Feeling Some Type of Way

by Vera Roberts

  “Oh him?” I tried to play it off and quickly finished making the cappuccino.

  “Oh him?” Michelle mocked me and rolled her eyes. “I can understand you being blind because of your contacts, but you’re surely not deaf and dumb.” She watched him read something on his phone. Whatever it was, he gave a slight chuckle and revealed two soft dimples. “Oh my God, he has dimples!”

  “He does?” I looked up and frowned when I missed them. Shit! I’ll have to hope I would see them again.

  “Anyway, carry on,” Michelle went over to the sink to wash out the blenders and prepare them for another round of blended coffees, leaving me alone at the counter.

  “Cappuccino! Your order is ready!” I called out and felt my heart lurch against my chest when Mr. Man walked towards me.

  “Thank you,” his low, British baritone rumble greeted me. He slightly grinned but didn’t reveal dimples.

  It didn’t matter to me. My crush’s deep voice coated my soul with a thousand kisses and all he did was say thank you. “You’re welcome,” I barely muttered. I watched him disappear out of Caffeinated and into his car, where he sped off.

  And now I would have to wait another 24 hours to see him again.

  ~~~~~

  It was one thing if my parent couldn’t afford to pay for college. It was a different ball game when he simply didn’t want to.

  I sat before my financial advisor and tried to blink back tears of anger and frustration. I was ten thousand of making tuition this semester. Not to mention I still owed a whopping twenty-five grand for next semester. If I didn’t pay in full, I was in big trouble. And that was trouble I really couldn’t afford.

  I am the second child and only daughter of Samuel, a rich stockbroker; and Regina, an accountant. When my mother passed away from cancer a few years back, I enjoyed having my father to myself as he managed dual roles. I had a bit more freedom as long as I stayed out of trouble. Things were perfect. Things were wonderful.

  Then Sam met her.

  Her. I struggled to call Candy my stepmother, though it was a role she’d played for the past three years. All I knew was Sam invited me out to dinner to meet Candy and a few weeks later, she moved in. She was respectful enough to leave things alone when they were betrothed but once the ink on the marriage license dried, changes began.

  It wasn’t a little change here and there but a devastating hurricane that came through and destroyed the last bit of my mother’s memory out of the home. Whatever I wanted of my mother’s, it was in a storage unit that Sam shelled out a few hundred each month to keep Rich Bitch happy.

  I softly shook my head. My mother had been reduced to a storage unit.

  Somehow, Candy the Golddigger convinced Samuel to let me earn my way and not be so dependent on Daddy’s handouts, as she called it. It was a great speech if I was 25 or hell, approaching 30. Barely 21, it seemed cruel and unusual punishment.

  Now here I am sitting in the financial services department at school and wondering how badly did I want to become a porn star to pay for tuition? Hell, if that chick at Duke University could do it, well, so could I.

  I haven’t been on good terms with Sam since he made me a guest star in his life; a significant downgrade from recurring cast member. Hence why he’s not Daddy and just Sam. Not to mention his treatment of Adrienne (I’ll get to her later) didn’t sit well with me.

  But desperate times call for desperate measures. Maybe if I call Sam and ask him to maybe help me out just a bit and I’ll pay him back with interest, that’ll be fine. I started rehearsing what I was going to say and hoped it sounded plausible (read: desperate) enough where Samuel had no choice but to help me.

  I could only hope.

  I immediately began walking to the nearest restaurant, Sentiment. It was an upscale joint where they had the best margaritas in town. I might as well get drunk while I figured out some sort of game plan.

  FML.

  Three

  You know what I love about getting shitfaced? You simply don’t care about anything anymore.

  Nursing my second margarita (hey, don’t make fun of me. I’m a lightweight and I’m proud of that), I just don’t care. I don’t care about my rich roommates having Mommy and Daddy pay for everything while I barely make ends meet. I don’t care this is my last semester at USC and I probably won’t graduate next spring. I don’t care my Communication degree is going to absolutely useless because oh wait, I wouldn’t be able to afford the damn thing anyways.

  I knew…I just knew I should’ve became a porn star.

  As I nurse this diabetes-inducing beverage while listening to Sheryl Crow sing about how all she wants to do is have some fun, I’m wondering why don’t I do the same damn thing? I have no money, I’m about to get kicked out of school, and my Dad is too busy getting sloppy-toppy to worry about how his only daughter is doing.

  Rhett Rochelle….yep, that’s my porno name.

  After I signal to the bartender to bring me another margarita so I can drown the visuals of me sucking off an obeast Ron Jeremy, a British accent interrupts my nightmare. “She’s had enough.”

  I turn to the voice and see a brick wall of a man. Not just any man.

  Mr. Man.

  My flirty coffee connoisseur with the slick Bentley and a penchant for dressing even slicker. He’s wearing an open-collar suit that is perfectly tailored to his muscular frame. His silver-bluish eyes sparkle in the dim bar. He smells like hope, fantasies, and every wet dream I’ve ever had.

  He’s also Mr. Party Pooper. “May I help you?” I asked him.

  “I think I’m the one who should be asking that question.” He pulled out a wad of cash and my eyes widened as he flipped through several hundred-dollar bills just to get to the lone twenty in the middle of the stack. He slides Andrew Jackson over to the bartender and taps the bar twice as the bartender nods.

  He held his hand out towards me. “Come with me.”

  “Fuck you.” I may be drunk but I’m not stupid.

  “I’m going to take you home or whatever you want to go,” he insisted, “but I don’t want you staying here.”

  “Why?” I scoffed. I don’t care how fine he is, no man tells me what to do. “Are you the owner?”

  “Actually, I am.” He answered me without a blink in his eyes. “Come with me.”

  I probably shouldn’t leave and I’m pretty sure Helen and Michelle would have plenty to say once I tell them what happened today. I’m also pretty sure they’re also going to ask me if I finally got laid.

  Against my better and sober judgment, I grabbed Mr. Man’s hand. “Lead the way, sir.”

  ~~~~~

  It was a silent drive on the way to the Santa Monica pier. Other than the sounds of Musiq Soulchild blaring through the speakers (my choice, not his. I have a feeling Mr. Man wouldn’t know who or what a Musiq Soulchild is), it was silence between us.

  He concentrated on the road and I concentrated on not falling asleep in that comfortable-ass leather seat of the Bentley. If you’ve never experience anything else, sit inside a Bentley. It’ll change your life.

  He parked near the pier and got out of the car. I was getting ready to get out when he opened the passenger door for me. “Ladies first,” he held out his hand.

  I’m charmed. Most of the guys I date insist on going dutch and would barely open the door to Baskin-Robbins before it slammed into my face. Mr. Man opened his car door for me. “Thank you,” I whispered as I stepped out of the car. I looked around and smelled the salty, crisp ocean air as it wafted around my nostrils. I’m feeling better already and maybe all I needed was a change of scenery.

  “Let’s walk.” He locked the car and we slowly walked to the pier. “What’s your name?”

  “Dominique is my middle name but that’s what I go by,” I replied. “Yours?”

  “Ian Ferguson,” he smiled at me. Damn, he has a gorgeous smile. I still didn’t see any dimples, though. “Do you have a last name, Dominique?”

  “Kimbrou
gh.” I go onto to spelling it out for him since it was something I was used to.

  “So tell me,” Ian casually folded his arms as we walked, “why were you getting plastered in my bar at two in the afternoon?”

  I smiled at my embarrassing action. I wondered how long he watched me and how I didn’t notice him at first. “I’m about to get kicked out of school, my relationship with my father is completely shit, and I’m contemplating becoming a porn star because I have absolutely nothing to lose.”

  Ian slowly nodded as he kept walking. “Have you ever had sex on camera?”

  “I’ve never had sex, period.” I revealed. Hmm…maybe becoming a porn star isn’t a good idea.

  Ian nodded again. “You might want to consider another career than porn.”

  “Stripping?” I suggested. I took regular pole dancing classes to keep in shape. I often joked I could become a stripper if I chose to. Little did I know how much my ha-ha-ha would be a not-so funny reality. “I can do that. I’ll be really good, too. I already have a name picked out.”

  “Let’s hear it,” he replied.

  “Rhett Rochelle. The name of my first pet and the first street I lived on.” I explained to him. “There’s that.”

  We walked down the pier and stood at the railings, looking out into the ocean. There’s a peace about him that I can’t describe. It’s almost as if he could read my heart before I spoke. “So, why are you about to get kicked out of school?” He asked.

  “I can’t afford the rest of this semester and next. My scholarships only cover some tuition and books but I do the rest. I work at Caffeinated to cover some of the money but that leaves me with barely anything. My father refuses to help because he’s insisting I “earn my way” despite helping me the first three years. His new wife convinced him of that. On top of it, it’s my senior year.” I let out a deep breath and feel better already. “So yeah, ladies and gentlemen, coming to the stage is Rhett Rochelle!”

  Ian nodded again and continued to stare out into the distance. He’s probably thinking he just picked up a crazy-ass girl who can’t control her emotions or her liquor and drove her out to Santa Monica for really no damn reason. Gosh, I’m so dramatic.

  “I don’t want you becoming a sex worker,” he replied after a long silence, “I want to help you.”

  “I don’t accept handouts, Ian.” I already knew where it was going and I’m putting a stop to it. “Everything I do, it’s because I earned it.”

  “Your attitude is even better,” he turned to me, “I want you to come work for me.”

  His eyes are so beautiful. Honestly, Ian is beautiful. I never refer to a man as beautiful but my God…Ian is the reason a person would get out of bed in the morning.

  I swallowed the emotions pilling up in my lungs and feel them sink down to the pit of my stomach. “Doing what?”

  “Being my assistant. You’ll handle my affairs, my appointments, pick up my coffee, and sometimes accompany me to an event.” He replied. “I’ll give you my business card when we head back to the car.”

  “Do you really need an assistant for Sentiment?” I asked.

  “Not just that. I own a few restaurants. I’m also on the Board of the Directors of the Ferguson Gallery.” He replied.

  It all makes sense now. I should’ve known he was rich just by the last name. The Ferguson family pretty much own all of L.A. They own the Kings, the world-famous Ferguson Gallery, and tons of real estate in bars, nightclubs, and restaurants. It’s rumored they own real estate in other states and countries.

  The Fergusons are – pardon my language – fucking loaded. You know how there’s a difference between being broke and being poor? Well, there’s a huge difference between being rich and being wealthy. Rich would be the Kardashians. Wealthy would be the Kennedys, the Hiltons, the Gettys, and the Rothschilds.

  That’s where the Fergusons are. They’re the Paris Hiltons. Okay, maybe that wasn’t a good example but you get what I’m saying.

  I know better. When a wealthy man asks you do something, there are some pretty big strings attached. “What do you get out of this?”

  “Dominique, I don’t want you out on the street. I don’t want you selling your body because your father is an asshole. I don’t know you very well but I know you’re smart, beautiful, and have an incredibly bright future.” He ran his fingers through my curly locks and I immediately shivered. I never had anyone do that to me and it brought out sensations all over my body. “What I’m getting out of this is I’m keeping you off the streets.”

  “You’re awfully generous to someone you don’t know,” I replied.

  “It’s better than being generous to someone I do know. When you do something nice for someone you know, they tend to expect it more out of you. When you do something nice for a stranger, you could really change their perspective and outlook.” He smiled at me. “I also want your full concentration on graduating this year.”

  “I would if I…”

  “Don’t worry about anything else right now. I’ll take care of the small details.” Ian glanced down at his super expensive watch. I don’t know what brand it is but I’m pretty sure it’s affordability is about the same of the Bentley. “Let’s go have dinner and we’ll discuss more details before I take you back home.”

  We began walking again and headed to one of Santa Monica’s trendiest and most expensive restaurants, 3121. Ian opened the door for me and let me inside. I took stock of my surroundings and felt like I was in another world. Polished hardwood floors, dulce de leche paint, and wall sconces gave the restaurant a sophisticated feel. It smelled like old money and expensive taste.

  I saw executives at sporadic tables negotiating business deals and debutantes gossiping. It was also the type of restaurant where they didn’t have prices on the menu (read: if you can’t afford this, you shouldn’t be here).

  I immediately feel underdressed wearing my jeans, sneakers, and my overly-priced-but-I’m-a-diehard-Beyhive-member Ivy Park hoodie. “I think the owner might not appreciate me being here and wearing this.”

  “Oh, I think he won’t have an issue with what you’re wearing,” Ian smiled again, his eyes dancing with each thought. “I’m the owner.”

  Four

  “I don’t think she did.”

  “How can you tell? You’ve never had sex, either!”

  “I know what a freshly sexed glow looks like. She doesn’t have it.”

  As I was waking up, I heard Michelle and Helen go back and forth about my face. Last night was a bit of a blur to me as I remembered to take off my makeup and went straight to bed where I had some of the best damn sleep in a while.

  Now my best friends were examining my face like those makeup artists at the MAC counter. “If you two don’t get your nosey asses out of my bed…” I opened my eyes and saw both girls sitting on my bed with Cheshire cat smiles on their faces as they each held a cup of tea.

  “Good Morning, Sleeping Beauty.” Michelle grinned as she reached back and grabbed a cup of tea. “Tea, anyone?”

  The pun wasn’t lost on me. They watched from the balcony of our shared three-bedroom apartment when Ian dropped me off and walked me to the front door. He ended our meeting (because it wasn’t a date) with a hug and a promise to talk to me later today.

  We don’t live in a rich neighborhood. The surrounding area of USC isn’t what one could call glamorous. A Bentley dropping me off would raise anyone’s eyebrows and my roommates had time for me spilling all the tea this morning. “I got a new job.”

  “I don’t care about that shit,” Helen made herself more comfortable on my twin bed. “Who’s Mr. Man?”

  “Mr. Man is Ian Ferguson of the Ferguson dynasty.” I replied after I took a sip of the too-strong Earl Grey. “Long story short, he saw me get shitfaced in his bar yesterday afternoon, he took me to Santa Monica, and suggested I go work for him.”

  Michelle’s mouth hung so low, I swore her bottom lip scraped the carpet. “Ian Ferguson? Do you know who that
is?”

  “I’m well aware of that now.” I softly replied. The Ferguson family made their wealth via financial services, wineries, mining, and a host of other businesses. Their net worth was somewhere between the Rockefellers and the Rothschilds. The low end had it around 15 billion while the high end – and believe me I gulped – was around 100 billion. “He wants me to be his personal assistant.”

  “Are you sure that’s all he wants from you?” Helen asked. “I saw how he held you last night.”

  “He didn’t hold…” Well, actually he did. As he dropped me off, Ian held my waist with both hands and softly kissed my forehead. It wasn’t sexual but it definitely wasn’t platonic.