Chocolate Dove

by Cas Sigers

  It’s pocket change. It’s pocket change, she continued to think.

  “So you mentioned dancing?” Lawson asked.

  “Only because you mentioned it earlier when we spoke on the phone. We don’t have to go dancing. If you’re ready to go home ...”

  “Home? I have you for the evening. And the evening has just begun,” Lawson said while reaching across the table to hold Basra’s hand. She lowered her head to gain her composure and then lifted it with a pleasant smile. She felt like rented property, and there was nothing she could do about it, and so they left dinner and headed to Smoke for cocktails and jazz. Smoke was much more casual and laid back. She immediately felt more at ease once they walked in the door. But Lawson once again took control of the situation as they approached a table near the back corner.

  “I’m getting a bottle of champagne,” he said before walking away from the table.

  “I don’t like champagne,” she whispered into the atmosphere. “He doesn’t care,” she sighed. Basra looked around the room at the couples holding hands, flirting, and smiling. She honed in on an Italian-looking couple canoodling three tables over. Somehow, she became so lost in their world that she didn’t realize Lawson had snuck up behind her.

  “I bet they’re having sex tonight,” he whispered in her ear.

  Basra, startled by his presence, let out a small yelp. “I’m sure they’re having sex tonight, and I’m sure they’re a real couple. Unlike us.”

  Lawson sat as the server placed the bottle of champagne and two glasses on the table.

  “I don’t like champagne,” Basra said.

  “That’s because you’ve probably only had cheap champagne. You will like this, I promise.” Lawson took the liberty to pour her a glass.

  “I’ve been drinking sake all night. I don’t think I should mix—”

  “Shhhh,” Lawson said, placing his finger to her lips. “Drink. It will make me happy.”

  Basra placed her lips on the edge of the glass, sipped, and pretended to enjoy.

  “See, I told you. Once you’ve had the finer things in life, it changes your entire perspective.”

  They listened to the jazz band that covered at least nine Tony Bennett songs throughout the next hour. But Lawson was losing interest and Basra could tell.

  “Are you ready to leave?” she asked, hoping he would say yes and they could part ways.

  “Yes. I have an apartment not far from here, let’s go.”

  “Wait a minute, I thought we were just doing dinner and jazz. I can’t go to your place.”

  “What do you mean? The deal was we were going out for the evening, and it’s still evening.” Lawson reached in his pocket, pulled out his cell, and called the car.

  “The keyword being ‘out.’ Not in, or inside. I can’t go to your place.”

  “I get it. No means no. I’m not a rapist. I’m not going to try to have sex with you. I’m a wealthy man. I can have sex with ninety percent of the women I meet, and that’s because the other ten percent are underage. You intrigue me. I simply want to engage in more conversation with you. Let’s go.”

  Lawson rose and held out his hand. Basra felt trapped. She knew if she didn’t go, he would call and give an unpleasant report to the agency, and she didn’t want that. But she knew if she went that it might lead to a situation beyond her control. Yet she continued to follow him toward the door. As she approached the exit her grip tightened and anxiety heightened. The car pulled up moments after exiting Smoke and Basra slowly got in. Lawson was very lucid considering the grand amount of sake and champagne he’d ingested. There was no way he was going to pass out, as she wished the entire ride over to East Seventy-seventh Street. They walked hand in hand into The Pavilion and went up to the thirty-first floor, two floors shy of the penthouse. It was nice, but not as extravagant as she’d imagined. As she walked in the apartment, Basra immediately took her shoes off, a habit she’d grown accustomed to as a child in an African household.

  “Your feet are very nice, as I assumed they would be.”

  Basra looked around and took a seat on one of the black leather couches. “How often are you here?” she asked, looking over at the seemingly untouched kitchen.

  “About once a week. I normally stay at my home on Long Island.”

  “Oh.”

  Lawson grabbed anice-cold Voss from the refrigerator and took a sip. From the kitchen, he looked at Basra, who was now reading a magazine. Both were quiet.

  “I guess we discussed everything we had to say over dinner and music,” Lawson joked.

  Basra looked up and replied, “I guess so.”

  “Time for bed, I guess.”

  Basra’s body stiffened. “But ...”

  “I’m kidding,” Lawson said, removing his buttoned top shirt, exposing a heather grey shirt underneath. He sat close to Basra on the couch, placed her feet in his lap, and began rubbing her arches. Although she welcomed the foot massage, she was too nervous to enjoy it.

  “So, we didn’t talk too much about Somalia. What do you miss most about home?” Lawson asked.

  “My family. We have a big family. I have six uncles and too many cousins to count, and we all lived close to one another. I miss the dinners and laughter. I had a great childhood. I miss my best friend too, a lot. It was so much fun, I never realized how poor we were until I came here.”

  “I can’t imagine what that would be like.”

  “Why would you want to imagine being poor?”

  “I meant having family. My dad worked all of the time, my mother drank all of the time, and I have no siblings. I spent my entire childhood in boarding schools.”

  “That sounds horrible.”

  “Like you said, as a child you don’t know any different. I didn’t really know we were rich until I was in high school.”

  Basra gave a big smile at the first sign of similarity. Lawson saw this as his opening and leaned over and kissed Basra. She pulled away and jumped up from the couch. Lawson quickly rose as well and pulled her body close.

  “Just one kiss,” he said.

  “No. I have to go.”

  “Kissing is not sex!” he yelled, following her to the door.

  Basra grabbed her shoes and tried to exit, but Lawson placed his hands on the door.

  “I’m sorry, please stay,” he said gently as though he were suddenly another person.

  “No. I am not comfortable.”

  “But we were having such a good time. I’ll pay you extra, under the table. What do you want, another couple grand?” Lawson said. “Wait right here.”

  Lawson disappeared into the back room, and when he was out of sight, Basra quietly but quickly exited. She hurried down the hall with her shoes in hand and jumped inside the elevator. She heard Lawson calling her name as the doors closed. The temptation of the extra cash didn’t even hit her until she was rushing through the lobby and nearly tripped over her long feet, trying to place on her high-heels.

  “An extra two thousand,” she whispered before shaking the thought from her mind. Outside, she hailed down a taxi. But, immediately after sliding in, the tears started to stream as she rested her head on the back of the torn leather seat.

  “Where you headed?”

  “To hell, probably.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “Thirty-seven West Twenty-first Street.”

  After five minutes in traffic, the tears subsided and Basra started to think of the money she’d just made. For the five hours she’d hung out, she would get $4,000. As uncomfortable as it was, she couldn’t deny the easy money.

  “This is how people get caught up,” she whispered. “I can’t get caught up.” Basra took a deep breath, rolled down the window, and loudly yelled, “ I won’t get caught up!” into the late-night air. The release sent surges of energy through her body, and its power brought another flow of tears to her eyes. She rolled up the window, leaving a small crack for fresh air. Then, with a tiny smile on her face, she closed her eyes the
remainder of the ride home.

  Chapter 2

  The following morning at nine, Basra was buzzed upstairs to the penthouse suite of 155 Riverside Drive. She was immediately greeted by Hollis Perrigo, owner of Choice.

  “Basra, my love. How are you doing this Thursday morning?” Hollis greeted Basra with a tight embrace. “A glass of wine?” she offered.

  Basra shook her head with confusion. “It’s early for wine, right?”

  “Jesus served wine at every meal, and if it’s good enough for His people, it’s good enough for you,” Hollis said with a giggle. “Have a seat and tell me how the date went.”

  Basra walked over the plush white leather couches and sat. She looked out of the ceiling-to-floor windows and gazed at the smog whisking across the Hudson. She daydreamed about the thousands of cubicle sitters who worked eight to ten-hour days just to bring home a fraction of what she’d made last night. Was she wrong to complain?

  “My date went well,” she mentioned.

  “Lawson is a pussycat. He’s been with us for a while, has a thing for brown skin. God bless him with his pale self.”

  Basra burst into loud laughter.

  “I know I have no right to talk about him. I’m as pale as snow myself but at least I get a good tan once a year. Those red-headed Aussies repel sun rays.”

  Basra continued to laugh at Hollis, who often said just what was on her mind whether it was appropriate or not.

  “You know we don’t have many ladies of color; in fact, there are only two: you and Jasmin. She’s American. So you are going to be one hot commodity as the only African. Many of my clients will pay top dollar to have an African princess.”

  “You’re not telling them I’m a princess, are you?”

  “I’m in the business of selling fantasies.”

  “Yeah, but what if they look it up? There are real princesses in my country and I am not one of them. I don’t think lying is good.”

  “You could be an indentured servant, they wouldn’t care. In their minds you are a queen, and who doesn’t want to make love to a queen?”

  “Yeah, about that part. I’m not going to be able to have sex with these men.”

  Hollis paused and peered straight into the eyes of Basra. Her eyes held such a serious look of disdain that Basra quickly feared for her life. She didn’t know Hollis that well, but had heard from Lucia that she had the temper of a scorned Greek goddess. Basra looked away for fear she was being cursed.

  “I mean no disrespect to you or your company, I just don’t feel comfortable sleeping with these strangers for money.”

  “But you feel comfortable enough to take their money, correct?”

  Basra’s mouth moved but no words formed. She was speechless, but Hollis filled in the blanks.

  “If you want these men to pay thousands of dollars for your time and conversation, you must have one hell of a vocabulary. The audacity ...”

  “Really, I thought that I could but I can’t.”

  “There are no rules saying you must do this or that. I’m not your pimp and I’m not making you open your legs for any of these men. However, there is an unspoken code. Our clients spend millions to have a good time, and that good time includes whatever they request.”

  “Maybe there are men who would pay less just for my company?”

  “You overestimate your beauty.”

  Basra lowered her head.

  “So, hold up. Did you have sex with Lawson last night?” asked Hollis.

  “No, ma’am, I couldn’t.”

  “Dammit! Lucia said you weren’t going to be a problem. If you cost me a good client, you will not get a penny of your money.”

  Hollis walked into the kitchen and snatched her cell from the counter. She rushed over to her desk, pulled up her contacts, and dialed Lawson’s number. She got no answer.

  “I’m holding your check until I speak with him.”

  “I’m sorry,” apologized Basra.

  “I have a few clients who are into bondage, S&M, things of that nature. But, normally, they require you to do things far more out of sorts than sex. I just don’t understand how you think your company alone warrants that type of money. Sex should at least be on the menu.”

  “It’s just not an option for me.”

  “Then guess what, pretty eyes, I’m afraid you’re not an option for me.” Hollis rose and motioned Basra toward the door. “We’ll talk after I speak to Lawson.”

  Basra took the cold ride back down twenty-seven floors and exited the building.

  Normally, she loved to stroll along on the Upper West Side and glide in and out of the shops, but Hollis had taken the wind from her sail. She had plans for that $4,000 and the thought of not receiving it was making her ill. Thus, with her head hanging low, Basra left the building, turned right down Eighty-eighth Street, and walked aimlessly until she reached Broadway. She continued down Broadway until she came upon Columbus Circle. She paused and glanced at the Time Warner building, where she’d met Lawson.

  “Why couldn’t I just sleep with him?” she murmured. “I at least thought I’d get my money.”

  Frustrated, Basra kept walking down Broadway with no destination in mind. She crossed over to Seventh Avenue and, before she realized it, she was passing through the Garment District. Though she had several errands to run, Basra continued down Seventh until she reached Twenty-third Street, took a left, and walked two blocks down to Twenty-first Street, where she and Lucia lived.

  Standing right outside of the Echelon, Basra looked behind her and took a long sigh and whispered, “I can’t believe I walked from Riverside to Chelsea.” She shook her head and went inside the luxury apartment building.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Sadiq,” said the concierge.

  Basra smiled politely and waved as she continued toward the elevator. Once in her place, she removed her shoes, walked into the kitchen, and grabbed a cup of yogurt. She strolled onto the terrace and sat down. From her view on the tenth floor, she could see a small corner of the Fashion Institute, the school her younger sister, Amina, desperately wanted to attend. Though the morning had been unpleasant, Basra began to smile thinking about her baby sister who started putting on fashion shows for the family at the age of ten. She would find anything that she could cut and stitch and turn into a work of art. Amina had dreamed of becoming a designer for as long as she could remember and Basra was determined to turn that notion into a reality. Right now, it was important for Amina to simply go to school, but she desperately wanted to help with her dream. As the oldest, she felt it was her responsibility. This is why she began modeling in the first place.

  Growing up, she despised her long, lanky figured that was often the cause of ridicule and neighborhood fights, but as she became a teenager, she realized it would be her ticket to freedom. Therefore, she studied models and read every article on modeling that she could find. She had a friend back home help her with a portfolio. He wasn’t much of a professional photographer, but he was handy with a camera. Basra’s family had a few friends from home already living in New York, and they helped finance her first visits to Manhattan. Basra was very fortunate; it only took two visits and five interviews to procure an agent and get steady work. Her first year was very consistent with catalogue ads and some high-end fashion magazines, but though she made decent money modeling, New York was more costly than she’d assumed. She knew going to school and modeling wouldn’t allow her to save enough for Amina. Just when she was considering taking an extra job, Lucia mentioned Choice. At first, she thought it was crazy that someone would pay that kind of money for a date, but after Lucia showed her a bank statement, and told her about Choice’s clientele, she figured one or two dates couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t ideal but definitely an option. Basra’s plan was to work at Choice for a few months and save enough to bring Amina to the States and pay for her degree at FIT. Basra knew all along she had no intention of sleeping with the dates but didn’t say anything. She figured she could stall the men and the ag
ency long enough to get a few thousand saved and then quit. But Basra had no idea of the underworld territory she’d crossed into.

  She gazed back toward the corner of Seventh Avenue, and then reminisced about her family back home until Lucia walked up and interrupted her daydream.

  “What’s up, chica? I see you survived.”

  “Ha ha,” Basra replied while slowly turning to acknowledge Lucia’s presence.

  “I was hoping to be here last night when you got back. How was ‘Awesome’ Lawson?”

  “He’s an interesting man,” Basra replied.

  With anxious eyes, Lucia took a seat beside Basra to get more details. “So, tell me how it went.”

  “I didn’t sleep with him, if that’s what you’re asking. But we went to dinner, had a few drinks, and went back to his place.”

  “His place? You went to his place? What did you do?”

  “Nothing. We talked.”

  Lucia leaned back in her seat and took a long look at Basra.

  “Stop looking at me. We didn’t have sex. I promise.”

  “Was he mad?”

  “He wasn’t happy,” Basra said with a very jaded expression. Lucia was silent. Basra turned her focus back toward the skyline and continued to talk. “I went to see Hollis and she’s holding my money until she speaks with him.”

  “You what?” Lucia yelled. “You shouldn’t have gone to see her without me. I swear you better not mess things up.” Lucia hastened off the terrace while whipping out her cell phone.

  Basra followed while quickly spilling out an explanation. “She knows you have nothing to do with my decision not to have sex.”

  Lucia held up her hand to silence Basra when Hollis answered the cell phone line. “Hi, Hollis, this Lucia. Let me first apologize for Basra’s behavior.”

  “You shouldn’t be apologizing for me!” Basra chimed in.

  Lucia quickly walked into her bedroom and shut the door in Basra’s face. Basra propped her back against the door and waited. Less than a minute later, Lucia opened her bedroom door, nearly causing Basra to fall on the floor.

  “She wants to speak with you,” Lucia said while handing Basra the phone.