by Mason Dixon
Rafaella Cocconi Richardson, Mackenzie’s mother, dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and pushed her chair away from the table. “Kenya, would you like to take a walk with me?”
The request sounded more like a command than a question. Kenya felt compelled to respond in the affirmative. “Of course.”
Michael and Mackenzie stood in unison. “I think that’s our cue to fire up some Cohibas, don’t you?” he asked.
“Sounds good to me.”
Apparently sensing Kenya’s discomfort, Mackenzie caught her eye and gave her a nod. Kenya felt a growing sense of solidarity. Whatever this was, at least she and Mackenzie were in it together.
Rafaella had been a ballerina before she met Michael and abandoned hours spent at the barre for a life of luxury. Kenya could see the lasting influence of Rafaella’s former profession in the straight lines of her back and shoulders and the gracefulness in her gait as she walked from the dining room to a glass-filled sunroom bathed in lunar rather than solar light. Rafaella flipped a switch that added muted artificial light to the room. When Kenya looked at the stars overhead, she felt like an astronaut floating in space.
“It’s so peaceful here.”
“Isn’t it?” Rafaella sat on an overstuffed divan and invited Kenya to do the same. “Don’t worry. I didn’t bring you in here to bombard you with a slew of personal questions that are none of my business. Mackenzie doesn’t involve Michael and me in her personal affairs and, to be frank, I prefer it that way. She’s a grown woman. She’s free to do what she wants.”
“Then why am I here?”
Rafaella’s smile was filled with a mixture of pride and love. “Mackenzie and Michael are so much alike they could be clones. If I didn’t have the stretch marks to prove I carried her inside me for nine months, I would be tempted to believe he gave birth to her instead of me.” She folded her hands in her lap like she was performing the lead role in Swan Lake. “I brought you in here to give them time to smoke a cigar or two and compare their latest acquisitions.” She eyed the bracelet on Kenya’s arm. “Is that what you are, Mackenzie’s latest acquisition?”
Kenya bristled at the question. “I’m not for sale,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.
Rafaella looked at her long and hard. “No, I don’t think you are. I’ve never tried to dictate whom Mackenzie should and shouldn’t date, but I have made it clear I would prefer if she spent time with someone of substance rather than the steady procession of models, actresses, and image-conscious fashionistas who only want to receive a few trinkets and get their pictures in the paper while they dream of a lavish wedding that will never take place. Those relationships are disposable and Mackenzie treats them as such. I’m not surprised. She’s addicted to conquest. Always has been. Her father’s influence, I’m afraid. He’s like a junkie chasing the next high. For him, his drugs of choice are the next property, the next business deal, and the next woman.”
Kenya was surprised to hear Rafaella use the present tense instead of the past. “But you’ve been married for almost forty years. Didn’t his skirt-chasing end when he met you?”
Rafaella barked a laugh that sounded even more toxic than a smoker’s cough. “Michael has money and power, two aphrodisiacs that are potent enough to compel more than a few women to ignore the wedding band on his finger. I’m not foolish enough to think I’m the only woman in his life. I’m just the one he comes home to. And Mackenzie, as has been proven many times over, is her father’s daughter. Before you commit to a life with her, I advise you to be sure it’s one you’re willing to live with. Do you love her enough to share her with someone else? Because believe me when I say there will always be someone else.”
The warning bells that had gone silent in Kenya’s head began to blare louder than ever before. Was Mackenzie with her because she wanted to be, or because she wanted someone “acceptable” on her arm so she could please her parents?
“Are you okay?” Mackenzie asked after they bade her parents good night and climbed into the back of the limo.
“No, we need to talk.”
“You’re scaring me.” Frowning, Mackenzie took her hand in hers. “What did my mother say to you?”
“Nothing I haven’t heard before, but there are some things I need to hear from you.”
“Of course. I have to swing by Azure to address an issue that just came up, but it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. Then we can talk for as long as you want.”
Kenya didn’t know whether to go or stay. She didn’t want to walk away from a relationship that had seemed to hold such promise at the outset, but she didn’t want to be a trophy wife in constant competition for Mackenzie’s affections. She couldn’t spend each day wondering if the business meeting Mackenzie said she was attending was nothing more than a cover story for a romantic tryst with someone new. She didn’t want to be the other woman. She wanted to be the only one. If Mackenzie couldn’t give her that assurance, she would find someone who could. No matter how long the search might take.
*
The light had gone out of Kenya’s eyes. That was the first thing Simone noticed when Kenya and Mackenzie walked into Azure. The second was the gorgeous bracelet around Kenya’s wrist. A piece of bling like that must have cost Mackenzie a pretty penny. Based on the look on her unsmiling face, however, Kenya was the one paying the price.
“Old-fashioned?” she asked after Kenya made her way to the bar.
“Make it a double.”
“Rough night?” Simone reached for a bottle of bourbon. She wanted to ask Kenya how dinner with Mackenzie’s parents had gone, but the answer seemed pretty obvious. Not well. Not well at all.
Kenya blew out a sigh. “Ask me again when it’s over.”
Simone almost offered to serve as a sounding board, but she could tell from the uneasy vibe coming from Kenya that Mackenzie was the one she needed to talk to, not her.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Mackenzie said when she finally joined them. “My loss is Liberty City Records’ gain.”
Kenya looked from Mackenzie to Simone and back again. “Am I missing something?”
Mackenzie looked almost gleeful when she said, “According to the text I received earlier tonight, Simone has turned in her notice. She’s leaving the fold to take a crack at the music biz. Didn’t she tell you?”
Kenya didn’t answer. Instead, she posed a question of her own. “When did you decide this?”
“Today,” Simone said. Unlike Mackenzie, she wasn’t keeping anything from her. Well, one thing, but she had almost managed to convince herself that not mentioning Mackenzie’s dalliance with Fernanda was for Kenya’s own good. Almost. “Dre offered me a producing gig and I couldn’t turn it down.”
“Will he be paying you more than I do?” Mackenzie asked as if she thought a raise might provide enough incentive to convince her to stay.
“Not at first, but some things aren’t about money.”
“Don’t be naïve,” Mackenzie said. “When it comes down to it, everything’s about money. But if you’re willing to make less of it in order to do what you love, that’s your decision. For your sake, I hope it won’t be one you’ll end up regretting.”
“I’m happy for you,” Kenya said genuinely. “It takes a lot of guts to follow your dreams.”
“What’s your dream?” Simone ignored their audience and focused on Kenya. “Question eleven. What do you want most out of life?”
Kenya’s eventual response was directed at Simone, but it seemed to be more for Mackenzie’s benefit.
“I want to love someone and be loved in return. I want to give my heart to someone without worrying about having it broken. And I want to prove that happy endings can exist outside of children’s books, romance novels, and cheap massage parlors.”
“I hope all your dreams come true,” Simone said, but she hoped even more that Kenya wasn’t counting on Mackenzie to help her fulfill them.
*
As sh
e walked through the foyer into the living room, Kenya felt like she was seeing Mackenzie’s house through new eyes. Compared to the tasteful Old World charm of her parents’ home, Mackenzie’s screamed nouveau riche. She had bought it from a former member of the Heat, the professional basketball team that called Miami home. The house had been put on the market after the four-time All Star had opted out of his contract with the Heat in search of a better deal with the Lakers. Mackenzie had snatched it up when the exorbitant price tag was sliced in half after the sprawling house spent more than a year on the market. She had done some redecorating, but she had left most of the oversized bells and whistles intact, including the eight-foot tall walk-in showers, thirty-seat movie theater, four-lane bowling alley, and Olympic-sized pool. The beds were new, but each was large enough to accommodate an NBA center—or several regulation-sized women.
Kenya tried to tell herself the women who had preceded her in Mackenzie’s bed didn’t matter. She tried to tell herself that she would be the last woman in the seemingly endless string. But, as she recalled the conversation she’d had with the woman who knew Mackenzie best, she had a hard time believing either argument.
“Do you love her enough to share her with someone else?” Rafaella had asked. “Because believe me when I say there will always be someone else.”
Kenya cleared her throat to get Mackenzie’s attention. Mackenzie had been glued to her cell phone since they left Azure. If she wasn’t sifting through emails or typing texts, she was making calls to put out feelers for a new bartender to take Simone’s place. A few hours ago, she had promised to let her general managers handle any issues that arose tonight. That promise was already being broken. How many others might follow?
“Mackenzie, we need to talk.”
“I know.” Mackenzie continued to peck away at the digital keyboard on her phone. “I’m almost done. Gabby already has a lead on a potential replacement for Simone. If it works out, I’ll get to steal a valued employee from one of my competitors and fill a need at the same time. I call that a win-win situation. For me, at least. Scotty might not feel the same way when she finds out her most popular bartender will be coming to work for me, but she’ll get over it in time.” She shook her head as if in disbelief. “I still find it strange Simone didn’t tell you she was quitting. The two of you are practically joined at the hip. Sometimes I wonder if there are three of us in this relationship instead of two. I’m not opposed to a ménage down the line if you’re interested, but I’d rather keep you to myself for a while.”
“How generous of you.” Kenya pulled the phone from Mackenzie’s hands and powered it off. “Speaking of relationships, your mother had some interesting things to say about the one she and your father share.”
“I assume she told you about their ‘understanding.’” Mackenzie put air quotes around the word. “If she did, that would explain why you looked so shell-shocked after your meeting with her. I’m sure you weren’t expecting to hear she and my father have an open relationship. I would have told you myself, but I didn’t expect the subject to come up tonight.”
“Is that the kind of relationship you want? One that exists in name only?”
“My parents’ marriage might not seem conventional by most people’s standards, but I assure you it’s real,” Mackenzie said hotly. “You don’t spend forty years with someone you don’t love. My father might have a weakness for beautiful women—and who can blame him—but he loves my mother to the moon and back. She feels the same way about him. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have agreed to marry him in the first place.”
“You make falling in love sound like a business deal.”
Mackenzie shrugged. “Everything’s open for negotiation, especially love.”
Kenya refused to take a clinical view of a subject that provoked such passion. She and Mackenzie seemed to have so much in common. How could they be so far apart on the one thing that counted the most? “You and I view relationships differently. I get that. Whether one view is better than the other is a matter of opinion.”
“And you’ve made your opinion abundantly clear. But do me a favor. Leave my parents out of this. The issue you’re having at the moment is between me and you. Or should I say the issue lies with you?”
“Me? How?”
“I’ve owned up to my past rather than trying to deny it. I’ve told you that I’ve changed. Other than strap on a chastity belt, I don’t know what else I have to do to convince you I’m not running around on you. I’m not your ex, Kenya.”
“I’m not comparing you to Ellis.”
“Aren’t you?”
Kenya took a breath to keep the situation from spinning completely out of control. Once—just once—she wanted a relationship that was drama-free. She would gladly do without the mind-blowing make-up sex if it meant she could avoid the disagreements that preceded it and the inevitable heartache that followed. “I’m not trying to start a fight with you, Mackenzie,” she said evenly. “I just want some answers. Are you seeing me because you’re interested in me or because you need me to make you look respectable? Are you looking for the kind of relationship where you’re free to see who you want while I sit at home wondering if the next affair might turn into something more, or do you want something different? Because if we don’t want the same things, we should cut our losses now and end this before either of us gets in too deep.”
“Too late. I’m already in deeper than I’ve ever been.” Mackenzie pulled Kenya into her arms and held her tight. “Would you be amenable to an open relationship?”
“No,” Kenya said without hesitation.
“Then why would I ask you to change who you are in order to be with me?”
“Because you’re your father’s daughter.”
“Yes, I am, but I’m also my mother’s.”
“Which means?”
“I can’t perform a decent plié to save my life, but I can make my own pasta.”
Mackenzie’s smile was endearing, but Kenya refused to let down her guard. “I’m serious.”
She tried to pull away, but Mackenzie held her fast.
“So am I. You’re good for me and I don’t want to lose you. Stay with me, Kenya. I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts.” Mackenzie gently pressed a finger against Kenya’s lips. “After we win the dance competition next weekend, we should celebrate with a bottle of red wine and a plate of my homemade manicotti, followed by breakfast in bed.”
Kenya had become more comfortable performing the routine she and Mackenzie had been practicing for weeks, but she wasn’t looking forward to performing it for an audience. If given a choice, she would prefer to spend next Saturday night in Mackenzie’s kitchen instead of on the dance floor. “Why don’t we skip the competition and dive straight into the wine and manicotti?”
“Because I don’t want all our hard work to go to waste. And I want to show you off. Everyone in the room will be drooling when I walk in with you on my arm, but at the end of the night, you’ll be going home with me.”
When she was with Mackenzie, Kenya had never had felt so desired. One look—one kiss—one touch from Mackenzie was all it took to set her body on fire. It was when they were apart that the doubts crept in. Was Mackenzie in this relationship for the right reasons? Was she? She should end this before—
When Mackenzie kissed her, Kenya felt her resolve weaken. She felt her misgivings about their relationship fade. Just like they always did each time Mackenzie’s lips met hers. As the kiss deepened, she tried to convince herself to stop worrying about the past and the future and live in the moment.
“Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a gift,” she said, looking into Mackenzie’s eyes. “That’s why we call it the present.”
“I’d like to unwrap my present now, if you don’t mind.” Mackenzie pulled Kenya toward her bedroom. “I want you naked except for the bracelet I bought you.”
Keny
a couldn’t think of a better way to put the evening to rest. If she was lucky, perhaps her mind—and her heart—would follow suit.
Chapter Eight
“Are you seeing anyone?”
Simone nearly choked on her green tea. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not trying to get with you, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Reagan said. “We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, and I want to make sure some jealous girlfriend, wife, or significant other doesn’t show up at the studio wanting to put the beatdown on me because I’m cutting into your quality time with her.”
“I invited you here to talk about your career, not my personal life.”
“You’re the boss.”
Simone never dreamed she’d hear that particular B word used in relation to her. She liked the sound of it. She flipped to an empty page in the notebook she was using to keep track of her thoughts and impressions during the informal meeting. “What kind of career do you want? Do you want to stay in the game for decades like Aretha Franklin and Patti LaBelle, or do you want to have a few hits, make your money, and retire to Switzerland like Shania Twain?”
Reagan thought it over. The first time she’d been quiet for longer than two minutes at a stretch since they’d taken their seats. Simone hadn’t invited Reagan to her apartment because she wanted to keep her home and work lives separate. She thought meeting with her artists in a public place would be cheaper than renting office space, but the way Reagan was putting away the food and drinks, she would end up paying about the same. She chalked it up to the cost of doing business on her own terms rather than someone else’s. And that was a price she was more than willing to pay.
“I know he hasn’t been around that long,” Reagan said at length, “but I want to pattern my career after Sam Smith, the British guy who went from an unknown to a superstar a few years ago. Even though he was open about his sexuality from the beginning, he wasn’t marginalized as a gay artist, his first album ended up winning a bunch of Grammys, and he was given the honor of recording the theme song for a James Bond movie. Only someone with true staying power is asked to do something like that. Now he has the Oscar to prove it. That’s the blueprint I want to follow.”