by Rowena
We fell in love swiftly and deeply, and in no time, began talking about the future—plans to marry, perhaps even elope.
Nothing mattered to me but being with him—not for a while anyway.
But my mother eventually picked up that something was off and we were outed as a couple after being caught together one night.
“Think of your ancestors, my parents stressed to me once they realized how poor Jaxson was. “How much they went through. How on earth can you spit on all those before you like this? We had to fight for our place in society, and some still don’t accept our humanity. The poorest among them still hold on to some fantasy that they’re better than you, no matter how much more educated, resourceful, or talented you might be, simply because their skin is pale, and there’s no arguing with that kind of mental illness. Even those who appear to accept you doubt you in the back of their minds. Darling, you are refined, the result of immense hardship and determination; you deserve so much better than you’re willing to settle for.”
Later, when they realized their logic wasn’t getting through and I was determined to continue seeing Jaxson without even considering any of the similarly-groomed, high society black males they were happy to introduce me to, their pleas turned bitterly emotional.
“It’s not a matter of how you feel; you must stay vigilant and practical in this world we live in! Heck, if people like his family had their way, you two would have never had the chance to meet, to fall in love. Even now, living in the gutter as they are, some of his relatives think they have a right to spit on you, and there’s nothing you can do for them to accept you so don’t put yourself in that position.
“We’ve done everything we can to make sure you have a good life in spite of undeserved enmity directed your way, everything to make sure you feel safe, that you know your worth, yet you want to hand everything over to the likes of him? Their worst does not deserve our best! This Jaxson can’t help you maintain your standard of living; he’ll pull you down,” they insisted before definitively steering me toward Charles—the son of well-off friends of theirs.
In the end, my parents were right about Charles in a way—he helped me maintain my standard of living, but there was an unexpected timer on it.
Boy, do I wish they’d picked a different guy.
I knew nothing but an upper-middle-class life until about a year ago when the man I married, believed to be on the same—if not slightly better—financial level turned out to be completely broke.
Charles’s family came from the same circles as mine, so he wasn’t a complete fraud; at some point, he had access to their wealth since he was the only heir after their deaths. They had trusts, bonds, savings, owned valuable collections and pieces, and yet somehow, all of it disappeared.
Charles had charmed everyone into thinking he had it all together, that he was smart, responsible, and had no financial care in the world.
He was certainly savvy—although not savvy enough it turned out, and he had a severe gambling problem.
I had no idea our finances had been crumbling and that we were on the way down until it was far too late.
Distracted by my day-to-day activities and intermittent expensive gifts from my husband, I thought life was just peachy.
He was always busy with work, and I was happily going about the duties I’d been encouraged to fill my days with—social gatherings, town meetings, charity.
I had wanted to work at first, but Charles insisted I didn’t.
While I had some qualms about being so dependent on him and relying on allowances and such, I was used to what he suggested I fill my days with—during my upbringing, my parents always insisted on the importance of giving back, so they had me involved in volunteer work early.
Continuing that was easy, and eventually, I picked up a part-time job in an administrative capacity, which Charles approved of, as it naturally blossomed from my work with one of the volunteer organizations.
Charles and I didn’t see a ton of each other, meeting the bare minimum for marital obligations, and we became more like friends, exchanging stories of our days when the opportunity arose.
I enjoyed my time with and without him, accepting I’d never fill the Jaxson-sized hole left inside me after the breakup.
Besides, what could I complain about?
I was living the life I’d been groomed to live, lucky enough to be in a position to give back after marrying a guy who was proper.
Plus, I had friends—so I thought—things changed once everything took a turn.
The women I had so happily bonded with, that I’d enjoyed so many leisure activities with, treated me like I had some sort of contagious disease once the descent began.
I’m not clear when exactly Charles pissed away all our funds—he did such a stellar job of keeping up appearances for such a long time and told so many lies over the years, I’m not sure what to believe.
Was he really still flushed until about two years ago when he made a terrible investment that eventually led to an even worse decision that quickly wiped us out?
All I know is it began with a rejected credit card in a jewelry store, resulting in my temporary indignant outrage and humiliation, but leading to his first admittance—that our accounts were empty, our funds depleted.
And that wasn’t the worst of it.
Apparently, what really did Charles in was getting involved in a penny stock scam.
He had gotten a tip—one he’d thought could boost us back to our comfort level in no time once he cashed out, and the minute he told me, my stomach dropped.
I knew in my gut he’d been had.
Not only were we broke, but we were suddenly in deadly debt to a loan shark.
Before he could pay up, he was charged with six felonies related to commercial gambling violations and jailed.
I pat myself on the back for having the sense to squirrel away some of my own money so that, by the time my husband informed me we were completely broke, I had no need to panic completely—not even after he got whisked away to jail and most of our assets—liquid and otherwise—got seized by federal agents or sold for debts.
I learned more details of our quiet descent after he was already gone; John Barone helped fill in the gaps on one of his courtesy visits “to check up on me and make sure I was okay,” which was sort of nice, but mostly creepy.
I learned about other details while communicating with Charles as we set our divorce in motion.
Because we had no children or property, things ended up moving faster, and it was the first time I was ecstatic he had insisted on not having children.
My parents disowned me after providing the divorce attorney to help me make a clean break; in fact, they had cut me off even before everything went down the toilet since they could see what was happening with Charles’s gambling problem and warned me to get out sooner.
But I turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to their advice—I didn’t want to hear from the people who forced me into this position in the first place.
I think I wanted to punish them in a way, but ultimately, I was punishing myself. I let myself get talked into the whole thing; I gave up what meant the most to me to maintain my standard of living, agreeing with them that I owed myself a man who could buy me things I didn’t need.
I deserve every bit of this misery.
I don’t blame my parents for not helping me out these days; they think anything they give me will go to some other cause—debts to pay or even a hidden nasty habit of my own.
They can’t trust me after I’d gone along with Charles’s shady activities for so long, no matter how much I protested that I didn’t know—in which case, they couldn’t believe a daughter they’d raised to be smart had been so oblivious, so stupid. I’d offended them with my blissful ignorance.
On the bright side, though my younger sister grew up watching me and emulating me, when things went south for me, I imagine she learned from my mistakes.
My parents’ hopes and dreams are now
pinned on her, and in the end, she’ll get everything.
As for me, I’ve lost my parents’ trust and love, I now work for a man whose trust and heart I shattered a long time ago, and my ex-husband has been remanded to prison, leaving me a bounty of debt to claw my way out of.
As I hustle toward my apartment door—perhaps for the last time—I avoid eye contact with whoever is burning a gaze through me, my head down as I ignore the hairs raised on the back of my neck.
Jaxson guessed right about packing up time.
I lived so minimally over the past year that packing up clothes and shoes and such took less than an hour.
I never knew how much I didn’t need until I could no longer have all of it, but lucky for me, I learned quickly that I didn’t need a lot of stuff.
Whatever remaining ‘expensive’ clothing I had disappeared once I started using a public laundromat—items of clothing I hadn’t thought twice about until they were gone. They were supposed to be dry-cleaned anyway, but dry cleaning had become a luxury I couldn’t afford.
My current studio unit was furnished with Craigslist freebies—from the furniture to the entertainment items—things I’m fine to leave behind since they served as daily reminders of how far I’d fallen.
Younger me never would have imagined having to click the ‘free’ button on a website in order to get supplies.
I’d grown up in a household that donated outdated items, but I still found it amazing the things people dumped once they were done with a place, the word ‘FREE’ written on a perfectly good printer page taped to some item or other.
My best find was a small black shelf on which I stacked the free books I’d selected from a pile left behind by a moving party.
With my bags now packed and no interest in bringing along a tube TV (free, of course, courtesy of Craiglist) or the old couch I still side-eye despite how many times I sprayed it with disinfectant and having given it a sofa cover, the movers pop by and have me moved out in less than twenty minutes.
Part II
Desperate Measures
7
Candace
Tension I hadn’t been aware of holding in my body starts melting away when it becomes clear where I’m headed—a part of the city where I certainly won’t have to worry about a break-in daily.
Not that it’s impossible in this upscale area—it can happen anywhere, obviously—but depending on which floor I end up on, it’ll certainly take more effort and skill to enter my living quarters than before.
The driver of the van parks while the other holds out a prepaid phone to me.
I stare at it suspiciously, my heart beginning to pound as I wonder if I trusted the wrong set of folks.
These guys were sent by Jaxson, weren’t they?
“I was told to hand this to you,” he insists.
I finally take the phone from him then jump when it rings in my hand.
I click ‘answer,’ bringing it to my ear slowly.
“Stage one complete?” Jaxson voice says through the receiver, causing a breath of relief to rush out. “Everything going well so far?”
I can’t decide whether his telephone voice or in-person voice turns me on more. Both are deep and reach parts of me I often forget exists. Somehow, his low, masculine tones make me feel like he’s sneakily sliding a hand up my skirt every time.
“I’m fine, Jaxson, although I probably should have checked with you when the crew first arrived; I didn’t even think twice about it.”
“Well, I told you who I was sending and when, so…”
“Yes, but…” I stop, reminding myself not to say too much.
“You need to tell me why you’re so paranoid, Candace,” Jaxson says after a few seconds of quiet.
“I’m just not used to being able to trust my surroundings or the approach of strangers, that’s all.”
“I see,” he says flatly. I can tell he doesn’t believe me. “Well, the men know exactly what to do, where to take you. Give me a call once you’re settled in and they’re gone. Just hit redial for this number—it’s the only one in that phone.”
“Copy that,” I say mockingly, then immediately regret it.
No need for snark, right?
I agreed to let him do this for me, and I’m grateful to be out of that rundown area I called my residence.
Truthfully, I haven’t even thought about what I’d do if Jaxson got mad at me or something and kicked me out of this new place, but I’m content knowing that even if he fires me eventually, after a few months of working for him, I should have a better cushion while sorting out my new job and place.
The call disconnects and the movers get ready to help me move into my new unit.
I have to stifle a giggle as I take one last look at the unnecessary van they’d come in; they could have showed up in a compact sedan and it would have been more than enough space for my stuff.
As it is, the three of us can handle moving all my belongings into the new place in a single trip.
The building has front desk security where I pick up my keys and other credentials, and by the time I’m riding up to the top floor with the movers, I realize my body is completely relaxed and I notice I’m actually smiling like a drunken fool as I catch my reflection in one of the reflective walls.
How could one change make such a huge difference?
Of course, I already know the answer to that question, having gone the other way.
The first day I moved from the house I’d shared with Charles, some part of me sank to a place it had remained stuck in... until now.
The elevator doors open and I follow the men to my new unit and let us all in.
They deposit my bags and a box in the living room area and are gone before I’ve finished glancing around the space; I barely notice their exit.
This place is stunning and far more spacious than I’d imagined!
Even younger me would have raised both eyebrows at it.
I thought my family was rich as a kid, but I later found out we were “well-off”—we had safety nets, and could afford expensive vacations and furnishings and gifts. We had first-class seats money, not private jet money. We weren’t multimillionaires, though the household income was seven figures.
The place I’m standing in now is something folks a bracket above my parents might own.
I start laughing as I realize the receiving area alone is much larger than the entire living space I’d just come from.
There I was, having adjusted to a living space of five hundred square feet, and this penthouse suite is easily over two thousand square feet.
I turn to take in the kitchen, jumping a little when the phone I’d been gripping rings.
“Weren’t you supposed to call me?” Jaxson says.
“How do you know I’m already up here?”
“Easy,” he says sort of slyly, and then a human-sized figure appears in the corner of my eye.
I pick up the nearest heavy object, but before I can throw it, I realize it’s Jaxson who emerged from one of the back rooms, and he’s grinning boyishly.
“Fuck, Jaxson! You scared me!” I shout, my heart thumping rapidly.
“I can see that,” he says, still quite amused, his blue eyes on my chosen weapon—what I now realize is an electric wine opener.
“You were going to handle an intruder with that?”
“Damn right. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I wanted to make sure everything’s okay—that you got here safely, and that you like the place. So what do you think?”
My heart is only now starting to slow down from the sudden scare of his unexpected appearance, but the beat has changed, responding to his slow approach toward me instead.
He has a way of zoning in on me that has always unnerved me, his dark blue eyes laser-focused on my face as if he can’t afford to miss a second.
Tension returns to my body, and I’m having trouble telling how much of it is due to having my new space invaded by his overbearing mas
culine presence, and how much of it comes from a desire to be invaded more intimately, with Jaxson thrusting between my legs.
“Well, I haven’t gotten a second to really take a look at it because of you. I haven’t even unpacked!”
I sound surly, but he deserves it for scaring me like that. I’m still sort of scattered, residual fear and growing desire making me feel powerless and frustrated.
Still, I feel bad when an emotion resembling hurt briefly registers in his eyes, but he’s back to normal in no time, making me think I imagined it.
“I needed to see for myself that everything was up to proper standards and to add a few personal touches since this was all done so quickly,” he says neutrally. “You’re free to redecorate as you like, of course—I just wanted to make sure it looked like... a home when you got here.”
He moves quickly past me instead of stopping in front of me as I’d anticipated, and his hand grabs the doorknob as he prepares to leave.
“Enjoy your new home,” he says with a curt nod, swinging the door open.
“Thank you,” I reply softly, feeling sort of panicked now, desperate to stop him before he goes.
But for what?
I’ll see him tomorrow and can update him then.
He nods in acknowledgment and turns to leave.
“Oh,” he says, turning back to me. “As this is a new neighborhood, and you have yet to familiarize yourself with the nearby stores and such, how about I take you to dinner tonight? I can be back for you by seven thirty, which I think gives enough time…”
“Yes, Jaxson,” I say with a huge smile.
Damn it, there’s something so adorable about him right now, plus I’m so glad he came up with something that leaves us parting on a better note.
He flashes a bright smile in return, and just before the door closes behind him, I say, “But what kind of place? I’m not sure I have anything to…”
“You have options,” he says with a wink that almost turns me into a puddle on the spot.