A Man Inspired

by Derek Jackson

  “Oh. Oh, well . . . that sounds nice, I guess.”

  “You don’t mind, do you? I mean, I kind of booked this resort for the both of us. It’s been a busy week for you as well.”

  “Yes, it’s definitely been busy. But I’m on assignment here. I knew these two weeks were going to be hectic when I agreed to do this.”

  “Is that all I am?” He glanced over at her, the expression on his face a mixture of surprise and mischief. “An assignment?”

  Candace took another sip of ginger ale, giving her a few extra seconds to stall. Without a doubt, she would have to answer this question carefully. “No, Jermaine, of course not. I mean, at first . . . I, well . . . I didn’t know you. You were just another public figure to me, just another celebrity interview. And you guys . . . I mean, uh, some celebrities can be real pricks, you know? Completely insensitive and stuck on thinking the world revolves around them. Now, I try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, but you just never know sometimes.”

  Jermaine chuckled and shook his head.

  “What? What’s so funny?”

  “Oh, nothing. You just didn’t answer the question, is all. Danced all around it, but didn’t answer it.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “Then don’t.” He leaned forward and a little closer to her. “So tell me, Candi. Am I . . . just another assignment . . . to you?”

  Candace felt her heart beating a little faster. Closer to him now than she’d been all night, she was overtaken by his scent—the tantalizing combination of his designer cologne, the pomade he rubbed on his close-cropped hair, the rich smell of his imported, Italian suit—it was all sensually overwhelming. And exciting.

  “No, Jermaine . . .” Her voice was barely audible now, and she could feel the blood pounding in her head. “No, of course you’re not just an assignment to me.”

  With his finger, he tilted her chin up so that she was looking directly into his eyes. Candace’s senses were so on fire that she imagined she would explode any second now. Every sound, every smell, every taste . . . was incredibly and magnificently heightened.

  “That night on the beach changed all that, didn’t it?” he asked. “You and me, walking together hand in hand. Something happened, right? I know I wasn’t the only one who felt something.”

  Candace opened her mouth to say something, but the words stuck in her throat. As Jermaine gazed earnestly into her eyes, with his finger he slowly started to stroke the soft spot just under the bottom of her chin. The effect was mesmerizing, and Candace wished she could bottle up that moment and preserve it for the rest of her life. Every woman, she thought to herself, ought to have a “princess” moment like this at least once in her lifetime.

  “You felt it, didn’t you, Candi?” Still stroking her chin.

  She swallowed and after a minute or so, she finally felt strong enough to respond. “Y-yes. Yes, Jermaine, I did feel something.”

  THE LAVISH SUITE at the Phoenician Resort was already prepared for Candace and Jermaine, and as they walked through the double doors she immediately took note of the partially dimmed lights and the soft, mellow jazz playing somewhere in the room.

  “I know this song . . . Boney James playing ‘SweetThing’ . . .”

  Jermaine nodded as he set his small bag down on a plush sofa chair. “Yeah. A little bird told me you liked jammin’ to his music. The cat’s alright on the sax, I guess. But when we get back to L.A., I’m gonna have to hip you to some Duke Ellington. Take you back to the roots of jazz.”

  Playfully, she rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Jermaine.” Walking to the window, she proceeded to look out over the hilly, desert landscape. Her mind went back in time to her vacation of sorts, years ago when she did that interview here for the Dallas Morning News. She had such fond memories of this city, partially because of Kevin Johnson, partially because of . . . because of . . .

  Go ahead and admit it, girl. You’re starting to like Jermaine, aren’t you?

  But what about her story? And for God’s sake, what about Tasha? Now wouldn’t that just go over well—to go back to Houston only to have her best friend find out that she and Jermaine were now a hot item. Tasha would definitely throw a fit the size of Texas. Still, yesterday at the beach . . . and then just a few minutes ago in the limousine, Candace had discovered that she had . . . well, she had feelings for this guy. Feelings that probably weren’t going away any time soon.

  “Arizona is really beautiful, isn’t it?” Jermaine asked as he slowly walked up behind Candace. “If you’d like, we can go up to the Grand Canyon later. Take one of those helicopter tours or something.”

  “Yes. Yes, that’d be nice.” She turned around and found herself, once again, extremely close to Jermaine.

  Oh, God . . . oh God . . . oh . . .

  Her heart started furiously beating faster. And her now-shallow breaths began to come in short little spurts.

  Seeming to sense her nervousness, Jermaine once again reached out and began to stroke the spot just under her chin. “Candi, just . . . just relax, okay?” His golden voice was smooth and reassuring. “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to.”

  “Aren’t you the perfect gentleman.”

  He slowly shook his head. “No, I’m not perfect. Far from it, in fact. But all I know is that right here, right now . . . I just want to be with you.” He slowly dropped his hand from her chin, and with his other arm, he now circled her waist.

  “Candi, you are such a beautiful woman. And y’know something else? You’re also one of the most intelligent and well-spoken sistahs I’ve ever met.”

  “I’ll take that as sort of a compliment because I’ve . . . uh, heard that you’ve met a lot of women, Jermaine.”

  He looked disappointed. “Don’t believe everything you hear. I mean sure, because of my hectic schedule I meet a few ladies here and there, but nobody has had quite the effect that you’ve had on me.”

  “What kind of effect is that?”

  “Hmm . . . now let me see. Well first off, you have a way of looking past the front I normally put up for people. It’s like you can really see into me. And while that scared me at first, now I kind of like it. Plus, you’re successful, independent, driven, talented . . . shall I go on?”

  “Yes . . .” she breathed, mercifully relieving some of her built-up inner tension. But her heart was still beating at a rapid rate. Jermaine’s wonderful, manly scent and physique were creating blissful havoc in her mind. “Please do go on.”

  He pulled her even closer to his broad chest, and now she could feel the fluttering of his heart, which was beating just as fast as hers.

  “And you are definitely, absolutely the finest sistah writing books that I’ve ever met.” He tilted his face to hers, now certainly about to kiss her.

  “I . . . I really don’t write books . . . I write features . . .” she began saying.

  “Whatever.” His ensuing kiss started off with just the right amount of tenderness, escalating with each fleeting second into such a passionate embrace that Candace thought her poor little heart was going to pass out.

  After a while, Jermaine slowly pulled back, only to then bend down and pick her up. With her secured daintily in his arms, he headed for the bedroom.

  “Jermaine . . . Jermaine, wait . . .” she softly whispered. Oh, but this felt so right and so good! And she knew that if she let this continue, it would be a wonderful night that she’d never forget. But . . . was she ready for this? And what about Tasha?

  Oh, to heck with that crazy girl . . .

  So if not Tasha, then what about her article? Whether she liked it or not, she was first and foremost a professional who had always adhered to the unwritten literary code of ethics. Sleeping with Jermaine tonight might indeed feel good but it would compromise everything she had learned from Dr. West back at Rice. And it would call into question everything she believed in as a writer on a quest to win a Pulitzer someday. But she had already sacrificed so much to get
to this point. What was one harmless little night of sensual indulgence going to hurt?

  By this point, Jermaine had undone nearly all the buttons on the back of her knit blouse and was slowly caressing her bare shoulders with his hands and mouth, working his way down her arms.

  “Jermaine, wait . . .”

  He groaned and with a near-Herculean effort, pulled away from her shoulders. “Candi, what’s wrong? Tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

  “Oh, Jermaine, you’re doing nothing wrong. It’s . . . it’s me . . . I’m not ready for th— I mean, I just can’t do this.”

  He groaned again.

  “It’s . . . it’s just not right,” she continued. “Not only is there a serious conflict of interest going on here, but . . . well, I’m still kind of an old-fashioned girl.”

  With a show of great reluctance, he pulled farther away from her, to where he was now lying next to her on the bed. “But don’t you feel this? I mean, doesn’t this whole evening, this whole weekend, just feel right for you and me?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Girl, you are crazy! You got a fine man who’s ready to worship your body all night long and you tell him you don’t know? “Jermaine, listen, you’re a really great guy, but . . .”

  He immediately held up his hands. “Un-unhh. Not the ‘you’re a great guy, but’ run-around.”

  “Jermaine, I didn’t mean it like that. Really. But right now, with this interview and everything, I just don’t think this will work.”

  “Aren’t you about through with the interview already? I mean, you’ve been following me around all week—I’m sure you’ve got plenty of material to work with by now.” He leaned forward to kiss her once more, but she pulled away. More firmly this time. It was one of the hardest things she had done, because her body was physically screaming for his touch.

  “Jermaine, no. Please . . . please . . .” After an awkward few seconds, she asked, “um . . . is there another room I can go to? I saw that you only had one room booked, and . . .”

  “Well that was because—”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry, Jermaine.” She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling a chill. Undoubtedly because her blouse was still open at the back.

  “You don’t have to go anywhere, Candi. You can stay in this room. I’ll leave.” He leaned in for a final kiss, but stopped halfway, letting out a dejected sigh as he did so. Then he got up from the bed and left the room.

  All alone now, Candace thought it so strange that even though he was the one who had walked out the door, for some inexplicable reason, she felt like she was the one leaving something behind.

  Chapter eighteen

  JERMAINE PERSONALLY TOOK the limo and drove himself in the direction of the Grand Canyon, with the window down to let the onrushing dry wind fly in his face. A dust storm could have blown in his eyes for all he cared. It was a good thing there was practically no traffic at this late hour because he wasn’t particularly alert; just about all he was presently conscious of were the yellow dividing lines on the highway. His rag-tag thoughts were a veritable wasteland of confusion.

  It wasn’t the fact that he had been rejected by a woman, although that hadn’t happened for quite some time now. Because for him, getting a girl to spend the night with him was like getting a late-night appetizer from a drive-thru window, crude as that analogy was. No, it was the rejection by Candace Clark that had driven the stake right through his heart. Why did he have to be rejected by her? The one person with whom he had finally felt comfortable enough to open up and be semitransparent. The one woman for whom he had considered turning in his “playa” card. The one lady who had earned and won his respect and admiration.

  Emotions of pain, bitterness, and loneliness that had dominated his life over the past ten years now played in his mind like a horrible, grainy, silent black-and-white movie. And the images he saw were far from comforting: being virtually abandoned by his good-for-nothing parents; Ronny’s and Eric’s tragic deaths; Aunt Bell’s Alzheimer’s disease and now almost-imminent death. It seemed the only people in his godforsaken world who had ever cared about him were either dead, dying, or had forgotten his existence altogether.

  You’re back in the freakin’ fishbowl again, with nowhere to swim . . .

  As he bumbled along the dusty Arizona highway, he was more consumed with feelings of self-pity and depression now than he’d ever been. More than likely, nobody would ever come to know the true Jermaine Hill; this thought crept into his fragile mind with the subtleness of the serpent of old. Who would ever know that he longed for quiet nights of slow jazz and strawberry lemonades? Or that he was an avid film buff who could recite, verbatim, the Academy Award winners for Best Film over the past thirty years? Who would know the quiet, relaxed side of him that actually cared very little for the limelight and fame? Or that he would gladly trade in his seemingly wonderful life for the simple pleasures of a good friend, a woman he could love and grow old with, and a son for whom he could be the Daddy he himself never had?

  And maybe that’s it . . . maybe nobody’s gonna know . . .

  He was now back to entertaining the very real and very haunting contemplation of suicide that had darkened his thoughts for the better part of a year. Before then, he had always thought it plain crazy to try and take one’s own life. Because why in the world would somebody want to do that?

  But he now knew why. He was a prime candidate, ripe with all the telltale symptoms. He had no friends—just agents, lawyers, and a horde of bloodthirsty acquaintances who were forever vying to have a little more of his “juice.” Millions of people loved and practically worshiped him for being somebody he honestly was not. Nobody knew him for the person he in fact really was. And at this rate, finding such a person was just about impossible because even he couldn’t remember who that guy was. He had acted the golden-voiced boy routine so much and so long that he hadn’t realized just how convincing he had become in doing so.

  Yeah, well . . . the act is over, kid . . .

  He drove on, resolutely and despairingly committed to once and for all ending this stupid little charade called life.

  Chapter nineteen

  THE FAX CAME TO Myra’s attention at just past three in the morning. In a normal week, she would have been blissfully tucked away in her Victorian-style bed, somewhere drifting through the contented clouds of dreamland. But this had been far from a typical week, and so at this early hour she was still e-mailing various news contacts, briefing them on Song of Solomon’s added distribution channels. She had just commenced typing the last sentence to an executive in New York when her fax machine started humming, signaling an incoming message. She retrieved the first page and after reading the content knew immediately that her busy week was about to become much busier. And much worse as well.

  “Oh, my God . . .” For a second, she was overcome with lightheadedness and thought she might pass out. After a while the dizziness was gone, although the nightmare of what she had just read was merely beginning.

  To:Myra Washington, Editor in chief

  Re:Notification of photograph release to all interested parties

  StarWatch News, Inc. has obtained eight pictures of Mr. Jermaine Hill and Miss Candace Clark, revealing these two individuals in a compromising situation and bringing into question the credibility of their upcoming interview. SWN’s own award-winning reporter, Chantal Dixon, has been gathering evidence for an exclusive story that will . . .

  The memo went on in greater detail, but Myra’s eyes immediately darted to the next page as it was coming out of the facsimile machine. It was unmistakably a picture of Jermaine and Candace in the throes of an extremely passionate embrace along a beach somewhere.

  Oh, my God . . .

  The pictures were by no means obscene, risqué, or anything of an X-rated sort. But because of who they were, and the horrible timing of such a release, Myra knew the pictures had the potential to be extremely damaging. So damaging, in fact, that they could very well
upstage the release of Song of Solomon’s much-anticipated feature. And everything that she had worked so hard for, all that she had hoped and dreamed for this magazine would be wasted just like that. She grabbed her phone and punched in Xavier’s number.

  “Xavier, you there?”

  “Mm . . hmmm,” came his sleepy reply as she heard him loudly yawn with the same breath. “Barely. And wouldn’t you know it—this is my first sleep in about two weeks and naturally, it gets interrupted.”

  “Sorry about that, but it can’t be helped. You’re going to be wide awake after you hear this, anyway. Chantal Dixon and StarWatch News are about to publish some pictures and a story about Jermaine and Candace . . . about them being lovers.”

  “W-what?”

  “I had the same reaction. But I’m thinking it might be true. I’m looking at a fax of one picture of the two of them together right now.”

  “Oh, man. Oh . . . this isn’t good.”

  “Xavier, this is catastrophic!” Her voice, normally steady and sure, now bordered on a desperate wail. “Whether these allegations are true or not, the gossip mill is going to hit us regardless, before our feature is even printed!” Myra was so upset that she could cry.

  “Wait a minute, Myra. We need to stay calm and think this through. No, actually, we need to pray. We’re definitely going to need God’s direction and guidance about how to handle this issue.”

  She knew Xavier was right about the praying (as he most always was), but at the moment her emotions were taking over. “I’m . . . I’m just too upset to pray. You’re going to have to do it for the both of us. The rumors about Chantal doing anything to scoop a story are unfortunately true.” The nerve of that meddling Chantal Dixon!

  “Alright,” Xavier calmly replied. “Father, in the name of Jesus . . .” He proceeded to fervently begin calling on help from on high, but Myra was near oblivious to the intercession of her friend and colleague. Though she was a woman normally not given to letting her emotions rule, somehow the floodgates were open all the way with this current bombshell. How dare her golden opportunity be tarnished by a scum-dwelling, bottom-feeding, celebrity leech of a reporter with a twisted vendetta! And though she felt it was mostly Chantal Dixon’s fault, she had to admit that those pictures had definitely not been staged. Meaning that Candace Clark was a little at fault as well for compromising her journalistic ethics and causing a cloud of doubt to now hang over the whole interview. Such a grave mistake might have been tolerated in a greenhorn or novice, but this girl was one of the most promising young writers in the country. How in the world could Candace have allowed something like this to happen?