Love's Inconvenient Truth

by Love Belvin

  “Wow, Jax,” Erika finally chimed in. “Bringing up my relationship with Stenton Rogers is low, especially for you. Even he is past it. He’s married with kids now.”

  Jackson shook his head. “What’s low is you bringing this shit in the middle of our affairs,” he snarled at her.

  And that seemed to have nipped her newfound and very delayed self-confidence. Shirez looked about to pop in fury. And I could see Jamie trying to hide his amusement, barely fighting off a hearty laugh against the wall, behind Jackson.

  “Now, you know me, ‘Rez,” Jackson chuckled, quietly, sinisterly as he raised his palms in the air defensively. “I ain’t no street dude…Vale Lutheran Academy is where I received my education, not on the corner of Nostrand and Marcy. I only keep in touch with the cats my old man barely escaped those streets with and make sure they stay fed in his wake. That means I have no power. No wind in my sail. Similar to how my astute colleagues who you were just flexing at when I walked in have no resources to pull off the fashion line of the century featuring premium denim jeans for everyday women, the signature look your beloved here was known for and caught the attention of women from varied walks of life until your flaring queened ass hooked up with her and has had her draped in expensive ass high-end gothic linens that these same women can’t pronounce, much less aspire to.”

  I watched as Erika’s eyes raced, considering Jackson’s “on the low” pitch. That was my cue.

  “Dynamic Brand wants to rebrand Erika, present her to the world of fashion under a new guise; one that would grow her fan base, influence and appeal.” I tag teamed with the same amenable tone I’d taken when Erika and Shirez waltzed into the conference room looking like royalty. “She’s already in with and admired by those high-end designers and can continue to mingle with them. But we’re trying to get her to a level of power where she can blend her own designer jeans into an ensemble that’s paired with a Balmain top and Givenchy sandals. Give mid-level designers like Loft and Steven Madden the opportunity to replicate the respective looks at an affordable price for those who can’t afford the total outfit, but want to borrow the swag that Erika slayed them in.”

  “But she already got that!” Shirez shrieked.

  “With her sister. This would just be her. She’s unique. She stands out. Why can’t her legacy do the same?” I rebutted.

  “Oh, Fall 2013 Dior, you still running your fuckin’ trap?”

  “You got one more time to use that language with me and I will—”

  My words were halted when I felt and heard a resounding thump on the table and simultaneously saw Jackson leap across and grab Shirez by the neck.

  “Muthafucka! Oh, you don’t believe—”

  He swiftly flipped his lean body onto his knees, posturing to swing, but couldn’t before the brute in all black snatched Shirez up in a rear chokehold and the beasty one using his body as a barricade against Jackson’s rage when Jackson jumped off the table and lunged toward Shirez.

  Erika yelped a cry and I flew to my feet as did Bridgette. Jamie was right next to the three of us barricading from that side of the table.

  “Jax, man, let us take it from here. It’s your call, Ock, but remember what you said,” the ape of a human murmured as his eyes widened.

  Heaving violently, Jackson didn’t reply, or at least with words. He took a few steps back, making his decision to drop the wrath. Shirez was still in the chokehold, squirming with futility. He wasn’t moving an inch from the big brute’s grip.

  “Erika,” Jackson called out as he turned his neck to face her behind him, still panting, and glowering feverishly. “This may be the end of our short-lived venture, but until you say, the offer still stands. However, with or without you, those designers and seamstresses will have a product to bring into fruition.”

  Erika’s mouth dropped.

  “Perhaps Emily, your sister, will get the call she’s predicted and inherit the line she’s been after and knew you’d fuck up,” I amended.

  “Erik called last week behind Ellis’ back, asking what we could do for him. Maybe with modifications, we can do something similar for him.” Bridgette’s sharp follow that I didn’t know if was true was the decadent icing on the already delicious cake.

  There wasn’t an opportunity for Erika to respond.

  “Get him the fuck up outta here!” Jackson ordered through gritted teeth.

  With that, Shirez was escorted out by the two giants into the main area, accosted and firing off threats that I wondered if they were even possible. Jamie, Bridgette and I stood frozen in our respective places, in the same vicinity, away from a fuming Jackson. I didn’t know about them, but I was oddly afraid to move.

  “You guys can go,” Jackson ordered.

  Within seconds, Bridgette pivoted, turning to leave the room. Jamie was behind her and I trailed him.

  “Elle,” his vocals were hoarse, scratchy from the earlier outburst. “My place tonight at seven.”

  Before I could think to wonder, he qualified, “Trump. I have a proposal for you…something I’ve been sitting on for a while and need to strike like yesterday. Plus, all four acts have signed on the Southern Gentlemen’s tour dates. We need to turn that over.”

  Jarred, more by his ability to still be able to go about the business of the day seamlessly after what had just happened. I was churning over how we could curb the media blitz that would be coming after Shirez was photographed being escorted out of J.G., Wizer and Hunter in a chokehold.

  Still a bit shaken, I nodded timidly before crossing the threshold.

  About two hours later, I was headed for the elevator, trying to sooth a headache coming on by massaging my roots. I encountered an older woman, dressed to the nines in five-inch heels, black wide-leg slacks, a satin cranberry turtleneck and black wool sleeveless cape. Her face was artfully made up and hair skillfully laid in small wavy curls cut close around the sides and back, but higher on the top. She stopped just outside the elevator, standing in a fierce pose, resting on her left hip while her right foot extended out. On her left wrist was an ivory Louis Vuitton tote and she slapped her cranberry leather gloves into her left palm as she scanned the open room.

  “Can I help yo—”

  “Bernadette,” I heard in a familiar serenade over my shoulder. “You’re here.” Jackson greeted the woman by sidling up behind her, taking her at the waist.

  Bernadette quickly and familiarly responded by immediately opening up for him to embrace her. Their hold lingered as she smiled delightfully. She even closed her eyes and I could have sworn to hearing her sigh contently when Jackson kissed her cheek.

  “Of course, I’m here. Wouldn’t turn down a lunch date with the ever-busy Jackson Hunter,” she purred while batting her eyes.

  Jackson chuckled, “I know, baby. I’ve been busy. But I plan on making up for it today.” He cooed as he started off toward his office. “We have reservations at Da Silvano’s.” He winked.

  “Owwww!” she growled like a sex fiend. “You’re off to a good start. Can’t wait.” She winked, dismissing him to go prepare.

  I stabbed the call button for the elevator, rather hard.

  “Elle,” I heard behind me. I turned to find Jackson walking backwards as he called out. “Seven. Be prompt.”

  His tone was commanding. He was in boss mode, and after this morning, I’d need reminding who I knew Jackson to be before the conference room altercation.

  I nodded with disinclination. The elevator arrived and when I boarded and turned to face the doors, Jackson was nowhere in sight. But his mysterious lunch, with one who, in spite of her impeccable skin, I knew had to be at least fifty years old, remained bouncing on that left hip. As the doors closed, I rolled my eyes.

  “I know…” Anthony sighed. “You need to get back to the office. I’ve had you for the past two hours.”

  I went for my phone for the time. It was almost one in the afternoon.

  “Oh, wow. We have been out for a while.” I noted. “If I don
’t get a start on it now, I’ll be late for my two o’clock conference call.”

  “I hate to see you go. I feel like we’re always chasing behind a clock when we get together.”

  That’s because all of our “dates” were set up like appointments. Anthony and I both had heavy and convoluted work schedules. He’d mentioned one of the best features of our “friendship” was me being understanding of his demanding lifestyle. I wasn’t bothered at all. Dates for me were painful. They were designed to either get to know each other better or a nice prerequisite to sex. I had no interest in anyone getting to know me and my sex life was covered. Nonetheless, hanging out with Anthony was painless. He talked…like, a lot. It gave me comfort letting him dominate our conversations. It was less thinking I had to do about me.

  “Hey,” Anthony called over to me. “Why don’t we try to meet in a nonpublic place next time? I think I want you to meet my mother.” That stole my attention from checking my inbox. Huhn? I tossed Anthony a dubious gaze. Then my eyes landed on his meticulously lined mustache over his thick lips that were actually inviting as he continued. “She’s been on me for some time about dating and I can finally give her something to chew on. But with no pressure! Just a decoy…though I have to admit, I don’t want to be serial meal-sharer until I’m old and gray.”

  That ringing in his tone from the last two sentences brought my attention to the fact that while he was standing I was still sitting, now in an awkward position, having paused midair from standing at some point. He registered my hesitance. We were at a quaint bistro in Harlem, not too far from my place. I’d never eaten here before, though Michael had recommended it to me over the years. In that moment I realized Anthony had no idea I lived just blocks from here. In fact, I had no idea where he lived either, and oddly I was okay with that. Shouldn’t I be curious? If I didn’t show any interest in this budding “friendship”, how long did I expect it to last? Did I want it to turn into something or was I okay with having a ‘meal and coffee buddy’ in my contact list?

  Shit.

  This socializing thing was a damn full time job. But at some point, I had to start thinking about a future. I was slowly coming around to the idea of not spending the rest of my life alone and isolated. If I continued down that road, I had to be at ease with making decisions like this to meet a man’s mother—even if it came before my desires to “be” with him.

  “O-okay,” I uttered as I stood. I even mustered an endearing grin.

  Anthony’s face lit up. “Yeah?” His smile beamed a gazillion megawatts. Then, oddly, his expression fell as his eyes fluttered and he sighed in relief. “Oh, my god! You have no idea how nervous I was about that proposal. I mean…you’ve been really cool all this time, dating, but there’s still something closed off and guarded about you. I didn’t want to ruin what good we do have going, being pushy prematurely—”

  Maintaining my smile and not wanting to open up a new can of worms about the direction of this “relationship”, I insisted, “Anthony, make the arrangements. I’ll meet your mother.”

  Before reaching back into the booth to gather my coat and purse, I noticed Anthony sobered. When I recoiled to put on my jacket, he was in my face and before I could perceive his next move, his lips were on me. They were warm, soft and…timid. The hesitance concerned me, but the bold action piqued my interest. I actually wanted to taste him. Really did. Out of nowhere, the emotions experienced when Jackson’s mouth was on me surfaced in spades. The memory of the rush I got with him arrived in the forefront of my mind, but the physiological response hadn’t. And that’s why I wanted to taste him. To see if Jackson’s kiss had the allege power to decimate my rigid resolve the way it did when I tasted him.

  But I didn’t get an answer. Anthony withdrew. The impressed smirk on his face told me he felt accomplished by that small act. I didn’t want to tell him he’d missed the mark. Once again, my indifference surfaced and I dropped my curiosity as I let him lead me out of the restaurant.

  The elevator doors parted.

  “Okay, Ms. Jarreau.” The attendant motioned ahead. “Mr. Hunter’s apartment is straight ahead, east.”

  I nodded as I stepped onto the thick plush carpet and gaited down the elegantly decorated corridor. I’d arrived at 1 Central Park West in Trump International Hotel & Tower. Though I had an idea this visit was business related, I was still confused as to why it would be at his apartment. I tried to exhale away the stressors of my day. I’d spent much of it thinking too hard, too intensely.

  After leaving Anthony, I ran back to my office to my conference call with the stage coordinator for Dale’s upcoming tour. I had to field calls and emails regarding Erika’s New York Fashion Week show; a show I had no idea if was still in motion. I drug my tense body home, only wanting to soak my rigid limbs, but recalling that my efficiency didn’t come furnished with a tub. So, I showered and took a call from my mother that should have been ignored.

  Our exchange started slowly, taking its usual pace and direction until she hit me with a question that was a powered blow to the gut.

  Are you happy, Ellen?

  That unanswered query was followed with a series of poignant statements and questions I was no way prepared for.

  Are you depressed? Why don’t you reach out more? Are you dating? Do you still believe in God? Are you seeking Him to heal your heart? The Bible says to train up a child in the way that he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it. You have a broken heart, pumpkin. It’s been bleeding long before Henry, but that…hit you harder than anything. You’ve been running since…ran from home and I need to know, did you at least take Him with you? Do you pray?

  That one was most staggering, because it was the one that I had an immediate answer in my head for. I didn’t pray. I acknowledged God. I believed He was in touch. I’d just been staying under the radar, feeling grateful to be alive after the shit I pulled. After all the prayers I’d submitted years ago that came into fruition—even the ones I didn’t exactly have a particular agenda for—I’d gotten what I wanted from God. It was wrong. It was virulent. But it was what I’d willed and since, I’d been in hiding from Him, surviving off His grace. I didn’t want more. Didn’t deserve more. And I damn sure knew not to ask for more.

  Before disconnecting, she actually cornered me for a commitment to come home. That was painful. I didn’t relish visiting home. I had no interest in seeing anyone past my mother, who I was in touch with regularly. With palpable hesitance, I agreed to consider it and we cut the line. After that, I slugged into my clothes: black leather pants, a simple gray tee, black leather booties and a blazer. My blonde hair was damp and coiled into my natural curls. I rubbed shea butter throughout the silk locks, applied a light face and headed for the door, blindly grabbing a bottle of wine on the way. Now, on to the last appointment of my draining day. I had no idea what to expect from this visit.

  Even so, as I ambled purposefully down the hall, I felt a coat of peace coming over me. It was without doubt because I was meeting with Jackson and as frustrating as he could invariably be, I didn’t have to think so hard with him. He’d always set the agenda, laid out the course of our interactions. It was just a matter of whether I was comfortable complying. Most times I wasn’t, but gave in anyway and was pleasantly taken by the results. Plus, Jackson and I often talked work. And work was my sanctuary; manipulating images to influence the masses.

  I rang the doorbell, blew out a shaky breath, and seconds later the door sounded, opening. He stood center of the frame, and I noticed his casual wear of a black long sleeve crew neck shirt, black lounge pants and Nike Air-Max 95 OG’s in green, gray and black.

  Classic footwear.

  And he smelled delicious as sin. When my appreciative eyes rose to meet his face again, I notice it was set to its usual glowering manner.

  I felt my brows meet in my confusion. “What?”

  “You’re four minutes late.”

  What?

  I glance down to pull my ph
one from my pocket. Shit if he wasn’t right. It was four after seven. But that was no big deal. He couldn’t hold me to four petty minutes, not after the day I’d had. When I peered up to check him on it, I noticed he’d stepped back, welcoming me in and was chuckling silently. Jackson was radiant when his smile peaked. Although grateful for the change in moods, I rolled my eyes as I sauntered in.

  That’s when I heard pelting gallops approaching with great speed. My heart tanked in my chest when I saw a dinosaur covered in fur charging at me. I sucked in a painful amount of air just as it was upon me, lunging into the air with its hooves at my chest level. Then it bucked and front legs slammed against the hardwood floors. That’s when I saw Jackson’s tightened arm pulling it by the neck against its collar.

  “What the fuck is that?” I screamed, my back against the door, my palm flat against my heaving chest. I could hardly breathe, swallowing convulsively.

  This thing was almost as tall as me, its face breast level now down on all fours. I noted its coat was shiny black, petite as it panted manically and audibly.

  “She’s,” Jackson made clear he didn’t appreciate my reference to his beast of a housemate, “a female, for starters.” He turned to the excited beast who still attempted to jump me. “If you don’t calm down, you know what you’re going to get.” It whimpered as it reared, humbly. Jackson regarded me again. “Elle, this is Bella. She’s eager to meet you. I’m sorry for that introduction. Hey!” He yanked her collar when she inched toward me again.

  “Jackson,” I licked my lips with a dry tongue, “again, I ask, what the fuck is that?”

  A sleek smile crested on his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Bella, is a Doberman pinscher.”

  “Sorry to inform you,” I tried to speak over my heaves, “but that’s a damn donkey.”

  It barked at me. I leaped, turned to grab the doorknob.

  Damn it!

  It was locked.

  “Whoa!” Jackson extended his arm, demanding I stop. He continued in the composed fashion I’m accustomed to getting from him. “She’s sensing your hyper-energy and misinterpreting it as a threat.”