by Imani King
“You still ain’t told me the truth,” he observed coolly, like changing the subject would somehow set things right, let him off the hook. “Where’s your damn car?”
I wasn’t going to tell him all this, but now the dam broke. If he was going to lay everything on my shoulders, then goddamn if I wasn’t going to return the favor.
“They took it, Dad. I haven’t been paying for my student loans, so they took my car. And they’re docking my wages. So I guess you’re not the only one in the family who can’t seem to handle paying off their loans. Like father like daughter…”
My father stood there for a long time, his heavy-lidded eyes fixed on me, and this time it was my turn to look away. It was like he was looking straight through me, making me feel vulnerable, like nothing I could do would stay hidden from him.
“You’d best not be anything like me, girl, if you know what’s good for you,” he said after a long moment of silence. He shook his head, sitting himself down on one of the benches that lined the sidewalk. “C’mere.”
I heaved a sigh, resigning myself to sit there beside him, my head in my hands as the rest of the world passed us by. I felt so small in the grand scheme of things, a tiny little ant that was about to get crushed underneath a massive financial boot. It all felt like too much.
“What do I do, Daddy?”
“Don’t start drinking,” he said, his hand resting on my back.
“You know what I mean,” I said, unable to stop the laugh bubbling up from my throat.
“I do, but you already know the answer. You got to work hard, baby girl, and maybe—one day—you’ll be free. But if I know the world, then it sure as hell won’t make it easy for you.”
“You’re not making a very convincing argument against drinking, Dad,” I said, finally lifting my head from my hands.
He smiled patiently, maybe even regretfully. “I know, but that’s way too easy for my little girl. You always take the hard path in life, never once goin’ for the shortcut, even when you know you’ve earned the break. That’s what I love about you. It’s what makes you better than your old man.”
“Don’t say that, Daddy,” I whispered, looking over at him only to catch tears glistening in his eyes. It hurt to see him cry. It hurt deep down to my core.
“Our family has a bad history of workin’ hard our whole lives without getting anywhere, Gigi. That isn’t what I want for you—it’s not what you deserve. You’re worth more money than any fancy law firm could ever pay you. You’re smart as a damn whip. You deserve to make it in life—you deserve better...”
I reached out, grasping my father’s hand as I looked into his old, tired eyes. There were things behind my father’s gaze I’d never understand, but I knew pain when I saw it, and it ripped me apart.
He’s right, I thought, my grip on his hand tightening before I leaned in to wrap my arms around him. I deserve better than this.
“Let’s get you home, Dad,” I said, standing up.
My father and I walked what little distance remained to the bus stop, arriving just in time to catch the last bus that would pass through for another hour.
Our ride to his house took us almost two hours, between which we transferred busses twice and sat waiting at a very crowded depot for almost another half hour. I quickly remembered exactly why I hated public transportation and why I loved having my own car.
After our intrepid bus trip, it was another half hour walk to my father’s two-story colonial he’d bought on a military salary, and had—until recently—been maintaining his sizable mortgage on by way of his pension. I’d spent the better part of a decade in that house after my father managed to finally pin down a semi-permanent spot on the base nearby.
I had my first kiss in that house, my first drink of wine—I even lost my virginity to Tyrese Freeman after senior prom in my bedroom. All of that was going to go away, lost to whoever was in the market for a “fixer-upper.” My face burned just thinking about it.
“You think you can make it to the door without my help? I asked.
“I’m old, not crippled, girl. Just come inside. Come and get yourself something to drink before you head on home.”
“Better be nothing stronger than a Coca-Cola,” I warned, narrowing my eyes.
I saw my father visibly jump at my expression, the same way he used to whenever my mother would give him “the look.”
“Ain’t got no more booze left after last night, girl. Best I’ve got is some ginger ale,” he called, undoing the locks on his door before going inside, muttering loudly. “Damn girl looks just like her mother…”
I sighed, looking at my father’s house, knowing that in a few weeks it wouldn’t even be his anymore. Just another in a long line of family disasters… There was no use crying. Life wasn’t going to take me by the hand and give me the things that I deserved—I’d have to go get them myself.
Twenty minutes later I was alone with my ginger ale, watching my father sleep in his favorite armchair. Something told me he’d been up all night, and seeing him like this brought back memories both good and bad. I was about to show myself out when the quiet ping of a text message interrupted my peaceful reflection. A few simple words lit the screen.
-Dorian-
I have a proposal for you.
A proposal? What in the hell did Dorian Lambert want with me now? He’d clearly shown how little he was interested. He didn’t even try to contact me after his father’s funeral, and it wasn’t like I could help him flub up the terms of the will now that it was public record. Whatever his proposal was, I knew somewhere he could shove it…
I glanced back down at my cellphone, re-reading the message again. I have a proposal for you…
A proposal.
Oh hell no.
It couldn’t be that. I just stared at the phone as a second message came through.
-Dorian-
My office, two hours. Be there.
Just seeing her again was enough to send a jolt of desire burning through my mind. As she sat and listened to my plan, that feeling never went away.
“This is insane,” Gigi said, shaking her head as she turned her gaze back up to meet my own. “This is absolutely insane.”
“Is the idea insane, or is the fact that you’re considering it insane?” I asked, a grin spreading across my face as I began to bounce—actually bounce!—in my seat. I felt like a schoolboy who’d found a way to never do homework again.
“All of it!” she replied, running a hand through her dark curls. “You can’t just—I mean, this isn’t right!”
“Why not? It’s not illegal—it isn’t illegal, right?”
“Not technically,” she said, her eyes narrowed. “But—” She stopped and shook her head violently. “No! We can’t do this! We’ve never even… You know…”
“Held hands? Kissed under the Eiffel Tower? Played footsies in a crowded theatre?”
“Be serious Dorian,” Gigi said sternly.
“I am serious. I felt more for you in a few days than I’ve felt for anyone in years,” I replied. “Look. I’m not saying it has to be perfect. It just has to be believable. If things don’t work out there’s always in vitro. We can treat the whole thing as a business arrangement.”
“The whole thing? You’re talking about a baby!” Gigi protested.
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn’t feel it. We had a few days together while my grandfather prepped his will. What would have happened that night if he didn’t,” Dorian began, but I stopped him mid-sentence.
“Maybe I would have went home with you,” she replied, adding an extra “maybe” for effect. “But not for money. Never for money. I liked you Dorian… I’m not some gold digging bitch.”
The past-tense liked cut me deeper than she knew. I liked her too, but that feeling wasn’t fading. Just being this close to her was enough to make me want to bend her over my desk.
“The money isn’t for sex. It’s to provide you a stable life for our child, no matter
what happens. You can’t do that with student loans hanging over you,” I replied. “If this doesn’t work out, I still have a responsibility to you…”
“If this doesn’t work out you won’t have a fortune to give,” Gigi said, laughing.
“And I walk away penniless, but you still walk away debt free. I might not have access to the bulk of my future fortune, but I have a calendar year allotment from my trust that will easily cover your student debt.”
“You never even called me Dorian. I liked you and you didn’t even call! The tabloids say you’re dating three different supermodels and two of them are carrying your baby. Now you’re asking me to marry you just so you can get your inheritance?” she hissed through her teeth. “Seriously?!”
“The tabloids also say Elvis is alive and living in Ohio. Do you believe everything you hear? I’ve been trapped in this damn office since the funeral. I haven’t been seeing anyone. I’m sorry I didn’t call, but I’m not the only one who didn’t pick up the phone,” I replied, spinning away in my chair and staring out the window at the streets below.
“I’m sorry Dorian… It’s just… I was busy.”
“It’s ok. I should have called. I’m not used to being traditional,” I said, turning back to face her.
“This isn’t how I pictured this sort of thing happening,” Gigi said, hesitating.
“I can fix that. You want this done the old fashioned way, I can do it the old fashioned way. Gigi Deveraux,” I said, grinning from ear to ear and letting my voice fall once more, this time to a husky whisper. She stared at me as I dropped down out of my chair and took a knee. “Will you do me the tremendous honor of being my wife?”
I wasn’t sure whether or not I’d broken her as she stared, her mouth open and pretty eyes bulging out of her skull. Eventually her look turned into something less pleasant—a downward turn of the mouth that reminded me a little of one of the mean old teachers at my boarding school.
“This isn’t funny,” she said, shying away from me.
“I’m not trying to be funny. You’re perfect. I have no expectations and no preconceptions. Besides, you’re a Harvard graduate with a law degree. You can easily handle the legal aspect of this… Transition period.”
“You make it sound so simple. I don’t even know you!” Gigi said, still whispering, though I could tell her discretion would only last so long. “You can’t just get married to someone out of nowhere. I don’t even know what flavor of ice cream you like,” she said, trying to shrug off the whole conversation.
“It’s mint chocolate chip, and I never said that either of us needed to spend the rest of our lives with the other. We just have to get married and have a baby. Whatever else happens, happens…”
“God help me,” Gigi said, looking down at her beautifully delicate hands. I enjoyed toying with her like this.
“We have a baby, and if we can’t make this work we barely have to speak to one another after that, save for birthday parties and recitals. No hearts get broken. We can share custody. I won’t fight you on anything. You’ll have my word and any legally binding documents you’d like to prove it.”
Gigi was silent, her head in her hands. I could understand her disbelief.
“Plus,” I added, “no one would blame me for choosing you to marry. My family will lose their minds over it, which I see as an added little bonus… And our children would be absolutely gorgeous.”
Gigi’s eyes blinked hard. “Children?”
“I’m hoping for the best,” I replied, shrugging as she turned her sights downward again. “I’ll let you write up the pre-nuptual agreements, to plan for the worst.”
“This isn’t going to work,” she said, her voice quiet. All the fire that it had possessed before had drained away.
I raised a brow. “Give me one good reason.”
“Your family will do everything they can to stop this. I mean… Look at me!”
I blinked, taken off-guard. “What about you?” I asked. “You’re absolutely beautiful.”
“Stop.”
“It’s true!”
“I said stop, Dorian.”
“But you’re—”
“Stop!”
My knee was starting to ache against the hard marble floor, but I stayed there at Gigi’s feet, holding her unwavering eyes.
“Can you possibly be more out of touch with reality Dorian?”
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said softly. “Really, Gigi. I didn’t. I just wanted…”
Her scowl stopped me in my tracks. “I need something before I do this.”
“Anything. You name it and its yours. I’ll buy you the damn moon.”
“Look me in the eyes. You look me in the eyes and you tell me that you think you can love me.”
I reached out for her shoulder and immediately regretted my decision. Without any warning I felt the sensation of a knock-off Louie Vuitton handbag smashing into my face.
“Not like that. Tell me.”
“I can love you Gigi… I already…”
“Not another word,” Gigi said, cutting me off, her dark eyes shimmering. “I’m in.”
She didn’t give me a chance to respond. Gigi snatched the ring box from my hand, turned heel, and walked straight out of my office. A moment later, Miss Chambers came barging in, surveying the scene.
“Sir, are you all right?” she asked, a sound of anger in her voice. I was still rooted one knee onto the floor, trying to cool my nerves. “Who was that woman?”
“I’m all right,” I said, reaching up to touch the spot where Gigi had hit me with her purse. “If I’m lucky, she’s my future wife.”
I knew how Miss Chambers was looking at me, but I didn’t care. Gigi Deveraux wasn’t like Miss Chambers or most of the other women who’d come and gone in my life. She wasn’t some fawning, swooning college girls who attended my parties—no, Gigi was an actual person, a woman with convictions and morals and a life that didn’t revolve around me. My money hadn’t been enough. She wanted more. She wanted my heart.
I hoped I wouldn’t disappoint her.
Gigi sat across from me at the same booth we’d had our first breakfast together. We thought it best to stay away from her law firm with the scandal that our impending marriage might stir up—especially if word got back to my mother before we could tie the knot. She was wearing a tapered pair of slacks and a billowy blouse that hugged her curves just enough to make her figure enticing. But it wasn’t just her body that had my interest piqued.
After the purse incident, I made it a policy to admire Ms. Deveraux from afar, like a thorn-covered rose or a graceful tigress. That would all have to change, of course, when the time came to produce an heir. At least… A man can hope.
Between us sat a stack of papers that had been drawn up by Gigi herself the night before, filled with legalese that probably would have given me a headache to read myself. Thankfully, I’d brought a guest.
“Who’s your friend?” Gigi asked, her eyes narrowed.
“My friends call me Ollie,” he said, reaching over to offer my soon-to-be-fiancée his hand in greetings. “Dorian brought me along to translate.”
I’d never thought that in my life, Ollie’s determination to be like his father would come in handy, but with my boy about to take the BAR exam, I figured he needed some more tangible, on-the-job training.
“Why do you look familiar?” Gigi murmured, gripping his hand cordially. Her brow creased. “It sounds really familiar.”
“Oh,” Ollie replied through his teeth, “no reason.”
Ollie sat back down, clearing his throat and fixing his shirt a bit before taking a sip of his coffee. I couldn’t help but grin, watching Ollie squirm as Gigi fixed her scrutinizing gaze on him.
“No. I know you from somewhere,” she said, leaning back to take Ollie in more completely. “Ollie… that’s short for—”
“Please don’t,” Ollie interrupted, his voice laden with the faintest whimper of embarrassment. But Gigi could
n’t be stopped, her eyes wide with realization.
“You’re Oliver Walters, Sr.’s son?!” she hissed, her dark eyes turning on me. They flashed under the fluorescent lights of the restaurant, reminding me of a cat about to pounce on its prey. “You brought my boss’ son here? Are you insane?!”
“You keep using that word,” I said with an overdone Spanish accent. “I do not think it means what you think it—”
“No,” she interrupted, wagging a finger, “no pop-culture references. Do you know what would happen if my firm found out what I was doing—actively defrauding a client’s will with an arranged marriage?”
