Derrel relented. “Okay.”
Chioma tilted her head to the side then pursed her lips. “Were you planning on asking us any more questions for your story, or has our food gone straight to your head?”
Questions? Yeah, Derrel thought, I have questions. He stuffed the remaining pie in his mouth then chewed with his eyes closed, reveling in the last flavorful bites. When he was finished, he wiped his hands and mouth then took a deep satisfied breath.
“Ready now?” Chioma chuckled.
“Yes. My first question is, would you be willing to share the secret of that pie?” Derrel asked hopefully. Then responding to Chioma’s eye roll, he added quickly, “If not with my readers, how about just with me?”
“M. Derrel, do you have any serious questions to ask?”
“You know, it’s just Derrel. You don’t have to add the M.”
“I know.” She raised an eyebrow.
“Right.” Derrel grinned, happy with the attention. “So tell me about you ladies. How do three gorgeous women wind up selling pot pies… barbecue pot pies, at that?
“That is a very good question, M. Derrel. Selling pot pies helps us with our real work.”
Derrel did not know how to react to her statement, so he used the old trick of repeating the last answer to allow more time to formulate a follow-up question. “Selling pot pies helps with your real work? And your real work is?
“It’s really pretty simple. The three of us – Ini, Damilola, and I – are, by all measurable metrics, smart. We use the profits from this food business to fund our research into cutting-edge technology,” said Chioma matter-of-factly.
“Wait, you’ve lost me. What… I guess the best word is qualifies… you three to research anything?”
“How about a combined IQ north of six hundred? Would that qualify us?” said a disdainful voice from behind Derrel.
Derrel spun around and had to stop his mouth from falling open. With no current customers to serve, Damilola, and Ini had come down out of the short bus. Both were at least as tall as Chioma, and both were as stunningly beautiful. Damilola had large, nearly black eyes. Ini’s eyes were brown. Separately, the three women were better-looking than any supermodel Derrel could think of and would turn the head of anyone in their immediate vicinity. But standing together, they were like a human supernova – brighter and more alive than anyone or anything on the face of the earth.
It took a moment for Derrel to shake off the feeling of complete inadequacy; the feeling that he was a supplicant standing before a trio of ancient goddesses descended from their celestial abode to grace the local mortals with their presence.
“I, I, I didn’t mean anything by… it was just a question. A pot pie restaurant and technological research seem an odd combination. Don’t most researchers apply for grants or get private funding?”
Derrel gave himself an internal kick. Idiot.
He smiled weakly.
Ini’s face transformed instantly. The accusing glare was replaced with a dazzling smile. She stepped forward, took Derrel’s arm in hers, then said, “I’m just playing with you, M. Derrel. Food and science is a weird combo. But science is how we created our signature pies. And by using our own money, we don’t have to bother answering all those pesky questions investors constantly ask.”
Damilola stepped up to his other side, entwining his other arm, and then continued, “Yeah, science rocks. The world is on the edge of complete transformation, M. Derrel. Are you ready?”
Damilola and Ini snuggled in close, pressing their amazingly tight bodies against him. Chioma stepped in close, placing her hands on the shoulders of her business partners. Derrel was completely enveloped by the three of them. It was more intoxicating than anything he had ever experienced.
Ini whispered in a low, breathy voice, “Well, M. Derrel, are you… ready?”
All Derrel could manage was a slight nod and a feeble nonsensical “Ummyuhummgm.”
Derrel’s breaths raced between his lungs and his nostrils, and his waist felt rubbery. He was not completely certain that if Ini and Chioma were not holding onto his arms, he would be able to stay in an upright position. He was also fairly certain that the three women knew exactly what their closeness was doing to him, and they were receiving some kind of perverse pleasure from it.
The intellectual part of him understood their obvious manipulation and that he should be angry or at least wary. His instincts were shouting that he should get as far away from the women as possible as quickly as he could. But that instinctual part of his brain – the part that protected our ancestors from becoming dinner to the predators that stalked their world – was being overridden by an all-encompassing arousal.
Chioma turned abruptly, and just like that, the spell was broken. Ini and Damilola pulled their arms free then followed Chioma to the front of the bus.
Derrel stood, swaying on his feet, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He slowly came back to himself. As he was processing what was happening around him, the ladies were prepping the buses for departure. The long bus was empty. The large lunch crowds were slowly migrating back into the surrounding office buildings. A few stragglers finished up their post-lunch smokes.
Derrel noticed two men and one woman lingering in front of the Que-T-Pies’ short bus. He watched as Chioma, Ini, and Damilola turned their attention to the trio. He felt a momentary pang of jealousy. Why do those three merit special attention? He wondered. The two men, dressed to the nines in sharkskin suits, looked like they had MBA stamped on their foreheads. The woman was dressed in scrubs; obviously, she had wandered down from Grady Hospital.
Derrel was not impressed by any of these interlopers and could not understand why the ladies were wasting time with them.
He balled his fists as the small pang of jealousy blossomed into full-blown dislike. They were exchanging contact information. The men fumbled cards out of their pockets. The nurse – Derrel had decided that she did not look smart enough to be a doctor – handed her phone over to Ini, who quickly typed in some information. Derrel shook his head to clear out the feelings of jealousy and anger he was experiencing. He focused on the interaction going on in front of him. There was no doubt about it; it was subtle, but it was there. Chioma, Ini, and Damilola were flirting and drawing the other three in. It was as if they were weaving some kind of spell.
The idea of predator versus prey flitted through Derrel’s mind, but he dismissed it. Hunting was definitely occurring, but it was of the sexual kind.
The ladies were amazing to watch. Every move had a purpose: Chioma reaching out to tuck a lock of hair behind Ini’s ear... Damilola laughing as she coyly pulled up on her skirt to reveal her sinewy calves.
Who ARE these women?
And, more importantly, why the hell were they running a pop-up restaurant? Derrel found it hard to believe that it was to finance their so-called “real” work. How much money could they be making selling lunch to hungry professionals? What did their “real” work consist of?
Derrel’s perfectly crafted career plans may have been blown up, but he still had the instincts of a journalist. And he sensed a story – a big story. Smartphones were amazing tools, but he needed to log onto a real computer to do some serious research. Derrel turned toward his car but only made it two steps before he heard Chioma shout his name.
“M. Derrel! Where are you going?”
Derrel looked behind him. He was surprised at how quickly she had crossed the distance between them. Chioma moved around in front of him then flashed that brilliant smile. Derrel felt his breath catch, but he still managed to speak. “I can’t believe you can run that fast in those tennis shoes.”
“These are Chucks, M. Derrel; All-Stars… for basketball, NOT tennis. I would never wear tennis shoes.”
Chioma cocked her head, placed her hands on her hips, and pouted. “You weren’t going to leave without saying good-bye, were you? What about the story you promised?”
“I was just on my way back to the offic
e to work on it; I swear.” He smiled, gesturing toward the two suits and the supposed nurse. “Besides, you three look like you have your hands full.”
“Oh, those are just super-loyal customers who’ve become good friends.” She reached out for Derrel’s hand, and there was no way he could stop himself from letting her have it. As she closed both of her hands around his then pulled him in close, his hand nestled beneath her plump, but firm, breasts. “Don’t you want to be our friend, too?”
Derrel once again thought about a predator zeroing in on prey, but he was helpless to do anything about it. If Chioma and her partners wanted to add him to their trophy case, he would go willingly.
“Of course. I was just going to start getting some ideas down on paper then call you later to set up a more in-depth interview.”
“Tonight.” It was a command, not a question.
“Tonight what?” Derrel asked.
“We should do the interview tonight. I don’t want you to lose interest and forget about us.”
Derrel thought that if he lived to be a hundred years old, he would still remember these three women in perfect detail.
“You guys are available?” Derrel found it hard to believe that they would not already have things to see and people to do.
“Actually, we’re having a very small dinner party, and we’d love for you to be there. You’ll be able to observe us in our natural habitat. Won’t that help with your story? Add background and color?”
“Uh, yeah... yes. That would be great. Please tell me Damilola will be cooking?”
“Of course, silly, and you’re going to love the menu.” Chioma was still holding his hand. She gave it a little squeeze. Derrel was not sure a hand squeeze could be described as erotic, but damn if that was not the sexiest hand squeeze in the history of hand squeezes.
He had to concentrate on keeping his voice from cracking. “Really? What’s she making?”
“It’s a surprise, but I promise it will be delicious and unforgettable.”
Unforgettable? Derrel had never heard food described quite in that manner. He noticed a glimmer in Chioma’s eye. Was she messing with him? Was this part of a whole sexy mystique that she and her partners had created around their business... maybe the possible genesis of a viral ad campaign?
He was going to enjoy finding out. “Where and when?” He asked.
One corner of Chioma’s mouth curled upward. “I’m so excited you can come. Give me your phone so I can give you the address. The contact info on the menu is a P.O. box at the UPS Store.”
Derrel handed over his phone. As Chioma typed, he noticed that Ini and Damilola were saying good-bye to the other three customers. There were long hugs and kisses on cheeks all around. One of the suits even gave Damilola a pat on the butt. Derrel was stunned. What modern man thought that was acceptable? To his surprise, Damilola laughed it off then swatted at the guy playfully.
“Okay. You’re all set,” Chioma said, handing Derrel’s phone back.
Derrel checked the screen. The address was in Marietta.
“You guys live out by the Chattahoochee?” he asked.
“If you’re going to live in Atlanta Metro, by the Chattahoochee River is the only way to go. Don’t let the uppity neighborhood throw you. We have a warehouse near the residential area where we park the buses inside at night. We eat at 7:30 sharp, okay?”
“Okay. I’ll be there.”
“Be where?” Ini asked as she and Damilola walked up.
“M. Derrel is coming to dinner,” Chioma announced.
“Wonderful,” Damilola said, looping her arm through Derrel’s. “You can sit by me, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know about these two.”
“Alright, ladies, we need to stop playing with M. Derrel and get home to prepare for our guests,” Chioma said, pulling Ini and Damilola toward the truck. “Derrel, we’ll see you at 7:30. Come hungry.” She winked at him then pushed her partners up into the short bus, her hands cupping their bottoms seductively. Chioma then sauntered to the long bus then climbed into the drivers’ seat.
Derrel watched them drive away. Chioma waved out the window. He waved back and could not help once again wondering who these women were and what their story was. He pulled himself out of his pondering. He needed to get a bunch of work done before 7:30. He dialed his assistant, Ruth at the office then told her he was going to need her help on background checks for the owners of Que-T-Pies.
CHAPTER two
Ruth was waiting for Derrel when he walked back into the office. She held a handful of printouts. Ruth started chattering at him immediately.
“I found some really weird stuff about that company and the owners. Did you know that they are all Georgia Tech graduates and certified geniuses... like Einstein, Neil deGrasse Tyson real-deal geniuses. And when they graduated, they were all courted by Who’s Who in Tech and—”
“Ruth!” Derrel shouted in frustration. “Stop. Breathe. Calm. I need one thing at a time. Give me the printouts then start over, but slower, please.”
Ruth took a deep breath then started over. She had compiled quite a bit of information, and all of it was golden. Derrel sat sipping sweet tea as he listened to Ruth, stopping her to ask questions whenever he needed clarification.
Ini had not been lying when she said that they had a combined IQ north of six hundred. All three of them were geniuses with IQs in the two hundreds.
Derrel understood that a high IQ did not necessarily equate to super smart – he grew up on the same block as a boy named Roger who could tell you what day you were born and your zodiac sign as fast as a super computer if he knew the date of your birth, but he could not take care of his basic daily needs – but it was clear, from articles chronicling their childhoods and from meeting them, that these three were able to function just fine; they were just über smart.
“They did not meet each other until Georgia Tech. It’s easy to see why they would be drawn to each other; their young ages alone would have probably weirded the other students out. So they became the four musketeers, doing everything together,” Ruth said, finishing her quick summary of her research.
“You mean the three musketeers,” Derrel said half to himself as he finished a quick perusal of Chioma’s biographic information – divorced parents, no siblings.
“No. Originally, there were four of them,” Ruth said, passing him a picture of four teenage girls wearing goggles, huddled around a Bunsen burner.
Derrel was startled. If Ruth had not told him that three of the girls in the picture were the same three ladies he had met earlier, he would not have recognized them. It was not that they were unattractive; it was just that they were not the hypersexual superwomen he had encountered.
Yes, people grow into their looks, but this was on another level. He recalled his initial reaction – that they were so perfect they seemed to have been created in a lab. Maybe they had all gone under the knife? If so, he needed to get the number of their surgeon because he was an artist.
Ruth snapped her fingers at him. “Earth to Derrel… what’s up?”
Derrel pulled out his phone then thumbed to the group photo he had taken. “These are the three,” he emphasized the number, “ladies of Que-T-Pies.”
Ruth whistled. “Wow. If I can look like that by eating barbecue pot pies all day, sign me up!”
“Right? It’s crazy,” Derrel said, holding up the photo next to the picture on his phone and comparing the two. “People change, but this... it’s...”
“A complete transformation,” Ruth suggested.
“Exactly, and I’m telling you, if they’ve had plastic surgery, I couldn’t tell. They looked perfectly natural.”
Derrel stared at the two photos for a moment longer. He then set his phone aside and pointed at the fourth teenager in the Georgia Tech photo, a pretty teen with serious eyes and a soft smile. “Who is she?”
“That is Azza Anjai. She graduated from high school at the ripe old age of fourteen, was accepted to Ge
orgia Tech, and graduated a year ago with double degrees in biotechnology and computer science. Her specialty is genetic modification.”
Derrel looked up, his eyebrow raised.
“Modifying crops like corn and stuff,” Ruth offered. “You know... Frankenstein food.”
“How about the other three? Same specialty?” Derrel asked, flipping through the stack of paper in front of him.
Ruth waved him off. “Hold on.” She quickly found what she was looking for then handed him the printout. “Basically, yes. It looks like they all got biotech degrees, but their secondary degrees are all different – pharmacology, epidemiology...” Ruth paused. “Huh?” She pointed at the photo, her finger tapping Damilola’s young face. “This one – Damilola Rambeau graduated early and then enrolled in culinary school. Weird.”
Derrel looked at the paper in his hand. Separately, none of it made sense, but together, it had a weird kind of logic. The three – no, four – of them had studied overlapping fields... fields that, in the booming tech world, would complement each other. But how did a pop-up restaurant figure into the picture? Derrel was confused and excited. He knew he had stumbled onto something here. Exactly what was still unclear, but he could feel it.
Derrel gestured to the pile of information on Chioma, Ini, Damilola, and Azza. “How did these women go from cutting-edge biotech research and development to selling pot pies in two buses? And what happened to Azza?”
“What are we going to do next?” Ruth asked.
Derrel glanced at the time. “Crap! I’m running late. I’ve been invited to a party at the home of these three mysterious ladies. You keep digging,” he tapped the stack of papers on his desk, “so you can give me more info on these four women.”
“You get to party with the deGrasse Tyson Trio, and I have to do research? Why can’t I come?”
“Because I’m the reporter, and you’re the intern. Plus, I’m not bringing a date to a dinner with three hot women. You don’t bring sand to the beach.”
Q-T-Pies (The Savannah Swan Files Book 0) Page 2
