Nothing better than friends and families and there are no families or friends closer than Southern families and friends. That’s especially true in Demise in Denim.
Mamma and KiKi were sisters. At birth the muses tangoed over auntie’s crib turning her into Savannah’s dance diva and they wrapped mamma in a blanket with little elephants resulting in this campaign and me getting the name Reagan.
Friendship means being there for each other when the chips are down, like when Walker Boone is wanted for murder.
I looked at my ’57 red Chevy convertible parked at the curb. “Might as well put a target on my back trying to get away from the cops in this thing.”
Reagan shoved her helmet at me. “Take Princess.”
“A scooter? You want me to ride a pink scooter named Princess?”
“Better than that being your nickname in the big house.”
And there are all kinds of friendships…friendships between guys…
“Dawg,” Big Joey said to me as I slip onto a stool next to his, everyone in the place giving Joey space. “Know you’d show.”
Big Joey was built like a Mac truck, muscles buffed to jet black, gold tooth, ponytail and main man of the Seventeenth Street gang...my former home and forever family. He was my brother in every sense of the word except parental commonality.
Friendships between girls…
Footsteps skittered across the floor over our heads and I tore up the steps, with Auntie KiKi right behind me. We turned the corner at the top and faced a big guy with alcohol-infused breath and wild-looking bloodshot eyes that I could make out even in the dark. The guy took a swing at me and missed. KiKi threw the rest of her martini in his face and I added an added a cocktail shaker uppercut to his jaw.
“I give up! I give up!” The guy stumbled back against the wall and slithered down to the floor as I switched on the hall lights.