The Black Door

by Velvet

  Preston sat behind his desk and spread open the pages of The New York Times. His morning ritual was to read the Times while he drank a cup of coffee. Well this morning, he would have to deviate slightly from his habit while he waited for Michele. He had finished reading the first half of the newspaper and was on to the business section when the telephone rang. He snatched up the receiver, slightly annoyed at having to answer his own phone. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Judge,” Michele said sheepishly, using his professional title instead of addressing him by his first name like she normally did.

  “Where are you? I was expecting you here over an hour ago. I need you to call the senator’s office, and . . .” Preston began barking out orders.

  “I’m so sorry, but I won’t be in today,” she said hesitantly.

  “Oh.” He calmed down. “Are you sick?” he asked, concerned.

  “No, I’m not sick. Trey and I are on our way to the Cayman Islands for a long weekend,” she said, sounding totally elated.

  “What? You’re on your way where? Did you say the Cayman Islands?” he asked, nearly running one question into the other.

  “Yes! Can you believe it?” She squealed with delight.

  Preston knew that Michele and Trey were having problems, and that she suspected him of cheating. She probably caught him in the act, and as a peace offering he invited her to go away for a romantic weekend. Preston knew that sly move all too well, because he had paid dearly for a few guilt trips himself. He knew that if his son had booked a spur-of-the-moment trip, the situation must be dire. He decided not to give Michele any grief about missing work. “You sound excited.”

  “Yes, I am,” she gushed. “I know this is totally unexpected, and I’m sorry to leave you in the lurch, but all of your affairs are in order. And I’ll be back in the office bright and early Tuesday morning,” she said, always the efficient assistant.

  “Don’t worry, Michele. It’s already Friday, and since you’ll be back on Tuesday, I’m sure I can manage by myself for two days. You just concentrate on having a good time. Let me talk to Trey,” he said, wanting to clear a few things up with his son.

  “Hold on. Here he is.”

  “Uh, hey . . .” Trey said nervously, wondering why his dad wanted to speak with him. Maybe Ariel had told him everything.

  “I know you can’t really talk, so just listen. Did Michele catch you with your hand in the cookie jar?” he asked knowingly.

  “Yep,” Trey said, but didn’t mention that it was his dad’s private stash that he had been dipping into.

  “So this is literally a guilt trip?”

  Trey was guilty on so many different fronts. He was guilty of seducing his father’s fiancée; guilty of cheating on Michele; but most of all guilty of jeopardizing his dad’s Supreme Court nomination. “You have no idea,” he said sorrowfully.

  Hearing the despair in Trey’s voice, Preston said, “Son, I’ve been where you are. Don’t worry, things will work out fine.”

  If you knew what I knew, you wouldn’t be comforting me, you’d be trying to strangle the life out me, Trey thought. “I hope that you’re right, Dad.”

  “I know I am. Trust me. Time and distance will make any situation better, so go ahead and have a good time. I’ll see you when you guys get back.”

  “Okay.” Trey paused a second as if contemplating his next words. “I love you, Dad.”

  Preston was taken aback. Trey hadn’t told him that he loved him since he was a boy. “I love you too, son.”

  Trey hoped that the love that they shared as father and son would supersede all the turmoil that he had caused. “Okay, talk to you soon,” he said, and hung up.

  Preston leaned back in his chair with a broad smile decorating his face. Like most parents, he was proud of his son no matter what he did. After all, Trey was the fruit of his loins and could do no wrong in his eyes.

  As Preston was basking in the glow of fatherhood, he heard the hum of the fax machine, and he looked over and saw it spew out two pieces of paper forward. He got up, walked over, and retrieved the fax. Preston read the cover page.

  Thought that you should see this in black and white, Robert

  Preston reached for the second page, which was also written in the same script, and carefully read the brief note.

  The Black Door

  an adults-only club

  exclusively for women.

  Preston Hendricks III

  aka

  Trey Curtis

  “What the hell is this?” Preston shouted into the empty room. He reread the fax. “An adults-only club?” He scratched his head. “Trey’s got some explaining to do.” He stormed back to his desk and dialed his son’s cell phone, but it went straight to voice mail. “Damnit!”

  Trey and Michele were already in flight. He didn’t know where they were staying, which meant that he wouldn’t be able to talk to Trey until Tuesday, but he couldn’t wait that long. He needed some answers now, so he called Robert.

  “Senator’s Oglesby’s office, Natalie speaking. How may I help you?” asked his chipper assistant.

  “Natalie, it’s Judge Hendricks. I need to talk to the senator right away,” he huffed.

  “Actually, he’s expecting your call. Hold on please,” she said, and put him through.

  “I see you got my fax,” Robert simply said.

  “What is this?” He waved the paper at the phone as if the senator could see it fanning in the air.

  “My investigators found out that your son is the sole owner of an adult entertainment club called The Black Door, where mask-wearing members enjoy carnal pleasures of various kinds,” he explained.

  Preston’s jaw dropped wide open, and he was stunned into silence. Never in his wildest dreams did he think that his son would be involved in the sleazy adult trade. Trey never even mentioned going to a strip club, let alone owning one. His resolve about his son doing no wrong quickly dissolved, along with the fatherly pride that he had felt only moments before.

  “From your response, I take it that you didn’t know anything about the club.”

  “Not a thing. I swear!” Preston said defensively. “I met with Trey the other day and he assured me that he was in the equity and real estate business.”

  The senator chucked. “Well, I’ve made some calls of my own, and it turns out that Trey is a very clever boy. He owns the building uptown out of which the club operates, so he didn’t actually lie about being into real estate; he just failed to tell you the whole truth.”

  “I’ll just have the damn club shut down!” Preston shouted adamantly, slamming his fist on the desk.

  “That’ll be nearly impossible. My sources tell me that his membership register is full of some of the most powerful and influential women in the country. There are even a few foreign dignitaries who are active members. Actually, the club is registered as a legal adult entertainment establishment so trying to shut it down would cause you more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “So what are we going to do now?” Preston asked, hoping that there was a solution to this unsuspected problem.

  “Well . . .” The senator exhaled into the receiver. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Preston, but with your son operating a risque business, it’ll be too embarrassing if—”

  Preston cut him off. “That doesn’t have anything to do with me,” he said frantically, trying desperately to hold onto his dream before it slipped through his fingers.

  “Well, actually it does. If we went ahead with the proceedings and I threw your name into the ring as a viable candidate, the official investigation would begin. They would uncover Trey’s ownership of The Black Door before you could say, “I didn’t know.’ The scandal would be headline news and spread across every newspaper and tabloid in the western hemisphere. You would be crucified in the press and would lose the nomination before it even began. You understand, don’t you?”

  There was dead air on the opposite end of the phone. Preston couldn’t believ
e that his lifelong dream had been dashed, and through no fault of his own.

  When the senator didn’t get a response, he continued. “I’m so sorry, Preston, but we gave it the good ole college try. Take care and I’ll talk with you soon,” he said, and hung up.

  Preston let the phone drop from his ear, and it hit the desk with a thud. He sat motionless, trying to digest what had just happened. A neutron bomb had just exploded in his lap, and the debris from the carnage was falling all around him. He didn’t know how to put the pieces back together. After an hour of marinating in the devastation, he realized that he needed to see his woman. She could console him with a night of lovemaking, which he needed desperately to get his mind off of his troubles. Preston wearily rose from his chair and tossed the incriminating fax (which was still clenched in his fist) into the air, and as it floated to the floor, he calmly walked out, leaving his hopes and dreams behind.

  ARIEL HAD TAKEN the day off. She wasn’t in the mood for work, or much of anything else. She was still reeling from last night when Trey had walked out on her to console Michele. She tried calling him, but only got his voice mail. She was also furious at herself for practically begging him to stay. Her hormones had gotten the best of her and she realized now that she had made a complete fool of herself. To ease the pain, she had started the day with mimosas, and by lunch had tossed the orange juice aside and was drinking straight champagne.

  She was on her second bottle of Veuve when the telephone rang. Ariel wasn’t in the mood to talk so she let the call go to voice mail, but it rang again, and again, until she picked up. “Hello?” she said, annoyed that someone was interrupting her pity party.

  “Ms. Vaughn, Judge Hendricks is downstairs,” Pete informed her.

  He knows, was Ariel’s first thought, and her heart began to palpitate. She took a deep breath to slow her pulse.

  The doorbell buzzed and she staggered to open it. The champagne was flowing freely through her bloodstream, making it hard for her to keep her balance. She flung the door wide open.

  “If. . . if. . . you’re here to talk about Trey, then come right on in,” she stammered. Ariel hadn’t showered and her hair was all over her head. She looked like a madwoman as she waved him in with her arm.

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” Preston said, wondering how she knew about Trey’s involvement with The Black Door. “What’s wrong with your hair?” he asked, giving her a questioning stare. In all the years that he had known Ariel, he had never seen her look so wild and out of sorts.

  “I don’t care about my hair,” she spat out, and slammed the door. She spun quickly around, almost falling flat on her face. “You didn’t come here to talk about my hair. You came here to talk about Trey, and all of it is true, every single detail,” she slurred.

  Preston looked baffled. “What do you know about The Black Door?”

  “That’s where I made love to your son! Didn’t Michele tell you everything?” Ariel put her hand on her hip. “Well, I guess she only told you what she saw last night.” She looked up at the ceiling and then began mumbling. “Michele couldn’t have known about the club unless Trey told her—”

  “What, what did you say?” Preston interrupted.

  “I slept with your son, that’s what I said!” Ariel’s thinking was completely skewed. The alcohol was talking for her, mixing up her words, but at the same time saying things that she would never have the courage to confess if sober.

  Preston took hold of Ariel’s shoulders and looked her dead in the eyes. “You’re a member of The Black Door?”

  “No, I’m not a member. I went disguised as Meri, and at first I was just an innocent bystander, but then I met Trey and he rocked my world, something you haven’t done in a long time.”

  First the nomination was taken away, and now his woman. Taken away by the same person—his son! The betrayal was too much to bear, and he broke out in a cold sweat. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain shoot up the left side of his body, from his fingertips to his shoulder. The twinge quickly traveled to his frontal lobe, causing a severe headache. He tried to speak, but his tongue wouldn’t cooperate, causing his words to spill out of his mouth in garbled inaudible blurbs. He staggered toward the living room, but before he could reach the sofa, he stumbled over his feet and then collapsed face first on the floor.

  “Oh my God!” Ariel screamed. “Preston! Preston!” She kneeled down beside him. “Preston!” She yelled at the top of her lungs while shaking his shoulders, but he didn’t respond. The alcohol surging through Ariel’s bloodstream was clouding her judgment and she couldn’t think straight. She stared at him intensely, willing him to move, but the only thing that budged was his head as it slumped slightly to one side. “No, no, no!” she wailed, and flung herself onto his lifeless body.

  Epilogue

  LIMOUSINES STRETCHED for miles down Fifth Avenue, inching their way toward Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, the majestic Gothic-style church where services were held for New York’s who’s who. And it seemed that every dignitary and socialite in the city had shown up for today’s service. Ariel sat nervously in the back of her limo, praying that traffic would ease so she wouldn’t be late. Though she had left in plenty of time, the seconds were dragging by at a snail’s pace, and the longer she sat, the more anxious she became.

  “How much longer before we get to the church?” she asked the driver.

  “Just two more blocks, but in this traffic that might take five to ten minutes,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Let’s hope not,” she said, and then focused her attention on the crowded sidewalk. People were busy with their daily routines, rushing to and from work, shopping in the boutiques that lined Fifth Avenue, and lunching casually with friends. She marveled at how normal everything seemed, how the world didn’t stop when life threw you a curveball or two. Ariel closed her eyes for a second to collect her thoughts, but before she could take a trip down memory lane, the driver spoke.

  “We’re here, miss.”

  Ariel opened her eyes and saw familiar faces filing into the church one by one. She wasn’t in the mood to speak, so she waited for a few minutes until most of the people were inside before exiting the car. She climbed the alabaster marble steps to the grand entrance and walked through the ornate double doors into the sanctuary. A pipe organ was playing softly, the melody wafting through the flying buttresses overhead and echoing gently off of the rose stained glass. Ariel stood for a moment and took in the beauty of the century-old church. As she inhaled, she could smell the scent of orchids and calla lilies, with undertones of frankincense and myrrh. As she slowly exhaled, a sense of calm washed over her, settling the butterflies fluttering in her belly.

  “Are you ready?” asked the assistant priest.

  “Yes.” She nodded.

  He took Ariel by the elbow and escorted her to the front of the church. She was grateful for his support, because her legs were so wobbly that she thought she would stumble forward at any second. From the distance, she could see Preston, as stiff as a board, and tears began streaming down her face.

  When she reached the altar, his stoic expression softened into a warm smile, and he took her hand. “You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.” He reached into his tuxedo jacket, took out a white handkerchief, and dabbed the tears from her cheeks.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the union of Ariel Renée Vaughn and Preston Hendricks II into the state of holy matrimony,” the priest said, beginning the wedding of the year. After an hour of singing, receiving communion, reciting of vows, the blessing and exchanging of rings, and lighting of the unity candle, it was official.

  “May I introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Preston Hendricks II,” the priest announced after the ceremonial kiss.

  Ariel—in a flowing, pearl-white, strapless Elie Saab wedding gown with satin, opera-length gloves—and Preston, in a tailored Armani tuxedo, were the picture of perfection as they strolled down the center aisle of the cathedral. Their fa
ces beamed with happiness as they waved to well-wishers on the way to the waiting limousine.

  The reception was held at Cipriani in the landmark Bowery building on Forty-second Street. With its soaring sixty-five-foot ceilings, Corinthian columns, inlaid Italian marble tiling, and dazzling chandeliers, Cipriani was the perfect venue in which to celebrate such an auspicious occasion. Tuxedoed waiters were standing at attention—Buckingham Palace—style—armed with trays of beluga caviar, carpaccio, crab croquettes, asparagus wrapped in pro-sciutto, grilled shrimp bruschetta, and baby lamb chops. There was also an army of waiters ready to serve chilled flutes of Cristal champagne.

  Ariel and Preston arrived ahead of their guests and positioned themselves near the entryway, forming an abbreviated receiving line. First to greet the happy couple was none other than Ariel’s foster mother, Mrs. Grant.

  “Oh, baby,” she gushed, grabbing both Ariel and Preston in a tight bear hug. “I’m so happy for you two. The ceremony was beautiful. You know I’ve never been to a Catholic wedding, and I thought it was going to be boring, but it was much better than I expected,” she said, without mincing words.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Ariel responded, kissing her on the cheek. “You’re sitting at the bridal table.” She pointed to a white, linen-draped table over to the right.

  “Okay, baby.” She kissed Ariel on the cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

  Preston and Ariel shook hands, air-kissed, and greeted a parade of some of their closest friends, local politicians, and business associates. Ariel’s toes were beginning to ache from standing on her feet for hours on end, and she was ready to sit down and enjoy the reception, but there were a few more people to greet.

  “Congratulations, Dad,” Trey said, shaking his father’s hand.

  He clenched Trey’s hand with both of his. “Thanks, son.”