Keisha laughs, and my job is complete. I have defused the incendiary situation somewhat, and hopefully abated the stress of pulling what could possibly be an all-nighter for the KSR team.
“You and she are like siblings in many ways. It would’ve been nice to know about that jacked up rivalry you two had going on before I came into the picture.”
“So, she shared a bit of our competitive history?”
“Yeah. We spent some studio time together a while back and I did some background vocals on a few of her cuts for her new album.”
I don’t speak about anything further, as the judicious thing to do would be to talk to Darnelle before I let some skeletons out that I wouldn’t be able to return their proverbial closets.
“So, we’re good now?” I say.
“Well, not until we figure out the business side of things here at KSR so you can help us fix it.”
“Give me an update tomorrow morning,” I say.
“Will do…Sir.”
“You minx.”
She laughs and hangs up before I can say anything else. I should never have told her what calling me Sir does to me.
“Where’s that fine assed submissive of yours tonight?” Darnelle asks when she enters the limo looking like a proper lady in a cream-colored floor-length gown.
“She’s working late,” I say. “Is that something you ever do?”
“All the time,” she says as she arranges herself on the bench seat so her nice dress doesn’t wrinkle. “You know, you should shadow me sometime because recording is no joke. Sometimes we’re in studio all night. And touring is fucking exhausting.”
“Tell that to my housekeeper who works ten to twelve hours a day every day.”
“All that demonstrates to me is that you should give her some time off.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried. She’s a work-a-holic, like me.”
“No wonder you two get along so well.”
“Well, that and she sees me as her surrogate son.” What I don’t mention is how much Mrs. Naven loved my mother like the sister she never had. I got her by default when Lydia, my father’s new wife began to make her life a living hell.
“All the more reason you shouldn’t work the old broad to death.”
“I’m not,” I protest, but her dig has me thinking now about what I can do to lighten Mrs. Naven’s load. For starters, I suppose I should insist she visits her own family more. I mentally place that on my to-do list.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Darnelle says.
I don’t construct a come-back right away. I’m thinking of a way to broach the subject about what she’s told Keisha about us. Fuck it. I just go for it.
“Hey, so Keisha tells me that you two had a conversation about our competitive history. I thought you didn’t want her to know you were a blue blood?”
“That was before you decided to keep her around for a while.”
“What makes you think I’ve decided that?”
“Tristan, you gifted me a handsome sum not to sue her for physically assaulting me even though an explanation and apology would’ve sufficed for me.”
“I just decided not to make you pay me back for fronting the money for your new album and videos. You’re the one who was all, ‘I should sue her ass for marring my face.’”
“At that time I thought I might have to have plastic surgery to fix the damage she’d done, not to mention hiring a PR firm to mitigate the situation, because Princess Danai has an image to maintain.”
“You and your precious street cred.
“It’s a real thing, my friend.”
“If you say so. Okay, so what specifically did you share with her?”
“I didn’t tell her about you popping my cherry if that’s what you’re asking.”
I narrow my eyes at her, “And did you tell her about me training you as a Domme?”
“I’m a woman, Tristan. And even though I like other women, I know a little bit about boundaries.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, then say nonchalantly, “I just need to know how to respond if it comes up again. Thank goodness today there was another situation going on with her business, so she didn’t ask a lot of questions.”
“You and Ms. Beale are behaving more and more like you’ve got a girlfriend/boyfriend situation going on.”
I shake my head vehemently. “That is not what we have going on.” My rebuttal sounds a bit like mockery, and Darnelle narrows her eyes.
“Me thinks the Dom is protesting too much,” she teases.
“You can quote your half-assed Shakespeare all you want,” I say. “As long as Ms. Beale knows the score, I’m not concerned with your observations.”
She shrugs. “Listen, It doesn’t matter a whole hell of lot to me either way. Just don’t come complaining to me when Keisha begins to desire something you’re not willing to give.”
Darnelle’s words ring with more truth than I’d care to admit. I have begun to fear more and more that Keisha won’t be able to keep her feelings as firmly boxed in as I’m able to keep mine. That being said, there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot I was willing to do about it right now, because Keisha has become such a fixture in my life, I am loath to let her go.
When Darryl notifies me that Keisha is on her way up, I fondly recall the last time she was in my office for the signing of the KSR contract, then I remember that she likely has some news about the KSR financial situation which is the reason for her unannounced visit today. I also chide myself for my sappy reaction given what Darnelle and I discussed the night before.
Be that as it may, I’m glad I already instructed my reception staff to grant her access anytime she shows up on site. By virtue of being seen on my arm, the media has elevated her to more than just submissive status, and my social standing demands that we perpetuate their reality.
Darryl ushers Keisha into my office and closes the door, and I dial my smile down a few watts courtesy of existing in my conflicting headspace too much.
Ms. Beale is a vision of loveliness, as ever. Compliments of my personal shopper, she always looks runway perfect in suits that are specifically tailored for her toned form.
I wonder what she’s thinking as she stands coyly before me, my mind replaying our most recent weekend together in the Grotto. I stand and move from behind my desk to greet her.
“Hi,” she says, as soon as Darryl closes the door. She wrings her hands, and that move is downright adorable.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” I hug her close, and then lean back to look into her eyes. “You must have good news about the numbers.”
“Absolutely. I knew there had to be some kind of mistake. And there was.” She’s animated as she begins to tell me how KSR only looked as if it had been in the red, when it fact, it actually wasn’t.
“As you know the quarterly financial reports showed that profits had dropped thirty-five percent. We knew this had to be an anomaly because, Jorge assured us as we neared the end of the quarter that we we had about fifty thousand plus unique new users on the site in month three.”
“The last operations report bore that out as well,” I say. “So what happened?”
“We went over everything again, several times, but our financial reports still weren’t agreeing with the operational reports. Then Jorge came to the rescue and figured out that a glitch in the program, more like an oversight which entailed him opening the site once the regional pilot was done, to flip a switch when we expanded nationwide had not been done.”
“Let me guess. He didn’t tweak the fucking program when he was supposed to.” I say.
She laughs. Hard. “Can you believe it? More than a hundred and fifty thousand payments were sitting out there in cyberspace with nowhere to go. If Jada hadn’t pulled an online printout of our banking statements, we’d still be trying to identify the shortfall until next week when we got the paper statements in the mail…”
When she realizes I’m not laughing with her she stops ta
lking. I don’t speak until I’m sure of what I just heard, and because I wanted to make sure the mistake was squarely on her cousin, Jorge, who has a goth/emo junkie he’s in love leading him around by his dick.
“You have the revised financial statements?” I say, and extend my hand for the documents she’s holding.
She hands me the portfolio with the revised financial statements completed by the anal-retentive Ms. Jameson, no doubt. I skim each page, to confirm their bottom line.
“Jorge’s error almost forced you to liquidate in your first quarter of business.”
“It was an honest mistake brought about by stress in his personal life. It won’t happen again.”
“I know it won’t.” I look up from the report squarely into her eyes. “Because you’re going to fire him.”
I return to my desk and lay the portfolio down. Keisha has a delayed reaction to what I said, but after a few beats she responds with much vehemence, and in a way that harkens back to grade school.
“I’m not going to do that, and you can’t make me.”
“Your cousin is careless. If he allows his personal life to stress him out to the point where he makes a mistake of this magnitude, we don’t need him working for Kente Studio Records.”
“We? Tristan, you’re an investor. You don’t get to tell us how to make our personnel decisions.”
This response feels very much like a slap in the face. I could remind her that although the base capital amount, the physical and intellectual property is all theirs, White Enterprises and the Nathan White Brand hold the controlling interest in their little startup, but I don’t go there.
“What he did could’ve had KSR on the selling block. Is he the one you want to control all your business systems?”
“There were extenuating circumstances. Jorge’s skills are solid. He made a mistake because he’s human.”
“As are we all.” I say, taking a hard stance. “I want him gone.”
“No.”
I narrow my eyes and use the voice I use with her in the Grotto. “If Cisneros isn’t gone by Friday, we might need to discuss finding you an alternate backer.”
She visibly deflates. “Just like that?”
“Yes, Keisha, just like that. I’m in an advisory role as well, lest you forget. When someone becomes that much of a liability, you have to cut your losses.”
She appeals to me on a personal level. “The job market is a nightmare right now for someone with Jorge’s skills. I lured him away from an exceptional job to come to KSR. He should be given a reprimand for a first offense, not fired.”
“My advice remains the same. What are you going to do if he fucks up the rollout worldwide? Slap him on the wrist?”
“Of course not.”
“Once KSR becomes publicly held and listed on the exchange, you won’t have the luxury of selling it to the highest bidder. Your board and shareholders would run you and your cousin out on a rail.”
“Who said we even wanted to be listed on the exchange?”
“Ms. Jameson indicated you wanted to take this venture as far as it will go. Don’t you two talk?”
“She might have mentioned that in passing,” she says, but I know she isn’t being truthful. The surprise when I told her that bit of news is not something that can be faked.
“As I explained to her, once your profit threshold increases to a certain point, you’ll want to consider it. Taxes would eat you alive.”
“All that aside, I still don’t want to fire Jorge. I think that’s too harsh.”
“Too harsh would’ve been my investment and your dream going down the tubes because of his carelessness.” I am not in a mood to budge, knowing what I know about her cousin and his lover. “My advice stands.”
“I can’t do what you’re asking.”
“You’d be sacrificing one employee in favor of the greater good of all the others.”
“That philosophy may work for you because you don’t have a fucking heart when it comes to business, but I do.” She turns and walks to the door. “I suppose we’ll be discussing alternate backers on Monday.”
Those words take the air out of my lungs, and I’m reeling inwardly from her accusation that I’m not human. I’m also pissed the fuck off by her stubborn temerity. I half expect her to slam the door on her way out, but she just closes it softly without looking back.
For some inexplicable reason, that action guts me, and I stagger to my desk chair and begin to breathe in the manner my therapist taught me. It would seem that for the first time in almost a year, I’m besieged again by the classic symptoms of a panic attack.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Keisha didn’t show Friday at six.
“Shall I call her to see if we should hold dinner for her?” Mrs. Naven says.
I shake my head. “No, we’ll proceed without her.”
Mrs. Naven pauses, but then thinks better of what she’d been about to say, and begins to set the table. For one.
Later, I’m in my library playing my soprano saxophone—a habit I picked up after my mother died. Whenever I was feeling blue about her, I’d pick up my instrument and play. Otherwise it stayed safely in its case. I’m playing my version of Charlie Parker’s “All The Things You Are,” and nearing the end when I look up to see Keisha standing there. Only the one lamp is on, so I think perhaps my eyes are playing tricks on me.
I finish poorly as a discordant note erupts when I pull the saxophone away from my mouth. “Keisha?” I’m riveted to my seat, but my eyes rove over her form trying to determine if she’s really there.
“Hello, Tristan. I didn’t know you played so well,” she says, beginning with small-talk, as if her ass isn’t in serious trouble right now.
She closes the door and walks toward me, looking around at the bookshelves that cover most of the wall space. I replace my sax in its case on the piano.
“I learned at the academy,” I say. “They provided me a thorough liberal arts education.”
Keisha stops a few feet away from me and searches my eyes for a better indication of my mood. She does not want to know how thoroughly pissed off I am at her right now. I’ve just spent the last several hours wondering if she’d left me—like my mother had. No, my mother died and broke my father’s heart. Keisha could never break my heart like that, because she does not mean to me what my mother meant to my father.
Or does she?
I order my conscience to shut the fuck up.
“You’re really good,” she says, in an effort to improve my mood. “You could put a few of my DePaul classmates to shame.”
My expression doesn’t change.
“Why are you here, Keisha?” I ask, and close the saxophone case to give my hands something to do so I won’t take her over my knee and spank her ass until my hands bleed. My eyes bore into hers, demanding an answer.
She fidgets. I walk behind her, then all the way around her. She’s wearing a little black dress and black stiletto sandals. I am angry with her, but I am aroused by her appearance. If this isn’t the most fucked up situation.
“This is Friday,” she says simply.
“But your appointed time of arrival isn’t whatever the hell time it is right now.”
“It’s about eleven thirty,” she says.
I stop in front of her. “Again, why are you here?”
“I decided to forgive you for insisting I fire Jorge.”
I laugh a humorless laugh and fold my arms. “You decided to forgive me?”
“Yes. I was upset, and I didn’t want to be here with you because it was unresolved.”
“It’s only unresolved if you didn’t give Jorge his notice today.”
She closes her eyes and doesn’t respond.
“Well, did you?”
She opens her eyes and regards me evenly. “No, I did not and I will not.”
“Are you prepared to take the punishment for your willful defiance, Keisha?”
“Yes.”
“The Grotto. Five m
inutes.”
I walk out of the Library and she follows, but I go to my bedroom, and Keisha goes immediately to the Grotto. I realize as I’m changing into my smoking jacket and silk pajamas that I can’t go into the Grotto with her while I’m angry or I could hurt her.
I take a detour to my gym. I strip, don a pair of shorts, commando, and spend five minutes on the heavy bag. My knuckles are sore as I walk into the shower to douse my sweating body with cold water. When I re-dress in my smoking jacket and pajamas, I am calm enough to enter the Grotto to dole out the punishment I promised my submissive. Yes, that is still all that she is.
Then why were you so devastated when she didn’t show up? My conscience is a motherfucker, and I ignore it as I ascend the stairs to deal with my willful submissive.
She’s wearing a lacy black bra and panty set, and the stilettos. Looks like a throwback from her La Perla days. She is in perfect position but there are goosebumps covering her flesh. I ignore them, and I don’t offer to turn the air down.
“Because you’ve committed a list of infractions I won’t go into now for the sake of time, I will not allow you to orgasm in here tonight. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Also, you will pull a card from the punishment stack, and I reserve the right to have you pull another one if I deem it too lenient.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Stand. Remove your panties,” I say. She does as I command. I remove my smoking jacket and hang it on the coat rack.
Once her panties are past her knees, they slide to the floor. She steps out of them and waits for further instruction.
“Hand them to me,” I say.
She picks them up and gives them to me. I sniff to check for any sign of arousal. Fear has stolen it from her, apparently. Good. I walk over to the coat rack and stuff her underwear into my smoking jacket pocket.
“Pull your first card, Keisha.”
She goes to the deck of cards on the bedside table. The punishment could be anything from clamping her nipples, to whipping her ass with various implements.
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