Magnus

by Tina Martin

  “For stalking. This—you—this isn’t right. You can’t come to my job and tell my boss to take me off the clock.”

  “And yet, that’s exactly what I did.” I offer her a smile. She returns it with a frown – doesn’t bother me none. “My name is Magnus St. Claire.”

  “Magnus St. Claire,” she repeats as if my name jogs something in her memory. It probably does.

  To help her out, I say, “Magnus St. Claire, CEO and founder of MJS Communications, featured in Forbes Magazine—the top digital communications company in Charlotte. You’ve probably seen me on the local news outlets for my charity work. That’s me. Same guy.” I smile at her again.

  “Funny. On TV, you seem much nicer. In person, you’re a jerk. I hear that’s how you millionaires are.”

  “Billionaires, you mean.”

  Her eyes narrow as she continues, “You put on airs to look good and moral—throwing money to charity to make it seem like you care about poor people—yet you’re here robbing me of my time.”

  “I’m not robbing you of anything, Shiloh.”

  “It’s Lo.”

  I bridle my tongue and make myself drink instead of tossing out a comeback. I usually never drink this fast. This girl is giving me a hard lesson on patience and I’m usually a patient person. So to save myself the back and forth with her, I get straight to the point right after my dinner entrée arrives. I say, “Look out the window. Do you see that black 2018 Porsche Cayenne right there?”

  She looks in the direction of the SUV then glances back at me. Shrugs. “What about it?”

  “It’s yours.”

  “That’s not my car.”

  “It is. I bought it for you. I had to put it in my name, of course, but it’s yours.”

  “Why would you give me a Porsche?”

  “Your car has been out of commission since Monday and it looks like it’s about to be towed. That’s why you’ve been taking the bus home, but it’s cold outside—too cold for the future mother of my child to be walking to a bus stop.”

  “Are you always this presumptuous?”

  “I’m pretty sure of myself and my plans in life if that’s what you mean. I know what I want.”

  “And you woke up one day and decided you wanted me to have your baby?”

  “Yes, Shiloh.” I can tell she doesn’t have much experience with men besides the few guys I see flirting with her every now and again when I’m here, but she doesn’t bite. I surmised she’s not looking for a relationship – another reason why she’s the perfect woman to have my baby. I don’t want a relationship either. Just a child will do. One with her eyes. I love her eyes. They give me a glimpse into her soul. Tells me she still has a soul even though her life hasn’t been easy. At twenty-seven, she’s still a waitress – not that waitressing is a bad job. I don’t knock anyone’s hustle. I simply view it as one of those temporary gigs – something you have to do until the thing you’re good at comes along. For her, this looks permanent.

  “The car is yours.”

  “I’m not taking a car from you, Mr. St. Claire—”

  “Magnus,” I say.

  “I’m not taking a car from you, Magnus, and I’m definitely not about to have your baby.”

  “One. Million. Dollars.”

  She frowns. “Excuse me?”

  “One million dollars. I think I said that pretty clearly.”

  “One million dollars for what?”

  I narrow my eyes at her. She can’t be this slow. “If you agree to go on this journey with me and give me a baby, I’ll give you a million dollars. I’m sure you could use the money.”

  “Are you kidding me?” she asks. She looks offended. Not happy, surprised or amazed. Offended. It’s not the reaction I was expecting. Who knew I’d have to work so hard to give away a million dollars. Why can’t she be more like the chicks who work in the corporate world who’d do far more for much less? A part of me is glad she’s not that way, but the other part – the one that likes to close deals and get things done promptly – is annoyed that this is going to be much harder than I’d initially thought.

  But, I want what I want.

  I want her.

  I want my baby inside her, and I need her to get on board with the idea of it all.

  She will get on board with it.

  Chapter Four

  Shiloh

  This dude must take me for a fool, or at the very least, one of those low self-esteem bimbos who clearly had a part in boosting his massively inflated ego. Who does he think he is, coming up in here offering me the world, buying cars and whatnot? Stealing my time?

  I can’t bring myself to sip chardonnay or eat a thing. I’m so disgusted, all I do is stare at him – well glare at him – waiting for some kind of sign that this is a joke. I don’t get that sign. All I get is a pair of attentive, unblinking green eyes nestled in an exotic face beaming back at me. Silky, black curly hair that tells me he’s mixed. Hard-lined features that exemplify his masculinity. He has a straight nose and a hard, prominent jawline hiding beneath a beard. He’s challenging me. Testing me.

  I feel like shouting not today, Satan. While most women would probably jump at the chance to have this man’s baby, I’m not that girl. It’s not that I like turning down a million dollars – trust me, I can use the money – but I do have morals and standards. My mother always told me to never allow a man to disrespect me and never sleep with a man who wasn’t my husband. Now that she’s gone, I cherish her words of wisdom and live by them.

  This Magnus dude clearly has no moral fortitude. To him, money rules the world and influences people to do things they would otherwise never do. Up until this point, he’s probably been able to buy his way in and out of anything. I’m not falling for it.

  “You can keep your money, Magnus. If I’m having a baby, it’s going to be by a man who loves me—not some arrogant showoff who eats food he doesn’t like and nitpick about lemons. And you can take the car, too. Take it back to wherever you got it. I’ll walk in a foot of snow before I let you bribe me into doing something so absurd.”

  I push away from the table, nearly knocking over the glass of Chardonnay as I make my dramatic exit. I fly by Rico on the way to the back room to get my purse.

  “Hey, hey, hey, where are you going?” Rico, my boss turned wannabe pimp asks.

  I didn’t know Rico was in pursuit of me until I grabbed my purse, hat and gloves out of the closet.

  “Lo—?”

  “I’m leaving, Rico,” I respond, livid – so angry I’m shaking. I decide to give him a piece of my mind. “You took me off the clock and brought in Cara to work my shift so I can have dinner with that—that—lunatic? How much did he pay you, Rico?”

  “I’m not getting into all of that. And why do you call the man a lunatic? Do you not know who that is?”

  “I know who he is. He’s a typical black man with money who thinks he can buy his way around this city. I’m done.”

  “You’re not done, Lo. You’re off the clock at nine. It’s not even eight o’clock yet.”

  “I’m done!” I say, heated. My heart is racing out of pure anger. “I’m sure he compensated you enough for my time. How could you do something like this? How could you do something so unethical?”

  I don’t give him time to answer. I leave out the back and walk to the bus stop. While I’m there, I pull up my bank account to see if I have enough money to cover my bus passes for next week. I do, but just barely. The electric bill is due and Papa can’t live without cable, so I have to make sure I make a payment on it. All the bills have balances. I pay the minimum to keep the services on.

  The bus arrives and I hop on and see eyes peering at me like I have to pass a visual test in order to ride city transportation. I find a seat where no one is beside me. I don’t want to strike up any conversations with strangers and I definitely don’t want them bothering me. I just want to get home.

  It takes forty-five minutes to get there. Fifteen of those minutes were sp
ent waiting for the bus. When I walk from the bus stop towards my house, I see Magnus’ Bentley in the driveway. For a few seconds, my heart stops. When I realize he’s not in the car, it’s back beating again, but much faster than normal. I open the door, step inside and I see him – my enemy – sitting on the sofa with his long legs outstretched, talking to Papa.

  “Lo, you didn’t tell me you had a friend,” Papa says.

  Now, what am I supposed to say? That this guy isn’t my friend? Papa will feel bad for inviting him in.

  Quietly, I walk in and sit next to Magnus and say between gritted teeth, “What are you doing here?”

  “You didn’t want to talk at the bistro, so I figured I’d meet you here.”

  “I don’t want your money,” I whisper.

  “Well, that’s a shame, because you are having my baby.”

  “Um, Papa, can you excuse us for a minute, please?” I say standing, faking a smile

  “Sure, Lo.”

  “Magnus, I need to talk to you. Outside.”

  Magnus follows me back outside to the cement porch where the gray paint is peeling. I close the door, hoping my father can’t hear me when I say, “Have you lost your freakin’ mind!”

  “No, but I would assume you have, turning down a million dollars like that. Only a fool would do that.”

  “Then I guess I’m a fool. Don’t ever come here again,” I say poking him in the chest five times, one poke for every word.

  He grabs my wrist. “Who’s going to stop me? Are you going to stop me, Shiloh?”

  I snatch my arm away and turn to leave him where he’s standing when I hear him say, “What do you have to lose? Hunh? I could’ve picked any woman for this, but after careful consideration, I chose you. You could at least think it over. You haven’t given me a chance to review any of the terms with you. Don’t you want to do something with your life?”

  “I am doing something with my life.”

  “You’re a waitress. I’m giving you an opportunity to not only be a millionaire but also a mother. You’re twenty-seven and you have prospects.”

  “So what? At least I’m not riding around the city paying people to have babies for me.”

  He grins then says, “Not people—you. You need to learn how to listen.”

  “And you need to get off of my porch!”

  “You mean your father’s porch because you don’t have anything and the one thing you did own is on its way to the nearest junkyard. I could change your life, Shiloh, but you have to be open to the idea of a better life unless living with your father is all there is for you.”

  He removes an envelope from his coat pocket and hands it to me. “Here are my terms. I’ll see you again on Monday at the bistro.”

  I don’t reach for the envelope. I simply turn away and walk back inside. Papa is in the kitchen, holding a loaf of bread. I walk up to him, take it from his grasp and say, “Nope, you’re not having a burnt toast marathon tonight. What are you trying to make?”

  “I’m making myself a bologna sammich.”

  “I got it.” I go to the fridge and find a jar of mayonnaise.

  “I ain’t know you had found yourself a fella, Lo. He almost looks like the guy from TV doing all that charity work.”

  “He is that guy, and he’s not my fella. He’s not anything to me.”

  His chuckle turns into a cough. “Oh, I beg to differ. He’s something. He said he’s been seeing you for ‘bout three months now.”

  “Okay, why don’t we talk about how your day was, Papa.” I place two pieces of bread on the plate and spread mayonnaise on them. Then I add two pieces of bologna. I would’ve brought Papa some food home, but he doesn’t like the food where I work. Says it’s too rich for his blood. Plus, he loves himself some bologna.

  “You already know how my day was. I don’t do anything but lay ‘round this here house. Meanwhile, my daughter is on the cusp of getting married and I don’t know a thing ‘bout it.”

  I hand him the plate. “Papa, I’m not getting married.”

  “Mr. St. Claire seems to think otherwise.”

  I bite my tongue.

  He bites his sammich.

  What in the world did this crazy man tell my crazy dad?

  “He seems really taken by you, Lo.”

  “Papa, Mr. St. Claire has a lot of money, power and influence. I’m sure I’m not the woman who’s caught his eye.”

  “Then why’d he pull up in my yard, come into my house and have a man-to-man with me?”

  Because he’s crazy!

  “I’m not sure, Papa.” I yawn and try to make a great escape to my bedroom but he says, “Sit here wit’cho papa for a minute. We hardly ever converse.”

  “Papa, we talk every day.”

  “I mean about deeper things—things other than how I’m feeling or what I’m burning.”

  “I don’t want to talk about mom, Selah or Shelby so if it’s anything besides that, carry on.”

  He sighs, takes another bite of his sandwich and proceeds to talk with food in his mouth, saying, “You can’t hide from things by not talkin’ ‘bout them. It won’t heal anything.”

  “And what good will talking about it do? We can’t bring mom back. You talk about her nonstop like she’s still here, but she’s not.”

  “I’m simply trying to keep her mem’ry alive.”

  “I know a better way you can do that.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “You can start by getting out of this house and stop acting like you’re cripple.”

  “You know I can’t get around like I used to.”

  “Yes, you can. You don’t need a cane or wheelchair—none of that. You’re only fifty-seven but you act like you’re seventy-seven. Get up and get on with your life, Papa.”

  He doesn’t respond right away, but I can tell he’s upset.

  “I could say the same thing to you.”

  “How? I don’t act like a senior citizen.”

  “I’m not talkin’ ‘bout that. I’m talkin’ ‘bout the get on wit’cho life part. How many times do I have to tell you that? You’re so busy worrying ‘bout me, you don’t see what you’re doing to yourself. Selah moved out—”

  “Yeah, and Selah’s a drug addict, Papa. She moved out and right into the streets.”

  “Call it what you will—she’s still out. She chose her path.”

  “And you say that all nonchalantly like you don’t care your daughter’s on drugs.”

  He frowns. “I do care, Lo. I was just making a point. Selah’s a grown woman. She made her choices, and she’s moved on wit’ her life. You’re still here with me. You’re darn near thirty-years-old and you’re still here fixin’ me up bologna sammiches. You don’t need to be here. That’s what I’m saying. You need to be on your own, Lo. If you and that Magnus boy got a thang going on, then see it through.”

  That Magnus boy. He may be a pain in my rear, but nothing about Magnus St. Claire screams boy. He’s a full-grown man – one I wouldn’t know what to do a thing with but Papa’s all too eager to throw me to the wolves.

  “We don’t have a thang going on, Papa. We never had a thang, and you know why I’m still living at home with you?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m taking care of you, the way mom would’ve wanted me to.”

  He frowns. “Well, you ain’t your mama and taking care of me isn’t your ‘sponsibility. I want you to leave, Lo.”

  “Papa—”

  “I said it and I meant it,” he says. “I want you to leave. It’s time.”

  I’m not an easy crier, but his words actually hurt my feelings. He wants me to leave home, the only home I’ve ever known.

  But maybe he’s right. It is time.

  I’m his crutch for growth and he’s my excuse for not getting a life. As long as I’m there, he’ll never step up and do things on his own or make an attempt to get his life back on track since it derailed after mom’s death. And by holding on to him, taking care of him, runn
ing him to appointments, making his bologna sandwiches and supplying him with loaves of bread to burn, I’m only making it worse for him and myself.

  Chapter Five

  Shiloh

  On Saturday, I get up early. Still in my pajamas, I step into a pair of nearly worn-out fuzzy slippers and saunter to the kitchen. I make some hot cocoa, put on my coat and sit on the front porch. At eight something in the morning, it’s thirty-five degrees and sitting in this chair has my booty feeling cold like I sat on a brick of ice. The coat and my hot drink is my only saving grace, but I don’t pay too much attention to the elements. In light of recent events, I’m a little numb to them. My father wants me out of the house and I need to find a place to live which means I also need a better paying job.

  As it stands, the most I can afford is a studio apartment and those are hard to come by in Charlotte with the influx of people moving in. According to the latest estimates, nearly sixty people move to Charlotte every day and you better believe they already have jobs lined up and waiting. Good-paying jobs. And when people come here, they don’t leave. Charlotte is that city—but if you’re broke like me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be because you can’t really experience its city life to the fullest. I have yet to go to a Charlotte Knights or a Panther’s game. I’ve heard about the EpiCentre but have I been? Nope. I don’t have extra cash to trick off on things other people don’t think twice about. I work, pay bills and take care of my papa. That’s it.

  Now, he’s kicking me out.

  I take a sip of cocoa and feel it warm my body as it goes down. Something as simple as a cup of hot chocolate on a cold Saturday morning gives me a little joy but I still have a nagging feeling papa won’t be able to take care of himself though I know he can. I don’t want him to feel like his life is over because mom died, but that’s the way he feels and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Another sip of chocolate warms me up. I glance up when I see a woman and a man jogging by in shorts like it’s summer. That’s when I see a brown envelope on the wooden stair banister. I recognize it as the one Magnus tried to give me last night. The one that contained his terms. I’m practically homeless with nowhere to go and still I find his proposal comical. Just for kicks, I set my cup on the chair next to me and take out what looks to be a one-page, simplified contract he drew up for me – or this – whatever this is. Upon further inspection, it looks more like a page of rules from the inflated brain of a dictator: