by Mason Dixon
“Excellent. Find me when this is over so we can exchange contact information. If I’m lucky, I might even be able to talk you into grabbing a nightcap. Does that sound good?”
The prospect was beyond thrilling. It had been a long time since she had taken a chance on something—someone—new.
“Yes,” Kenya said. On both counts.
Mackenzie moved one seat to her right, putting her directly across from the cat lover who’d had issues with Simone’s fondness for dogs. Mackenzie said she was far too busy to look after pets of any kind so she didn’t fare any better than Simone had. Kenya’s luck wasn’t much better. Almost from the opening salvo, she found she didn’t have anything in common with the architect she found herself paired with or the high school guidance counselor who followed. A few women caught her attention, including an artist in paint-splattered jeans who invited her to check out her gallery sometime, but she didn’t feel the same chemistry she had felt with Mackenzie. The all-important desire to see what might happen next was missing. As she tried to hold up her end of her conversations with the various women who sat opposite her, both her brain and her body were still buzzing from her mini-date with Mackenzie—and the very real possibility that there was more to come tonight, tomorrow, and perhaps the day after.
She was trying to figure out whether to wear something comfortable or something sexy to Mackenzie’s party when Simone claimed the vacant seat across from her.
“We meet again,” Simone said. “And this time, I get to ask the questions.” She rubbed her hands together as if she’d been waiting for the opportunity all night, making Kenya wonder what she had in store for her.
“I thought this experience was supposed to be about give and take.”
“That didn’t work so well for me last time so I decided to change things up. If that’s okay with you, of course.”
Kenya tried not to smile. Simone was so self-confident she didn’t seem to need much encouragement. Yet Kenya found her persistence appealing rather than off-putting. And it would have helped matters a great deal if she didn’t find it—or Simone—quite so irresistible. “I’m in your hands.”
Simone looked skeptical. “I doubt you intend to make it that easy for me, but I’ll remember you said that.” She cleared her throat as if preparing to deliver a speech. She had been all smiles all night, but she certainly wasn’t smiling now. “Before we begin, I want you to promise me something.”
“What?” Kenya asked warily. She wasn’t in the habit of making promises she couldn’t keep—or signing contracts without giving them a thorough read-through first.
Simone reached into the back pocket of her jeans, pulled out a folded sheet of notebook paper, and smoothed the wrinkles with the heel of her hand. She looked like she was about to pass Kenya a note asking her to check yes or no if she wanted to go steady, but it was much too soon to be making or accepting proposals of any kind. “I have twenty-one questions for you. We can’t get through all of them in ten minutes, obviously. Promise me that once we start, you’ll allow me to finish. No matter how long it takes. Do we have a deal?”
Simone reached across the table, and Kenya looked at her outstretched hand. Simone was obviously interested in her, but did she feel the same? Simone was attractive and funny, but the two of them were at different stages in life. Kenya was established in her career. Unless her lifelong dream was to be a bartender, Simone was still finding her way. What kind of future could they have?
If she agreed to Simone’s request, Kenya would be opening herself up to temptation by agreeing to see Simone again. And she might damage her chances of possibly making a go of it with Mackenzie, provided Mackenzie’s invitation to drinks turned into something more. But Simone’s proposition intrigued her and she was curious to see how the experiment might play out.
“Yes,” she said, taking Simone’s hand in hers, “we have a deal.”
*
Simone took a deep breath to calm her nerves. Part of her had expected Kenya to turn her down. Again. Instead, Kenya had said yes. Now she was truly on the spot. It was time to put up or shut up.
She scanned the list of questions before her. Which one should she ask first? Which should follow? And, most important, what would happen after she asked the last one? Would she and Kenya fall for each other as promised, or would the end of the list mean the end of them as well?
“Okay,” she said, trying to kick herself into gear as the timer clicked inexorably toward zero, “let’s get started.” She decided to save the heavier queries for later and selected something reasonably innocuous to break the ice. “Question one. If you could have dinner with any person, living or dead, who would it be?”
“Hmm.” Kenya sat back in her seat, her expression a mixture of fascination and confusion with a hint of surprise thrown in for good measure. “That’s a good question.”
Simone felt like patting herself on the back for having chosen wisely, but she didn’t have time for self-congratulation. She was too busy waiting to hear Kenya’s response to her question. When Kenya leaned forward as if she were about to spill a deep, dark secret, Simone moved closer in order to receive it.
“It would be tempting to name someone I’ve always considered a hero, but I would be reluctant to actually break bread with them for fear they wouldn’t live up to my expectations. If they didn’t turn out to be the person I thought they were, then who would I have to look up to?”
The wounded look in Kenya’s eyes hinted she had experienced a similar disappointment firsthand. Simone resolved not to provide the same letdown.
“With that in mind,” Kenya said, “I’d have to say I would prefer to have dinner with the man who conducted my first job interview. I was fresh out of college and eager to take on the world. I put on my best suit and showed up fifteen minutes early so my potential employer would be impressed by my appearance, my punctuality, and my work ethic. He started yawning halfway through the interview, barely glanced at the résumé I’d worked so hard to perfect, and told me in no uncertain terms I didn’t have what it took to make it in a corporate environment. He even suggested I should reconsider my career goals. I walked out of his office feeling like I wanted to cry.”
“What did you do?”
“I got angry.”
Simone couldn’t blame her. If she had been in the same situation, she would have been escorted out of the building in handcuffs instead of allowed to leave on her own. She didn’t like to settle arguments with her fists, but sometimes words could only get you so far. Her parents said there were other ways to get respect without having to fight for it. Maybe one day she’d be able to figure out how.
“Whether it was his intention or not,” Kenya said, “his rejection increased my drive to succeed. I don’t know if I would be where I am now without him. I’ve always wanted to thank him for that.”
“Before or after you told him to kiss your ass?”
“I wouldn’t put it in quite those terms,” Kenya said with a Mona Lisa smile, “but I would definitely remind him of our previous encounter at some point during the evening. What about you? Who would you like to have dinner with?”
“You.”
Kenya looked skeptical. “Out of anyone in the world, you would choose me? Why?”
“For the same reason you gave. The guy you just told me about underestimated you and you want to show him the error of his ways. I want a chance to do the same with you.”
“Simone—”
Simone held up a hand to stop Kenya’s protests before they could begin. “I’m not asking for a lifetime commitment, Kenya. All I’m asking for is a chance. Will you give me one, or have you already made up your mind about me? If you have, give me the opportunity to prove you wrong. I’m not just a bartender. I’m more than you think I am.”
“I’m sure you are, but—”
Kenya flinched when the buzzer chimed. Simone couldn’t tell if she was startled by the dissonant sound or the probing questions.
“Time
’s up, ladies,” Crystal said over the PA system. “Thank you for participating in our event. How many love connections were made tonight?”
As hands shot up all around them, Kenya pushed herself out of her seat as if she couldn’t wait to get away. “I have to go. Thank you for an interesting evening.”
“It doesn’t have to end here.”
“Yes, I’m afraid it does.” Kenya glanced toward Mackenzie, who was slowly making her way toward them with her assistant in tow. “Mackenzie and I have plans.”
“I see.” Simone thought she had made progress with Kenya during their mini-date. Gotten to see the real woman behind the polished corporate façade. But Kenya had apparently been humoring her because it was obvious she had decided Simone wasn’t worth her time. Simone wasn’t old enough, smart enough, or rich enough. In short, she wasn’t Mackenzie Richardson. She gathered her things and prepared to head back to work while Kenya and Mackenzie prepared to spend a night on the town.
“Thanks for stepping up the way you did,” Mackenzie said, giving Simone a fist bump. “I owe you one.”
“Just doing my job, boss. Have a good time tonight.” She turned to Kenya. “Don’t forget I have twenty questions left.”
And she intended to make each one count.
*
“Twenty questions?” Mackenzie asked. “What did she mean by that?” She placed a hand in the small of Kenya’s back and guided her away from the crowd of people milling around the dance floor. “I don’t have competition for your affections already, do I?”
Kenya shook her head. “She made a play, but I told her I wasn’t interested.” Even though the statement was true, it felt like a lie. Kenya was more interested in Simone Bailey than she was willing to admit. Nothing could come of a relationship with Simone, but that didn’t stop her from imagining the possibility. However brief the encounter might turn out to be.
“Simone doesn’t give up easily,” Mackenzie said. “Then again, neither do I.”
“Good to know.” Kenya leaned into the pressure of Mackenzie’s hand, finding comfort in the security it offered—and a bit turned on by the tremendous power it wielded. “Are you ready for that nightcap you promised me?”
Mackenzie grimaced. “I’m afraid I’ll have to reschedule, if you don’t mind.” She introduced the woman at her side, a young redhead who seemed more interested in texting on her smartphone than taking part in the conversation. “This is Gabby Dawson, my assistant.” Gabby nodded hello, but her flying fingers barely paused as she continued pecking away at her touch screen. “She’s just alerted me to a situation at my San Francisco property that needs my urgent attention. I don’t know how long it will take me to resolve the issue, so I wouldn’t dare ask you to wait around while I try to put out the fire. I will see you tomorrow for the White Party, though, won’t I?”
“Yes, of course.” Kenya felt like her former lovers must have each time she got caught up in a meeting that ran long or had to be on call to solve an unexpected crisis. Abandoned.
“Excellent.” Mackenzie gave Kenya a kiss on the cheek. Kenya breathed her in. Mackenzie smelled like citrus groves and sunshine. Like a warm breeze wafting over the Mediterranean. Kenya couldn’t get enough. She wanted more. She wanted. God, how long had it been since she was able to say that? Then Mackenzie pulled away and handed her a business card. “Here’s my contact information. My yacht is named La Dolce Vita and it’s docked at South Beach Marina. The party officially starts at five, but I’ll be on board most of the day to supervise the setup, so feel free to drop by whenever you like.”
“I’ll do that.” Kenya fingered the embossed letters on the business card, impressed by the clean, understated design. It was both classy and classic. Just like Mackenzie herself. “Do you mind if I bring a friend?”
“Of course not. The more, the merrier.”
“Good.”
Because Kenya needed backup for something like this. She needed someone with a level head to make sure she didn’t lose hers. She needed Celia. Bridget would not only allow her to do something stupid but encourage it in her ongoing attempt to get Kenya to loosen up. Celia’s well-honed maternal instincts, however, would prevent her from doing something she might enjoy tomorrow but regret the next day. She called Celia while she waited for the valet to retrieve her car.
“Tell Juan he’s babysitting the kids tomorrow. You and I have a party to attend.”
*
Simone felt restless after her shift. She started to find an after-hours club and a willing partner so she could dance herself into a better mood, but she decided not to. Tonight, she didn’t want to listen to music. She wanted to make it.
Music had been her salvation for as long as she could remember. It had gotten her through the bad times, chronicled the good ones, and made her believe the best moments were still to come.
Tonight, she needed music more than ever. An opportunity had slipped through her fingers and she knew it. The question was, would she ever get the chance again?
After she helped lock up at Azure, she climbed on her motorcycle and headed over to Liberty City Records. Andre “Dre” Williams, the label’s owner, had so many artists on his ever-growing roster that he practically worked around the clock. Simone knew that, despite the late hour, he would probably be huddled over a soundboard while a hungry rapper spat rhymes or a wannabe diva channeled her inner Beyoncé.
Simone made backing tapes for Dre in her spare time and remixed some of the artists’ singles so they could receive airplay on a wider variety of stations than the hip-hop and R & B-focused ones that normally played Liberty City Records’ music. She got a thrill each time she heard her music on the radio. She wished she could have that feeling all the time. Even though her family knew how much she loved music, they didn’t want her to make it her career because the music industry was anything but a sure thing. Artists and styles went in and out of favor all the time, they reasoned. The recipes for classic cocktails never changed. Simone could mix drinks anywhere, but could she anticipate music lovers’ tastes and give them what they wanted even before they knew they wanted it?
“There’s my girl,” Dre said after Simone submitted to the mandatory pat down at the studio’s front door. Liberty City Records was named for the rough-and-tumble Miami suburb most of the label’s artists called home. Some performers brought the ’hood with them when they walked through the door, resulting in the occasional shootout, stickup, and loud displays of machismo. Simone had learned long ago how to keep her head on a swivel in order to avoid danger. Because she wasn’t about to let anyone stop her from achieving her dreams.
“What’s up, Dre?” Simone gave him a hug and handed him a CD she had burned. “Here’s the remix I promised you.”
Dre cued up the CD and nodded his shaved head to the beat as the music poured through the oversized speakers mounted in each corner of the room. In the recording studio on the other side of the thick reinforced glass, a skinny kid whose gold crucifix weighed more than he did practiced his flow while his posse of friends passed a lit blunt back and forth. The smoke was so thick the room looked like it was being fumigated.
“That’s hot,” Dre said. “I love the reggae flavor you added to it. Keep that up and you’re going to start making some serious bank.” He reached into the pocket of his voluminous jeans and peeled five bills off a roll of hundreds. After a slight hesitation, he peeled off five more.
“What’s with the extra paper?” The thousand dollars in her hand would pay her rent for the next two months, which meant she could use her paycheck to buy the electronic drums she’d had her eye on since she spotted them in the music store a few weeks ago. But did the cash come with a catch?
“Consider it an advance.” Dre handed her a CD labeled Reagan. “Reagan Carter is my newest artist. She’s only twenty-two, but you can tell she’s already been through some shit and come out the other side. She sounds like someone twice her age.”
Simone pocketed the money before Dre coul
d change his mind and ask her to return it. Like most payments she received, this one was practically already spent. “What’s the problem?”
“I can’t find a signature sound for her. I need you to come up with a beat that highlights her voice instead of drowning it out. I don’t want her to sound like everybody else on the radio. I want her to sound like herself. When people hear one of her joints start playing, I want them to know it’s her right off the bat like Timbaland did for Missy Elliott and Aaliyah before her. I want this girl to shine. She could be the one who puts us all on the map.”
Dre said the same thing each time he signed someone new. This time, though, he truly seemed to mean it. When she took the CD home and gave it a listen, Simone understood why. Reagan’s voice was pure, but it had a raw quality to it, too. Like an uncut diamond before it finds its way into the hands of an expert jeweler. Despite her relatively young age, Reagan already had a style all her own. All she needed was the music to match. Simone wanted to be the one who created it for her.
She picked up some callaloo and pickled mackerel from the all-night Jamaican restaurant near her apartment to fortify herself. Then she parked herself in front of her digital keyboard, tossed the handful of phone numbers in her pocket into the trash, and put her frustrating encounter with Kenya Davis behind her. Then she lost herself in the one lover she could always depend on: music.
Chapter Three
Kenya stood in front of her open walk-in closet and tried in vain to find something to wear. She had plenty of clothes, if the vast array of blue, gray, and black power suits were any indication, but thanks to the all-white dress code, her options for today were limited to little more than a camisole, four T-shirts, and a pair of linen pants she hadn’t worn since a vacation to St. Lucia that had helped bring her previous relationship to an ignominious end. The pants were a definite no-go. She didn’t want that kind of bad mojo following her around today. Now that she was finally trying to make a new start, she needed to put the past behind her. She pulled the pants off the hanger and set them aside until she could swing by Goodwill and deposit them in the donation drop box.