by Tina Martin
She gets up, storms out of the office and closes the door forcefully behind herself.
Irving shakes his head. “You got your hands full, man. Are you sure this is the woman you want to have a baby with because I don’t think she likes you very much.”
“Nobody likes me very much,” I remind him. “But I am who I am and it’s going to take her some getting used to. I’ll have her in check soon enough.”
We slap hands. I keep a copy of the contract and leave the office in search of Shiloh. She’s probably standing next to the car with her arms still crossed and her lips poked out. To my surprise, she’s waiting for me by the elevators. She looks up at me and I can see the sheer anguish on her face as she forces herself to do something she doesn’t want to do. She’s only doing it for him. For her father. The money means nothing to her.
“Ready?” I ask.
She presses the button to call for the elevator, answering my question without saying a word.
We step on.
I look at her. She’s still quiet.
A grin settles in the corner of my mouth. If she only knew who she was dealing with. I’m a made man. A powerful one. I know my influence. Know my worth. All she has to do is play her position and give me what I want. She doesn’t have to make this hard on herself, yet that’s what she’s choosing to do.
As we’re pulling out of the parking garage, she asks, “How often? I need to know what to expect.”
She’s back on that again. “Okay. You should know this better than me, but there is a time of the month when a woman is most fertile and from what I’ve read, I think it’s fourteen days before your menstrual cycle begins. Is that right?”
“Whatever. I hate the word menstrual. I wish I didn’t have a cycle, period!”
“No worries. Once I put this baby in you, you’ll be free for nine months.”
She ignores me, looks out the window instead.
“Do you still plan on moving in on Saturday?”
“Yep. That’s what you wanted, ain’t it?”
“It is. I’ll have some movers come to your father’s house if—”
“For what? I don’t own anything. There’s nothing for the movers to pick up.”
“What about your clothes? Shoes? The bedroom furniture in your room?”
“You don’t already have furniture in the guesthouse, or let me guess—the existing furniture is too good for me to use?”
“I wasn’t implying that. Of course you can use the furniture in the guesthouse. I assumed you’d be more comfortable with your own furniture.”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“What does that mean? Do you want to bring your own furniture?”
“No.”
“And what about anything else?”
“I—I don’t need Two Men and a Truck to pick up a black garbage bag of clothes. Okay?”
“That’s really the only thing you’re bringing over?”
“Yes, and a few toiletries and shoes.” Staring out the window, she grows quiet again. Then she says, “I don’t want you showing up to the guesthouse any time of day or night, standing next to my bed with your joystick hanging out. We need to work out a schedule. One that works for both of us, not just you.”
I flick on the turn signal to make a right at the light. “What I’m packing is much bigger than a joystick, doll, and a schedule would be fine if that’s what you want. In fact, I’ll let you pick the days as long as we try in the two weeks you’re most likely to get pregnant. And by the way, we should try at least two times a week. I want to get this done.”
“Okay. Two times a week. Wednesdays and Saturdays and only until I’m pregnant. Once my pregnancy is confirmed, you won’t have a need to touch me, correct?”
“Correct, except for those times I want to touch your stomach and talk to my child. That’ll be when you start showing, of course. Any objections?”
“Like I have a choice in the matter…”
I grin. Now she’s getting it. “While we’re on the subject, a few more things to keep in mind is, I’ll try to be as quick as possible. You don’t need to touch me, squeeze me, scratch me—none of that. You just need to relax and let me do what I do.”
“Wait—so you expect me not to touch you while you’re knee-deep inside me? How is that even possible? It’s not possible. You’re insane.”
“It is possible. All you have to do is lie there. As a matter of fact, you can be partially clothed. Keep on your bra and shirt, or just a shirt—whatever you prefer.”
“Wow.”
“You sound disappointed,” I say. I’m still driving. Checking the rearview. Changing lanes to get from behind an old lady driving a car that’s too big for her.
“I’m flabbergasted. I can’t believe how much of a transaction you’re making this out to be.”
“It’s an even exchange. You want something I got. I got something you need. That’s it. So no kissing and no touching.”
“You can’t kiss me, but you can boing me. Doesn’t make much sense.”
I slow down at a red light at The Plaza and 36th Street. “Did you say boing?”
“Yeah. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“If you’re referring to sex, yes, it’s possible to do the act and not attach feelings to it. Kissing on the other hand is more intimate. Requires more feeling. I don’t want you catching feelings and I don’t want to give you the impression this will develop into a relationship.”
“I understand,” she says. “I’ll wear a ski mask, too, so you can’t see my face.”
I know she’s being sarcastic, but I add, “No need. I’ll keep the lights off. That should be sufficient.”
When I turn in the driveway at her father’s house, she gets out of the car and quickly begins her walk toward the house. This new lifestyle is going to take some getting used to for her. Hopefully, after the first couple of tries, she’ll be pregnant so I don’t have to touch her again. I don’t think she can handle me or what I’m asking of her. The quicker we can get this thing done, the better off we’ll be.
Chapter Eleven
Shiloh
On Saturday, the morning of my move, I break the news to my father. Before I do, I take off the ring Magnus gave me. My wedding ring. It’s divine, costs about the same you’d pay for a baby Benz, yet to me has zero value.
If I loved him, if there was love between us – if our marriage was real – it would mean the world, no matter what its monetary value was.
I find Papa in the kitchen chomping on an English muffin that’s dripping with grape jelly.
“Hey, Lo.”
“Good morning, Papa. I got some news for you.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m moving out.”
“You found a place?”
“Ye—yeah, I did,” I say. I found a place and a jerk for a husband who wants to be my baby daddy but wants nothing to do with me. Of course, I’m not going to tell my dad this. Don’t know if I ever will.
“Is it nearby?”
“No. It’s off of Providence Road.”
His eyes brighten. “Providence Road? You can’t afford no place over on that side of the city wit’ all them rich, white folk.”
“Well, I kinda can. I’m renting a room in someone’s house.” I lied a little, okay a lot, but what else was I supposed to say? That I’m moving in Magnus’ guesthouse – a man who’s going to inject me the ol’ fashioned way with his baby-making serum for a million and a kidney?
“Renting a room…hmm.”
He says it in a way which lets me know he’s not okay with my decision, but he’s not totally against it either. After all, he’s the one who started the whole, move out dialogue so he at least has to be open to what I decide to do.
“It sounds worse than it actually is, Papa. I like it because utilities are split down the middle.”
Lies.
“And how many bedrooms are in this place?” he asks. Bits of food fly
from his mouth.
“Um…three. Three bedrooms,” I say continuing my lies. His question has me thinking about how many bedrooms are in Magnus’ guesthouse. Knowing him, it’s probably a baby mansion. He doesn’t come across as the type of man who did anything small. He was a showstopper and it wasn’t intentional. It came with the territory of having so much dough. Let’s face it – he could’ve driven something normal to fit in out here in these humble Charlotte streets. A Land Rover. A Lexus. A Beemer. A Rover. But he drives a Bentley like he’s the ish. Like he relished the stares and enjoyed it when people tried to figure out what kind of car he was in.
“Good,” Papa says. “If they’re three bedrooms, the bills get split three ways, somethin’ or ‘nother? Ain’t that right?”
“Yep…something like that.”
“Good, Lo. I feel better about you not being weighed down with bills.”
“And what about your bills, Papa?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about me, girl. I’ll be fine. Just fine.”
He won’t be. Papa will go in debt before he asks me to pay anything. That’s why, since I’ve been living with him, I take the bills and pay them without getting clearance from him to do so. His disability check goes straight into his bank account. I’m not sure if Papa knows how to pay his own bills. He knows how to use the computer but he’s not technologically inclined. He once told me he didn’t use Google, the best and biggest search engine on the Internet because he didn’t like how they changed their normal logo to coincide with different holidays, happenings and circumstances throughout the year.
“You know I can still help you cover the bills,” I say to him. With a million dollars, I can pay off his home if I can figure out a way to do it without him knowing.
“Oh, no. You got’cho hands full already, Lo. You got’cho own rent to pay. Plus, I kicked you out. Don’t you think I knew I had enough money to take care of myself before kickin’ you out?”
He chuckles. Only my father would find humor in something like this.
“Well, I have to get my stuff packed and then I’m heading out.”
“Do you need a lift? I was thinking ‘bout firing up that old truck out there. Last time I cranked her up, she backfired.” He laughs. Coughs. He takes a paper towel and uses it as a napkin, wiping jelly from around his mouth.
I smile. He’s unkempt and ol’ school, but he’s my papa and I love him. “That’s okay. I’m taking an Uber.”
“An Uber.” He scoffs. “Back in my day, we ain’t have no Uber. You know what we had?”
I smirk. I’ve heard this story before but I entertain it again. “What’s that, Papa?”
“We had kinfolk to run us ‘round wherever we needed to go for five dollars a trip. Five dollars is a lot of money on gas when it’ll only run you ninety-nine cents a gallon. That’s five whole gallons. Them were the good ol’ days. Those Bill Clinton days. Now, you have to be rich to pay for gas. You tell somebody you got five on gas now, they laugh at you. Bet you ain’t catching no Uber from here to Providence for no five dollars.”
“I don’t know how much it’ll be yet.”
I stand up and he says, “Let me know if you need some help.”
“I’ll be fine, but thanks, Papa.”
* * *
When I arrive at Magnus’ large mansion that sits on at least ten-thousand square feet, I notice how private it is. The house, or shall I say, estate, sits way back off the road with a front yard that’s the size of two football fields. The grounds are well-kept. There’s a large, working fountain centered in the cobblestone driveway. The place looks never-ending with a four-car garage and elegant design features from the trim detail to the Roman Empire-styled posts near the veranda.
“Daaaaaang. Who you know up in here, girl?” the Uber driver asks me. Her nails are long like Cardi B’s. She has on thick lashes and a Michael Kors watch she probably couldn’t afford but splurged on it anyway to give off the impression she has more than she does in a material sense. She’s a young girl. Makeup so thick you could slice it with a butter knife. She told me she was a student at Queens University. She makes money on the side by driving. If she’s not doing that, she’s waitressing. We have that in common, except she’s twenty-two and I’m closer to thirty. Society dictates that waitressing is a more acceptable profession for her than it is for me.
“It’s a long story,” I tell her. No need in telling a complete stranger what I’ve gotten myself into.
“Where do you want me to let you out, love?” she asks as she slows to a stop near the garage.
“Right here is fine,” I tell her.
She gets out, takes my trash bag of clothes out of the trunk along with a suitcase of shoes and leaves it beside the car where I’m standing. I hand her a few bucks for a tip and she’s on her way.
I scoop up my bags and as I’m trying to figure out which door to go to. There’re so many to choose from. When I finally pick one, I head toward it but not before, I see Magnus appear. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweatpants – no shirt – coming from another driveway that extends behind the house.
Oh my goodness gracious…
I clear my throat to keep from drooling. The man’s body is off the charts. There’s caramel as far as my eyes can see. He’s all sweaty, has abs of steel and those sweatpants ride low on his hip. His pendulum swings freely beneath cotton. He’s comfortable with his body. He knows he’s that dude. I know he’s that dude.
This is my first time seeing him in anything other than a suit. He’s usually all businesslike and stuffy. Right now, he looks hot. Laid back, carefree and hot. His movements are languorous. He’s probably tired after what I assume was a strenuous workout.
It’s almost noon. The temperature is fifty-two degrees. I’m cold. He’s half dressed, his small, masculine nipples firm and tempting. His body glistens with sweat. The hair below his navel catches his perspiration.
He jogs over and says, “If you would’ve taken the car I gave you, you could’ve driven here yourself.”
This close, I can see how the sunlight plays with his eye color. At certain angles, they look gray. Then, brownish-green. When he’s looking directly at me, I only see the splendid green I know them to be.
“Either way it goes, I’m here now.” I glance around. Take in the scope of this place. “Is this your house or a museum?”
He cracks a smile. “It’s my home.”
“Right…the one I’m not allowed in.”
He leaves my comment in the chilly air and looks at my bags. “A garbage bag? You brought your clothes here in a garbage bag?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Got a problem with it?”
He wipes sweat from his forehead. “Are these all of your clothes?”
“Yes. This is it. I don’t dress to impress. I throw some clothes on and then I’m on my way.”
He picks up the trash bag and the suitcase and says, “You’ll be staying back here.”
“Oh…I see. I’m in the slave quarters.”
“You shouldn’t talk that way, Shiloh. You’re staying in the guesthouse.”
“Yeah, same difference,” I mumble, but when I pass the trees and see the guesthouse in its full splendor, I’m just as shocked as I was when I first saw his museum – I mean, house. It’s huge, well it’s bigger than my father’s home. It has one of those country-style front porches with two rocking chairs on it. The Porsche he bought for me is parked out front.
When we step inside, I’m greeted to a dining room seating area. It’s across from the living room and close to the kitchen. The bottom floor has an open concept, fully furnished like something out of Better Homes & Gardens. The dining room table is wooden and so shiny and polished, I can see my reflection in it. The high-back chairs are all cloth. The walls are natural, finished wood like a cabin-style home.
“Wow. This is beautiful.”
“It’s a three-bedroom house,” he says. “Two bedrooms down. One up. Take a look upstairs and make sure it’s to y
our liking. That’s where you’ll be sleeping.”
I proceed up the long staircase of about fifteen steps. It leads to the loft which is also where the master bedroom is located in this place. The bed’s a queen-size – more than enough for me. It’s centered on the wall between two white nightstands. White lamps. White covers. White curtains.
The white theme continues into the bathroom. The tiles, garden tub, the vanity – all white.
“What do you think?”
I jump at the sound of his deep voice. I was so taken by the exquisite nature of this place, I forgot he was standing behind me.
I turn to look at him – the caramel god of a man. “You’re—I mean—it’s fine.”
“Good. I left your bags by the sofa. You should have everything you need here without disturbing me at the main house. There’s a small washer and dryer combo in the kitchen. I’m sure you’ll find it. Also, I had my housekeeper buy groceries for you. If you don’t want any of it, throw it out, but keep in mind you should eat as healthy as possible. No junk. No saturated fats. No fast food. Be sure to take your prenatal vitamins. They’re behind the mirror in the bathroom. You should take those daily, starting today.”
“Yes, Sir,” I say, saluting him. He’s always so serious about everything.
He gives me a hard stare, then turns away to leave, heading for the stairs.
“Wait,” I say, sounding desperate. “How will I get ahold of you?”
“Why would you need to get ahold of me?” he asks midway down the stairs.
“In case I need something.”
“Like what, Shiloh?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. What if I see a spider or something?”
He hides a grin and continues his descent down the stairs.
“If I see a spider, I’m burning this freakin’ place down,” I shout at his back.
He keeps on walking, then closes the front door, leaving me to explore my new residence alone. I give the upstairs bathroom another walk-thru, then I return to the bedroom and sit down on the soft mattress that’s so pillowy, it feels like I’ve melted into it. I lean back and enjoy the feel of it, close my eyes and think. I wonder how many other women Magnus has had up in this place. Does he have other baby mamas floating around here? Is he some kind of freak looking to populate all of Charlotte with a bunch of St. Claire’s?