playing on his lips. The place wasn't much one room with a threadbare rug and a worn armchair bathed in the pale glow of the moon filtering through the window. But tonight, it felt like a palace.
I fumbled with a record, finally settling on Billie Holiday. The mournful melody filled the cramped space, the Victrola's whirring a comforting backdrop as I offered him a drink. He settled onto the edge of the armchair, stiff and uncomfortable, the city lights twinkling like scattered diamonds outside the window.
"Want a drink?" I asked, swirling the amber liquid in my glass.
He blinked, his gaze darting around the room. "Uh, sure. Thanks."
The silence stretched, punctuated only by the rhythmic crackle of the record. I took a long drag from my cigarette, the smoke curling towards the cracked ceiling. It was a nervous habit, a shield against the unfamiliar vulnerability that had settled over me.
"So, Marlon from Nebraska," I said, my voice husky. "Tell me about home."
He took a long sip of his drink, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Well," he began, his voice rough around the edges. "It's a lot of sky and not many people. Lots of cornfields, endless seems like." He chuckled, a self-deprecating sound. "Not exactly the most exciting life."
His words sparked a strange curiosity in me. This awkward man from the middle of nowhere had captivated me on the dance floor, and now, sitting across from him bathed in moonlight, I wanted to know more.
"Sounds peaceful," I mused, taking another drag from my cigarette. "Peaceful in a way the city never is."
He looked up, a flicker of something akin to surprise in his blue eyes. "Peaceful, yeah," he agreed. "But lonely too, sometimes."
The vulnerability in his voice tugged at something inside me. "Lonely, huh?" I echoed, my voice softer now. "What brought you to the Cotton Club then, Mr. Lonesome?"
A wry smile played on his lips. "Maybe I was looking for a little excitement," he admitted, his gaze meeting mine for a beat longer than necessary. "Maybe I found it."
The warmth in his eyes sent a jolt through me. I quickly stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray, the sudden action breaking the unspoken tension.
"Let's see about that, Nebraska," I said, a teasing lilt in my voice. "How about some of that excitement you were looking for?"
I stood up, the worn wooden floorboards groaning under my weight. Walking over to the Victrola, I replaced Billie with a slower, more sensuous record. The music filled the air, a silent invitation.
Turning back to Marlon, I extended a hand. "Care to dance, stranger?"
A slow smile spread across his face, erasing the awkwardness from earlier. He took my hand, his touch sending a spark up my arm. "I wouldn't miss it for the world," he murmured, his voice husky with unspoken desire.
