by A. C. Arthur
Monica rubbed her hands over the binder once more, before handing it to Cheyna.
“The date is December 21st,” Monica stated. “It’s the first day of winter and will be the first day of our married life together.”
Cheyna opened the binder to see the date printed in gold script on a glossy white sheet of paper. She swallowed and looked up to Monica once more. “That’s two months from now.”
Monica lifted one elegantly arched eyebrow. “Yes it is. Will that be a problem for you?”
“No,” Cheyna quickly replied. “No. That won’t be a problem at all.”
“Good. Then you’re hired. We have a lot to get done in a short period of time. And everything has to be perfect.” Monica leaned forward in her chair. She gave Cheyna an excited smile and said happily, “I’m getting married!”
Logan Williams was not a statistic.
He never would be, unless they created a category for confident, strong and determined African American men who came from neighborhoods deemed to be dangerous but now held a six-figure paying job, owned a condo and a black Porsche Panamera. He also held a middleweight championship from the World Boxing Association, but his mother hated when he bragged about fighting.
With that thought, Logan aimed a few more punches at the heavy bag before backing away and taking a series of steadying breaths. He lifted his left hand to his face and used his teeth to unthread the laces on his glove. He’d just pulled the left glove off when someone tapped him on his shoulder.
Turning quickly, Logan took a step back prepared for whatever was to come. It took him a second to realize he wasn’t at the gym back in his old neighborhood in Brooklyn. This was the state-of-the-art fitness facility that spanned an entire floor in the building owned and occupied by The Masori Group, the public relations firm where Logan worked as a brand coordinator.
“Logan Williams?” the man dressed in a tailored charcoal gray suit asked.
His white dress shirt was crisp, the pale pink tie set off the dark tint of the suit and the look on his face was serious.
“Yes,” Logan replied. He tucked the left hand glove under his arm and began working the laces on the right hand glove. When that was done, he pulled that one off too. Logan tucked both gloves under his arm.
“I’m Paul Lakefield,” the man said. “I’d like to talk to you about handling a project for my company, the Lakefield Galleries.”
Logan wasn’t into art but he knew that Lakefield Galleries was tied to the Lakefield Foundation. Perry, Logan’s oldest brother, was the director of the Child First Organization in Brooklyn. That organization, along with eleven others received sizable donations from the Lakefield Foundation last year. The extra funding paid for field trips and more specialized events to be offered at Child First, all of which Logan and the rest of his siblings made a point to attend.
“Sure,” Logan replied. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to get cleaned up first. Then I’ll be able to totally dedicate my attention to your company’s needs.”
Paul Lakefield looked Logan up and down. His steely gaze moving in a totally judgmental fashion over the sweaty sleeveless t-shirt and the baggy red basketball shorts Logan wore. In those moments Logan was transported back fifteen years, to the days when he’d been a skinny thirteen year old, battling his way through the bigger kids in school, the guys who hung on the corner near his house and the teachers and cops who constantly told him he’d never amount to anything.
Logan squared his shoulders and held Paul Lakefield’s gaze. The guy could say yes or no, either way Logan was still one of the highest paid black men under thirty at The Masori Group. He had over a dozen clients whom he’d worked with successfully and had no doubt he would bring in more if Paul Lakefield decided to walk away at this moment. Although Logan was secretly praying that one of the most wealthy and influential black men in the city would actually hire him.
“Ten minutes,” the man replied. “I’m on a tight schedule this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir,” Logan said, holding back the huge sigh of relief. “If you’d like, you can go on up to my office. I’m on the fifth floor. Karen, my assistant, can get you settled until I return.”
“I’ll wait here. The clock is ticking, Mr. Williams.”
Logan nodded. “Yes. It is. I’ll be right back.”
Logan excused himself and jogged to the men’s locker room. Inside he hit the shower, came out and dressed in record time. He was in the mirror tying the navy blue and yellow striped tie he’d worn with his navy blue pinstriped suit today, reciting the words that had gotten him through college.
“You were born to be a king. Royal blood runs through your reins. Do not be deterred by the garbage on your streets or the names you might be called. You are a product of peace, integrity and righteousness.”
He finished the tie and pulled his jacket over his brood shoulders. With one hand he smoothed down the thick, but neatly trimmed beard he’d been sporting for the last year. Turning his head to the left and then the right, he checked the low cut sides and the inch and a half long-strands of hair on top of his head, recalling the time when he’d worn long dreadlocks to express his freedom. Logan reminded himself that he hadn’t given up that freedom when he’d chopped off the length to interview for this job. But, in fact, had shown his true propensity to lead after another stern, but caring, conversation with his mentor, Jack Kane.
With a shrug and one last look at himself in the mirror, Logan turned, grabbed his bag from the bench and headed out to meet the man that he was certain would take his career to the next level.
Five minutes after beating the time Paul Lakefield had given him, Logan sat comfortably behind his desk, and looked to the man seated across from him.
“Now, sir. How can I be of assistance to you?”
Paul Lakefield’s serious expression had not changed since the first second Logan had seen him, but Logan knew he was impressed. If he weren’t, he would have left by now.
“Call me Mr. Lakefield,” he began. “Times are changing, Mr. Williams. The galleries need to change with them.”
Logan had sent a quick text to his assistant when he was on his way out of the locker room. Karen was invaluable. When Logan sat at his desk, the home page of Lakefield Galleries was already on his computer screen. He glanced at it quickly and nodded.
“You have three locations now. The flagship gallery right here in Manhattan, as well as locations in Atlanta and San Francisco.”
“Yes,” Mr. Lakefield replied. “I also have three daughters. All grown-up now, following their own career paths and building families of their own.”
Logan was not familiar with that part, but did not let that break his stride.
“This is their legacy,” Mr. Lakefield continued. “And you want to ensure that it will stand the test of time and continue being fruitful for them and your grandchildren.”
Mr. Lakefield nodded his agreement. Inside, Logan glowed.
“Children are our future. I want to expand on that theme throughout the galleries.”
The wheels in Logan’s mind were already rolling. “Families take vacations to visit places like Disney World and famous beaches, why not to visit art galleries? History and culture can have the same allure as a talking mouse or sand and surf.”
“That is precisely my point.” Mr. Lakefield slapped a hand to his knee. “I want all new branding for the galleries to be in place by the first of the year. My oldest daughter is getting married in two months. She’s the last of my girls…”
His words trailed off and Logan watched the man closely. There was some emotion there. Sadness, pride, regret. The skin of his light complexioned face was covered with the sheen of success that not enough black men could attest to, and a weariness that many knew all too well.
“Family friendly, family focused, enriching our youth and preparing them for the world ahead. It’s a classic theme that can be tailored specifically to the galleries. We’ll focus on your already proven succes
s while opening the public’s eyes to the softer side of the Lakefields, the side that appeals to not only the art community, but to the everyday families as well.” Logan spoke with budding enthusiasm.
He added a smile to show compassion and not eagerness. Even though he was practically jumping for joy on the inside at the thought of this magnificent opportunity.
Mr. Lakefield gave a slight tilt of his head. He clasped his fingers together in front of him and surveyed Logan once more.
“I like you,” he said finally. “When I thought of this new direction I specifically wanted someone young and ambitious at the helm. I did lots of research and your name kept entering the ring.” He nodded again. “Yes. I like you a lot.”
“I’m flattered, Mr. Lakefield,” Logan said. “And I can have a proposal on your desk first thing Monday morning.”
Mr. Lakefield stood. He buttoned his suit jacket and grabbed his gray wool coat from the other chair he’d set it on.
“I want you to start right now. Have your assistant handle whatever contract formalities there are. But you get to work on this immediately. Monica’s wedding is in two months. She’s hiring a planner. Find out what the plans are and work them into our New Year’s launch. This is a new era for the Lakefields and I want the world to watch it unfold.”
Logan had also stood and while Mr. Lakefield talked, moved around his desk until he was now standing beside him. He helped Mr. Lakefield on with his coat and told him without pause, “Thank you for your confidence in me and The Masori Group. I’ll get started right away.”
“Good.” Mr. Lakefield replied.
He turned to Logan and extended a hand. Logan quickly accepted.
“Don’t let me down.” His tone was serious.
Logan shook his head. “I won’t, Mr. Lakefield. I promise.”
Chapter 2
“Yeah, I know it’s after business hours, but I told Lakefield I’d get started right away. I’m not going to begin this business deal with a lie.” Logan was speaking on the Bluetooth while he parked his car.
“I’m just saying they might be closed. You could have begun your work by doing more investigation into the man behind the company and the Lakefield family,” Jagger said.
Jagger West was the new Director of Marketing at The Masori Group. He’d claimed that spot just about a month ago when he returned from a leave of absence with two huge deals—The Westwind Ranch and Resort in Texas and Ty-Fitness Inc. a global fitness company owned by Jagger’s brother Tyler West. While he was not Logan’s immediate supervisor, Jagger was one of the only guys at The Masori Group that Logan trusted because they were each ambitious. Also, because now, Jagger would be the one to name the next Director of Branding at the company.
Logan wanted that job and he wanted it before he turned thirty. Telling Jagger about the Lakefield deal was step one to making that happen.
“I’m on that, too. Look, man, I got this,” Logan assured him.
He’d gotten out of his car and was already on the elevator to the third floor where the offices of Prestige Events and Productions was located.
“Check in with me later tonight with a full rundown of what you’re thinking. And then we should meet Monday morning. I want this to be flawless,” Jagger told him.
Logan nodded. “I’m with you on that. I’ll spend a little time with the event planner, get the logistics of this wedding and then head home to dive into more research. This is big, Jag, it’s really big.”
“You bet it is! And you know what it means if you pull it off.”
Logan knew exactly what it meant. He smiled as he walked confidently down the hallway to the suite.
“I do. I’ll catch up with you later,” he said.
“Tonight, Logan. I want a call back tonight.”
“Yeah, I hear you. I gotta go.”
He finished the call and disconnected the Bluetooth stuffing it into the slim leather briefcase he carried. Logan approached the frosted glass door with the company name in large silver script on front and paused.
Was that Beyoncé playing?
He touched the doorknob and it turned, so Logan walked in, assuming that meant they weren’t closed. The music was louder inside and he closed the door behind him. He looked around at the classy decorated reception area with its light wood planked floors and black and white striped rug. The reception desk was a sleek white lacquer that matched the six guest chairs with blue, yellow and green pillows in each. The company name was repeated on the wall behind the reception desk where there was no receptionist.
Logan walked along the space, admiring the pictures of various events, obviously planned by the company that were neatly displayed on the white walls. But as the music continued curiosity got the best of him and he walked toward the second of the two doors along the back of the office. The first door was open to a room with the lights turned off. The second had French doors, one of which was open, with the light on inside. Whoever was listening to the music was obviously in there.
He lifted a hand and knocked on that door before entering. Of course the knock went unheard because the music was so loud. Logan stepped inside and his breath caught.
Who Run the World filled the space with its booming beat and vocals. But it wasn’t the song that held him speechless. It was the woman who was at this very moment dancing to the song.
Black hair swirled around her head in wild strands as she moved, while her long legs performed choreography that appeared insanely close to the moves Beyoncé herself was known for. This woman moved in perfect rhythm. The dress pants and blouse that were obviously her work outfit, accommodated every motion without faltering. She was amazing and not only was Logan speechless at the moment, but he was almost positive that drooling was on the horizon.
He watched her move around the desk, coming to where two black guest chairs were positioned. She lifted a leg, touching the tip of a bright pink painted toe to the top back of the chair and leaned forward, dropping her head and then pulling it back as if she’d dipped it in water. Her hair swung back like a dark curtain. Her eyes were closed, mouth partially open and Logan swore it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. Her head rolled on her shoulders and she’d just begun mouthing the next words of the song when her eyes opened and she saw him.
She yelped and yanked her leg away from the chair in her effort to resume a normal standing position. This time her motions were too fast and not choreographed well at all. She stumbled back. Logan took a few quick steps across the room and wrapped his arms around her waist to keep her from falling. Her arms immediately went around his neck as her eyes widened with shock.
“Whoa there,” he said, his voice a little raspier than he’d intended.
She blinked and then lowered her arms, pressing her hands to his chest and pushing him away as she took a step back. “Who are you? I didn’t have any appointments. And we’re closed.”
Her words came quickly as she moved away from him to once again go behind her desk. She picked up a small black remote, pointed it somewhere behind him and the music stopped.
“Most people lock the front door when they’re closed,” Logan replied.
When she didn’t smile or respond, he continued.
“I’m Logan Williams from The Mosari Group.” He took a few steps until he stood directly across from her on the other side of the desk and extended his hand.
She looked at it blankly for a second before clearing her throat. When she accepted his hand for what should have been a cordial shake, heat spread quickly throughout Logan’s body. Swirling until it rested at his groin where all the other excitement had centered.
“Cheyna Dansfield,” she said before pulling her hand away. “You do know that this is an event planning company?”
“I know that I may have just interrupted what looked like quite an interesting event,” he joked.
Again, no smile, no other reaction but to blink as if she were trying to decipher his words.
Realizing his charm was cl
early not working on this woman, Logan quickly reverted to business.
“I’ve been hired to rebrand the Lakefield Galleries and was told that you are planning the wedding of Monica Lakefield. I was hoping to get some preliminary logistics for the event so that I can work it into our campaign.”
Logan reached into his briefcase and pulled out a notepad and pen. He set the bag on the side of the guest chair and took a seat.
Cheyna Dansfield was still standing and still looking confused. Her hair was a wild mass framing a narrow face with whiskey-colored eyes and alluring lips.
“You are planning the Lakefield/Bennett wedding, correct?”
She moved slowly, lowering herself into the chair behind her desk. “How did you know that? And what does the gallery have to do with this wedding?”
Logan understood her questions. From the preliminary research Karen had done, he knew that the date for Monica Lakefield’s wedding had just been announced last week. Her years’ long engagement to Alexander Bennett, CEO of Bennett Industries, had once been the talk of the society pages. But as the engagement had stretched on longer, some had begun to assume that a wedding would never take place. They were apparently about to be proven wrong.
“My client, Paul Lakefield, hired me to handle the rebranding of the galleries. He’s looking for a more family-oriented approach. With that in mind it stands to reason that the first focus on family would fall onto his oldest daughter’s upcoming wedding. Especially since Monica is also the manager of Lakefield Galleries in Manhattan,” he told her.
She’d lifted a hand to smooth down her hair while he’d talked, as if she’d just remembered how it must look after her dance-a-thon. A part of him wanted to tell her it looked fantastic. The way he assumed it would look after a particularly sweaty and boisterous round of sex.