Читать книгу Getting Lucky - Kayla Perrin - Страница 8

YOU CAN TELL YOURSELF OVER AND OVER AGAIN that you’re a strong black woman, a beautiful black woman, that the right man will eventually come along—but that doesn’t quite kill the ache in your soul. Oh, I know I don’t need to be married to be fulfilled. At least I know that logically. But the truth is, I never expected to be in my thirties and single.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying it’s the end of the world to be single past your thirtieth birthday. But I know—in my social circle—that people are talking behind my back, wondering what’s wrong with me that I haven’t tied the knot yet. An eligible Black-American Princess like myself—why is she still single?

Maybe people wouldn’t be talking if I hadn’t been engaged to Adam Hart, who turned out to be a sick son of a bitch. I can say that now because I’m over him. Adam has a twisted kinky side, one I ignored because I thought I was marrying the man of my dreams. One everyone in my social circle approved of.

Those same people who approved of Adam are judging me now. I know they are. At charity events, I get the sympathetic stare, the pat on the hand from older women and the assurance that one day I’ll find the perfect man.

It all makes me want to scream.

But as I stare at myself in the mirror, at my light brown skin and soft curls I perfectly styled—because, let’s face it, I’ve got too much time on my hands—I can’t help wondering if there’s something wrong with me. If there’s some reason a nice surgeon or business mogul wouldn’t want to marry me.

I can’t confess the feeling to my two best friends, Lishelle and Annelise. They would tell me that I’m out of my mind, that if the men I meet are too dumb to realize how fantastic I am then there’s something wrong with them. But I can’t stop the thought from popping into my head that the men in my social circle know all about my screwed-up relationship with Adam, and that’s why they don’t want to go anywhere near me.

And when they do want to go near me, it’s because they think that I’ll give it up easily. That I’ll do kinky things in bed with them. Things I regret doing with Adam.

I can’t believe how stupidly I behaved for the sake of keeping my man. And the idea that I may be judged for that forever is really hard to accept.

The rumor mill is alive and well in high society, let me tell you. That’s why I’ve pretty much given up on the idea of finding a man in Atlanta. In fact, I’m pretty much regretting the fact that I said yes to the blind date my brother-in-law’s sister set me up on.

But it’s a Tuesday evening, and I have nothing better to do, and who knows? Maybe Mark Wickham will be the one.

So I finish applying my makeup, get my clutch purse and head out the door. Within minutes, I am in my white BMW and driving toward midtown.

I really don’t want to be here. That’s what I think when I hand my keys to the valet. I am at New York Prime, the restaurant where I am supposed to meet Mark. This place has a reputation of serving the best-quality steaks in town, so if nothing else, I should get a decent meal.

I am still skeptical of this kind of date—the kind initiated by others—but Lishelle’s talk about how well her evening with Damon went has given me some hope.

And there’s no doubt that Mark is a good catch. He’s one of the Wickhams—a publishing dynasty in Georgia. Samson Wickham, Mark’s father, runs Wickham Publications, which publishes a series of monthly magazines for black women, black men, teens and entrepreneurs.

I have met Mark at events in the past, but we’ve never really chatted. I do know that he is attractive and, as far as my family is concerned, he’s from “good stock.”

I’m jaded, of course, which is why I told Mark that I would be driving my own car to the Buckhead restaurant. My dating life has most definitely sucked, but I’m always open to meeting the love of my life.

We’re due to meet at seven o’clock, and my personal rule is to never arrive early for a date. Ten minutes late is just about right. You can tell a lot about a man based on how he reacts to a woman being fashionably late.

I make my way into the steak house, and I sense eyes on me as I enter. It’s confirmation for me that I look good. And in my black sheath dress, with my hair in big, soft curls and my makeup done in the smoky, dramatic look that’s so popular these days, I’m looking especially hot. I suppose that even as wary as I’ve been of dating, I definitely miss sex and am open to seeing where the night might lead.

The hostess smiles warmly as I approach her. “I’m meeting someone,” I say before she can speak. “Mark Wick—”

I stop talking because I notice him. Rather, he has seen me and is now standing, waving to me from his table in the center of the restaurant beside three decorative palm trees.

“There he is,” I say cheerfully, and walk toward him.

Mark remains standing until I reach the table, which is beneath a beautiful, circular skylight. We greet by kissing cheeks. And then his eyes roam over me from head to toe, and I can tell that he likes what he sees.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” I offer him a sweet smile.

“No worries at all. I hope you don’t mind, I ordered us some wine and appetizers.”

He has passed the first test, not making a big deal out of my tardiness.

Mark’s eyes sweep over me once more. “Wow. You look amazing.”

“Thank you.”

He pulls my chair out for me and once I’m sitting, helps push it back under the table. Gentleman, I think. Definitely a plus.

He is staring at me with an almost wondrous expression on his face. I wonder what that’s about—until he says, “It’s kind of amazing that we haven’t ever spoken before. I’ve heard of you, of course, and we’ve been at some of the same events … “

“Crazy, isn’t it?” I say.

The conversation that follows is easy, and Mark is definitely the kind of eye candy I can stare at all night. I never really noticed how attractive he was before. I suppose before I only had eyes for Adam.

No, it’s more than that, I realize as I assess him. If I’m not mistaken, he’s slimmer than he used to be. Slimmer and more toned. He was never fat, but I can tell that he has worked out to get into better shape.

“I’m excited about the new magazine,” Mark is saying. “Hip-hop culture is so prevalent, I’m surprised it took us this long to try to penetrate the market.” Mark has just told me that it was his vision to begin a new magazine, Hip Vibe, and that his father finally agreed.

“So it’s your baby?” I ask.

“Yep. I’m in charge of everything. Getting it off the ground, overseeing editorial. I’m having a blast with it.”

“Congratulations,” I say. “I’m sure it’s very rewarding to see your dream come to fruition.”

“Two more months and it hits the stands.” Mark grins, then takes a sip of his red wine. “You know Rugged? The rap artist?”

“Yes, of course.”

“He’s on the cover of the first issue. We did the photo shoot a couple of weeks ago. Amazing shots, I tell you.”

“Just Rugged? Or is he with his fiancée?”

“Just Rugged. He wasn’t engaged then. Though in a future issue, we’ll likely do a story on him and Randi. I already talked to him about having one of our photographers at the wedding.” Mark sips more wine. “Anyway, enough about me. I’ve been doing all the talking. Tell me about you. Your mother said you’ve been doing a lot of charity work.”

Hearing Mark speak so passionately about his career, I can’t hold back a small frown. This has been a bone of contention in my life for a while. I keep feeling as though I’ve missed my calling. Like I’m not doing the one thing in my life that will totally fulfill me.

“Yes,” I tell him, but I don’t say that I haven’t done much charity work in the last year. I haven’t had the stomach to show my face at too many high-profile events, knowing what people have been saying about me and my failed engagement. “But lately, I’ve been contemplating what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. Charity work is great, but I want to find something more … I don’t know … personal?”

“What do you like to do?”

I draw in a breath, consider the question. How can I be thirty-one and not know how to answer this question?

“I like helping people,” I finally say.

“In what capacity? What are you passionate about?”

“I suppose I can see myself mentoring kids, or counseling.” I pause, stif ling the embarrassing thought that has come to my mind. The sad truth is, I never gave much thought to a career outside the home. I always figured I would be married by now, a wife to someone, perhaps already a mother.

Adam has taken that dream from me.

No, I tell myself. He has not taken that dream from you. The dream is simply delayed.

“What?” Mark is looking at me oddly.

“I guess—if you want to know the truth, I always thought I would be a wife and mother. Yes, I would do volunteer work. Get involved with charitable organizations to help people. But I always thought my primary focus would be my husband and children.”

“I know you were engaged to Adam Hart,” Mark says softly.

“Yes.” In so many ways that seems like ancient history, and yet Adam was such a big part of my life. “I have no regrets over my breakup with him. I want to make that clear.”

“No regrets?”

Mark raises his eyebrows slightly as he asks the question, and I get the sense that he is asking me something entirely different.

“I don’t want to talk about Adam,” I quickly say. Want to kill your chances with a new guy? Go on and on about your ex.

Thankfully, the waitress arrives with our appetizers, helping to quash any further talk about Adam. We dig in to our cheese mashed potatoes and onion straws. As I pour myself more wine, I go on to talk about some of the good news in my life—the fact that Annelise is having a baby and how excited I am that I’ll become a godmother. And when I ask Mark to tell me more about the publishing business, he doesn’t hesitate to go into detail about every aspect of his work.

He talks a lot. Much more than most guys I know. Which is kind of nice because there are no lulls in the conversation.

My steak was outstanding, and I’m so full, I pass on dessert—even though the options look fabulous. Mark passes on dessert as well, and asks for the check. Ten minutes later, we are strolling out of the restaurant. A real gentleman, Mark walks me to my car.

I retrieve my keys from my clutch, and then we stare at each other awkwardly for a few moments. I giggle nervously, wondering if he plans on kissing me. I wouldn’t mind. It’d be nice to kiss him, see if there are any sparks.

Mark steps toward me and slips an arm around my waist. I do feel some butterf lies. I don’t know if I’m imagining them, or if I’m desperate for them to be there, but I feel something.

“I really enjoyed getting to spend time with you,” Mark says. “I’ve been looking forward to going out with you for a long time.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He grins down at me. “In fact, I’m not ready for the night to end.”

I blush, tickled that he likes me. “Is that so?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What did you have in mind?”

He raises a suggestive eyebrow. “The Ritz-Carlton hotel is next to the restaurant … “ He gestures to it with a jerk of his head. “Hmm?”

I know that earlier I thought I wouldn’t mind if the night led to sex, but I’m rethinking that. I like Mark, and I want to get to know him better before going to bed with him.

“How about you call me, and we’ll plan another date,” I suggest.

“You know, I heard some things,” Mark says in a lower voice. He gives me a pointed look, his eyes sparkling beneath the street lamp.

I begin to get an odd feeling. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you don’t have to play the good girl with me.

I heard about some of the stuff you and Adam were into. I liked it. I love a girl who can get her freak on.”

His words are like cold water being thrown in my face. Is this why he wanted to see me? He wanted to go out with me because he’s heard about my sordid sexual past with Adam?

“Exactly what things are you talking about?”

Mark chuckles softly. “You don’t have to be shy where I’m concerned,” he tells me. “I love it. I love it dirty.” And then he puts his mouth to my ear and whispers, “What was it like the first time you tasted another pussy?”

I push myself out of his arms so violently that he actually stumbles from the force of it. I stare at him, mortified. I cannot believe what he has just said to me.

Is he for real?

“Claudia? What is it?” he says, and has the nerve to look surprised.

“You’re a pig,” I tell him. “I’m not—I’m not the kind of girl you think I am. I didn’t do those things.” Not that I owe him any explanation. In fact, he’s the one who owes me one.

“Tell me that’s not why you asked me out,” I forge on. But I already know the answer. He’s not the first guy to be curious about the fact that I did some racy things, something Adam clearly spread to the world in an attempt to humiliate me. Unless the source was someone else—someone who happened to see me at the swingers club when I went there with that jerk of an ex-fiancé.

Mark stares at me, saying nothing, which in itself is all the answer I need. He’s not simply curious—he was hoping to get lucky.

“Ma’am, are you okay?”

I turn at the question, surprised to see an older African-American gentleman standing there. Mid-fifties, I would guess. He has a look of concern on his face as his stare volleys between Mark and me.

“I—I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I begin to back toward my car door. “Thank you.” I quickly press the button on my remote key to unlock my BMW, thankful that the stranger is keeping watch to make sure I’m fine.

And then I am scrambling into my car and driving away from the restaurant in haste. If only I could put the incident out of my mind as quickly as I am putting distance between me and Mark.

I make my decision, right then and there, to swear off sex. I’m a woman with needs, but I do not want to engage in another sexual relationship just for the sake of physical enjoyment. I did that in Vegas—and I don’t have any regrets about it—but I do regret where I let myself go with Adam, just to please the man I thought I was going to marry.

And I especially hate that the stigma of it has clearly followed me to this day. It’s as good a reason as any to abstain from sex.

Yeah, celibacy is looking really good right now.

Not for religious reasons, though I certainly understand the moral reasons for waiting until you’re married to lose your virginity, and perhaps things are much simpler when people do. The religious argument suddenly makes sense to me. There’s no doubt in my mind that sex outside of marriage has complicated the heck out of my generation.

But because of what I did with Adam, how I let him convince me to do things sexually that I never wanted to do … this is why I no longer want to jump right into bed with anyone.

And there’s something else, something I can never confess to either Lishelle or Annelise. Something I am more ashamed of than the sexual acts I was convinced to try.

I had an abortion.

At the time, being involved with Adam but not engaged, I knew how it would look to have a child out of wedlock. And so did he. But if he had given me any encouragement, I would have kept the baby. Instead, he drove me to the clinic where I had the procedure done. Problem solved.

Only it’s something that’s haunted me from time to time over the past couple of years. And now that Annelise is pregnant …

Well, now I’m feeling even worse about the decision.

I know I have to forgive myself, that I can’t turn back the clock, and most of all, I’m truly happy that I never married Adam. So logically, I know I’m better off without his baby.

Emotionally … That’s a different story.

Will I ever be a mother?

Will I ever be a wife?

Perhaps it’s just a phase I’m going through, one that I’ll get over once Annelise has the baby. I’m going to be the best aunt ever. There’s no doubt about that.

I drive with a heavy foot—until I realize that if I don’t want a speeding citation, I’d better slow down.

So I do. I have to get over the disastrous evening with Mark, put it past me and forget the blow to my ego.

When I was dating Adam we lived in Buckhead, but now I’m back at my parents’ place in Sandtown. Sandtown is an affluent area southwest of the city, where a lot of the African-American elite reside. It’s where I grew up, and I love the area—but every time I head back there, a part of me feels like a failure.

I’m supposed to be married and living in Duluth.

Irritation washes over me as I drive south on Peachtree Road. I’m annoyed with myself. Perhaps it’s the date with Mark—which has served to emphasize how my reputation has been tainted—that has me thinking of supposed-to-be. Because honestly, I haven’t been pining over our breakup. I’m elated that I didn’t take a doomed walk down the aisle with him.

It’s just … It’s just that I wish I weren’t single.

My gaze wanders to the right. And suddenly I see something that gets my attention. Two people standing on the sidewalk, arms flailing. My first guess is that one of them might be drunk. But as I get closer, I realize that the two people—a man and a woman—are having some sort of dispute.

The female looks young, while the man she’s with is definitely older. Her father?

I drive on, but find myself looking in my rearview mirror. Within seconds, I am making a U-turn. What if that man isn’t a father, but someone else? I know that I can’t leave this young woman who might be in danger.

In the restaurant parking lot, a stranger had intervened to make sure that I was okay. How can I not do the same?

I drive slowly as I double back, eyeing the girl and the guy. When I see the girl pulling her arm violently from the man’s grip, it is clear to me that yes, she’s in trouble.

My tires squeal as I make the quick U-turn to put me back onto the side of the road where they are. The sound causes both the man and woman to jerk their heads in my direction. No sooner do I brake to a stop at the curb, I am out of the car, charging forward without thinking. It doesn’t occur to me that what I am doing could be potentially unsafe.

“Hey,” I say, forceful. The guy—way too old to be with this girl, who’s only got to be in her early twenties—stares at me with an annoyed expression. My gaze goes from him to the girl, who is definitely cowering. My gut tells me that this isn’t a father dealing with an out-of-control daughter, but something else.

“Are you okay?” I ask the girl.

“Mind your own business.” This from the man.

I walk straight up to the girl. “Are you okay?” I repeat.

The shake of her head is slight. She’s afraid of this man.

“Look, lady.” The guy is pissed. “This is a private matter.”

I whirl to face him, putting my body between him and the frightened female. “How old are you?” I ask, an accusation.

“What?”

“You should be damned ashamed of yourself.” I turn to face the girl. “Come with me.”

“Excuse me?” the man says, outraged.

“I’ll take you someplace safe,” I go on. “Anywhere you want to go.”

The girl nods, and we begin to move. I don’t even notice that the man is approaching me until he has a firm hold of my arm. “If you know what’s good for you—”

I pull my arm from him so harshly that he actually staggers backward. I’m not sure where I’ve gotten the courage to be so tough. This isn’t me. I’m out of my element. But I stand up to this man, one who clearly likes to dominate young women.

“Touch me again, and it’ll be the last thing you do.” I’m amazed at the words that come from my mouth. Did I hear that line in a movie? When the hell have I become this kick-ass type of chick?

As I begin to doubt my feigned bravado, the man takes a step backward and even raises both hands in an attempt to show me that he isn’t dangerous.

I’m amazed that my words have had their intended effect.

“Sasha,” the man says, his tone soft. He is trying the nice-guy approach now. “Sasha, you know I didn’t mean it.”

I place a hand on Sasha’s back and guide her to my car. Looking back over my shoulder, I give the jerk a warning glance. It says, Don’t even think of making a move, you piece of shit.

I open the passenger door and Sasha climbs inside. Then I quickly round the car to the driver’s side and get behind the wheel. Thank God, the man stands on the sidewalk and watches, not making a move to come toward the car. Quickly, I shift the gear stick in my car and send the BMW flying into traffic.

I drive for about a minute without speaking. Then I glance at my passenger, whose eyes are focused on her lap.

“Hey,” I say gently. “You’re okay now.”

She faces me. Nods.

“Was that guy your boyfriend?”

Another nod.

“He’s a bit … old. Don’t you think?”

“Maybe.” Sasha’s voice is soft, vulnerable.

Sasha’s phone rings. In her eyes, I see fear. It must be the boyfriend’s number.

“Don’t answer it,” I tell her.

Sasha worries her bottom lip, clearly torn and unsure what to do. “Don’t,” I reiterate. “Whatever happened, let him cool off. At least.”

Sasha raises the phone, and I mentally scream, No, no, no! But instead of answering the phone, she presses the button to turn it off.

Good, I think. That’s good.

Another minute or so passes. I’m not sure what to say to this girl. I don’t want to come off as preachy, but I also want her to know that she can open up to me. “I’m Claudia, by the way.”

“Do you always run to people’s rescue like that?” Sasha asks.

“Actually, never.” Thinking of my actions, I’m still surprised. “But I couldn’t keep driving … not when it looked like you needed help.”

The girl nods.

“Where should I take you?” I ask.

She tells me an address south of midtown.

“You don’t live with him, do you?”

“No.”

“Good.” I pause to negotiate a turn. “Where we’re going … it’s someplace safe?”

“Yeah. My sister’s place.”

She’s younger than I first thought, no more than twenty, and I can’t help wondering where her parents are. Not in the picture? Deceased, maybe? And how is it that her sister is allowing her to be out with a man more than twice her age?

There’s a story there. “Listen, if you ever need to chat. Or if you’re ever in trouble and want to talk to me, I want you to know that you can call me.”

“Why?” Sasha asks, sounding skeptical.

Why indeed? I have never done anything like this before. But something about this girl speaks to me. I’m not sure why.

“Because we all need someone to talk to from time to time. I’m a good listener.” I smile.

The girl nods, then looks forward again. After a while, she tells me to turn right. I do, and she continues to guide me the rest of the way to her sister’s building.

It’s not posh, but neither is it run-down.

Her fingers curl around the door handle. Before she can open it, I say, “Wait a second. Let me put my number into your phone.”

Sasha hands me her phone, and I enter my name and number. As I pass it back to her I say, “I don’t know what the deal is with your boyfriend, but it’s obvious you were afraid of him. If he comes around tonight—or any other time—don’t be afraid to call the police.” I’ve got a pretty good idea what this man is like, and he reminds me of Annelise’s sister Samera’s ex-boyfriend, Reed. Men who feel like they possess you are the most dangerous of all. There’s no telling what they’ll do. “Or, like I said, you can call me. Whatever you do, be safe.”

I wonder if my words have gotten through to Sasha at all, or if she’s going to exit my car and immediately call the man I rescued her from. It wouldn’t surprise me.

But as much as I fear she’ll do that, I also know that the hard sell to stay away from him—words from a stranger, no less—might just have the opposite effect on her and send her running right back to him.

So I drive away from her sister’s apartment, happy that I’ve done a good deed. One that has helped—at least somewhat—to dull the memory of my date with Mark.