Davonshire House Publishing
PO Box 9716
Augusta, GA 30916
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s vivid imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, are entirely a coincidence.
© 2014 Olivia Gaines, Cheryl Aaron Corbin
Editor: Teresa Thompson Blackwell
Cover: koougraphics
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address, Davonshire House Publishing, PO Box 9716, Augusta, GA 30916.
ASIN: B00THE81F6
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 10 9 8
First Davonshire House Publishing February 2015, The Value of a Man Series
Table of Contents
Chapter 1. An Angel of Mercy
Chapter 2. Ahh…She Speaks
Chapter 3.Ah.. Maybe she had been right…
Chapter 4. She’s a what…?
Chapter 5. A shot in the dark…
Chapter 6. All kidding aside…
Chapter 7. Skinning and Grinning…
Chapter 8. I am sending a car…
Chapter 9. Making Preparations…
Chapter 10. Up, up and away…
Chapter 11. Home, Sweet, What? …
Chapter 12. It was all coming together…
Chapter 13. The Wedding…
Chapter 14. Receiving so much…
Chapter 15. Having her own…
Chapter 16. Here comes the rain…
Chapter 16. Man and wife…
Chapter 17. What a week…
Chapter 18. A Final Decision…
About the Author
Coming Soon
Come, sit, let me tell you a story...
This is Thurston Cromwell, IV
Chapter 1. An Angel of Mercy
Something was wrong. The beads of sweat squeezed out of the tiny pores of his forehead likes inmates pouring into a prison yard after a three-day lockdown. Gobs of gushy perspiration covered the smooth brown skin of the honest face, making him appear to be a greasy and untrustworthy politician. His arm pits were now welling up, soaking his white shirt, and his chest began to tighten. Then, that fearful gurgle rumbled in his belly and he was almost out of time.
Thurston pushed hard at the double doors that led into the back hallway of the hotel conference center. Bathroom. Find a bathroom. The blurred vision arising from the sweat pouring down his face and into his eyes made it difficult to see where he was going. He was stumbling. His stomach was rumbling, and in about three more seconds he was going to be tumbling down the steps.
“Sir, is something wrong?” a sweet voice asked.
“Bathroom? I need to get to the bathroom,” he mumbled as he held onto his stomach.
The next pain that shot through his system doubled him over and things were about to get ugly. The lady, whose face he could not discern, slipped her hand under his arm and whispered, “Lean on me…I got you.” He had no choice. He leaned into her frame for support as she guided him as fast as he could move to a staff bathroom. The gurgling in his stomach was so loud that even she understood what was going on with him. Without hesitation, without questioning, she unbuttoned the jacket of his expensive suit coat and got him out of the material. She grabbed the buckle of his belt, undoing the latch that held the leather together and unzipped his pants, dropping them to his ankles and parking him on the commode. The look on his face also told her it was going to be a twofer. In a flash, she exited the stall and came back with a small lined trashcan that she shoved in his lap. The poor lady stepped out of the stall just in time as the floodgates of the worst night of his life opened and his body emptied the food, which had poisoned his system.
In twenty minutes he was due on stage to give one of the most important speeches of his political career. A career that was about to end because he was too sick to take the stage. Or worse, he would take the stage and lose control of his bodily functions. This can’t be happening to me.
It was happening. For ten straight liquidly minutes it was happening. He could hear taps on the outer door. “Mr. Cromwell, are you okay. You are due on stage in 10 minutes.”
He couldn’t speak. He could barely move. He was weak, limp and hurling bad sushi. His angel of mercy spoke up, “Can you stall for an additional five, maybe ten minutes?”
The voice on the other side of the door called back, “We can try.”
“Get dessert started, pour more wine, start coffee service and he will be right there,” the sweet voice called out.
She tapped on the stall door. “If you can, reach behind you and flush. I have a cool cloth that I need to get on your neck and face.”
It was a struggle, but he sat down the garbage can and did as she asked. He could hear the water starting and the squeeze of the cloth ridding it of excess moisture. She cracked open the door and wanted to throw the cloth in and take off running, but instead she stepped inside, placing the cool cloth on his neck, all the while holding her breath. This seemed to stop the sweating.
“I have Pepto and Imodium tablets, which do you prefer?” She asked him.
He pointed to the Imodium. She popped the tabs and fed him two washed down with a small bottle of water. “Okay, get cleaned up. You have about five minutes before you have to get to that stage.”
He nodded as his sweet angel of mercy stepped out of the stall, taking the garbage pail with her. He heard the outer door close as she stepped into the hallway and he tried to pull together what remained of his dignity. This was bad. This was bordering on absurd. He was on his feet and the gurgling had stopped. He didn’t think it could get any more humiliating than this already was.
It did.
The outer door opened and she reached over the stall door to hand him an oversized feminine napkin. “Put this on just in case there happens to be an issue while you are on stage.” He didn’t argue. He removed the wrapper, peeled off the paper, which was affixed to the self-adhesive sticky strips and stuck the padding into his briefs. He heard a knock at the door. “Mr. Cromwell, we need you on stage now!”
Thurston exited the stall to be greeted by a woman he still could not see clearly; his vision was still distorted. She helped him put his jacket on and whispered, “Lean on me, I got you.” She used the wet cloth to wipe his face as she guided him to the sink to wash his hands.
Back straight, eyes unfocused, she aimed him towards the door and they stepped into the cool air of the hallway. Like a Seeing Eye guide, she entered through the side door of the main conference room as the music started and she steered him around the side of the stage. Carefully, he climbed the stairs as applause filled the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I proudly give you the Chairman of the Communications Committee of the Republican National Party, Thurston Cromwell the Fourth.”
His voice was steady. His hands were fixed as he held the sides of the podium. “Good afternoon and thank you. I am not one for long-winded speeches or filling the air with promises we know we cannot keep. We are in for a long fight as we head toward 2016. Every fundraising dollar that you give helps strengthen our resolve to build a better America. Let me be very clear because our message will be. We are taking back our country and reestablishing the values that made this nation great. With your generous donations, we are sending a message to the White House to reinforce that we have the Senate and we have the House; it is time for someone to get packing and head back to Illinois!”
The thunderous applause that followed his
words was almost deafening. Thurston held up his hand, “We are the party of action. Our message is clear. Our focus is clear. Our mission is clear. Therefore, I am not going to stand on this podium preaching about what we are going to do or laying out a plan of how it will be accomplished. I am here to communicate to you to open those wallets, be generous, and support your party. While you are here tonight, make a new friend, sign up for committees, and prepare to get on the front line as we organize ourselves to take back our country!”
This too was met with deafening applause. “I am going to leave you tonight with these words. We must show these people what effective leadership looks like. We can no longer afford to continuously pass around handouts to those unwilling to work and earn their fair share. We are severing the ties to the government teat and putting the freeloaders on notice! In 2016, let it be heard throughout the land: your mooching days are over!”
More applause as Thurston raised both hands, yelled goodnight, and exited the stage. His vision was still blurry as he reached the bottom of the stairs and looked about for the angel who had assisted him. The smell of her perfume hit him first and he knew she was at his side as she squirreled him out the back door. “Mr. Cromwell, Mr. Cromwell… you are needed on the floor.”
“He is terribly ill. I have to get him to his room,” his angel said. The lady looked at his face and the color had drained from it again. He was barely standing. She asked his room number as she pulled him into the elevator. Thurston could hear the dinging of the bell six times as they reached his floor. Weak hands tapped at his pockets, indicating the key was inside.
She opened the door to his suite and guided him towards the bed. He flopped down face first as she headed towards the door. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered.
“I can’t stay. I will lose my job,” she told him.
He tried to turn over while reaching for his wallet. He took out a business card and handed it to her. “Give this to your boss or supervisor. Tell them I am pulling you away to assist me tonight and ask them to call me first thing in the morning.”
Doing as she was instructed, the angel left him for a while, returning with ginger ale, applesauce, and crackers. His guardian angel also assisted with getting him out of the suit and into bed; it was a rough night for Thurston. He vacillated between shivers of cold and bouts of sweat. She saw no need to change his clothing during the night as she went from adding or removing blankets to applying cool cloths to his forehead.
Somewhere around three am, his fever broke along with her exhaustion, which took over her, and she collapsed on the small settee. The need for sleep overtook her and she drifted off, giving in to the desire for rest. He was out of the woods and finally sleeping peacefully. In truth, she needed to get home, but she was too tired to walk to the metro station. She only hoped her good deed didn’t get her in a world of trouble.
Chapter 2. Ah… She Speaks
Thurston awoke at 6:30 am feeling more like he had been ridden hard, put away wet, and pulled back out to be spanked for good measure. He smelled like he had been doing something illegal and his mouth tasted like a bad weekend in Tijuana. Quietly, he made his way to the bathroom to relieve himself, wash his face, and brush he gunk off his teeth; a very empty stomach growled loudly enough to wake the people in the next room. Luckily, there was a phone in the bathroom and he dialed room service to request breakfast for two.
In the dimly lit room, his angel slept on the settee at a very uncomfortable angle. Her leg and arm are going to be asleep when she wakes up. Based on the position that she slept in, he could not get a good look at her face. He pulled one of the extra blankets from the bed to cover her up, since the position in which she slept afforded her very little modesty in the skirt she wore. It made him feel pervy for even noticing the hot pink undies she had on. He called back to room service and ordered her a toothbrush. Whoever she was, he was in her debt.
While he waited for the food to arrive, he checked his messages. One was from his boss, who praised whatever he did last night and spoke of the staggering contributions that were made. Funny. He could not recall even half of what he said, which was even funnier, because the conversation he was about to have with his rescuer, he would recall every minute of for the next two months.
Thurston made quick work of showering and brushing his teeth, hoping to give room service ample time to deliver breakfast. He dressed comfortably in a tee and loose-fitting slacks, and then he entered the main suite to find her awake and directing the room service attendant. He was surprised when she gave the young man a tip. Thurston leaned against the wall as he watched her pour a cup of coffee for herself, then arrange the food on the table for them both to enjoy. He still had not gotten a full look at her face.
She was African American, with blondish-colored hair, and from what he could see, a good figure. As she turned to face him, her large brown eyes danced when she started walking quickly towards him saying, “Thank goodness! If you didn’t come out of there soon, I was going to be rude and come on in to use the bathroom.”
He was shocked when she physically shoved him out of the doorway so she could close the door. He could hear the flow of her bladder being released along with a very audible, “Ahhhhhh!”
She returned from the bath to join him at the table, “I can’t stay long, I have to get home. If I can get to the Metro, I can get home in about an hour.”
“Where do you live?”
“Compton,” she told him as she lowered her head, mumbled a few words, and grabbed a croissant.
This was really weird for him. He was a staunch conservative and having a woman whose name he didn’t even know spend the night with him was unusual to say the least, even under regular circumstances. “I cannot thank you enough for your help last night…”
He left it open, hoping she would say her name but instead she replied, “Yeah, you were in a bad way there, man. You are so lucky I just happened to come along.”
She said this as she shoveled eggs in her mouth while looking down at her watch. He watched her with interest.
“I am thankful. My name is Thurston Crom…”
“Yeah, I heard, Thurston Cromwell the fourth, great mouthpiece of the GOP political message machine… saves the middle class, no more free stuff, you grubby poor people, send Obama packing… yes, I heard,” she told him as she rolled her eyes upwards. “You gonna eat that bacon?”
He slid his plate over to her, “Thanks. I am starved. I missed dinner last night, trying to be on time for work. I never even got a chance to clock in last night…” she told him as she also scraped his eggs off his plate and onto hers. “Usually after one of the functions, there is always a plate left over that I can bag up to take home…”
She stopped talking as he rose to grab his wallet. “Please allow me to compensate you for your time in assisting me,” he said as he removed several bills from his wallet.
The lady sprang to her feet, “Hold up Mouthpiece; it ain’t that kind of party!”
“I simply wish to pay you for your missed wages last night, and of course, your time…” he quit talking. “Yes, you are right, that does sound bad.”
“Can I at least get your name?”
She was nibbling on the other croissant, “You can call me Tae-Tay,” she said as she waggled an acrylic-covered nail at him.
Thurston’s eyebrows went up, “And that is short for what, if I may ask?”
She looked at him as if he had done something wrong, “TataLavisha.”
“Who?” he asked before he could catch his social faux pas.
“I said,” and he was surprised when she actually rolled her neck with the words, “TataLavisha. You can call me Tay-Tay.”
It was difficult, but he swallowed his laughter, “Do you have a last name TakaLav…”
“Ta-ta-La-Vee-Sha! And the last name is Brown,” she added as she rolled her neck back in the other direction.
He wasn’t expecting anything as simple as Brown to be her surname. His
face must have said so. “My mama thought the last name was too boring, so she jazzed up the first. I guess she wanted to make sure I would only have minimum wage jobs for the rest of my life.”
Thurston could not help but smile. There was something about this woman that spoke to him. “If I can’t compensate you, what can I do to repay you for helping me?”
She sat down her cup and exhaled. Her next words he was not prepared to hear. “Unlike your message last night, not everyone is out for a free handout, Mr. Communicator. There are some people who do the right thing simply because it is the right thing to do. You were in trouble. I helped. Nothing more.”
He leaned forward, eyeing his empty coffee cup. She noticed and picked up the carafe and poured him a cup of the hot black brew. He spoke softly, “Understood. May I ask why you stayed?”
“Because you needed me and you asked me to,” she said.
Her stare was flat, but there was something behind her eyes. Something deep, complex, and engaging. “Do you always do what is asked of you?”
A perfectly arched eyebrow shot up, “Do you?”
Thurston found himself smiling at her. “I try to make a difference.”
“For who, rich white folks?”
He shook his head, “No, for all Americans.”
She literally blew air between her lips creating a raspberry. “That is not what you said in your speech last night. Your message didn’t include all of anybody. Last night, your message was geared towards those checkbooks.” She was frowning at him with disgust as she leaned forward on the table. “Having money doesn’t make you better than anybody else; it only gives you more opportunities. Unfortunately, with that money, you don’t do anything good with it. The next year and a half, the only thing that money is going to be used for is to pay off people and buy billions in negative ads.”
“You seem to have this whole thing figured out, don’t you?” Thurston said with equal disdain.
My Mail Order Wife (The Value of a Man Book 1) Page 1
