An Alpha's Desire

by Amarie Avant

  But the day Desire and I met, I have been marching to the beat of her drum.

  Though I won't utter as much, I'm her dom in the bedroom, she's my domme in every other capacity. All that I do is to place a smile on her face. That’s a man’s true job, searching for the next gorgeous smile on his woman’s face.

  I walk through Roscoe’s and notice Monique Taylor immediately. She is seated at the booth. She is a few shades lighter than her daughter. Today, her braids are pulled atop her head. The tense impatience in her eyes darkens when she notices me.

  I've always had a way with words. Charming the money out of tightfisted blue bloods is the shot out of the fucking ballpark for most. But this might be the only lady in the universe who is out of my realm of persuasion.

  This is my second time in Monique’s presence and I need answers. “May I have a seat?”

  “You asked me to come here.” Her tone lacks any affect.

  I sit.

  She asks, “Are you through with my daughter?”

  “Mrs. Taylor, I have not now or ever treated her like an object at my disposal.”

  Her eyebrow arches. “Thank you for not beating around the bush. I'm sure you enjoy her. For now.” Monique scoots forward, leaning her forearms on the table and continues. “I know you give her everything. A parent wants to give their child the world. You can fucking move the earth a few centimeters to the left if she so desires. It would be nice, and I’d give my blessing, if you weren’t you.”

  Shit, that's my kinda cocky.

  “I've never been wined and dined and gifted to the level of your capability, Mr. Rutledge, but where I am from, the ratio has its similarities. I came from down here,” she uses her hand as a level, “and I've risen far, all because a … a man saw me as a tender, young thang he just had to have. He pulled me out of the gutter. Loved me up with grand opportunities, expensive gifts. Heck, I thought Red Lobster was the shit, the first time I went.” She offers a hard chuckle.

  It's a given that she needs to get shit off her chest but somehow, I'll blame it on fatigue, I speak up. “Mrs. Taylor, I am not James. I am not your husband.”

  There's a dagger of hate thrown from her direction. Monique isn’t aware that I know exactly who she is referring to. James Taylor pulled her out of the projects. I haven’t been around long enough to gauge her feelings for her husband, and am unable to fathom the comparison. But I had an employee look into why she hates Azalea so much, and why in return she hates me.

  “I know he did what he had to do,” Monique assures. “James graduated valedictorian from Inglewood High. All the while, he had been a pimp in high school and through this undergrad years to pay for tuition, amongst other things.”

  “Have you told Desire?” About the person he once was? James Taylor and Azalea, though unrelated, have the same background. Pimp. Madame. My informer advised me that she graduated two years after and had been one of his best girls in high school. He taught her the rules of the trade while saving up for college. Thus part of the hatred of Monique for Azalea. The woman is a danger, a threat to her. Monique is younger than the two. She has morals, convictions, and a grave distaste for the empire Azalea has created. And I bet she has a deep hatred of Azalea for her sexual ties to James.

  Monique doesn't blink. Her eyes are glossed. Fuck, does she perceive my knowledge as a threat? “Did you… did you tell my child?”

  “It is not my secret to tell.”

  All the jumbled-up emotion crashes and ferocity resurfaces. “So you'll hold it over my head?”

  “Not at all. I love your daughter. I can say it a thousand times but being that I am not a fan of words—“

  “Words hold no weight,” she cuts in, agreeing.

  I reach across the table to touch her hand. She slides her hands into her lap. Fuck me, too soon. This entire situation is improvising.

  “Can I show you how much I love her? For Desire’s sake, will you allow it?”

  Seconds waste away. “I don't have it in me to see you flaunt your money.”

  I hold up my palm. “No disrespect, but Des isn't a fan of diamonds. Can I show you the engagement ring I bought her? And before you say anything, just know that I've asked your husband for his wishes. And I would like your consent too.”

  “It's too soon…” Monique says the exact same phrase I thought a few minutes ago, albeit in a different context.

  “But when you know, you know.” I pull out the Tiffany’s box, slide it across the table. “Desire won't see it until you approve as well.”

  Dark brown eyes glide toward the lonely box and then me. She whimpers. “Please, please don't give Desire the sort of life where she wonders when you'll come home. If you'll come home. Are you fucking that hoe over there! Why won’t you just leave Desirenda alone? Do it now, before you really break her heart.”

  I rub a hand across my whiskers, restricting my emotions which are raw and bristled. Is this heartbreak?

  “I'm a big man on family, Mrs. Taylor. May not have many to call family, but the few people I care about, they will never starve. If they have a dream, let's cultivate it. If someone is out for them,” my jaw tenses somewhat, “the issue will be handled.”

  “Humph, that's power isn't it?” she asks in disgust, but I swear somewhere during my brief monologue, Monique understands me.

  I've started knocking down walls, but she’s a beast at resurrecting them.

  “Desire and I are big on family, Mrs. Taylor. If you give me the benefit of the doubt, I'll spend all the time in the world persuading you of my love for her. My love for you.”

  “Your love for me?” Her eyelids shade somewhat.

  “Can't love her without loving where she comes from. But I'll tell you Riley is probably my favorite person.” I chuckle. Jokes have always been my thing.

  “What do you know about Riley?”

  I mention the few times Riley and I hung out. She constructs another wall, commenting that I took Desire away from him too.

  “No, I wouldn’t do that. Lauren won't let Riley see Desire.”

  “What?”

  I tell Mrs. Taylor about the fiasco after leaving her place.

  Her gaze clouds. It wavers with shame. She’s ashamed for pushing her daughter away too. “My poor baby.”

  “And I don't have any wish to take your baby away. I am in love with Desire. I love you too.” But you make it difficult. “We have one of two choices. You can allow me to come around. I'll do my best to persuade you. Or you can continue with your relationship with Desire, like our nuclear family has broken up, stepchild status, broken holidays and birthdays. One day, you will win. I'm sure Desire will finally choose you because she'll resent me for not meeting her parents’ standards.” This is fucking ridiculous. I recall the chat Desire and I had about her search for a man like her father. A man who looks like him, embodies his values. And here I am. I love her more than words can express but my status disqualifies me!

  I pause for a moment. This conversation hurts.

  Monique grabs the ring. She opens it, then closes it. She murmurs, “Rich men like you are able to read people. Hell, you have people to read people. You stay one step ahead of the game.”

  “I do. Business purposes calls for it. When it comes to my family, you can bet I’ve had background checks done on persons I wasn’t sure about being in their lives. Nonetheless, love isn't a game. It’s unpredictable, no risk assessors to assist me.” I have feelings too.

  “And you get what you want. Unfortunately, mistress, prostitute, whore, no matter how you observe them, they all end in the same boat, Mr. Rutledge.” Monique hands over the ring.

  Desire

  I still look like a red rooster. My hair is in a state of chaos and I don’t give a damn. It’s just me and the girl who broke the ice by offering to cornrow my long, poofy tresses at lunchtime, in the eighth grade. We’re at the Atlantis Paradise resort pool area. Not entirely sure which glass of strawberry margarita I’m on, but I’ve told the server t
o sweeten it up, water it down.

  “Girl, your man must love him some thick’ems,” Niecy says as we laze around beneath a cabana.

  “No, you don't.” I smirk.

  She slurps down her margarita. “You can't say he hasn't fed you well. Now let’s get in the water. You need to do at least twenty-five… forty-five laps. Ha, ha, ha!”

  “Heifa!” I flick my straw at her. “There’s an exercise room. We can head to after lunch, big bone. You know, damn well, I cannot get chlorine in my hair.”

  “Nah, not really because I'm not giving you a relaxer.”

  ###

  After swimming, showering, and getting my hair done, our day is full of shopping at the outdoor market and walking along the beach, away from the modern luxury homes and to where the locals live.

  Around five pm, the food we ate while poolside no longer holds us over so we return to one of the resort restaurants. Niecy and I mosey into one of the hole-in-the-wall eateries on the shore, with bags of knickknacks and souvenirs. The walls are bright blue except for at the back of the place, where it’s all open overlooking the ocean. Ironically, all the tourists who ventured away from the various cruise lines are seated at wooden tables with the scenic view. The locals are scattered in the front and the bar. There are enough of them to know that this place is legit.

  “Sit anywhere you'd like.” A dark skinned woman smiles while swishing by us with a plate of … some sort of fried fritter that smells spectacular.

  A middle aged blonde woman who had to have gotten her hair cornrowed by one of the locals while leaving the port, rises with her husband.

  Niecy and I exchange looks that read how much we want the coveted panorama view. The chairs have no chance to cool as we sit down.

  “Girl, I’ll take some ‘turn up juice’ and whatever she had, I'll take two,” Niecy giggles, placing her purse on the back of the chair.

  “Humph, I can use a drink too, but dang, I bet you don't mean one for you and one for me.”

  She kisses her teeth as response. We sit at the table which is cluttered with what appears to be the same shell we saw and chicken wing bones that never had a chance.

  The same waitress steps before us and places her tip in her pocket while dropping two menus simultaneously. In a flash, the table is clean. “I'll take your order in a few.”

  “We want exactly what they had,” Niecy offers.

  “Oh, perfect.” She begins to grab the menus.

  “But you can leave these,” I say.

  The three of us chuckle.

  “Even better.” She turns away with the plates and dishrag.

  Thirty minutes and a few mojitos later, Niecy and I are still ordering food and hoping that what's in our bellies can move aside for more. We found out that the fried food was conch fritters and have ordered another shameful round.

  “I texted Angelique, she is jealousssss,” I tell her.

  “Why? Angelique has a Spanish chef at home. Nah, I'm just kidding.” She sighs. “We honestly have to all get together and do something. I can't believe when she had her bachelorette party in Spain, you and I were working. Heck, I wasn't coming here until Daniel sent that picture of your hair.”

  I glance at her sideways. “Thank you, Workaholic.”

  “Humph, you are as bad as I am. Or shall I say were. I swear I thought I had been replaced but lo and behold, you've been walking around like a rooster this entire time.”

  We both chuckle. “Oh shit,” I giggle, tipsy as hell.

  “What?” She sits forward, just as giddy.

  “Let me tell you what that bitch, Lauren, did.”

  “Spill it!” Some patrons glance over at us, but I am too busy telling Niecy about returning home to Los Angeles, including my mother.

  “Aw man, my son got a bloody nose while horsing around at your mom's house during the barbecue. I took him upstairs and never did see you. Nobody said shit.”

  “Yeah, well my day became worse,” I begin, mentioning Riley’s shoes, the tub, and the damn candles. The whole spiel.

  “No she didn't,” Niecy shakes her head throughout, not pausing to sip her drink.

  When I'm done with the story, I'm just as perturbed as I was while attempting to call Riley. I ask reluctantly, “Have you seen them around?”

  “No. Actually, Angelique and Melody mentioned something about a man driving a Camaro like he was seated in the backseat, the chair all leaned down. Lauren was in the car, not Riley. Lauren saw them clear as day and didn't wave.” She shakes her head. “Aw, you miss Riley.”

  “Yeah…”

  “Dang, Desire, you've went to bat for Lauren too many times.”

  “Something in me wishes I hadn't let her actions slide all the time. I swear to you, Niecy, I talked and I tried, but not one word of wisdom seems to have penetrated.”

  “Desire, you've done all you could to help.”

  “I actually called Child Protective Services on her last month,” I say, squirming in my seat, recalling how conflicted I’d felt while turning my phone on in Romania. Though a piece of me feels disloyal and dirty for doing so, I just hope the best for Riley.

  “You aren’t the first, boo.” Niecy shakes her head.

  “Well if you or any of the girls see Riley, you tell him to call me. I don't give a damn what she may have said or threatened to do if he does.”

  ###

  It's almost eleven pm when Niecy and I enter our suites across the hall from each other. The living area is brightly lit, all plush sofas, sleek art on the walls and the television I left on while showering and dressing is on an old sitcom.

  No trace of Daniel.

  My heart sinks. For the past few months we've been inseparable. The void I hadn't noticed was there until he walked into my life, is back with a vengeance, warning that something just ain't right.

  I dig for my cell phone in my cross purse while reaching onto the bedroom wall for the light switch.

  With a swift click, the luxurious room is bathed in light.

  “Oh!” My shoulders jolt.

  Daniel is seated on an accent chair near the window. The satin drapes are pulled tight.

  He's still dressed in his suit, no tie. There's something he's clutching in his fist. “Hey, babe. How was your evening?”

  He smiles. Everything about him, stiff demeanor and all, tells me that aliens haven't inhabited his body. He starts to rise.

  “What's in your hand?”

  “Nothing much.” Daniel tosses the small bottle of premium vodka onto the dresser. It appears to be sealed. “Sweetheart, how was your evening with Niecy? Your hair is gorgeous by the way.”

  My eyebrows furrow. “You're holding in something really deep aren't you?” I pluck up the bottle and confirm that it has yet to be owned. “You're not a drinker, Daniel.”

  “How are you so sure?” His inquiry is simple enough, though holding a slight case of hostility “Maybe I have the alcoholism gene like my father—actually, I do have that gene. Wentworth I ensured my genetic makeup was tested as a child. When I was young, I understood how prone I was to certain things like alcohol. He made sure I wasn't like my dad.”

  His voice lowers and he mumbles about not knowing which one was worse.

  “Okay, that's good to know. But you aren't a drinker, baby.” I place the bottle back into the refrigerator and close it. “Tell me something good that you remember about your dad.”

  “Why?” Daniel eyes me with curiosity.

  “You will talk to me about Odessa and Jules. You look at me crazy when I feel sorry about your mother.”

  “Don't.”

  “You sometimes refer to her as Celine instead of mom. You'll even mention your grandfather in a good light at times, though I can pretty much guess that you bumped heads with his ideology at times. But I know nothing about Wentworth II. You were his seed. Tell me something about your father.”

  “Desire, I brought the paddle.”

  I step toward the living room. “I'll sleep on
the couch.”

  He seems to smile somewhat yet those orbs aren't filled with life. “I don't know how to help you.” I shrug. “What to say, to do, if you won't let me in. How can we be a team if you won't let me in?”

  “The day after tomorrow, ask any question you'd like.” He smacks my ass. “Go get some beauty rest for your birthday. We can hash it out the day after tomorrow.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Dictator, everything doesn't unfold on your timing.” I shake my head. “Nah, I'll take a dose of reality now. And what will be on the agenda is: you telling me something about Wentworth II that hasn't to do with drinking and driving. Another short story about your mom, something funny she's ever said or done. How one dish she made, no chef can touch. Something. Oh and, I also would like to know what happened earlier today. Because intuition tells me it's all tied together. Stop me if I'm wrong.”

  “All right.” Daniel rakes a hand through his blond hair. “You'd like the truth…”

  Daniel

  Can't tell Desire about today, but in actuality, it is all a cohesive mess. Her mother’s hatred of me will just have to stay on the back burner, because divulging the failed meeting will only break Desire's heart. It will be another nick to the times Monique rejected her because of me.

  And I'm not ready to fight Monique for Desire again, because she's already mine. So I will tell her the biggest truth.

  But at Desire's request, I begin with my parents in order to exemplify just how narcissistic my family truly is.

  “Let's start with Celine,” I say as we sit across from each other. “I don't have many memories of her that include myself. I can recall the sound of her incessant crying. Oh, actually I do!”

  “Don't shout at me!” Desire sits forward.

  “You want a story, I'm here to offer the dramatics.”

  “Daniel, please.”

  “She had to feed me once. My grandmother, Marilyn was attending one of her philanthropist activities out of state. My grandfather got a call after the servants had gone for the night. He had to rush out on a very important matter. One of the planes crashed and he had to do a press conference. I was four. And we all were one big happy family in that 20-something thousand square foot mansion you'd like to visit in Greenwich.”