by Diana W.
Harley rolled her eyes in disgust and disbelief. “He got you beat up and fired yet you’re still attempting to find something positive to say about him? Stockholm syndrome much?”
“Oh, blow me,” Gianna fired back. “I look for the good in people because it requires way less energy than being a chronic pessimist.” She hated that Harley always had a way of shitting on sunshine.
“Pessimist or realist?” Harley exaggerated her thought-provoking expression. “I’ll take living in the real world for two thousand, Alex.” Her demeanor then dropped to something more neutral. “You should’ve ridden him into a coma and then asked him about paying our rent for the next year. That’s the only language they understand, G.”
“God!” Gianna threw her hands up in annoyance. “When did you get this bad about men?”
“Around the same time that you lost your common sense because of them.” Harley’s nostrils flared. She was never one to back down from an attack on her character and was certain she’d go toe-to-toe with Jesus himself if she thought he was wrong.
“This conversation is done.” Gianna folded her arms dismissively, wincing from the pain she nearly forgot about.
“You’re right, it is.” Harley stood up already en route to the door. She stopped just under the doorframe. “And about what I said about not doing anything in retaliation... I lied.” She gave her sister a piercing final look before deciding to go make a few calls.
CHAPTER 6
For the third time in two minutes, Robert’s eyes impatiently landed on the fifty-thousand-dollar antique gold watch hugging his wrist. He could tolerate a lot of shit when it came to his sons, but their disregard for his time wasn’t one of them. They were late and it was becoming a pattern if they even showed at all. The blatant disrespect for him was getting out of hand and needed to be corrected before it spilled over into the business. If his sons didn’t value his leadership, how long would it be until his workers followed suit?
Robert dialed Cyn’s number to inquire about Cornell’s location, but the doors to his home office opened and in walked his three kids, just as casual as a stroll on the levee.
“Does three o’clock mean something different to you all than it does me?” Robert eyed each of them, stopping to linger on Clark, wondering why it was so hard for him to look polished like his brothers. Even though he wore slacks and a button-down shirt, it was hard not to notice the untamed roots of his locs and his lack of ironing skills.
“No, sir.”
Clark was the only one to reply, which was more so out of paranoia than respect. He was worried that his father would sniff out what Cornell had already discovered a few weeks ago about his little white sleep aid. He had only recently gotten back on his father’s better side, which was comparable to getting hit by a car as opposed to an eighteen-wheeler. He would rather deal with the lesser of two evils.
“Then what’s the problem because I didn’t—”
“We're only ten minutes behind schedule,” an already agitated Mo cut in. “Why don’t you relax on the theatrics and start your meeting.”
They unanimously hated having to come to their father’s house. The expensive furnishings that covered every square foot of his mansion couldn’t mask the stifling and cold atmosphere. It was a shrine to his wealth rather than a place to call home, and it constantly reminded them of their mother who had become a casualty of The Gaines Corporation’s rise to success.
“What was that?” Robert’s eyes darted his way. “You got something you need to say to me, boy?”
Clark shifted uncomfortably and Cornell tightened his grip on the arm of his chair, digging his nails into the expensive leather. He knew Mo could hold his own against their father, but it tried his patience when anybody tried to antagonize them, especially the one person who made an Olympic sport of it.
“I ain’t gon be too many more boys.” Mo wiped his hand over his mouth, eyeing his father with murderous venom. He often fantasized about whooping his ass, and it seemed to be manifesting in front of his very eyes.
Robert recognized the challenge and rose from his chair, prompting intense glares from each of them.
“Forgive me, son.” He softened his tone and his expression as he walked in front of his desk and leaned against the spot across from Mo. “Sometimes, I forget I have three grown men now.”
Mo wasn’t swayed by the obvious sarcasm nor was Cornell. They knew better. Even Clark’s eyes went to Cornell, hoping he could intervene with whatever was about to happen. When they outgrew traditional spankings, their father resorted to other forms of discipline, mostly in the form of threats, insults, and deprivation. His punishments went from taking away their video games or dinner to making Mo pay for his last semester in college when he found out about his marriage proposal to Mia. Their father’s disdain for outsiders ran deeper than his love for his own children. Even if he couldn’t control whom they gave their attention to, he could tighten his leash in terms of financial and moral support.
“Did we figure out an approach for Karl?” Cornell spoke up, intending to steer the conversation back to its original purpose, which was their plan of attack for Rowe Industries. “Clark has a few hits on their board of directors.”
Upon hearing that, Robert’s attention perked toward Cornell but quickly retreated to Mo whose hostility was seeping through his pores.
“We’ll get to that in a second.” He held his hand up to silence his oldest. “Morris.” Robert’s voice went up an octave like a teacher who spotted a kid writing love notes during a test. “You clearly have something to say, and there’s no sense in wasting everybody’s time if your head isn’t in this.”
Cornell’s eyes lingered on his father, wishing he had a muzzle in his back pocket to slap on him. He only hoped Mo didn’t take the bait.
“Man, c’mon with all this bullshit.” Mo downplayed him with a wave of his hand. He knew every step to this oil and water dance of theirs. “We’re here to do business, so get to it.”
Robert ground his teeth and held his head higher. “You wanna be treated and spoken to like a grown-ass man, then act like one. You got some shit on your chest, so speak your peace. If not, fix your fucking face and recalibrate your energy before you walk in my goddamn presence. You don’t get the luxury of not respecting me. You hear me, boy?”
The paper-thin dam holding Mo’s restraint imploded from the core. He knew what his father was doing, but he was flexing a new level of arrogance and disrespect that Mo couldn’t let go unchecked.
“Yo, muthafuck you and your energy!” Mo attempted to rise up, but Cornell reached over and restrained him while repeatedly telling him to chill out.
“Nah, Cee, I’m sick of this.” Mo tried to break free from his hold.
“Finally! We’re getting to an answer!” Robert taunted. “What are you so sick of, son?”
“Will you stop?!” Cornell yelled at his father, now using all his strength to hold down Mo who was becoming more unstable the more his father stood there with a condescending smirk on his face.
“This company ain’t shit without us! We handle your dirt! We bury your bodies! You the one that don’t get the fucking luxury of disrespecting us!”
Practically seeing him foam at the mouth, Clark rushed over and was now assisting in Cornell’s efforts from the opposite side of him.
“Oh, you wanna talk about dirt?” Robert snatched a set of papers from his desk. “Let’s talk about it then.” He held the document up for all three of them to see. They all recognized it as the standard NDA and sexual consent template used for extracurricular activities with women and attendees at their private parties.
Cornell quickly scanned the document, wondering what the issue could possibly be until he got to the signature line.
“Halle Berry?” Clark, who seemed to arrive at the same conclusion, looked over at Cornell.
Mo stilled when he noticed the name.
“Now I know you get your looks from me, but even I know you don�
�t have the game to pull that woman. Care to share with your brothers how you fucked up or would you rather I continue?”
Mo glared at his father but kept quiet.
“I’ll take that as a green light,” Robert smirked triumphantly. “Well, it would seem our dear Morris didn’t check to make sure one of his little red corvettes—or Hyundais in his case—properly signed her name. Imagine my surprise when I got a call from a livid Joel saying that the lawyer for a Miss Alexis Moore contacted him about a sexual assault lawsuit. You should’ve seen the asinine amount she was requesting to not take the case to court.”
The familiarity of the name made Cornell take a deep breath to refrain from smashing Mo’s head in. He knew it was the same woman who was more than eager to service him too.
“And you,” Robert homed in on Cornell, “You let this shit go down in your home without checking it out for yourself?”
Cornell was too pissed to answer. He honestly did trust Mo to handle his own business, but he should’ve double-checked for his own protection, especially when it involved Mo’s indiscretions.
“We’re not giving her any money, though, right?” Clark relaxed his hold on Mo, realizing he had significantly calmed down since learning of his error and looked to his father. “She was obviously targeting him.”
“I’ve already handled the situation but let me be very clear. You all can feel however you want to about me and how I conduct business, but I’d die before I’d allow anyone to tarnish the Gaines family name.” Robert glared at each of them. “You all included.”
The weight of those words struck them all the same. They were used to their father and his terrorizing ways, but what he’d just indirectly issued was a death threat. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out exactly how he “handled” the situation with Lex.
“From here on out, if there’s a meeting that you think you need to be at, your asses better be there and be on time. I don’t want my authority questioned in mixed company, and I don’t need any more of the fucking dramatics. You hate me? Cool. Write it in your fucking journal and keep the shit to yourself. Is that clear?”
Clark bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. He already had enough demons to fight. There was no room to add his father to that list. Cornell and Mo, however, weren’t as compliant. They each had specific reasons why their father didn’t have their respect and never would.
“Cornell...Morris...This isn’t negotiable.” He made his way back behind the desk and sat down. “Are you both clear on this?”
“We’re clear.” It felt like acid on Mo’s tongue. He chose to speak on his and Cornell’s behalf because he knew Cornell wouldn’t answer at all. Not while he was still seething about being blindsided by Mo’s fuck up.
Robert studied Mo and decided to accept his unenthusiastic response for his two oldest sons. Cornell was never the problem and, truthfully, was the only one he could rely on.
“Now,” Robert pulled out the paper profiles he created on all the key leaders in Rowe Industries, “Karl’s son, Justin, has his ear. We need his weaknesses, a list of all the shit he’s done, from running red lights to—”
“Can we reschedule this meeting for tomorrow?” Cornell interjected as he sat forward in his chair, tense and uneasy. “I got something I need to take care of.”
Normally, Robert would object and ask him if he’d lost his mind interrupting him, but the crazed look in his eyes was enough not to question his son any further.
“Tomorrow.” Robert leaned back against his chair, annoyed but calm. “Four o’clock.”
Cornell didn’t offer the formalities of a goodbye and made his way out of the office and through the front doors of the house.
“Yo, Cee. Hold up.” Mo caught up to him before he hopped into the awaiting backseat. Raymond spotted Cornell’s agitation the minute he approached the vehicle and took a few steps away to offer him and his brother some privacy.
“No need to do that, Ray.” Cornell’s eyes bounced over to him before he climbed in. “We don’t have shit to discuss right now.” He gave Mo a glance-over and pulled the door closed himself.
Mo stood there defeated as Raymond got into the SUV and pulled off.
“Back home?” Ray carefully drove the nearly half-mile path from the estate to the entry gates.
Cornell rubbed his hand over mouth, thinking about the mistakes his dad exposed, not of just Mo, but of him as the responsible leader. He was used to checking every box off when he did anything so he could avoid his scrutiny and yet, there it was again. It made him feel chaotic, and that was something he didn’t do well with. He needed to subdue it. The familiar urge was back, clawing at the pit of his stomach, and he was only certain of one way to deal with it.
“Nah, take me to Sinclair’s.”
CHAPTER 7
“Mr. Q.” One of the security guards stepped into Cornell’s path to the concierge desk. “Madam Sinclair would like to have a word with you.”
He should have expected this since this was his first time back since the incident with Anastasia, but he would have preferred to go straight to his room. The day had been trying enough with his dad in the equation, and besides that, management had given him everything but a new kidney to apologize for the Anastasia debacle. Madam Sinclair wanting to see him personally, however, did pique his interest. She was more of a name than the face of the business. He’d heard that seeing her was like spotting Bigfoot, and for that, he forced a respectful nod and followed the suited behemoth.
They walked an intricate route through the building and arrived at a dead-end of a long, empty hallway. Confused and now on high alert, Cornell watched the guard knock on a spot in the middle of the center wall. The entire panel shifted to the left, revealing a door and keypad that looked like the one at the main member entrance. He quickly punched in a code and when the door opened, he stood to the side to allow Cornell to enter.
Carefully, Cornell walked further into a more intimate parlor that could easily fit the scene in a game of a Clue with its oak wall panels, ornate light fixtures, and opulent furnishings. The loud slam of the door closing behind him made him halt his steps.
“No need to be alarmed.”
Cornell searched for the source of the raspy voice. From the corner of the dimly lit room, he saw her legs before her face, possibly due to the mid-thigh split of her black dress. She was positioned on a green Victorian chaise lounge with a red iPhone in her hand as if she was awaiting an artist to immortalize her beauty. A single, long braid, entirely wrapped in gold hair rings, fell past her cleavage. He could admit that he expected Madam Sinclair to be some pompous, middle-aged white woman with paid-in-cash D-cups and a stretched face, thanks to a heavy-handed plastic surgeon, but the vision before him was anything but that. Creole or mulatto, Cornell wasn’t certain, but he knew if they dug deep enough, her bloodline would probably intertwine with his.
“Are you sure about that?” Cornell moved closer. “Your security level has me worried about a Taliban attack.”
Madam Sinclair’s red lips parted into a smile. “I'm just prepared for the tantrums of the wealthy. Not everyone can handle the word no, especially coming from me. Please sit.” She motioned toward the green upholstered armchair across from her.
“Ahh…” Cornell unbuttoned his grey suit jacket before he sat. “You mean when they realize there are actually things their money can’t buy.”
“Precisely.” Madam Sinclair stared at Cornell, producing another smile. “Mr. Gaines.” She toyed with the phone in her hand. “I do hope that you forgive me for the inconvenience of an incompetent worker and for my interruption tonight. I invited you here to personally apologize and to also let you know how much we do value your membership with us.”
Cornell nodded his understanding even though it surprised him that she’d referred to him by his government name. “Trust me, you have an excellent management team that has gone above and beyond to show exactly that. I appreciate it all.”
Ma
dam Sinclair’s neck bowed. “And I hope this isn’t too much, but I also took the liberty of hand-picking a few girls I would deem your type as a suitable replacement.”
“My type?” Cornell's eyebrows rose. He always considered himself an equal opportunist with women as long as they smelled like shea butter or coconut oil.
“Yes.” The right corner of her mouth lifted in amusement at the subtle lost look on his face. “You didn’t think you had a type, did you?”
“Actually, no, I didn’t.” He leaned further back in the chair. “But now, I’m curious as to what you think my type is.”
“No need for further curiosity.” Madam Sinclair sat upright with her exposed leg now crossed over the other. “Take a look for yourself.” She held out her hand. Cornell understood the gesture and stood up, securely taking her hand to help her stand.
When she stood to meet him, they were nearly eye-to-eye and so close that he could smell a spicy cinnamon scent wafting off the deep v-cut display of her cleavage.
“It all makes sense now.” She gently brushed her index finger under his chin, observing his features like the specs on a sports car.
“What's that?” Cornell didn’t shy away from her touch although something about it felt off. She looked to be no more than a few years older than his thirty-seven, but her poise and the jewels hanging off her ears and fingers spoke of riches from another era. Not that he couldn’t be with an older woman, but she seemed way more seasoned than he would’ve liked. Either way, he never objected to being hit on by a beautiful woman.
“Anastasia's predicament.” She cupped his cheek with a mischievous gaze. “Come.” She took his hand and guided him a few feet from where there were seated. She brought her arm near her mouth and pressed a button that was buried under the rubies of her gold bracelets.