“Hopefully we’ve opened your eyes to some new possibilities today.”
My session was almost over. But instead of feeling like I’d found some solutions, I felt like Dr. Fenton had helped me pry open a big can of worms. And instead of the relief that I’d felt as I walked in forty-five minutes ago, I felt more confused than ever.
THREE
The hot sun was shooting down from the skylight in the office of my modeling agency, making me feel like I was literally in the hot seat. Financially, anyway. Because as I sat at my desk, every bill I reviewed only filled me with more panic. We just didn’t have enough money to cover the basic expenses of rent, utilities, phone, and Internet, and the few subcontractors we were still using.
White envelopes and bills stamped overdue! in red ink blanketed my work space. It was only paper, but it seemed like the weight of our modeling agency’s financial burden was threatening to crack the glass-topped desk and bend its shiny chrome legs. The papers surged up in a mess around my desktop computer, like waves trying to engulf it.
In my gray leather chair, I spun around to the credenza behind me. I flipped through my Rolodex, then scrolled through the contacts on my phone.
Somehow, some way, I just had to score some cash to keep my dream business alive. And it wasn’t all about Bentley L. Dean III. It was about the struggling models that depended on me for jobs to pay their rent and eat.
“Bentley?” my assistant called as she knocked softly on the open door.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice sounding more irritated than I intended. I sliced open yet another envelope with my sleek chrome letter opener that resembled a silver dagger. Damn, I sure hoped Laura wasn’t coming in with an armful of today’s mail. That would only mean more bills.
“Bentley? Excuse me? But there’s a man in the lobby? Sterling Sneed?”
I slammed the letter opener on the credenza and spun around. “Girl, I told you to stop making everything sound like a question. Declare it. Say it like you own it.”
Laura’s twenty-something, cappuccino-hued face turned milk white. Wearing skinny white leggings, ballerina slippers, and a loose turquoise top, she froze. The shock in her eyes made me realize I must have sounded like a bear.
“I’m so sorry, Laura,” I said, shaking my head. “These bills—”
“It’s okay,” she said, fingering her shoulder-length braids, “everybody I know is like totally freaking out about money, too. Oh, and I’m working on the way I talk.” She laughed nervously. “Just habit, I guess.”
“You can handle the office like nobody’s business, Laura, but you need to sound more businesslike. Like Alex. Listen to her,” I said, referring to my business partner of five years.
“Okay,” she said, “I will.”
“Now, who is this, somebody I don’t know, who’s out in the lobby without an appointment but wants to see me?”
“Sterling Sneed,” Laura said. “He said it’s really important that you talk with him now.” She glanced at the mess of bills. “Maybe he can help?”
“That would be the answer to my prayers,” I said. “Did he say what he wants?”
“I tried to find out,” Laura said, “but he insisted that he could only talk to you.”
“Does he look crazy?”
“More like he just stepped off the pages of GQ and into like, a corporate boardroom,” Laura said. “I think his suit could pay my rent for the rest of the year.”
“Laura, you know I only see people if they have an appointment,” I said. The time in the upper-right corner of my desktop computer said 11:40 A.M. “Besides, I have a lunch date at noon. How much time does he say he needs?”
Laura shook her head and raised her arms out slightly, sending a gust of patchouli oil scent my way. “He didn’t say. You want me to ask him? I’m sorry for sort of breaking with protocol, but he looks like someone you’d want to see. Either rich or important or both.”
I had nothing to lose, and about fifteen minutes to spare. It was either take another torturous dive back into that tidal wave of bills, or talk with this man.
“Send him in,” I said, buttoning the top of my baby blue dress shirt that I wore with pleated navy trousers and loafers. As Laura left, I gathered the bills into a neat pile and tucked them into the top drawer of the credenza. A messy desk, Father used to say, was the sign of a cluttered mind, and a cluttered mind was too clogged to let success take hold. Suddenly I remembered how, when he’d take me to his grand office overlooking downtown Detroit, he would always clear his desk before seeing a visitor. And his secretary had strict orders to declutter the entire office, every evening.
Now, my back was to the door when I heard a deep voice say, “Mr. Dean, I presume?”
I turned around, looking into the face of a tall, slim African American man who was extending his hand toward me.
I shook his firm grip. “And you are?”
“Sterling Sneed,” he said with cocky confidence. With mocha skin and a close-cropped black beard and hair, he had dark eyes that were slightly slanted. Before I could offer him a seat, he gracefully sat in one of the white leather armchairs facing my desk, then crossed his leg so that his expensive pant leg draped elegantly over his dress sock and shiny oxford leather wing tips that matched his belt.
My inner voice sounded an alarm: He’s dressed like a banker! My heart raced. Was he here to evict us? Tell me we’d defaulted on our line of credit? Or was he offering some special new financing to bail out small business owners?
I took a deep, calming breath as I walked around the desk and assumed the dominant position in my office. I felt in control behind my gleaming desk that, with the rest of the furniture in our office suite, had consumed far too big a chunk of our budget back when I thought business would always be booming.
“Thanks for seeing me,” Mr. Sneed said, crossing his hands on his lap. The bright sunshine accentuated the shininess of his manicured fingernails and the diamonds on the face of his gold watch. That was too flashy for a banker.
“What company are you with, Mr. Sneed?”
He tilted his head as if he were in charge. “That’s not important, Mr. Dean. This is a private matter.”
I was the epitome of cool and controlled when I said, with an almost blasé tone, “First of all, Mr. Sneed, I don’t usually see people without an appointment. Secondly, I don’t meet with people until I know who they are, where they’re from, and what they want.”
“Then why are you seeing me now?”
“I’m starting to wonder that myself,” I said. “I have a business to run. I don’t have time to play guessing games. And I don’t think I have any private matters to discuss with you.”
Mr. Sneed leaned forward as if he were about to give me a winning lottery ticket. His face lit up as he said, “I have a possible engagement for your agency.”
Did he have any clue that my agency was on financial life support? With the Internet these days, was he from some unscrupulous company that could tap into records and see the bank had closed my line of credit? Or that I was behind on some of our bills? I studied his face for hints.
“A very lucrative engagement,” he said with a sly smile. “And if you do the first event, well, there is a chance for substantially more business.”
Fairy godfather or deal with the devil? I still wasn’t sure. But if he was talking money, I was listening. A sleazy proposition, however, would earn him an immediate eviction from my office.
“Mr. Sneed, I’m listening.” My somewhat impatient tone let him know that I wasn’t easily impressed. And surely not one to get suckered. “We’re in business for big engagements. Tell me, how did you hear about our firm?”
“I did some checking,” he said, looking hard into my eyes, “and my client and I have decided that you’re the best firm for this job.” The way he said “my client” with emphasis made it sound like he was talking about the president.
“And what, may I ask, is the job?”
The corners o
f his mouth rose, but he wasn’t smiling. It was more like a Cheshire grin, or the cat that was about to swallow the canary and try to play it cool. And that always spiked my internal distrust meter into the red zone.
Mr. Sneed’s voice deepened as he declared, “I need fifteen of your best-looking men. They must be gay, bi, or very open-minded.”
I said flatly, “I don’t have any bigots working for me.”
“There is more,” he said, delighted with himself.
“About the assignment?”
“Yes.” His tone was so upbeat, as if he were offering me the most irresistible deal of the century. “My client requires that each of the models selected will have to sign a nondisclosure agreement. It states they will not discuss any of the guests or anything that goes on at the event. Ever.”
I leaned back in my chair, squaring my shoulders. What was this man asking me to do?
“What’s the event?”
Mr. Sneed really smiled this time. His teeth were small and his thin lips glistened as if he’d just put on lip balm. “It’s a very high-profile party with guests who are very discreet. Your models will have the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to interact with some of the most powerful men in the country.”
“Interact with,” I repeated flatly. I had been in the modeling business and in Miami long enough to know exactly what was up. But the promise of money to fix our financial mess kept me listening and hoping that I was wrong. If business had been booming, I would have straight up asked him if my models were expected to have sex with these guys. But today, I only vaguely admitted to myself, my monetary neediness softened my approach. I needed to listen intently to what he wanted before I made a judgment.
“Mr. Sneed, what will be expected of my models?”
He extended his folded hands to his knee. “Our expectations are simply that your models enjoy the evening as grown men. It’s a private gathering where discretion is the utmost priority. Your models will act accordingly, with full understanding that they are, to put it bluntly, ‘eye candy.’ ”
“Eye candy,” I repeated. “Anything else?”
“Indeed,” Mr. Sneed said. “We want them to dress to a tee. We’ll provide money for clothes, which they will get to keep. They need to look good and like they belong. We don’t want any youngsters and bois with their pants dragging to the point that we can see if they wear boxers or briefs. Do you understand?”
“I think I do.” My inner voice was repeating my mother’s mantra, If it sounds too good to be true, it is. I had heard about parties like this where high-powered men who played straight to the world invited in a bevy of boi toys for their private pleasures. Still, I had to find out more. “What is the age limit? Are you looking for a particular type of guy?”
Mr. Sneed nodded. “I would say at least twenty-one and with very nice bodies. That’s why we came to you. I did my homework and found that you are one of the best in town when it comes to our type.” Then he spoke as if he were ordering off a man menu: “We would prefer black, Hispanic, or even Cuban, guys, as long as they speak English. And we’d like a few light-skinned brothers and some dark-skinned ones, too.”
I loved that my agency’s reputation on the Miami modeling scene had brought him here. But this was reminding me of that proposition I’d gotten when I’d first gone into business. A hip-hop mogul sent his representative to me to “order” two dozen hunks of every race to attend his yacht party. The catch? He said, point-blank, that the men would be generously paid for any “additional services” that they would be “expected” to provide during the moonlight cruise.
That was one deal—despite the bricks of Benjamins that he was offering me—that I said without hesitation, “No, thank you.”
But right now, Mr. Sneed was making his offer sound legitimate.
I cast a hard stare at Mr. Sneed. “Are you asking me to supply guys for sex? Because if you are, Mr. Sneed, I think you’ve found the wrong agency. We’re not in that type of business,” I said firmly. “This is a modeling agency. Not a gigolo service.”
He shifted on his chair and chuckled. “No, that’s not what I’m asking. Did I mention that each guy will receive a $2,500 clothing allowance in addition to a flat fee for the night? It’s absolutely imperative that they have the proper attire.”
I studied his eyes; he never looked away. “Will I be able to see the guest list?”
He shook his head. “Our client list is very discreet. So the answer is no. Besides many of our guests will be using aliases. They are quite reserved and guarded when it comes to meeting new people.”
I asked more firmly, “Will your client expect sex from my models?”
“No, Mr. Dean. But like I said, we need adults who can make adult decisions.”
“So there’s an age requirement?”
Mr. Sneed ran his fingers over his diamond-faced watch. “We don’t want anyone under twenty-one. And we will pick the models that you invite.”
“I don’t know if I have fifteen guys who fit your description,” I said, typing into my keyboard to call up our online catalogue.
“Can’t you do what they call a casting?”
“Yes, I can do that,” I said, staring at the handsome faces on the screen. “I have several who meet your criteria but a casting is a good idea.”
Mr. Sneed smiled. “So do we have a deal?”
I focused on the screen, loving those buff bodies and stylish clothes that earned my agency its excellent reputation. “I need to get more details and talk this over with my partner. When do you need a decision?”
“The party is in two weeks.”
I met Mr. Sneed’s probing stare and asked, “Where is the party?”
“On Star Island. If you take this engagement, then I will give you the address.”
“Will I be able to do a site visit?”
“A site visit? What is that?”
“I would actually visit the place where my models are scheduled to appear,” I said. “It’s a standard practice in the industry. So I know what to expect.”
“Sure,” Mr. Sneed said, “that’s fair.”
“And will we be able to put a time limit on how long my models are expected to stay?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “But they will have to be on time.”
“Alcohol,” I said, going down my mental checklist as I did for every assignment. “I prefer that my models not drink alcohol on the job. Are they expected to drink?”
“Sure.”
“What if I don’t want them to do that?”
“What’s a cocktail or two for a grown man?” Mr. Sneed flashed that cat-eating-the-canary smile again. “Alcohol is not a deal breaker, but I think we should just let the guys be who they are. We’re talking about adults. Right?”
Normally I would demand a no-alcohol clause in the deal. But a sudden surge of excitement shot through me as I realized this could be the answer to our financial crisis. “I guess you’ve got a point,” I said. “Now tell me more specifically how you found out about my agency?”
Mr. Sneed looked around at my office walls, which were covered with silver-framed eight-by-tens of my models’ head shots. Above my credenza were three silver-framed posters of huge campaigns we’d done for a jeans company, a designer perfume, and a local gym.
“Your work speaks for itself,” Mr. Sneed said. “And we let our fingers do the walking through the phone book of who’s who in Miami modeling. Every time we asked which agency would most likely have the kind of men we’re looking for, the answer was Picture Perfect. Every time.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” I said, wondering if I should believe this is as the truth or dispel it as a flattery-will-get-you-everywhere tactic.
My tone remained strictly business. “And will I be able to get information on your client?”
“Mr. Bentley,” he said with a tone like I had no clue who I was talking to, “let me assure you that my client is one of the most important men in the world. He is first-class.”
So was the hip-hop mogul who wanted my guys to work as sex toys at his yacht party. I didn’t care how much money they were offering. Today, however, I did. I hated that it was my major motivator for even considering a deal that had too much gray area between the black-and-white facts of the business deal.
“How will we be paid?” I asked.
“We will pay fifty percent once the contract is signed,” he said proudly. “The balance would be paid the day of the event.”
So maybe this was a legit affair. I mean, except for my music mogul experience, when was the last time I’d heard of anyone having a legitimate business contract for call bois? That kind of thing was never documented with paperwork.
I wanted to smile, but I didn’t. My best poker face masked my excitement. Maybe the goose that laid the golden egg had just landed on South Beach. At Picture Perfect. In my office.
“I’ll need to discuss this with my partner,” I said coolly. “And I’ll have to do a casting.”
“How long will that take?” Mr. Sneed snapped. “We’re working with a short time line. We need to make sure that you’ll be able to deliver.”
“Trust me, Mr. Sneed. If we take this engagement, then we’ll deliver.” I stood. So did he, extending his hand to shake across my desk.
“I don’t doubt that one bit, Mr. Dean. Here is my card with both of my cell numbers. I’d like to hear from you within twenty-four hours. Is that possible?”
I walked around my desk and took the card. “I’ll give it my best shot.”
We stood a few feet apart as I continued to assess his believability. Father used to always say, “When in doubt, don’t.” But the doubt that I felt hinged on one thing: whether my models would be propositioned for sex, and whether that was Mr. Sneed’s secret intention. Then again, how many times had I sent models off on shoots where perhaps they were propositioned for sex—in exchange for money, favors, or gifts—but they never told me about it?
“Your best shot,” Mr. Sneed echoed. “I guess that’s all I can ask for.” He tipped his head toward me.
In My Father’s House Page 3