Sugar & Salt

by Pavarti K. Tyler

  “You know you can always come out here.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I’ll make it out soon.”

  “Okay, ‘cause you know, Aisha’s been asking about your ass.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Will you tell her to lay off?”

  “I keep trying, tellin’ her you don’t fuck hoes anymore, but it doesn’t do any good. You’re gonna have to face the music.”

  “Shit, I haven’t even seen her in what, a year? That’s what I get for fucking your dumbass cousin.”

  “Sure is. Catch ya soon, Jacky-boy.”

  “Have fun, and be good.”

  “Never am. Never.”

  He ends the call and lays his head back. Portia chose a white couch, but she gets everything in white—no stains, no mysteries. Funny she should choose him. Nothing white there. He chuckles with his eyes closed until the sound of running water in the bathroom ceases.

  He gets up to make her some tea.

  ***

  “Is this the full log?” Janice stands next to Portia’s desk, holding the calendar for the past week’s bookings.

  “Yes, Miss Necia. The report on page five aligns the bookings with deposits to various accounts.”

  “Have we had any further communications from Mr. Whitmore?”

  “No, but Jackson’s guy is still keeping an eye on him. Apparently his wife has asked him to move out and he’s still hanging around the daughter’s school, although it’s not clear if he’s after his daughter or her friend.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “Me either.”

  “Well, keep me up to date if anything happens, and transfer him directly to me should he call again.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  The elegant woman sighs, and Portia watches as she returns to her office. She seems distracted today. Something’s been off all weekend, but their Mondays are usually quite jovial. Even the Whitmore thing isn’t more intense than other situations they’ve dealt with in the past, but something is definitely bothering her. On the days they’re closed, the energy in the house tends to be playful. The kitchen staff preps for the week, the cleaning crew polishes and scrubs, and some of the escorts flit in to retrieve personal items or use the house’s supplies to get ready for an appointment.

  Portia flips through the folder on her desk, scanning the financial reports and correlating transfers to each employee’s private, offshore account. Running an illegal business is harder than it seems. Technically, the Cane Foundation, aka The Sugar House, runs on the skirts of Miss Necia’s personal investment business. A broker on Wall Street who used to be a client manages the funds, routing her distributions and other funds offshore and funneling money to the house’s accounts as appropriate.

  She didn’t exactly come to the US with a degree in business management, and doesn’t really understand it all. What she does understand is that column A must match column B, and all cash is promptly deposited in the safe in Miss Necia’s office. Since taking over the daily operation, she’s made sure each appointment is accounted for, each payment prompt, and non-payments denied services until they make good. Powerful men, used to getting what they want, never expect her to deny them entry. Sometimes they attempt to muscle their way past her, until Jackson appears at her side.

  She glances over to the fireplace. Jackson has settled into one of the overstuffed chairs, his posture relaxed, but his position strategic. She knows him well enough to tell. He has a direct sightline of the front door, but with a small movement of his head, he can see the kitchen entrance as well. And as always, he can see her. One could make the mistake of thinking he wasn’t paying attention—his headphones are connected to a Nintendo DS in his hands—but he only wears one earbud so he can hear everything around them.

  She smiles. Jackson is her everything—his presence her security, his friendship her lifeline. If only she could do more to help him. She contemplates everything he’s been through, everything he’s seen, and sighs. Sometimes, she wishes she’d never met him.

  “Is this the final number?” Janice slams a report down on the desk, startling Portia.

  “No, um, that’s just the house returns. If you turn to page twenty-seven....” She flips through the report until she finds the right page. “Here, line nine is for the house, line 11 for outside engagements, and line 12 is for our cut of private arrangements.”

  Janice nods and picks the packet back up.

  Portia follows her back into the private office. “Ma’am, are you upset about something?”

  “No, no, of course not. You’ve done a great job.”

  “Thank you, but I mean other than this stuff.” She looks at the papers scattered over the large mahogany desk. Her employer is usually so meticulous; it’s unsettling to see her in such a state of disarray.

  “Yes, everything is fine.” She stares her assistant in the eye for a moment, her gaze cold. “Thank you for asking.”

  Portia studies her boss’s attempt at a smile, which might be funny were it not so painfully strained. “Also, your father called. He said it wasn’t urgent, but to please call him back.”

  “Fuck me—him saying it isn’t urgent is like a bloodhound saying it can’t smell anything.”

  “Would you like me to get him on the line?”

  “No, I’ll do it in the morning.” Janice pivots her chair to stare at the heavily draped windows. There’s no view, but her posture indicates long distance gazing.

  Portia exits the somber office and closes the door behind her.

  “I think it’s going to be a long night,” she whispers to Jackson on her way back to the desk.

  In the Shadow of the Gods

  Janice walks through the motions: checking schedules, supervising the monthly medical evaluation of all employees, greeting new clients. She even manages to hire a new employee—a young man who is unusually self-possessed and comfortable with his desires. She puts him to work shadowing Shelly the day after their first meeting.

  She doesn’t go to the Blind Tiger that Thursday, and calls the organizer instead to quit speed-dating altogether. She asks them not to release her name or information to anyone, as she’s found someone and isn’t interested in dating. She tells herself the reason for the lie is so they think she’s leaving because she’s happy. She tells herself she’s being smart and focusing on what’s important.

  The recent call from her father helped put it all in perspective. His ability to know and deny what she does in one breath never ceases to amaze. As usual, the conversation ended in a stalemate.

  She dismisses the memory, marveling that she even attempts to engage him—another man who distracts her from the life she usually finds such joy in. Pride no longer serves as her resounding emotion; instead, regret and longing fill her heart. She never allowed herself to imagine finding a man like Salt—someone who does work he believes in, who is strong and vulnerable, intelligent and challenging. Her mind drifts back to the night they spent together—the way he traced his hands over the contours of her body, the reverence in his eyes.

  Damn it!

  She zips the side of her green gown. The Annual Summer Fete at the MET requires the purchase of a new dress, and at least a day of preparation. Usually, this is the highlight of her summer—a chance to enjoy the company of those who usually employ her as equals, make new connections, maintain old relationships, and do some good. As a major museum donor, her attendance is expected, but her heart just isn’t invested.

  The dress snags on her heels and she swears—the glamour and elegance of the evening forgotten. Part of her wishes she could just write another $10,000 check to get out of going. It would be worth every penny. She’d rather have a beer and watch a movie alone—depression has a way of pulling a person down into a spiral of solitude—but she refuses to submit. Neither depression nor disappointment is allowed a foothold.

  She adjusts her dress, slips on a pair of even higher heels, and appraises her appearance in the full length mirror running along the entire wall
of her custom built bathroom. With hair piled high on her head and a green, strapless gown, she resembles a Grecian Goddess, prepared to greet her supplicants. On the surface, everything is perfect. All she’s lacking is the shine of excitement in her eyes.

  The buzzer rings, announcing the arrival of the car she ordered. She wonders if Henry will be her driver—perhaps he moonlights. Her mind swims with a fantasy of asking him to take her to Salt’s condo, raising her heart rate and bringing a flush to her cheeks. If she wants that dream to be reality, she knows where he lives; she could go at any time. Then she remembers his job. Fucking UN.

  Her frown deepens and she heads out to meet the car.

  At the Metropolitan Museum of Art, elegant women on the arms of dapper men step out of time. The music is classical but unfamiliar, probably a new composition written just for the occasion. Power and money are rewarded, the people in attendance accustomed to such treatment.

  Janice comes to this world comfortably—her upbringing taught her how to mingle with the social elite. No matter how depraved her teen years may have been, she can still slide into the role. She may not be a celebrity outside the circle of high society, but that made it possible for her to continue what she did. Most of the people here think of her as a debutant who made her first billion in real estate and invested wisely. They aren’t entirely wrong, but it would be a shock to their systems if they discovered where the feed money for those investments is made.

  A few eyes widen when she enters the room, the name “Miss Necia” on their lips. Some approach her, some avoid her, but none dare reveal her for fear of associated guilt, or worse, the retraction of her favor.

  Familiar faces swarm and Janice smiles with polite interest, hiding the black cloud trailing her from view. Her heart fills with envy at the sight of couples dancing. She samples the array of amuse-bouche appetizers and taps her newly manicured nails against her champagne glass, waiting for the presentation part of the event to begin. As she considers ducking out and finding a bar somewhere, one of the many men she hoped to see tonight approaches.

  “Senator Macleod, good evening.” She greets him with an outstretched hand and seductive smile.

  “Miss... Janice, it’s lovely to see you here. You remember my wife, Celeste.” He gestures to the petite blonde on his arm, hardly as old as his daughters.

  “Of course. Bon soir, madame.”

  “Enchantée.” She takes Janice’s hand with a grip like a wet fish.

  This is exactly the kind of woman Janice can’t stand, and exactly the kind that keeps her in business.

  “The orchestra is exquisite this evening,” the senator says.

  Celeste rolls her eyes. “I told you, Roland, it’s not an orchestra. There are only thirteen people playing, which do not qualify as any kind of orchestra I’ve ever heard of.”

  Senator Macleod cringes and drops his gaze, properly shamed.

  “Janice, it’s lovely to meet you. Are you one of the presenters tonight?” Celeste looks at her with clear class distain.

  Her husband intervenes. “Actually, Ms. Cane will be recognized as a donor tonight. Isn’t that right, Janice?”

  “Yes, well, it’s important to support the arts.”

  “Oh yes, this is one of our many charities.” Celeste engages in the one-upmanship this kind of event is known for.

  “And I’m sure they all appreciate whatever you’re able to give.” Janice shuts the game down, receiving a glare from Celeste and a beaming smile from her husband. “Enjoy your evening, Senator. Ma’am.”

  The couple retreats, Celeste muttering in hushed tones, no doubt complaining about her treatment.

  “I fucking hate these people,” a familiar gravelly voice says from behind Janice, taking her breath away. A flush spreads across her chest, bringing the nerve endings of her body to life and igniting the smoldering embers of her desire.

  She takes a deep, steadying breath, and turns around. “You’re here.” The reaction of her body does nothing to dispel her belief that any entanglement with Salt remains doomed before it begins.

  “It’s the social event of the summer.” He wears a cocky smile and custom-fit tux. Broad shoulders fight against the confines of the jacket, emphasizing the strength beneath, but not enough to require the next size. “I noticed your name on the donor list and bought my way in.” He steps closer, hands hovering at his sides, ready to reach out.

  She studies his hands and relishes the memory of his touch on her waist, the grip of his embrace.

  “You didn’t come back to the bar.”

  “I told you this won’t work.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “Please....” Janice moves to turn away, but he takes her hand in his. His grip is loose—not intended to restrain, but more of a plea.

  “I don’t understand what happened. Whatever it is, I can fix it. Just don’t walk away again.” Vulnerability in a man usually turns her off, but his sincerity speaks directly to her soul, reminding her of what it means to feel.

  “It’s nothing you can fix, because it has nothing to do with you.” She is mesmerized by the green of his eyes, the shadow of yesterday’s beard, and the soft lines around his mouth. “I can’t tell you more than that.”

  “Then don’t.” He tightens his grip on her hand and pulls her closer.

  She is forced to step forward, due to the precarious balance required to walk in these heels.

  “Don’t tell me anything.” He gently parts his lips and they breathe together, their movements so perfectly in sync one could believe they were one body, one breath. “How about we don’t talk, just dance?”

  Before she can respond, he sweeps an arm around her waist and guides her to the crowded dance floor. In his arms, she relinquishes control, allowing him to lead her across the room, through the crowd, and into a dream. His embrace is warm and familiar, and though she knows she should walk away, she finds it impossible. The green of his eyes shines bright in the glow of their closeness, and for just a moment, she wonders if it might be possible. His hand rests on the small of her back, directing her movements with subtle firmness. The rest of the room fades away, black surrounding the spotlight of his gaze, until they are the only ones who exist.

  She presses closer, removing her hand from his and setting them both on his shoulders.

  His breath catches and he tilts his head down toward her. Music swells in the background and the lights dim. He releases his hold on her and steps back, leaving his hand on her back.

  The presenter announces it’s time to take their seats, but Salt doesn’t move; instead, he quirks his eyebrow, posing the question.

  She knows this can never be, but the air has left the building and she’s intoxicated with the thought of his lips.

  He drops his hand from her back, and takes her hand.

  Before she can answer, he strides forward, leading her out of the banquet hall, past the private exhibit, and out into the dimly lit hall.

  Hand in hand, they navigate the maze of the empty museum without a word, taking in the blur of surrounding art. He stops to look at a painting, and she drops his hand to skip ahead to the Greek and Roman displays.

  A massive, fluted column stands in the center of the room, its base lined with delicate carving, showing an elaborate, scaled pattern. She studies the piece, struck by its size and beauty. What a display of power and worship.

  “It’s from the Temple of Artemis.” He speaks in a hushed tone appropriate for the low lighting. Reverence fills the room as they gaze at the sculpture. “Goddess of childbirth and virginity.” He wraps his arms around her middle, pulling her against his strong chest.

  The air conditioning chills her arms, but his embrace invigorates her pulse. “And of the hunt.”

  “Like all women.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Like you.” He turns her around in his arms and stares at her parted lips.

  She sucks in a breath, anticipating the sweetness of his mo
uth.

  “You make me hunt you.” With brutal force, he leans in and kisses her, holding her close in his strong, determined arms.

  She struggles against his hold, but only enough to free her arms, reach up around his neck, and pull him closer. She nips his lip and then submits to his need, opening her mouth and drawing in his tongue.

  His taste, exotic and familiar, explodes in her mouth, overtaking her senses. A bloom of cardamom and bourbon. She sighs as he grips her tight, grabbing her ass and pulling her against his growing need.

  She runs her nails through his hair and pulls him down to her neck, craning to the side, inviting him to devour her flesh. Their elegant couture and her expensive coif, and the fact they’re in a public albeit empty museum, are forgotten in the heat of each other.

  He complies, sucking her skin into his mouth at the sensitive point where neck meets shoulder. He scrapes his teeth along her shoulder and explores her as if he’d never done so before, his hands roaming like a horny teenager’s, set to explore a forbidden world.

  She grips his erection, hot and hard, and a groan rings out. She strokes him through his pants, smiling as she watches his hands drop to his sides and his head loll to the side.

  He opens his mouth slightly and closes his eyes, lost in the pleasure of her ministrations. “That feels so fucking good.”

  She drops to her knees, and unclasps the belt holding his pants up.

  “Shit,” he moans when they drop to the floor. He laces his fingers through her hair, but doesn’t guide her to hurry. His breath hitches, indicating how desperate he is for her mouth on his cock.

  She runs a sharp nail along the covered shaft of his erection, tracing the line of his boxer briefs. She adds the fingertips of her other hand until she reaches his throbbing head, and pinches.

  “Fuck,” he moans, rocking his hips forward.

  She uncovers the delectable flesh beneath, letting his underwear drop around his ankles to join the forgotten slacks. She draws him forward with her fingers so his cock stands at the ready, her lips poised against the tip.