That wouldn’t have worked anyway.
Syeesha found a man’s brown leather shoe on the floor by the couch. Holding it firmly by the toe, she repeatedly slammed the heel of the shoe against Kiki’s bedroom door. When Kiki and her lover finally re-entered the earth’s atmosphere, the animalistic sounds tapered off. The music stopped abruptly. Kiki whipped the door open.
“What!” Kiki stood before her in all of her naked glory, boldly displaying her barely-there breasts.
The triple assault of sex, sweat, and alcohol smacked Syeesha in the face.
“You got my bottle of Zinfandel in there with you?”
“Yeah. So? I’ll buy you another one. Think I can spare the five bucks.”
“You have the nerve to be late with your rent every month and now you’re making a habit of taking my shit? You think I didn’t notice my white Levi’s on your ass the other day?”
“Syeesha.” Kiki glanced back over her shoulder toward her bed. “I’m kinda in the middle of something here.”
“I heard. Should I call an ambulance or animal control?”
“Don’t be jealous just ’cause you’re not getting any.”
“The point, Kiki, is that you took something of mine that doesn’t belong to you. If you can’t be a little more respectful around here I’m gonna ask you to leave.”
“Ask me to leave?” Kiki batted her lashes, clumpy from too much smudged mascara. She tilted her head as if she were trying to decipher the meaning of a foreign language. “I don’t think you recall the reason why I’m here in the first place.”
“Babe,” a deep voice called from inside the bedroom. “Come back to bed.”
“In a sec!” Kiki yelled over her shoulder. “I’m here, Syeesha, because you need me to help you pay the rent for this dump. Y’know, living with you is no picnic for me, either. But when you’re broke, your options are limited and you take what you can get and deal with the bullshit that comes with it. So deal with it.”
Kiki slammed the door in Syeesha’s face.
***
Chapter 11
The café, located just two blocks from school, was surprisingly empty. Usually a gaggle of students would assemble there to study or just hang out. Just a few customers sat at the small tables in hard, butt-numbing chairs, reading magazines and sipping lattes that cost roughly the same as a monthly car note. Syeesha tried to push the smell of the sugary decadence from her mind. She found an unoccupied table and positioned herself so that her back was toward the bakery. She waited for her beloved MacBook to boot up and figured it’d be another seven months before she was done paying it off. That would lighten up her expenses, but she needed to be free of Kiki well before then.
Syeesha reread the last few pages she’d written of her manuscript. Her stupid little romance read more like the pinings of a wistful teenager than an actual experience a grown woman would have, albeit a fictional grown woman.
What the hell. Might as well keep going since I’ve invested this much time into it.
She pecked away at the story, typing, cutting, pasting, and typing again for a solid hour. Afterward, she picked up her textbook on employment law. It only took fifteen minutes before her eyes began to glaze over and yawns became impossible to muffle.
A quarrelsome child in a stroller across the café saved her from a full-on nap. If cherubs really existed, surely the crying child would have been the exact replica of one. His clear blue eyes were filled with tears as he looked around the bookstore, not in embarrassment, but for a witness to his suffering. His mother wiped the tears from his fat, cherry-red cheeks and ran her hands through his drooping golden curls. She kissed his wet lips and stuffed a piece of chocolate cake inside his mouth. The sated child had won.
“That kid’s antics are far more exciting than chapter twenty-three, isn’t it?”
Syeesha turned to see Christian standing beside her.
“What’re you doing here?”
He nodded toward a few students huddled around two tables pushed together in the corner.
“Study group. I see why you don’t want to join us.” He leaned in a bit and whispered, “That chapter kinda sucks.”
“You don’t have to pretend that you’re bored about our homework assignment,” Syeesha responded. “You’re downright giddy in class.”
“Giddy?” Christian smiled. Small, even teeth, probably the product of years of braces, shimmered behind his lopsided grin. “I don’t think I’d call myself giddy.”
She rested her elbow on the back of her chair and looked up at him.
“No? Well, what do you call this?” She raised a hand and said, “’Oh, oh, Professor. I know. I know.’ You pant and practically salivate.”
The deep, throaty sound of his chuckle would have caused her to swoon had he been Professor Asher. But he wasn’t. So she made a conscious effort to ignore what could have been perceived as sexiness coming from a guy whose idea of a good time was probably playing PS3 all night.
Without invitation, he tossed his book bag to the floor, pulled out the chair across from her, and took a seat. He hooked his coat on the backrest, making himself comfortable.
“Passion,” he said, “can’t always be bridled like a truckled horse. I don’t expect you to understand how one can be so passionate.”
“Why not?” She feigned taking offense. “I know about passion, thank you very much. I get up every morning and I write. Every day. Without fail.”
“What do you write?”
“Fiction.”
“Every day?” His eyes narrowed. “Without fail?”
“Well, I mean, sometimes I can’t.”
“Ah, so you’re not getting in those ten thousand hours.”
“What ten thousand hours?”
He had the perfect view to sneak a glance at her bust. But his eyes stayed locked on hers.
“Let me buy you a coffee and we can discuss the true meaning of passion.”
“No, I–“
Don’t be jealous just ’cause you’re not getting any.
“Sure.” She smiled. “Grande soy chai.”
When he pulled himself up to his full height, she noticed for the first time how broad his shoulders were beneath the form-fitting sweater. Syeesha wanted to peep his physique from behind. A second passed, then two. Just enough time for her to wait before turning around to catch a peek of Christian when he was unaware. To her surprise, he had stopped only a foot away from her as though waiting for her eyes to follow him.
“Are you checking me out?”
She whipped around in her chair; her face scorched with heat. In an attempt to look preoccupied, she pushed away her law book, pressed Command-S to save her work, and closed the lid of her laptop. She could smell the lingering scent he’d left behind. It wasn’t cologne, but a natural aroma that reminded her of being on the beach, light waves lapping on the softened sand and the intoxicating essence of salty water and fresh air.
Syeesha peeled her purse from the back of her chair. She set it on her lap, opened her compressed powder, and pretended to rummage through her purse while discreetly touching up her face. Her fingers hesitated for just a moment over the lip gloss but she decided against it. She was sure his sharp eyes would notice the difference. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was getting dolled up for him.
He returned just as she was putting her bag away.
“The ten-thousand-hour rule,” Christian continued as he set their drinks on the table with a few napkins, “is a concept Malcolm Gladwell spoke about in one of his books. That’s the magical number that highly successful people put into their crafts on an annual basis. Works out to roughly three hours a day, every single day, for years on end.”
A quick roll of her eyes elicited a low, long chuckle from him.
“What’s with the floating eyes?”
She took a sip of her tea. “Who has that kind of time? I mean, three hours a day? People have to work, go to school, exercise.”
He tilted his head in interest. “You work out?”
“No.” She smiled. “But I would if I had the time.”
Another chuckle. This time he dropped his head and shook it as though happily defeated.
Syeesha wanted to stop the heat from rising up her neck and warming her face. She had made him laugh. And he was making the palms of her hand moist from nervousness. She removed her hands from the warm cup.
“You don’t pretend to be passionate about the law,” he said. “Which is good, I guess, because we both know that would be a crock. On the other hand, passion for a certain professor of ours . . .”
“Hold on. I’m passionate about the law. Maybe not as much as you are, but still.”
“Passion,” he said, “is the energy that gets us up in the morning and keeps us going when others quit. For me–” He shrugged. “I’m not crazy about all my classes. But I accept that the end goal is that I can someday be a lawyer, and then eventually an FBI agent so that I can put the really smart bad guys away. I am seriously passionate about that. You, on the other hand, obviously don’t derive your passion from school because that wasn’t the first thing out of your mouth just now. Writing was.”
Syeesha squirmed a little in her seat. “You seem awfully young for such big goals. Law school, FBI.”
“I’m twenty-six. And you?”
Only two years younger than me. Thank you, God, for making him so totally legal. Wait. Why am I thanking God, exactly? He’s so not my type.
She cleared her throat. “I admit I don’t enjoy every class. I have my favorites—”
“Which one?”
“Uh, well,” she stammered, “I don’t know. I like a few of them. Look, let’s put it like this: I’m not crazy about school but once I’m an attorney I’m going to be passionate about representing my clients.”
He grinned that boyish smile again. “What kind of law will you be practicing?”
“Corporate. Probably.”
“Mm-hmm. And have you discussed that aspiration with Professor Asher, by chance?”
He took a sip from his cup but kept his playful eyes squarely on her. If he felt the slightest bit threatened by her schoolgirl crush on the professor, he didn’t show it.
“What is he, my guidance counselor? Of course I haven’t spoken to him about my plans. What’s it to you if I had?”
“He’s a jerk, y’know.”
Stay cool.
“Why do you say that?” Syeesha slid her laptop into her backpack and avoided his eyes.
“I’ve heard the talk, and I hear he’s a jerk. He thinks he’s younger and cooler than he is. He looks all right, I guess, if you’re into that kind of look.”
“What kind of look?”
“You know. John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Asher looks like the black version of him.”
“He doesn’t look like a pimp,” she said.
Christian chuckled. “Wasn’t thinking a pimp, but won’t disagree.”
He licked foam off his top lip.
Sweet Jesus.
“So what kind of fiction? Romance?”
“Why would you guess that?”
Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. For some reason she wanted to reach out and touch the thick brow that had the scar slicing through it.
“Just a hunch.”
“It’s kinda private,” she said. Today was not the day she was going to witness him gloat. “Y’know, I don’t even know your last name.”
“Chambers.”
“Christian Chambers. It’s time I put you on the spot. What was all that talk in the subway about being infatuated with someone who doesn’t know you’re alive?”
Just then Syeesha’s cell phone buzzed. “Yeah?” she answered.
Christian slid a napkin from beneath his cup and borrowed her pen.
“Got a minute?” asked Ray Templeton.
“Yeah, Ray. What’s up?”
Christian scribbled on the napkin.
She held up a hand, but Christian was already smoothly gathering his things. He gave her a casual farewell salute as he slid away from the table. Syeesha tried to focus on both what Christian had written on the napkin and Ray’s voice congratulating her on the other end of the phone.
“The client wants to interview you,” she finally understood him to say as her brain simultaneously processed the note Christian had left.
Passion can be covered over coffee. Infatuation needs an entire dinner.
In neat cursive, he’d left his number on the napkin.
“There was supposed to be a first round of interviews with an intermediary but the client is anxious. Good luck, kiddo.”
Kiddo? Who is he calling a kiddo?
The way Christian’s note had made her heart thump and her fingertips quiver confirmed that she was very much a full-grown woman.
***
Chapter 12
Seven interviews and none of them were perfect. Close, but not perfect.
One candidate, for example, had been far too seasoned to be a personal assistant. She had been attractive and smart, but also cold and militant. Undoubtedly, she would be efficient at her job. But Jade had known what her real job would entail, and a sexually repressed workaholic simply would not do.
Another woman had been crossed off the list before she had even sat down. A model turned executive assistant. British. Probably waiting to be discovered, though she wouldn’t cop to it during the abbreviated interview no matter how much Jade had baited her. There was a certain irony in the fact that Jade was looking for a woman who could seduce her husband, yet she had bristled at the unblemished, statuesque mannequin sitting across from her, oozing sex with every English-accented word uttered from her wet lips. If she let a woman like that in her home, Rodney would be suspicious. After all, she made Maria wear hospital scrubs to obscure her sexuality. No, the woman had to be luscious, but low-key.
Yet another candidate, pretty in a nonthreatening manner, had had a good résumé and a pleasing demeanor. Her body language had hinted at just enough desperation to pique Jade’s interest, but ultimately, she had been below Jade’s standard. Her name alone— Beauticious Eboneek Graham—had been like a tattoo that unwittingly marred the young woman in the eyes of a society that demanded a basic level of conformity to traditional mores. The drudgery of urban plight buried in the pores of Beauticious’s otherwise attractive face had brought back memories of hardship that Jade had long buried. Just watching her struggle to enunciate each word properly had confirmed to Jade that she didn’t want a daily reminder of the ghetto in her penthouse. Her eyes had found the résumé of the next candidate.
“Syeesha.”
She elongated the three syllables as she said them, threw the résumé back on the table, and resigned herself to beginning her search again with another agency than Templeton Temps. Maybe firing them would be a lot easier than firing her assistant had been. Rich kid or not, Kim would stay pissed at Jade for a while—maybe forever—but she was too talented a girl to not get ahead.
Poor girl probably hasn’t figured that out yet.
Kim reminded her of Rodney. With little faith in talent and hard work alone, he believed in making his own luck. It was with acute clarity that she recalled how he had landed the breakout national commercial that got a mega-agent like Lou Leibowitz at Creative Actors’ Agency to call him up and offer representation.
“You are so fucking high.” Jade took a long, satisfying drag of the joint then slid it between his lips.
“I’ve got agents calling me for once. Shit, I deserve to be high.”
She leaned down and slid a lazy tongue around his nipple. The bed was a mess of tangled limbs and sweaty sheets. The pungent aroma of marijuana swirled around them. She knocked the blanket from his body, leaving him nude and exposed. Clumsily, he leaned up and brought the blanket up to cover his lower torso. Jade began to say something, but decided they were both better served just enjoying the high. Now was not the time to fault him on his self-consciou
sness. After all, her man was on a one-way train to stardom. No more unseen low-budget films. No more off-off-Broadway shows. And it was all thanks to being the new It guy for the latest Gillette aftershave campaign. Her tongue swept over a tiny hair curled just above his nipple. For some reason she found it incredibly funny that the new Gillette guy had a stray hair on his otherwise smooth chest.
“Looks like Cornelius Cafferty is officially dead,” she said, referring to Rodney’s birth name.
“Welcome to stardom, Rodney McCann.”
Jade giggled, a little at first and then in a fit.
“What’s so funny?”
“Sorry,” she said, sucking in air. “Just thought of all the ways to become famous. Who would’ve guessed it would start with Gillette?”
“I bet my old roommate is so fucking pissed.”
“Why wouldn’t he be? It could’ve just as easily have been him. God, I’m thirsty.”
“Not just it could’ve been him,” Rodney said. Smoke billowed from his lips. “It was him.”
He leaned down and picked up a Budweiser bottle. He jiggled it, then handed it to her.
She sucked down the last of it and wished for more.
“What do you mean it was him?”
He sat up in bed, carefully arranging the sheet just below his chest.
“We’ve got the same agent. Angela called and told me to give him the message that he’d landed the part.”
“I still don’t get it.” Jade’s mouth felt as if it were filled with cotton. She was thirsty and hungry, in equal measure.
“I never told him.” He snickered. “The costume fitting was for the very next day. I showed up and told the crew my agent sent me over.”
“They bought that?”
He shrugged. “Darryl and I have similar features. He was already a replacement for another actor. The commercial needed to be shot. I was there for the fitting. Clothes looked good on me. Gillette reps were on-site with the production team and they said fuck it. A good-looking black actor is a good-looking black actor. Two days later we shot the first commercial.”
Jaded Page 7
