Moses pulls up to a modest, duplex in need of a paint job and copious minor repairs. I frown. “Is this the best place you and Ms. Jameson could find to live, Ms. Beale?”
“What do you mean? Jada owns this duplex outright, and our neighbor is her tenant. That’s balling for a young woman two years out of college,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to make light of her investment—and your home.” I run my hand through my hair and peruse our surroundings. “Are you sure this neighborhood is safe?”
“You should see where I lived before I moved here. Now that would be considered unsafe. Mostly working-class people live here.”
I can’t fathom how such an exquisite human being has been forced to live in such common accommodations. I abandon that train of thought, looking toward the future, rather than the past. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Going to church.”
“May I pick you up after?”
I’ve unleashed a fair amount of charm on Ms. Beale, and I’m not going to play fair. I’ll woo her every day if I have to, just to get the response that I need from her. I can tell from the expression she levels me with that she’s not ready to be exposed to my full-on assault again quite so soon after today.
“I’ll be going to my mother’s house for dinner.”
“Can’t you get out of it?”
“Have you seen Soul Food, Mr. White? Sunday dinner is sacrosanct in African American homes.”
Confounded, I press on, “I’ll come there. You could introduce me to her.”
She holds up the binder I gave her. “I have to read this and become educated if I’m going to make an informed decision.”
I resign myself to her decision, because I refuse to be reduced to anything that resembles begging. “You’re right. Do some internet research and read the entire contract. I’ll see you Monday morning.”
Worn out from a Sunday that has consisted of many activities designed to keep me from showing up on Keisha Beale’s door, I shower and climb into bed around ten thirty. I’m on the threshold of REM sleep, when my cell phone vibrates on the nightstand.
“White,” I answer, irritated that anyone would be bold enough to call me at this hour.
“This is Keisha,” A voice I’d longed to hear all day announces.
I am no longer irritated. In fact, I smile before I address her with mock sternness. “Ms. Beale. If you’re calling to change our plans tomorrow, I’ll have to insist we keep that appointment. My schedule is more unmanageable than you can imagine.”
“Our appointment tomorrow is firm, Mr. White. I wouldn’t dream of changing it at this hour.”
“Good. So, if this call isn’t concerning our appointment in the morning…”
“I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh?”
I wonder if this is the obligatory after-sex call? If it is, I’ll need to remind her that this isn’t a romance. Her tentative answer tumbles out quickly enough to change my course of thought, because oddly, I am beyond pleased to hear from her.
“Um, I wanted to ask you a few more questions.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“Do you always secure submissives for such inordinate sums of money?”
I hope she isn’t worried that I’m trying to buy her. While I do always take extraordinary care of my submissives, what I provide for them materially or financially in no way should be construed as payment for their services, or them as a person.
“No. Usually I recruit willing submissives who’ve already been in the lifestyle a while. They choose to do this because they want to. You took a bit more incentivizing since there was no indication that you’d ever had a predilection for kink.”
“What if I don’t pan out to be whatever it is you’re looking for?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. Saturday’s activities assured me you’re responsive and teachable—chief among my requirements.”
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed. Were you fishing for something else… say, a compliment?”
“No,” she scoffs. “I don’t even own a complimentary fishing pole—or rod and reel, for that matter. I just don’t like the idea of our livelihood riding on my sexual performance, as it were.”
There it is.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Ms. Beale. I’ll teach you everything you need to know.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Her voice wavers as it would in movement.
“Your voice changed. Are you in bed?”
“Why?” There goes that coyness again.
“Because I asked you.”
“That’s not a good reason.”
“If I’m going to be your Dom, I need to know everything about you. Even things you don’t necessarily want me to know.”
“Will that be reciprocated?”
“In a fashion.”
“So, that means no.”
“Not exactly.”
“You’re insufferable.”
I lie down again and get comfortable on my bed. “I’ve been told this on more than one occasion.”
“Are you in bed?”
“Yes, and unlike you, I don’t mind admitting it.” I stifle a yawn.
“I should let you go so you can turn in.”
“I’ve turned in, but you don’t have to let me go. Talk to me, Ms. Beale. Tell me what makes you tick.”
“That’s easy. Seeing KSR on the precipice of becoming a dream realized. It’s all I’ve eaten, slept, and dreamt since college.”
“I remember seeing White Enterprises on paper as an idea before I ever had my first client and feeling the same way.”
“Was it as momentous for you, given your background?”
“Yes. Like you, I built my company with capital left to me from my mother’s estate. Admittedly, it was a bit more than your father left you, and I almost lost it all several times before my business became the success it is today.”
“Even in the short time I’ve known you, I can’t imagine you losing at anything.”
“Losing is a humbling experience. I believe that’s why I’m able to pick projects that thrive—because I see objectively if they’re willing to put in the work that will counteract the risk.”
“You never once went to your father for help when your business was in trouble?”
“No. Our relationship wasn’t such that I could go to him at that time.”
“You surprise me.”
“Why? Because I didn’t use my father’s wealth and influence to make a name for myself?”
“No, because we’re actually having a real conversation and we’re both in bed. The average guy would be trying to have phone sex with me or something.”
“If I were given to such sophomoric behavior, it would be entirely on my terms. What gets me off necessitates that we actually be in each other’s company.”
“Have you ever had phone sex?”
“No, and it doesn’t appeal to me in the least.”
“Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it.”
“Is that an invitation, Ms. Beale?”
“Maybe.”
“So, now we’re being coy?”
“I prefer having a conversation. Besides, you haven’t told me what makes you tick.”
“You are already part of an exclusive minority who’s been introduced to both my passions.”
“At least your passions are dichotomous. Mine is singular.”
“I’ve seen a glimpse of the woman capable of boundless passion. I’d like you to tell me more about her.”
“If I tell you everything at once, there’d be no fun in discovery.”
“That is either very profound or a cop out.”
“I’ll go with profound because I’m going to ignore your attempts to dissuade me from asking any further questions about you.”
“Forgive me.”
“For what?”
“For thoroughly misjudging you.”
She gasps. “You’re surprised I actually have a working brain to go with this banging body? What kind of women have you been dating?”
“None. I don’t date, remember.”
“This is true. So let me rephrase that. What kind of women have you been tying up and beating the crap out of in your role-play room?”
“The kind who have no interest in stimulating conversation, apparently.”
“You said that. I didn’t.”
“Even I am capable of self-deprecation sometimes, Ms. Beale.”
“Imagine that.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
She stifles a yawn. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“You need to get some sleep. Moses and I will be at your duplex promptly at eight twenty-nine.”
“Are you serious?”
“Punctuality is a priority of mine. You would do well to remember that if you’re contemplating accepting my offer.”
“Duly noted.”
My reluctance to say goodnight to her takes me by surprise, but I don’t linger on the phone like a depraved sap.
“Good night, Keisha.”
“Good night, Tristan.”
After such a stimulating conversation, I ponder what a hearty session of phone sex with the delectable Ms. Beale might’ve done for a libido that craves her so much, I am now irrefutably wide awake.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The building Ms. Beale owns has solid bones and the rudimentary refreshing, which I can tell wasn’t a professional paint job, isn’t half-bad. Boxes and fixtures in various stages of assembly are strewn throughout what is to be the showroom, which has plenty of windows letting in natural light into the front of the building. I can see the pride she takes in this project as she takes me on the tour of the soon-to-be-realized Kente Studio Records.
The studio itself is where she and her partner spent a good deal of money. The sound boards and equipment are top-of-the-line and the sound-proofing has been professionally done. Finally, she shows me the office space. Windows are sparse in this area, but partitioning off the space for offices around the perimeter with cubicles in the center will work well for her personnel dynamic. The placement of the offices, at least, seems to be well thought-out and meticulously planned.
When I follow her back up to the showroom area, I take more than a few appreciative glances at her derriere, that is, until my phone rings.
I offer her an apology when I see it is Darryl. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
She waves me off. “Go right ahead. I’ll just do some unpacking while you’re on the phone.”
I take the call in the open area near the door to the offices while she attacks the boxes on the showroom floor. “Yes, Darryl?”
“Canton-Phillips has sent us their final contract. They’re asking for a quick turn-around.”
“What’s their definition of quick?”
“Twenty-four hours.”
“Greedy bastards. They can ask for quick, but as long as they’re requesting my backing, I’ll determine the expediency requirement. Have you asked Legal how soon they can look at it?”
“Yes. They can put a rush on it and put it ahead of some of the larger contracts they’re currently working on. They can have it reviewed by closes of business today.”
“Good. Are there significant changes to their scope of work?”
“None that I see from a cursory glance at it.”
“Read me the deliverables, because those were dicey last I checked.”
I fear that I’m going to wear a hole into Ms. Beale’s new industrial carpet after hearing a list of deliverables that takes roughly twelve minutes for Darryl to read with my commentary and revisions. I watch her as she unpacks boxes of fixtures and places them on the countertops where they are to reside. My hunger for her has not waned since Saturday, and I’m struggling to remain civilized in her company.
“How much are they asking for their largest deliverable?”
Keisha takes the last piece of bubble wrap off a countertop CD display and sets it atop a heavy rounder as Darryl answers. “One point five.”
“They want $1.5 million…? You’ve checked and double-checked the figures?
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, make sure there’s remedy language in the contract.”
“All right.”
“You have my limited power of attorney, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Let’s buy it. Keep me posted.”
“Will do, Mr. White.” He hangs up and I follow.
Keisha is eying me with trepidation, and I’m not surprised at her next question.
“Why do you want me, Tristan? Don’t you have binders full of women to choose from?”
“You keep making these veiled references to my political preference. I’m actually more of an independent. I’ve voted both ways. Am I safe to say you’re a staunch democrat?”
She purses lips that I want to devour. “Is the president my homeboy?”
“He’s mine, too. We even have an alma mater in common.”
“Do you ascribe to the Buffett Rule?”
“You mean do I believe I should pay more taxes than Darryl? Yes.”
“Good,” she says. “Then let’s return to my former line of questioning. Why do you want me as your submissive?”
Her question is one I’ve been asking myself all weekend. She is not trained, and will probably present me with more trouble than I should go to regarding the taking on of a new submissive. I remember our first meeting and the overwhelming attraction I had for her at first sight. “You were this timid little kitten behind the lioness façade you present to the world. I’ve never known anyone besides myself passionate enough about a business idea to tell a prospective backer to go fuck himself, in so many words.”
“No, I was polite and respectful until you were all, ‘I need to have control in all things.’” She does an uncanny voice impression of me, but I deny how well she nails it.
“For the record, I don’t talk like that,” I say. “Anyway, that vulnerability you tried so hard to hide came through, plus that kiss rocked my world, so I decided to seek you out to see what we could do with all the passion we’d kindled. Then when you were drugged and about to be taken away from me again, I couldn’t bear the thought of you being with someone else.” I run my hand through my hair.
“So, you want me to be your girlfriend?”
I hated to dash the hope so evident on her face. “I haven’t had a girlfriend in that sense of the word since grade school. I’m more into having sex than making love.”
“Like 50 Cent? I never would’ve thought you two would have anything in common.” She grimaces.
“That would be our sole commonality, I assure you.” I lock eyes with her. “You’re not like any of my former submissives. I have a feeling you’ll be the best I’ve ever had, and I want you long term. I’ll take extraordinary care of you, Keisha.”
She squares her shoulders. “Long term? Listen, you may be into this, but I’m not wired that way. One day I’m going to want the making love, the getting married, the babies and the commitment, so understand this. I’ll agree to the arrangement for now because I need KSR to be on firmer financial footing and I haven’t met anyone who fits the bill. But when I do, we’re history.” She says this with such conviction, I believe her.
“Then we have an understanding,” I say.
She returns to checking inventory. It’s as if she’s retreated into herself and I’m not there. Something turns in my gut from the realization that she’s ignoring me. I don’t like it, but in all fairness, I just shot down her dreams of a fairy-tale romance.
“Are you ready to go?” I ask softly.
When she nods, I open the door and hold it for her.
“After you, Ms. Beale.”
Every hint of sadness disappears as she steps out into the sunshine, locking the door behind us. I place a hand in the small of her back and escort her to the limo. The closer we
get to the car, her posture becomes straight, her countenance hopeful again.
Nosy neighboring business owners have stopped and are peering out of their windows, wondering most likely why the Beale girl is riding around in a limousine with a white guy. As Moses opens the door Keisha glances up at me, and I look down at her. She gives me an impish smile that I am compelled to return.
Moses closes the door on us and walks around to the driver’s side. The lust factor goes up so exponentially between Keisha and me, if its magnitude were measured by seismograph oscillations like an earthquake, a Richter scale would be needed. I see in Keisha’s eyes that she wants to kiss me as much as I want to kiss her at that moment, so I go for it.
“Fuck!” I pull her down onto the leather seat and push both her hands above her head, pinning her like I might do so on one of the apparatuses in my Grotto. I trap her slim hips beneath mine and capture her tantalizing mouth like a starved man. She moans as my tongue savages hers without apology.
Keisha brazenly returns the kiss with an eroticism she hasn’t displayed in our short association. I was already sporting a semi-boner just being in her presence, but now I am as hard as granite, and I’m sure she can feel me. I am mystified by the reaction I’m having to this woman. I pepper kisses down her succulent throat.
“What. Are. You. Doing. To. Me?” I ask, in a staccato fashion.
I right myself on the seat as Moses gets in and starts the car, and I leave Ms. Beale looking as if she’s just been kissed and wants to be kissed more. Three of her nosy business neighbors, now outside, blatantly eye the limo, but the tinting does its job admirably. All they can see is Moses in the driver’s seat.
Keisha glares at me. Although I may look unscathed by the kiss we just shared, it is all I can do not to fuck her on the bench seats in this car like a goddamn adolescent. I return her look out the corner of my eye, then take her hand, release the breath I was unaware I was holding until it became necessary to breathe again. She looks inordinately pleased that I have a reaction.
“Making out in limos. What am I, sixteen?” I mutter to myself, but I’m sure Keisha can hear me since the limo is practically soundproof and no music is playing yet.
We don’t speak until Moses has maneuvered us onto the Dan Ryan, which has all the movement of a parking lot at this time of morning. As we inch our way downtown, I hold Keisha’s soft hand in my own and engage her in conversation.
The Venture Capitalist Page 10