There was a knock at his bedroom door. Kwame put down his book. “Come in.”
A young woman entered carrying a small stack of books. She smiled and said, “Master Lennox said that these are the newest books in the library.”
“Good. Leave them here on the table.”
The girl approached and set the books down on the night table. Instead of walking back out, she surprised Kwame by remaining at his bedside. “Is there something else?” he asked coldly.
The girl appeared hesitant to speak. “Would you like me to keep you company tonight?”
Kwame glared at her. “Who told you to ask me that?”
The girl cowered. “Master Lennox, sir. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Kwame sighed. The question irritated him. Oscar and the others just refused to accept the fact that he would not sleep with a white woman. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel attracted to them. The girl who stood trembling before him now was blond and shapely in all the right places. And if she were any other race, he’d sleep with her in an instant. But she was Caucasian and his repulsion for that race was so perfect that the idea of touching one of its members intimately, even a beautiful one, revolted him. “Go back and tell Mr. Lennox that I’d rather sleep with a dog.” Kwame saw the sting on the confused girl’s face and didn’t care one bit. Why should he care? She wasn’t human. She was his property. “Go on. You tell him exactly what I said. Now get out!”
The girl nodded and hurried for the door. The moment she was gone, Kwame picked up his book and continued to read. He was looking forward to seeing how the slave girl Emma would ultimately escape her brutal master and win her freedom.
CHAPTER 50
Slap! Carver backhanded the girl and she flew backward onto the bed crying. Her naked body convulsed with sobs. The sight of her lying there, helpless, her tear-streaked face buried in beautiful blond hair, made Carver’s blood surge with desire. He began to snatch at his belt, eager to get his pants off.
“Please don’t hurt me, master,” the girl whined. “Please, please.”
Her tiny pleas just served to add fuel to Carver’s anger. He tore off his pants and leapt onto the girl. Clamped her throat tight. “Did I say you could talk? Did I?”
The girl gasped for air.
Carver smirked at her feeble struggles and squeezed tighter. “You’re nothing but a little white whore. Isn’t that right? Isn’t it?”
Choking and struggling to breathe, the girl nodded desperately.
“Damn right you are.” Carver released the girl’s windpipe and watched with relish as she gasped to refill her lungs. God, how he wished that the girl squirming on the bed before him was that bitch Diana Miller and not just some random white whore. More than once Carver had tried to convince Dr. Kasim to have that Diana captured and dragged back to Forty Acres. Carver even did all the prep work. He tracked down Diana’s current address and went so far as to figure out where and when would be the best place to grab her. But the doctor refused to listen. He just kept giving the same fucking answer. “The Miller family doesn’t fit the profile. And Forty Acres is not about personal vendettas.” To Carver that excuse just didn’t make sense. Forty Acres was about the biggest personal vendetta ever.
Carver respected the old man more than anyone else in the world, but it drove him mad just fantasizing about how sweet it would be to see Diana Miller’s face the first day she woke up in Forty Acres. Her expression would probably be a lot like the one he had worn the night Diana set him up.
The most terrifying night of Carver’s life had started out innocuously enough when he met a gorgeous white girl named Diana at a party. He and his frat brothers threw the best parties on the Purdue campus, and it wasn’t unusual to see a few adventurous white kids in the crowd. Diana came on to Carver relentlessly. Pretty much threw herself at him. If he’d been less drunk and a lot less horny, he might have suspected something, but as far as he was concerned he was about to score some primo white ass. Carver remembered thinking that it was odd that she wanted to go back to her place. But she swore that her parents were away and they’d have privacy to do anything they wanted. Carver didn’t need any more convincing. They jumped in his car and headed across town. He was a little hesitant about going over to the white side of town, but there hadn’t been any real tension in Lafayette in years, and Diana was stroking his hard-on between his legs to keep him motivated. They had turned down a dark street and were stopped at a light when he saw five or six men wearing ski masks and armed with bats rush the car. Carver tried to stomp on the gas, but they already had the driver’s side door open and started dragging him out. The rest of the nightmarish memory was just a mishmash of pain, screams, and shouts of “Nigger!”
When Carver awoke from his six-day coma, his story was all over the local news. As he lay in that hospital in traction for another month, he watched all the stories about marches and speeches and rallies through a numbing malaise of disbelief. The same question repeated over and over in his head: Why me? Why me? Why me? The only television images that cut through the fog like a lighthouse beacon were the countless interviews of Diana Miller. Her fake sympathy and lies—she claimed not to know the attackers—were so glaring that, to Carver, her words began to sound like mocking laughter. There was no doubt in Carver’s mind that the white bitch had lured him there to be assaulted and maybe even killed. For all he knew she probably took a few whacks at him herself.
“Are you okay, master?” The girl could see the tempest of memories stirred up in Carver’s harsh eyes. “Did I do something to upset you?”
Carver glared at her. “Shut up.” He snatched a handful of that beautiful hair and flung her back down to the bed. Quickly he mounted her and rammed inside her. He savored her gasps and squeals and the way she squirmed feebly beneath him. Fueled by a fusion of lust and rage, Carver pumped and pumped as hard as he could drive his body. Carver’s eyes rolled back into his head and he roared as he climaxed. A moment later, when Carver regained his senses, he was surprised to see the girl still curled beside him, crying. “Why are you still here? Get out! Get the fuck out of here!”
Sobbing hysterically, the girl grabbed her clothes and fled the room.
CHAPTER 51
Does that feel good, master?”
“Don’t ask silly questions,” Damon answered. “It feels fucking fantastic.” He was lying facedown on the bed, nude, while a young man named Everett massaged scented oil into his back. Several candles had been placed around the dark room and the walls flickered with their warm light. Soothing music oozed from the stereo. Damon had been looking forward to this trip for a long time. The last time he stayed at Forty Acres was over six months ago and another visit was long overdue. Between Damon juggling court appearances and playing cohost to Juanita’s too-frequent social distractions, his schedule lately had been nothing short of insane. Finally, he was back within the comforting isolation of Forty Acres. Back where he could forget about the day-to-day turmoil and scrutiny of his semicelebrity life and just let go.
For Damon, the seclusion that came with being a part of Forty Acres was a huge part of its draw. In a media-mad world, here, finally, was a place where Damon could have real privacy. A place where he could truly be himself, without the worry that an unflattering photograph would end up in some tabloid or on YouTube. Damon dreaded to think of the resulting fallout if his occasional gay dalliances were ever made public. He could imagine the splashy headlines. “Damon Darrell Outed. Juanita Darrell Claims She Never Knew.” And the ironic part was that he wasn’t really a homosexual. Sure, he craved the touch of a handsome, muscular young man every so often, but he preferred women by far. He really loved Juanita, and he and his wife enjoyed a fantastic sex life. Damon was certain that Juanita would back him up on that story 100 percent, but he also knew that it wouldn’t matter. In the eyes of many people, being bisexual was equivalent to being homosexual, which was equiva
lent to being a freak. Unfortunately, this narrow-minded view would especially apply in the African American community, where the church brainwashed his people wholesale. Damon knew that if his secret predilection ever got out, despite all that he had done and donated, his black brothers and sisters would turn on him in an instant. Damon’s five-star credibility in the African American community was a priceless commodity that he used to build his legal empire. If he lost that, he’d lose everything. That’s why Dr. Kasim’s walled-in oasis was the perfect escape. At Forty Acres, Damon could indulge his omnivorous sexual appetite with complete security.
But for Damon, Forty Acres wasn’t merely a place to score some usually off-the-menu sex. Damon truly believed in Dr. Kasim’s philosophy. Placed in the context of world history, what Dr. Kasim was doing at Forty Acres was completely justified. What really sold it for Damon was that most of the captives at Forty Acres were direct descendants of former slave owners. Damon didn’t know the exact process—he didn’t want to know—but the way Dr. Kasim explained it was that a lot of time and effort was put into researching and locating Caucasian individuals whose lives were enriched today because their ancestors had profited from the blood and sweat of African slaves. To Damon this methodology made total sense. Was it a fair brand of justice? Not in the least, but neither was slavery. The number one rule for survival is something Damon Darrell had learned a long time ago: life isn’t fucking fair.
Damon glanced up at the statuesque young man who continued to knead and rub his back. He watched the Celtic tribal tattoos on Everett’s muscular forearms undulate with every caress. Damon wondered what kind of family Everett came from. Were they compassionate people who were ashamed of their family’s tarnished history? Or were they a clan of cleaned-up hicks who inherited racist views and hatred along with their ancestors’ money? As fast as these thoughts invaded Damon’s mind, he made an effort to shut them out. Dr. Kasim constantly warned them about the danger of thinking of the slaves as real human beings with a past. It was better to treat them the same way black slaves had always been treated, as property and nothing more. Damon’s eyes sank to Everett’s lean athletic form. Even Everett’s loose T-shirt and jeans could not hide his perfection. And he’s my property, Damon thought with a mental smile. All mine.
Everett stopped massaging Damon’s back. “You can turn over now, master.”
Damon rolled over onto his back, revealing a full erection.
Everett issued a delighted hum as he squirted more oil onto his hands.
“Like what you see?” Damon asked.
“I do, master.”
Everett began to slowly massage Damon’s upper thighs. Damon moaned with pleasure as Everett’s firm hands inched closer and closer to his attentive member. “Yes. That feels good,” Damon said. “That feels so fucking good.”
Everett smiled, pleased with the results of his handiwork. Inching his fingers even closer to Damon’s erection, he asked, “Would you like me to spend the night with you, master?”
Damon let out a gasp of pleasure before he could get the words out. “What did I tell you about asking me silly questions?”
CHAPTER 52
Solomon watched with a great deal of surprise as Dr. Kasim’s hand reached across the chessboard and moved his black bishop to threaten Solomon’s white queen. “Where the hell did that come from?”
Savoring Solomon’s reaction, Dr. Kasim took a casual drag of his pipe and blew a long stream of smoke. Then he pointed at the board with the tip of his pipe. “I believe it’s your move.”
The two men were seated at a small table on the front porch with a view of the serene, moonlit garden beneath the stars. A determined moth courted the overhead lamp, casting fluttering shadows on the hand-carved wooden chess pieces.
Solomon stared, puzzled, at the chessboard again. How had Dr. Kasim come up with that move? Unlike Solomon, who had been a passionate player since his father gave him a chess set for his eighth birthday, Dr. Kasim was just a casual player. Although the doctor never presented a serious challenge, Solomon found the doctor’s game sturdy enough to make their occasional matches enjoyable, but that was it. Solomon knew Dr. Kasim’s playing style inside out. When Solomon threatened Dr. Kasim’s queen, he was certain that his old friend would simply move his queen out of harm’s way, but instead, Dr. Kasim had chosen an aggressive counterattack that was worthy of a far more experienced player.
Dr. Kasim glanced at his watch. “You going to move or not? I’m an old man. The sooner I beat you, the sooner I can get some sleep.”
Solomon laughed. “You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?”
Dr. Kasim frowned like the idea was alien to him. “I talk Oscar into a game occasionally. But I wouldn’t call that practicing. The man’s terrible.”
Solomon looked skeptical. “Come on. We’ve been playing for over twenty years. I have never seen your game so sharp. Something has changed.”
Dr. Kasim couldn’t contain his smile any longer. “I may have gotten my hands on a few strategy books. Just a few.”
“You’re reading chess books?” Solomon’s surprise grew. Dr. Kasim had never even hinted at a desire to deepen his understanding of the game. And if he did want to learn more, why didn’t he just ask Solomon to give him a few pointers? “Thaddeus, what’s going on? You starting to get bored out here in paradise?”
Dr. Kasim grunted a laugh. Then he picked up his empty scotch glass from the porch rail and held it out toward a lone servant who stood in the shadows. The slave quickly refilled the glass from a serving cart, then handed it back to his master. Dr. Kasim took a slow sip and paused to relish the liquor’s soothing warmth. “I’ve lived an amazing life. I’ve bent reality to my will and I’m damn proud of it. But there’s one accomplishment that has eluded me. One desire that keeps me awake at night. Do you know what that is?”
Solomon just stared. Dr. Thaddeus Kasim was the most amazing man he had ever known. He remembered when they first met. It was in Atlanta, just days following Dr. King’s assassination. They both attended a rally calling for an end to the riots that had struck so many cities. Solomon remembered the look on Thaddeus’s face as he stood in the crowd listening to the speakers. In a sea of angry black faces, Thaddeus looked calm, determined. While everyone else was directionless, Thaddeus Kasim appeared to have all the answers. They became fast friends. Solomon was entranced by Thaddeus’s ideas about the psychology of black men, especially his theory about the problem of black noise. And then the day finally arrived when Thaddeus trusted Solomon enough to show him the white man he had chained up in his barn. Thaddeus’s “final solution” to that black noise. It was brilliant.
Unlike Dr. King, who had attempted to persuade the white man to change his racist ways, an approach doomed to failure because of the Caucasian race’s seemingly innate contempt for people of color, Thaddeus’s approach, in the long run, would be far more empowering. Nurture strong black men. Reinforce their confidence and pride, then set them loose to take on the white man as true equals. From that day on, Solomon was in a perpetual state of awe for Dr. Kasim’s genius and completely dedicated to helping grow his idea into what it had become today—the cradle of true black pride. The man had accomplished the nearly impossible; Solomon couldn’t even imagine what goal could exceed Dr. Kasim’s grasp. He threw up his hands. “You got me. What is it?”
“The one desire that has eluded me is to beat you at chess. I never have.”
Solomon laughed. “I should hope not. I’ve been playing tournaments since I was a boy. For you, chess is just a hobby.”
“Be that as it may, I’m determined. I’m going to beat you at least once before I leave this earth.”
“I guess it’s possible if you live another twenty or thirty years.”
Dr. Kasim’s expression darkened. He shook his head. “Don’t have that long.”
Solomon froze, only now seeing the gloom hidden behi
nd Dr. Kasim’s hard eyes. “Thaddeus, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” His face sagged. “At least nothing I can describe.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes. Me.”
“I mean a real doctor. Wasn’t Dr. Taylor up here with the last group?”
Dr. Kasim frowned. “I’m damn near one hundred years old. People my age shouldn’t be allowed to waste a doctor’s time. Forget that.”
Solomon frowned. He knew better than anyone that there was no point arguing with the man.
“It’s still your move, youngster,” Dr. Kasim said, relighting his pipe.
Solomon returned his attention to the chessboard. He saw an opportunity to achieve checkmate in three moves, but he decided to encourage the doctor’s newfound passion by prolonging the game a little longer. Solomon moved an insignificant pawn.
Dr. Kasim glared. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You could have mate in three moves!”
“What?” Solomon glanced at the board. “Guess I’m a little distracted.”
Dr. Kasim shook his head in utter disgust. “Solomon, I sure hope to God that you run this place better than you tell a lie.”
Forty Acres Page 18
