The Outside Child

by Tiffany L. Warren

  “It’s that dress clinging to your pop-out booty, and all that coconut oil that you have shining up your chocolate skin,” she says.

  “There’s plenty of beautiful women here. I’m nowhere near the hottest one walking around. I think he honestly felt sorry for us, and was being nice.”

  I hope Kara doesn’t think I’m being modest or anything. I’m dead serious. There are so many surgically enhanced body parts at this resort that I almost feel inadequate. I never thought I would ever consider plastic surgery until I walked into this resort. And Brayden could have his pick. He is fine, muscular, and rich. When I grabbed his arm, I wanted to feel his embrace. That’s how strong his arms felt.

  I also know that I’m attractive, though. I get my fair share of attention from men. Lately, I’ve been getting hit on by a lot of white men. It’s like all of a sudden, they woke up and decided that if their women could swirl, then so could they. And they love my chocolate self. Like, if they’re gonna cross over, they want the darkest berry they can find.

  I’m not mad at them, because I am very juicy and very sweet.

  I’ve gone out on a few dates with some of them, too. Some were creepy and weird, some were regular, and some were an awesome time. Just like when I date black guys.

  But Brayden is a whole other level of delicious. It’s like God reached into my fantasies, sculpted Brayden out of black-man clay, breathed swag into his lungs and said, “Let there be foine.”

  “How will you repay his kindness?” Kara asks.

  “He asked for a date. I’m gonna give him one.”

  “You ought to give him some booty, too, girl. For all of this, he deserves it.”

  I don’t respond to this, because I don’t agree. I don’t trade in sexual favors. I know that’s the in thing to do; I also know that’s what Kara would do, but I can’t let a man think that he can purchase a night with me. This cookie is not for sale.

  “Who is my first client?” I ask. “Or do you know?”

  “Wow, really? Of course, I know. I have your whole itinerary.”

  “Because you had the room situation taken care of, too, and we just stood at the front desk looking like idiots.”

  “I don’t know what happened with that.”

  This isn’t the first time Kara has screwed something up that was supposed to be handled, but this is absolutely the most embarrassing time. This time I want to fire her, but how do you fire your best ride-or-die friend? Kara is the friend who would help me murder an abusive boyfriend, hide the body, and lie on the witness stand. She’s that friend.

  So, when she volunteered to be my personal assistant, how could I say no? It’s just that she’s horrible at the job. I think she can get better, but she has to take constructive criticism without getting her feelings hurt all the time.

  I watch Kara go into her backpack and pull out a clipboard. She walks over and thrusts it in my face.

  “Your itinerary, boss.”

  I take the clipboard and glance over the information. It is a list of names and the nights they perform. I hand the list back to her.

  “What time do I need to show up? Where? Are there any special requests of each client?”

  Kara stares at me, blinking. “How am I supposed to find all of that out?”

  “You can start by going over to the concert area, letting them know we’ve arrived, and asking for additional instructions.”

  She rolls her eyes and glances over at her bathing suits.

  “We’re not here on vacation,” I say. “We’re here to work. We can go to the beach when we have downtime. Right now, you’re on the clock.”

  Kara looks like she wants to say something back, but then appears to change her mind. She tucks the clipboard under her arm and starts toward the door. Then she stops and turns to me.

  “I am sorry about the room. I had the confirmation number. I honestly don’t know what went wrong.”

  “I forgive you, Kara.”

  “Promise you aren’t angry?”

  The remorseful tone in her voice evaporates any irritation that I might’ve had at Kara’s lack of organizational skills. I have to learn to be more patient. She can learn to do this job better, but I’ll never, ever find a more loyal friend.

  “How can I be mad, girl? We got upgraded.”

  She smiles as I give her a high-five. “Yes, we did.”

  There’s a little bounce in her step as she crosses the room now, like she knows that fun is on the way. She’s got the easy part, really. She’s only got the organizing. I’m the one who’ll have to pull out every trick in the bag to make some of these average-looking artists look like glamour queens.

  Kara opens the door, and Brayden is standing there with his fist raised, like he was just about to knock.

  “Hey Mr. Brayden,” Kara says. “I was just leaving, but Chenille was planning to relax a bit until it’s time for the first show.”

  I chuckle. There is no time for me to relax, but I appreciate her trying to hook me up.

  “I’m gonna let you get your rest,” Brayden says. “I just wanted to make sure everything was okay, and that y’all had gotten settled in.”

  Kara scurries out of the room, pushes Brayden over the threshold, and slams the door behind her. We share an awkward moment, because neither of us says anything. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, and I bite my lip.

  “So, where are you from?” Brayden asks, finally breaking the silence.

  I’m glad he said something. I might not be aggressive when it comes to dating, but I don’t want a shy boy. Yuck. There’s nothing more unattractive to me than a man who doesn’t know how to be assertive and get what he wants.

  “Atlanta.”

  “Born and raised?” he asks.

  “Yep. A Lithonia-born Georgia peach.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  I laugh out loud. Now, he’s getting somewhere. A little boldness, a little innuendo. Okay, I see you Mr. Chocolate. I also see his chest muscles ripple when he laughs. The tank top he’s wearing can hardly contain it all. He looks good enough to touch.

  And I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s noticed.

  “What about you? Where are you from?” I ask.

  “Texas born, Texas bred, and when I die, I’ll be Texas dead.”

  Now I really burst out laughing. Every Texan I’ve ever met has been crazy about Texas. I’ve never dated one, though.

  Am I already thinking of dating him? Let me pull myself together. This is too good to be true. The only reason he gave up this room is because he intends on being laid up in here with me the whole week. He ain’t slick. He’s just invited me to his love nest, so he can have easy access, and my dumb self and my dumber assistant have set up shop.

  “You must’ve been planning to entertain in this gigantic room. You even had snacks at the ready.”

  “I agree. They were at the ready. It looks like you and your homegirl smashed, though.”

  “We did. Those strawberries were good.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

  “What if I tell you I’m not having sex with you? Am I going to need to pack my bags and figure out somewhere else to stay?”

  His eyes widen with genuine shock. He looks offended.

  “I didn’t give you this room so that I could sleep with you. I wanted to help. You looked so distraught, and I knew I could stay with my friend.”

  “So, this wasn’t some elaborate plot to get my booty?”

  “I could’ve gotten it without giving up my suite.”

  I almost hit him with rapid-fire word bombs of the very profane and hood kind, until I see he’s on the verge of laughter again.

  “You think that’s funny?” I ask.

  “It is. You looked like you were about to swing on me.”

  “I would never put my hands on anyone. I was about to get my things and bounce, though.”

  “No need. I was joking. I’m gonna go and let you get your rest. I don’t want you saying
you’re tired when it’s time for our date.”

  “When is this date supposed to be taking place?”

  “I’m not sure. It’ll be before the week is out, but I need to think about it first. How can I top giving up my baller suite in an act of chivalry?”

  “That is going to be very hard to top.”

  If he does anything more spectacular than this, he probably will get the booty. It’ll probably offer itself up as tribute.

  “Challenge accepted,” Brayden says. Then he does a deep bow like a Japanese sumo wrestler before a match.

  He crosses the room and removes all the space between us. My breath is caught in my throat with anticipation.

  “I have a question,” Brayden whispers.

  “Okay.”

  “If all of this had been an elaborate plot to get the booty, would I have gotten it?”

  “What?”

  Then he laughs, “I’m kidding.”

  “Oh!”

  “I’ll see you later, Chenille. Did I tell you I love your name?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, I do. Get some rest. I’ll holla later.”

  My breathing doesn’t normalize until he leaves the suite. I walk over to the bed and sit down on the edge, so I can gather my thoughts.

  Brayden is nicer than I thought he’d be. A lot nicer. Not like any athlete I’ve ever met or been around. They’re mostly arrogant, like to display their money, and they never talk to girls my shade of brown. I honestly didn’t expect to be distracted by men, at all, this weekend.

  I go to these “celebrity” outings all the time in Atlanta. Girls who look like me get to have fun, but we don’t get the ring. Not from the celebrity guys, anyway. We pull plenty of African tycoons and princes. Well, they call themselves tycoons and princes, but I don’t know who’s verifying any of this.

  Anyway, I was good with coming here to work, because all I expected was work. I didn’t expect an NFL player to be interested in me. Not here with so many blow-in-the-wind-haired Latina and mixed chicks present. I was just being real with myself.

  Now I feel like I should’ve planned better. Maybe I shoulda rocked a weave instead of these braids. Maybe I should’ve brought some sexier swimsuits.

  Maybe I should’ve scheduled myself some downtime.

  Know what? I’m not even gonna worry about it at all. I didn’t come here to find a man, I came here to brand my business. So if something happens, great. If it doesn’t, I’m going to enjoy this great suite in paradise . . . and make this money.

  Chapter 5

  I am having the worst day ever. Well, maybe not ever, but the worst day this week. This is supposed to be paradise, shoot!

  Everyone told me that this new R & B artist, Taneeka, was a handful. Just yesterday, she fired the makeup artist that she brought with her from Atlanta. A makeup artist I know and respect, and who has a hell of a lot more experience than I do.

  So, when the concert organizer begged me to slide Taneeka into my schedule, I was apprehensive. I let Kara, who is a big fan of Taneeka, talk me into it.

  I need to make myself a note and put a reminder on my calendar to never, ever, let Kara talk me into anything. Again. Ever.

  “I’m not glowing enough,” Taneeka says when I hand her the mirror for the fifth time.

  Yes, the fifth time. This is the fifth look I’ve given her. The first four were perfect. The first was bold and colorful—fun. The second one was a glittery and frosted look. She looked positively stunning. The third look was all earth tones and grit—she was serving bronzed goddess. The fourth look was natural and fresh, like a teen next door. This final one, the one that isn’t glowing enough, captures old school Hollywood glam, with big red lips and a smoky eye.

  I turn her chair and add more shimmer on the balls of her cheeks and down her nose. Then I shove the mirror in her hand again.

  “Do I sense an attitude?” Taneeka asks.

  “You sense a very tired makeup artist.”

  “Well, you’re being paid, so you need to perk the hell up.”

  I swallow all of the profane words that bubble up into the back of my throat, because I cannot cuss this little girl out. It’ll be all over the blogs in Atlanta, and they’ll say that I’m unprofessional. Even though Taneeka is stank as all get-out.

  “What do you think? Glowing enough?”

  “I guess it’ll work. I mean, we really don’t have time for you to keep practicing on me.”

  “Prac . . .” Shoot. Swallowing again. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I didn’t say I like it. I said it’ll work. The only other choice I have is to do my own damn makeup.”

  A waitress walks up to us with a drink on a tray.

  “I didn’t order that. What is that?” Taneeka asks.

  “Are you Ms. Chenille?” the waitress asks.

  “Oh, that’s me, but I didn’t order a drink.”

  The waitress smiles. “It’s from Mr. Brayden Carpenter.”

  Now, I can’t wipe the smile off my face. Ain’t nothing this heffa can say to kill my vibe now.

  Taneeka rolls her eyes and snatches off the makeup apron.

  “Groupies kill me coming to these things, just trying to get a baller.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask. “I’m not a groupie, sweetheart.”

  “Everyone in the industry who isn’t an artist is a damn groupie. Every makeup artist, hair stylist, nail tech, choreographer. Every one of y’all. Sucking the artists dry. Like I bet you didn’t even go to school for makeup. You just woke up one day and said, ‘I’ma be a makeup artist,’ ’cause you ain’t cute, you can’t sing, and whatever else.”

  Okay, damn the blogs.

  “Listen here, you little wannabe Rihanna. You have not arrived. You ain’t there yet. You are an opening act at a week-long concert. Ain’t nobody here to see yo’ ass. And the reason why you don’t like what you see when you look in the damn mirror is because of that ugly spirit that shows in your eyes.”

  Let me just say . . . the way this child’s bottom lip starts trembling. Oh, my goodness. She bursts into tears.

  “Wait, no, no, no, don’t cry. You’re going to mess up your makeup.”

  She is bawling now, and here comes the concert coordinator. Shoot. I’m probably about to get fired from this concert. Damn.

  “What’s happening?” Raven, the coordinator asks.

  “She’s so mean.” Taneeka wails at the top of her lungs.

  “Who’s mean? Chenille? I’ve seen Chenille get cussed out and not break a sweat. She’s not mean,” Raven says.

  Taneeka pouts and throws herself around in the makeup chair. She looks like an oversize toddler.

  “Are you going to perform? I do have a backup group if necessary,” Raven says.

  Raven clearly isn’t here for Taneeka’s tantrum. When she said “backup group,” Taneeka got it together real quick. I have never seen tears dry up so quickly.

  I take two very large gulps from the drink Brayden sent me to keep from laughing.

  “Um, Chenille, can you fix my makeup?” Taneeka asks.

  Oh, so she wants the groupie to fix her face now? Okay, I won’t be petty. I’ll be the professional that I am and help this child.

  After I correct all the streaks and send Taneeka to do her non-singing on the stage, I pack up my equipment. I am finally done for the day. The first time all week that I’m finished before sunset. The main acts are tonight, and they all have their own makeup artists.

  Finally, I can rest.

  I wish I could enjoy the island, but it seems like I don’t get out of here every evening until after dark. I’ll have to live vicariously through Kara’s tales.

  As tired as I am, I can’t help but smile when I see Brayden waiting outside the makeup tents. I’ve been in here for hours, so I wonder how long he’s been waiting for me. He returns my smile.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” I say. “You’re missing the concert, though.”

  “I decided t
o bypass the concert tonight. I’d rather spend my time with you.”

  I am tired, but suddenly I’m getting my second wind.

  “You’re too sweet. Is it time for our dinner date?”

  “It is.”

  “But I’m all sweaty and sticky from working all day.”

  “Do you want me to walk you up to your baller suite, so you can change?”

  “Do I have time?”

  “I’m on your time. I’m just hoping you have a few moments to spare in between getting your coins.”

  “I’ve got a few.”

  Brayden takes my makeup bag out of my hand and slings it over his shoulder. The crowd roars with applause at something that we can’t hear, but we’re walking away from the noise and back toward the resort.

  “How’d you know when to pick me up?” I ask.

  “I got your schedule for the day from Kara. She told me things had gotten hectic on your other days, and to just stay there until you come out.”

  “And you waited.”

  “Of course I did. The week is almost over. You owe me a date.”

  He smells so good. I can’t place the scent, but it’s incredible. I don’t want to do anything that might make him think I’m interested in activities beyond dinner, but I also want to get just a little closer to enjoy his cologne.

  We get to the suite, and I open the door. Brayden sets my bag inside the room but remains in the hallway.

  “I’ll wait for you out here. Don’t be long. I’ve got something nice planned for you.”

  “You don’t have to wait outside. I trust you.”

  “I’m good out here.”

  He takes a seat in one of the wicker chairs on the landing, overlooking the ocean. His chivalry is almost overboard.

  “What, you think you can’t control yourself, knowing I’m in my underwear in the next room?”

  Brayden grins. “I can control myself, but it doesn’t feel right. You’re not a groupie, and I don’t want anyone to see me coming out your room and thinking you’re one.”

  Damn. That’s more than chivalry. I almost feel like he checked me a little bit. I don’t even know what to say in return, so I just nod and walk into my room.

  I choose my outfit carefully. A long, flowing sundress that I didn’t even think I was gonna get the opportunity to wear here. I wasn’t planning on having a date or even fun, but I’m now picking which bracelet to wear on my date with an NFL player. This is unreal.