Coup: A BWWM Romance (The French Connection Book 2)

by Brooklyn Knight

“Why not?”

  “Dylan would go on a witch hunt,” I said, “and I would never disrespect him by getting that close to you.”

  Michael grinned and lowered his mouth to my ear. “I don’t need a dance to get close to you,” he informed me.

  I froze.

  “In a few minutes I’m going to announce my plans to promote you to the executive board. You’re going to be my business partner someday, Laila. I’m so impressed with your talent and your skill. I’m so impressed with you. I want you to work alongside me...” His voice trailed as he analyzed my nonverbal response. “Unless, of course that’s an opportunity you’d rather not have.”

  My body stiffened as a swarm of competing emotions slammed into me.

  Michael chuckled. “Perhaps you need time to think about it...”

  “Yes,” I said abruptly. “Yes, I need time.”

  “Of course you do.” He stood tall and placed his hands into his pockets.

  I looked around, noticing the familiar-looking group of men I’d seen earlier, but now, they were also looking at me.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, running my hand over my bare arm.

  Michael frowned. “You’ve just arrived. I thought your curfew was at midnight.”

  “I don’t have a curfew,” I snapped, though I wasn’t sure why I was suddenly so angry.

  Michael raised his hands in defeat. “You don’t,” he agreed. “I’m sorry.”

  I steadied my jaw, trying to think of a segue into my departure, but when I couldn’t come up with anything, I simply turned and walked away.

  Nineteen

  Laila

  ‘Sistah’

  My fingers shook violently as I pressed the home button on my iPhone. “Call Ignacio,” I demanded of SIRI.

  He answered within seconds.

  “I’m ready to leave.”

  He hung up without saying a word, and in a literal two minutes, he was pulling up at the roundabout where he’d dropped me off. He hopped out of the Porsche and opened the door for me. His face was set, and I took the time to thank god that he was Ecuadorian and not Asian, lest there be a martial arts demonstration involving him and Michael under the baroque tent.

  “I’m fine,” I assured him before his mind could sprint towards a preconceived finish line, but of course, I was lying.

  He didn’t say anything as he pulled away from the brick stone.

  “I am glad to hear that,” he said in Spanish. “When we get home, I will make you dinner.”

  “I don’t want to go home. Yet,” I said.

  Ignacio grabbed my gaze via the rearview mirror. “Where shall I take you, señorita?”

  I moistened my lips. “Take me to Miami Shores. Please.”

  “Of course, señorita.”

  Twenty minutes later, Ignacio was pulling up to the curb outside of a salon called African Style. The hot pink sign was splashed across the clear glass windows, and next to it, a colorful Picasso-like masterpiece depicted a sassy, trendy woman. I leaned forward and looked inside.

  Two chairs were occupied with customers, and one person was sweeping the floor. I jumped out, slamming the door, before looking at Ignacio’s confused face through the driver’s window. “Wait here. Please,” I instructed.

  Ignacio nodded and parked the car in a final position.

  I inhaled and walked to the salon, pushing it open. In an instant, music and the sounds of laughing and jesting blasted me.

  “Girl, that negro be trippin’!” the woman in the chair exclaimed before raising a middle finger high in the air.

  Her stylist laughed. “They all be trippin,” she agreed. “That’s why the next guy I hook up with is gonna be a rich white dude, who gon’ take care of me for the rest of my life and – ”

  It was like a movie when everything stopped, and all eyes were on me in my slinky silver dress and designer heels.

  The woman in the chair clicked her gum. “Hmph. Looks like this bish already got herself one ah them...”

  The stylist shoved her client’s arm and walked over to me, trying to erase my negative feelings related to the mediocre customer service.

  “Good evening ma’am. I’m sorry but we’re closed.”

  I trembled, staring at the woman, trying to find words but unable to do so.

  She raised an eyebrow. “I said we’re closed.”

  “Yes, I know, I heard you,” I stuttered. I looked around, my eyes blinking. “I, uh...” I cleared my throat. “I would like to make an appointment.”

  The woman inhaled, probably wanting to remind me of their closed status and suggest I wait until normal business times to do it. But suddenly, her expression softened as she stared at me.

  I gulped back sudden, inexplicable tears.

  “Hunny, take a seat,” she said gesturing to a standard, metal chair with black cushioning. “You look like you about to have a goddamn nervous breakdown. I don’t know what’s going on, but Miss Oshun ain’t never been one to turn down a sistah in distress.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm,” the woman in the chair agreed. She clicked on her gum again.

  “What you want done, sis?”

  I looked around the salon. I hadn’t thought that far. In fact, I hadn’t thought about it at all. But now, I was. I was thinking about Ankara and Chitnege fabric. I was thinking about Michael and Dylan...

  “I want that,” I said pointing to the woman in the chair. I jumped when everyone in the salon bust into unrequited laughter.

  The woman in the chair twisted in the seat to glare at me. “Girl, do you know how long I’ve been sitting in this goddamn chair? Miss Oshun already told you: she’s closed. The two of you would be here until 3 A-friggin’-M if she gave you goddess braids.”

  I shrunk in the seat as the laughter continued.

  Miss Oshun was laughing, but her amusement died. “Ma’am, I ain’t got time to give you no goddess braids. How about something else? Something like – ”

  “Then cut it off,” I spat out.

  The room went quiet again.

  I straightened my shoulders. “Just... cut it off and I’ll... go natural.”

  The clicking gum sound.

  “Hunny, you been growin’ your hair out?” Miss Oshun inquired.

  “Growing it out?”

  She sighed. “When’s the last time you had a perm, hunny?”

  “Oh, right. Maybe... two months ago. I actually have an appointment next week at my regular salon, but I’m going to cancel it. Well, now I am...”

  The woman in the chair sucked on her teeth. “I told you that bish be dealing with white muthafuckas...”

  I cringed.

  Miss Oshun observed me carefully. “Okay, Miss Priss, what’s goin’ on?”

  My neck jerked back. “Why do you think something is going on?”

  She slammed one hand onto her thick hips and waved dramatically with the other. “Somethin’ is goin’ on, because you walk up in my salon at almost nine-thirty at night, lookin’ like you ‘bout to burst into an avalanche of tears, wearing this flashy, expensive dress – which, by the way is slaying, okay?”

  Agreement in the form of hissing teeth and pursed lips came from all across the room.

  “You ain’ lie about that no time,” the woman in the chair agreed rolling her eyes and flicking a braid.

  Miss Oshun continued. “Talkin’ ‘bout cut it all off, you wanna’ do a big chop, and I have a feeling you ain’t thought about this for more than five minutes.”

  “I’ve been in here for more than five minutes,” I tried to snap back.

  “My goddamn point exactly,” Miss Oshun, finalized. “You can’t just big chop, hun-ty. People plan big chops. They grow their hair out. It takes at least six months to have adequate length.” She fired off other big-chop prerequisites. “You need to check your grain. You need to know if it’s 4A or 3B; is it soft or is it kinky. You can’t just big chop. Then you’ll be rollin’ up in here, giving me bad reviews on Google, talkin’ ‘bout I jacked you up, drivin
g my goddamn customers away.” Her hands moved this way and that.

  “I’m a black woman,” I refuted, surprised by my conviction. “I can do whatever the hell I want.”

  The woman in the chair looked at me through the wall-length mirror.

  I continued. “You said you didn’t have a lot of time, and it won’t take long. I might not have done any of those things you mentioned, but I know that this is what I want to do. It’s a win-win. So either you’ll give me what I want, or I’ll go to the salon a few doors down, and get them to do it.”

  Silence. The thick, clipped type.

  “I ain’t gon’ lie.” The voice of the woman in the chair pierced the hush. “A bish would slay with a sassy, jet-black boy-cut.”

  “With a clean part down the side? Girl!” someone else added.

  Miss Oshun squinted, staring at me, pulling her chin. “Fine. I ain’t one to leave no cash on the table. So let’s do it.” She spun a chair around so that it oscillated a couple of times.

  My legs wobbled as I pulled myself from the metal chair and positioned myself in front of the mirror.

  Miss Oshun shouted to the girl sweeping the floor. “Sam, give me a little Bey. Girls are about to run the entire goddamn world!”

  Within seconds, the aggressive song was blaring through the sound system. Miss Oshun flapped open a beauty gown and let it float over my dress. She tied the string around my neck and gripped a pair of shiny, silver scissors into her hands. I watched as she snipped into the air before grabbing my long ponytail and holding it high in the air.

  She looked at me through the mirror, one eyebrow raised. “Are you sure?”

  My chest expanded and deflated. “Yes.”

  Then, my hair was pulled taut and a loud snap reverberated in my ears. The weight on my head was instantly reduced and I looked on the floor as liberated permed strands crashed to the ground with a silent thunder.

  AN HOUR LATER, MISS Oshun spun the chair around to face the mirror. The music had long stopped, but Sam had not been instructed to put another girl-power song on.

  But I didn’t need one.

  I leaned forward in the chair, putting my feet to the ground, searching for stability. My hands rose to my head and my fingers touched the soft, curly, midnight-black coif. I turned my head on an angle. A sassy zip of a line had been etched from my hairline to my crown.

  The salon was deathly silent.

  I stood and walked up to the mirror until my face was almost touching it. My eyes flickered, and my mouth trembled.

  “Bish, I’m gon’ tell you right now... you was looking hella’ fly when you walked up in here, but now?” Miss Oshun hissed her teeth as if even she couldn’t believe the outcome of her artistry.

  I swallowed.

  I loved it.

  “I love it...” my voice was an astonished whisper.

  “Bish, what yo’ man gon’ say?”

  “He gon’ be running his fingers all over that head,” someone alleged, slapping high five with another person.

  But I stood in the mirror, gaping at myself, trying to reconcile everything I was feeling. What would Dylan say?

  Enter anxiety.

  I swallowed it back.

  Miss Oshun reached out and touched my shoulder. “Listen, hunny: it don’t matter what yo’ man gon’ say. You did this for you.”

  I pulled away from the mirror and looked at her. “I also did it for us,” I replied.

  I reached into my clutch and pulled out three hundred dollars. “Thank you, Miss Oshun. Please accept my payment for your time.” I took her hand and folded the cash inside of it. She looked down, and her eyes widened, but I walked out before she, or anyone else, could say anything.

  Twenty

  Dylan

  ‘Frozen’

  I ran my fingers through my coifed hair and prepared myself to address the eight men who made up my Board of Directors. I headed for the door just as my cell phone buzzed a million times.

  Unknown Number: Wanna’ talk?

  No way in hell.

  I flipped to the next message:

  Stef: I have some intel on your boy...

  My brows crowded, and I swiped my finger across the screen. There was another message from Ignacio.

  Nac: Señor, la señorita left the party early. Something seems wrong...

  My heart replaced my Adam’s apple. My fingers flew across the phone.

  Me: What is it? I typed, but before I could press send, Max had appeared at the door.

  “Hey Dyl, the men are in the boardroom and are ready when you are.”

  My eyes flew up and Max jolted. “What’s wrong?” he asked me.

  I pressed send and placed the phone back inside of my blazer. “Other than the fact that I’m about to address a group of assholes, everything is fine,” I responded. “And everything will be a lot better once this goddamn meeting ends.”

  “Yes, well...” he cleared his throat. “Stafford, Ellis, and Marigold send their apologies.”

  “What do you mean, send their apologies?” I charged him. “This meeting is standard. No one is supposed to be absent without adequate notice.” I glared at Max and he stared back. If he thought he’d out-wait me, he was about to be sorely surprised.

  He cleared his throat and gestured for me to head to the boardroom. “Apparently, an important function came up, which the men had to attend,” he said. “But the other men are here and ready.”

  “Fine,” I snapped, walking away before he could say another word. “It doesn’t matter,” I spat. “Let’s get this over with. It won’t be long.”

  I pushed past him and stomped towards the boardroom. Max’s short legs moved double-time as he attempted to match my pace. At seeing me, Stella rose to her feet and fell in step, managing files and paperwork under her arm.

  I strode into the room, letting my eyes gloss over each of the four men seated around the table. I assumed my position at the head of the table, and Max took his seat next to me. Stella began handing out the meeting’s agenda.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” I greeted them, taking a piece of loose-leaf from my secretary’s hands.

  Nicholas Brocton leaned back in his chair and threaded his long fingers together, just under his beard. “Dylan, it’s very good to see you. The months seem to be flying by, don’t they? We’re almost at the end of the quarter already.”

  “They say that happens when you’re having fun,” I noted, “but I suppose that depends on which side of the desk you’re sitting on, doesn’t it? We have a full agenda to address; however, I’ve been made to understand that there are a few pressing items under AOB that we should probably consider first.”

  Each of the men shifted in their seats, but Brockton spoke up. “Dylan, let’s cut to the chase,” he suggested. “I’ve served you for seven years. I remember our first meeting very clearly. Everyone was talking about Dylan Hamilton, the confident, business-savvy whippersnapper who was taking corporate by storm. We were at DeLuca’s cocktail party when I approached you. I wanted in. You granted me access.”

  I sniffed.

  “I was always concerned about your youthfulness,” he continued, and then he shrugged lazily, pushing his mustache-framed lips forward, “but I thought, what the hell. There’s no wealth without risk. And you never disappointed me. You cut deals like a baby cutting its teeth. In the entire seven years I’ve been under you, I’ve never doubted your ability to manage this firm.”

  “Then why are we here?” I demanded, “other than to attend to the regular items on this agenda?”

  My phone buzzed. My eyes shot down.

  Stef: Grab me from the crib after your meeting. We’ll go to LIV and I’ll fill you in.

  My jaw stiffened. It was not the message I was waiting for. This meeting needed to move faster so I could call Ignacio and find out what the hell he was talking about.

  When I looked up, Brockton was eyeing me, as if my behavior and lack of attention confirmed his suspicions. “We’re here beca
use something has changed,” he answered slowly. “Your judgement seems to be impaired.” He paused. “You’re slipping, Dylan.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re distracted,” he simplified. “I don’t know what the reason is, but it’s not boding well for your business mind.”

  I shoved my tongue in my cheek, trying to be judicious. “Does this have anything to do with Laila Renaud?” I whispered.

  The room remained silent for a second.

  Another man, Worthington, added his voice to the verbal fray. “You know the answer to that,” he alleged. “She was the intern.”

  “And Lorna was your secretary,” I reminded him.

  Worthington’s mouth snapped shut.

  My eyes passed from him to the next man. “Edith was your personal assistant, and Marilyn was your marketing manager.” My eyes fell on Max, but I left him alone. “Did anyone on your boards have the unmitigated gall to connect your private life with your business decisions? Be honest with me, gentlemen. It’s not because Laila Renaud was my intern. It’s because she doesn’t look like Lorna or Edith or Marilyn. Laila is exotic and different, and that makes you nervous.”

  Brockton’s face wrinkled more than it already was. “Don’t be an idiot, Dylan. This is the 21st century.”

  “And the more things change, the more they stay the same...” I scoffed.

  My phone buzzed again, and my eyes shot down.

  “You turned down several deals, Dylan, with Af-Tech being the latest,” Worthington said.

  My eyes rocketed in his direction. “There were no guarantees that Af-Tech would be a lucrative investment,” I defended myself. “Their business proposal is weak and as far as I could tell, Hamilton Associates would end up losing money in claims if we took them on.”

  “Michael Sawyer didn’t feel the same way...”

  My neck jerked around to the one person in the room who, up until that point had not said a word. From the shadows of the far end of the table, Joseph Brenneman’s voice emerged. His hands were clasped in front of his face, his eyes dipped low. His light, brown skin glowed with impatience. It seemed as if he had been waiting for this moment to arrive – to let his voice be heard.