Mr. Wright & Mr. Wrong: A BWWM Romance

by Camilla Stevens

  “Of course she did!” her father protested. “What better way to get over this mess than by embracing the word of God?”

  London shot him an irritated look, knowing full well that he didn’t give two hoots about his daughter’s weekly dose of religion.

  As if to prove her suspicions right, he went on, more quietly. “Besides, we have to present a good public image with the community, especially now. With this mayoral campaign, big things are happening for our little family law firm.” He beamed over at Reverend Holt who offered an enthusiastic wave in response.

  “Brooklyn only ever comes to church when she feels like walking grandma—which is once in a blue moon,” she pointed out, knowing any mention of her younger sister would irritate him. She felt a tiny, guilty pleasure watching his beaming face falter with an annoyed shake of the head.

  “What that girl gets up to on her Sundays is none of my concern. You are a partner at Jefferson, Jefferson, Jefferson & Associates, and as such, you have duties.”

  They were standing outside the Greater A.M.E church waiting for the rest of the Jefferson Clan to arrive. She could see her brother Cleveland making his way over to them with his wife, Dana and their two kids, Jack who was 4, and Maxwell who was 6. Even though her brother was two years older, it was still a bitter reminder of the sharp U-turn her own life had just taken.

  “Hey, everyone,” Cleveland said approaching them, giving Estelle a kiss on the cheek.

  “Hey, Cleve,” London said, using the familiar, shortened version of his name.

  “So, did anyone happen to catch our girl Brooklyn at the Knicks game Friday night?” Cleveland asked with a wicked grin.

  Frank took note of Cleveland’s grin and the tone in his voice and gave the trademark sigh, reserved specifically for news regarding his youngest daughter. “What did that girl get up to now?” he asked.

  “Not what. Who,” he replied wriggling his eyes with eager delight.

  Now everyone’s interest was piqued. Cleveland let it hang in the air, eating up the anticipation.

  “Will you please stop giving me a heart attack and say what you have to say?” their father pressed.

  Cleveland dropped the act and leaned in conspiratorially. “She got caught on that kiss cam they have, but get this, turns out the guy she was kissing is the son of Richard Wright. I wasn’t sure. Who knows how many he has these days, and they always try to stay out of the lime light, but it was definitely him.”

  London’s eyebrows shot up. Brooklyn and a Wright? Everyone knew Richard Wright, of course. He made a point of plastering his name over every building in the city, and loved publicity almost as much as he loved taking on a new wife every ten years or so.

  Cleveland was right though, the sons were usually pretty media-shy. Which son was Brooklyn involved with? There was Michael, whom she knew only because he was also an attorney. She thought there was another that might be old enough but it was well known his spent his life jet-setting off to some party city or another, never in New York.

  It had to be Michael. How old was that man, anyway? Like father like son, she thought. It made sense; Brooklyn was notorious for falling for older men. London didn’t need a psychology degree to know whose fault that was.

  “Good god,” groaned her father. “Of course she’d pull this little stunt just when Dion Davis is about to announce his run for the Democratic candidate for Mayor. Insubordination and treachery, that’s what this is!”

  “I seriously doubt she started dating a Wright of all people just to ruin your plans, Daddy,” London sighed.

  She saw him give her an accusatory look. She became suspicious when that look suddenly broke out into an ingratiating smile.

  “Oh no, Daddy,” London warned, knowing full well what he was going to ask. “If you want to know something you just ask her yourself.”

  “You know that girl doesn’t talk to me,” he protested. “You’re the only one she seems to get along with.”

  “Maybe you should try talking to her. You are her father after all.”

  “London, you know I don’t ask much of you.” He ignored the incredulous look she gave him. “I would try to reach out to her if I thought she would be open to it, but this is important information we have to get a handle on, before she does something crazy.”

  “Why sure, Daddy. I would just love to snoop on my younger sister’s blossoming love life, just as my own is falling apart.”

  The sarcasm was completely lost on him as he grinned and wrapped an arm around her. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “Is that a Town Car?” Estelle interjected looking past them toward the street in surprise.

  They all turned to see Brooklyn exiting a shiny black car, then reaching in to grab her grandma’s hand. Frank shot his daughter a pointed look. London couldn’t deny wanting a few answers herself right about now. Both of them knew neither Brooklyn nor her grandma could afford to splurge for a Town Car. Had Brooklyn already become Michael’s little side piece?

  As they approached she took in Brooklyn’s black and white, stripped maxi dress with spaghetti straps. She was a stark contrast to London and her mother, both of whom were wearing conservative dress suits, London’s in pale blue and her mother’s in coral. London was already used to her sister changing the color of her mass of natural curls, so the purple ends were no surprise. The entire package was enough to make her stand out in the crowd of, mostly black, conservatively dressed church attendees. She could already sense her father’s disapproving eyes on his youngest as she walked arm-in-arm with grandma over to where they were all standing.

  Before she could address the Town Car issue, she caught sight of a flash of color in her grandma’s latest wig (which was a bit more chic than usual), as the sun reflected off one of the dark strands. “Are those purple highlights in your hair, grandma?” she asked peering in closer.

  “Do you like it?” her grandma asked, tilting her head in a coquettish way, making the purple even more apparent. “It was a gift from Brooklyn.”

  “What in the world have you done to mama?” cried her father, aghast, much to Brooklyn’s obvious delight. She always seemed to consider it an accomplishment when her father became outraged. Right now he was looking at his mother’s wig as though she had decided to show up to church with a dead possum on her head.

  “Excuse me,” his mother responded. “Your mama can do for herself, thank you very much.”

  “I like it,” said London, leaning her head to the left to get a better look at the dark purple highlights.

  “I like it too,” said Estelle, giving her mother-in-law a look of approval.

  “Thank you, baby,” Lucille said. “At least someone in this family has good taste,” she said, giving her son a scornful look.

  Frank pressed his lips together in his trademark look of disapproval, turning his angst on his youngest daughter in silent reprobation.

  “Besides, I needed a new look,” Lucille said, girlishly pressing a hand underneath the curve at the bottom of her wig. “Something to make that Mr. Cartwright stand up and take notice.”

  “Mama!” Frank said, outraged yet again. “What about Daddy?”

  “Son,” his mother said, giving him a weary sigh. “Your father, God bless his lovely soul, has been dead for 5 years. But your mama isn’t dead…and she has needs.”

  Brooklyn laughed. London laughed. Cleveland laughed. Estelle even broke out into a small smile.

  No doubt, if Frank had been wearing pearls around his neck they would be clutched tighter than a clam with lockjaw. Instead, he comically pressed a hand to his chest and audibly gasped. London watched his eyes get wide with dismay as Reverend Holt made his way over to their little grouping.

  “Reverend Holt!” her father boomed, shaking the man’s hand enthusiastically. “You remember Representative Davis is coming this week? I hope we can count on you to give him a few moments to make a special announcement next Sunday,” he said with a wink.

  “The Gre
ater A.M.E. Church will always make time for those candidates with a history of serving the community,” the reverend assured him.

  Her father gave one of his trademark, megawatt smiles, white teeth on full display. It faded as he watched the reverend cast a curious glance toward his mother.

  “Oh, Mama Jefferson, I see we’re trying something new today,” Reverend Holt said with a confused smile. He recovered as he recalled the persona he reserved for families whose weekly tithes more than helped keep the church afloat.

  “It’s purple,” Frank said, as though the man were crazy.

  “Our heavenly father’s light shines down on us in all colors,” the reverend responded with reverence.

  The Jeffersons all stood there and contemplated that statement with perplexed expressions. As Reverend Holt walked away to greet other parishioners, she heard her father mutter under his breath, “What in the Sam hell does that mean?”

  London caught up with Brooklyn after church before she could whisk grandma back into the Town Car that was (still!) waiting for them outside.

  “Not so fast, sis,” she said, hooking an arm into her younger sister’s.

  “What?” Brooklyn sighed, whirling around to face her. “No wait, let me guess. Daddy wants to know about the car?”

  London shrugged. “Frankly so do I,” she confessed. “I mean you and Richard Wright’s son?” she said, turning the tidbit she’d learned earlier into a question for Brooklyn to answer.

  The confused look she got in response wasn’t what she was expecting.

  “Michael?” Brooklyn asked finally, the look of confusion still intact.

  “Yes?” London urged, raising her eyebrows to encourage Brooklyn to expound on that.

  “What about him?” she asked, guardedly. “He gave me a ticket to the Knicks’ game,” she shrugged.

  London sighed. This pretty much confirmed it. “And how much older than you is this one?” she inquired.

  It was the wrong approach. She could immediately see the defensive wall come up around her sister, as she straightened her shoulders and glared. “So what if he’s older? What’s so bad about wanting to date mature men who are already settled in life? Would you rather I be dating guys my own age, who have no intention of being serious and just string me along for sex, then dump me?”

  That one hit a little too close to home and London took a moment to recover. There was no way Brooklyn could have known about her and Clayton yet, but London became resentful all the same. “Just because they’re older doesn’t mean they won’t still string you along and then dump you. Frankly, you should be more than a little suspicious when a man who was probably in high school when you were born, takes a sudden interest in you.”

  London watched as her younger sister glowered at her. Brooklyn gritted her teeth before announcing, “What I get up to in my personal life is no one’s business. Not yours, not Daddy’s. I’m going to take grandma home. Tell Daddy that I’m doing just fine, since he can’t be bothered to ask himself.” She stormed off to find their grandma.

  Well, that had gone well, London thought as she watched Brooklyn retreat. Now her sister was mad at her.

  All in all it was a fitting ending to the worst weekend of her life.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Brooklyn stood in the lobby to the Sullivan building waiting by the elevators. She wasn’t quite sure what she was waiting for.

  Michael Wright, obviously. But why?

  She thought of Alex. Alex’s hands. Alex’s tongue. Alex’s rock hard dick. She closed her eyes and clamped her legs together, savoring the memory of him on top of her, behind her, below her. Even that stupid tattoo.

  But he was just fun, right? A good time until the right man came along.

  Someone like Michael Wright.

  “So, it looks like you hit it off with my brother Friday Night?”

  Her eyes flew open. It was Michael. A guilty flush spread across her cheeks. He was definitely handsome and, sure he wore a suit well. But Alex was—

  “Wait, what?” she asked, the words he had just said finally sinking in.

  “My brother, at the game? Kiss cam?” he said, a playful grin highlighting his features.

  “What do you mean, brother?” she asked, still missing a piece of the puzzle somewhere.

  “Alex, Alex Wright,” he said it slowly, helping her catch on.

  “He’s your brother? Does he know?” she asked, dumbly. It wasn’t until it was out of her mouth that she realized how stupid the question was. Of course he knew. The bastard.

  Michael just gave a loud chuckle that caused a few people standing around them to take notice. “I certainly hope he knows,” he said. He sobered up a bit when he saw the stunned look on her face. “I take it he didn’t let you know. It looks like I have to have a talk with my little brother on how to treat women.”

  Brooklyn just nodded into the distance, only half tuning him in. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, all of them centered on one Alex…Wright?

  He’d known all along how she felt about his older brother. She had stupidly revealed everything to him, thinking he was a perfect stranger. Was sleeping with her some sort of sibling rivalry conquest? The club, the apartment, the stupid Town Car, had it all been just to show his big brother up? Had he shaved her just to leave his mark on her like some piece of cattle?

  Dear god, what if he told Michael everything. She brought her attention back to him, reading his expression for any indication that Alex had told him…anything.

  She saw nothing more than a sympathetic smile. “Well I’ve got to get to my office. I hope you at least enjoyed the game?”

  She shook it off, and just nodded with a smile, not trusting her voice at the moment. He looked at her a moment longer then headed into the elevator that had just opened.

  Brooklyn stayed in the lobby a moment to compose herself. It wasn’t until she stepped onto the elevator five minutes later that she realized, this was the most attention Michael Wright had ever paid to her.

  Starting one week from the date of this message, all employees at Douglas & Foster, must have their hair in a natural color, or dyed in a natural hue.

  Brooklyn had a pretty good idea which partner had rained this particular hell down on the firm—specifically the IT department, which was really the only one affected. She had seen the disapproving look he’d given her when she headed toward the elevators after nabbing Michael’s ticket. If James Reaves’ shoe-polish, black hair was “natural,” then she farted rainbows. She could already feel the negative energy in the air. Clarice, with her hot pink and blonde ombré hair, had already had a breakdown.

  It did nothing to calm her fiery mood as she debated what to say to Alex. She thought about calling him and reaming his ass out. No, that was more than he deserved. Wasn’t there a website that sent packages full of glitter to your enemies?

  In the end, she had simply sent him a text comprised of exactly one word: Asshole!

  After a lifetime of living for the night, Alex’s body had adjusted its internal clock, such that he rarely woke up before 10 a.m., and even then, only in cases of dire emergencies. Which was why he was shocked to find himself startled awake, with a nagging feeling.

  He sat up and looked around in a daze. The blackout curtains were securely drawn over the windows that faced east toward Brooklyn and the rising sun. There was no fire alarm going off. No smell of smoke in the building. What the fuck was it, then?

  He scratched his bare chest and reached over to the phone to see what time it was. 9:37 a.m.—on a Monday! That’s when he saw the notification letting him know he had a message from Brooklyn.

  Asshole!

  He smiled into the phone. Apparently she had run into Michael at work. Or maybe he had sought her out. That thought, for some reason, erased any little bit of pleasure he’d gained from the little deception he’d played on her. In his defense, all he had wanted was to get to know her, without her associating him with either Michael or his fa
ther. Now it was coming back to bite him in the ass.

  It was Monday. Brooklyn was back at work. Back with Mr. Wright. The right Wright.

  Alex fell back against the headboard, thinking. It didn’t necessarily have to end. He’d enjoyed his weekend with her. If Brooklyn denied enjoying at least a good portion of it as well, she was full of shit, however mad she might be right now. It had been fun…absurdly fun. Fun enough for him to want more. He didn’t have to be in Paris for a few weeks. Why not have some more fun?

  He pressed the button to call her.

  He wasn’t surprised to find it sent straight to voicemail.

  “Brooklyn, listen. I guess you figured out who I really am. I do want to apologize, but I also want to explain myself. I didn’t do it to trick you, I just…I don’t know. Can you call me so I can explain properly?”

  He hung up with a frown. It had been a bit rambling toward the end there. Maybe he should try again. He dialed and once again was sent straight to voicemail.

  “Brooklyn, we had fun didn’t we? Beyond not telling you my last name, did I once give you any reason to not trust me? If you’re worried I’ll tell Michael anything well,” he gave a sharp laugh, realizing the fairly nonexistent relationship he had with his older half-brother, “you don’t need to be concerned. My lips are sealed. Call me.”

  Over the course of the next hour, he tried five more times. If he had taken a break to think about that, it would have surprised him. Despite having recovered from a rather problematic youth, he wasn’t exactly into getting serious with someone. His lifestyle in no way permitted it. Especially someone in New York, a city that he actively tried to avoid if possible. Jealous had just been too awesome a project to pass up.

  So why the hell was he so intent on patching things up with this girl? Normally, he’d be relieved that she had taken it upon herself to never speak to him again.

  On the sixth try he was surprised to find her actually answer the phone. “Brooklyn?”