The Chosen One

by T. B. Markinson

  I agreed.

  “Kiss me.” Oh boy, did she. The chorus from the Alicia Keys song “Girl on Fire” blared in my brain.

  “I love the way you feel,” I panted when she finally pulled away for breath.

  Maya’s fingers glided in and out, slowly, unhurried. “I love how soft your skin is.” She rubbed her face in my cleavage, circling a nipple with her nose before nipping it with her teeth.

  It made me moan.

  Her lips skated down my stomach, never lingering too long, just ensuring they covered all the right spots.

  She inched down.

  And down.

  Farther down.

  Bypassing my bud, she caressed my inner thigh, sighing blissfully. Moving to my other thigh, she kissed it gently while her hand pumped ever so slightly‌—‌keeping me in the moment but not bursting with lust.

  Her tongue landed on my clit, forcing me to gasp. “Oh yes.”

  Maya circled it, her fingers increasing their steady penetration. My hips bucked, pleading for more, and another finger entered. “Harder.”

  She enthusiastically complied. It was hard to decipher who was moaning louder; our sounds and bodies melded into one.

  “Maya I’m‌—‌” I sensed I was about to come right as my body spasmed. Maya didn’t let up, and I didn’t want her to. Not ever.

  Another wave coursed through me. “Jesus!” I screamed. An aftershock overcame me, making my legs quake.

  Maya stayed inside me, but stilled her fingers and her tongue.

  I gasped for air until I was finally able to say, “I could do this all night.”

  “I’m game.” Maya snaked up my body and kissed me.

  I flipped her onto her back. “Only if we take turns.” I motioned for her to lift her ass so I could dispense with her jeans and underwear.

  “By all means.”

  Maya’s pussy lips glistened with desire, and I traced them gently with a finger.

  “I need you. Now,” she said.

  The words hit me hard, with the sweetest impact.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Maya actually said that? Not to abandon her if she lets you in completely? Which I’m assuming means her past‌—‌the one that doesn’t exist?” Fiona and I pushed and pirouetted through a herd of Red Sox fans heading in the opposite direction toward Fenway Park. Our destination was Nadine’s, one of Boston’s oldest and most exclusive restaurants. “What in the hell is she hiding? And please tell me you didn’t make that promise?”

  I yanked on her arm to get her to stop, and then rested a hand on her shoulder so I could slip off one Christian Louboutin pump. The back of my foot was rubbed raw. “Why do I wear heels? My feet are killing me.”

  Fiona shook her head. “Because you can’t accept that you’re a bit on the short side. Besides, Grandmother always insists you look glamorous. The rest of us are chopped liver.” She wore sensible black suede flats, which looked stylish and cozy, and didn’t make her limp.

  I groaned and focused on the Maya problem. “What was I supposed to say? That I plan on running if my granny tells me to, because I don’t think I would.”

  “Especially not in those babies.” She gestured to my bloodstained shoes. “Never understood the allure of bloody feet.” Fiona put a hand on my shoulder. “Back to the matter at hand, you don’t know that for sure. If you learn something truly awful, how can you stay with her? You, of all people, know the political game. Just a whiff of scandal and bye-bye White House.”

  “Has Pat run out on you? He knows more than most about the skeletons in the Carmichael’s closet, even Uncle Liam. That would scare off most.” I attempted to put my shoe back on, but it hurt too much. “Do you have a Band-Aid?”

  She fished through her black clutch. “You aren’t Pat. You do as you’re told, and if you’re told to run, you run.” She snapped her bag closed. “Sorry, I’m not much of a Girl Scout.”

  I ignored her comment. Weeks ago I would have done as I was told. But now?

  “Fine. I’ll walk in stockings until I have to look presentable.”

  “Fingers crossed. Hopefully Susie the Shark doesn’t sniff your blood.” Fee motioned for me to walk ahead. “I did get a kick out of the wet T-shirt photo, though.”

  I shot Fiona a look that would have curdled most people’s blood, but she laughed it off.

  We arrived at Nadine’s just as Grandmother was getting out of her Bentley. Her chauffer stood with his hand out, assisting the crone. He made it look effortless, the way he carried most of her weight without revealing he was essentially lifting her out of the back seat. She probably only weighed ninety pounds. Her back slouched slightly, and the cane was a permanent fixture in her right hand. I took the opportunity to examine her face and neck, which were riddled with wrinkles and sagging skin. True to form, Grandmother wore a dress and hat befitting Maggie Smith’s character on Downton Abbey.

  Spying us, she sternly tipped her head; that was her friendly greeting. If angry, she would only glare. Luckily, I had slipped my heels back on moments before.

  Fiona kissed her cheek, and I followed suit. “It’s lovely to see you,” I said.

  A tight-lipped nod was her only response.

  Fiona offered Grandmother an arm, and I followed them inside. We shed our coats and handed them to one of the hostesses.

  Mother and Uncle Owen waited in plush chairs, clutching tumblers of scotch.

  “Why, Ainsley, something’s different about you,” my uncle said. He held my arms out and inspected me from head to toe. “You look so grown-up.”

  Mom, in a royal-blue power suit that reminded me of Hillary Clinton, eyed my outfit as though my embroidered black crepe dress would confess all.

  Fiona hid her know-it-all grin with a palm, and I imagined she was forcing a comment back into the pit of her stomach. She seemed disappointed I hadn’t blurted out, “Well, Uncle Owen, I popped my cherry.”

  The hostess led us through the yellow-marbled restaurant. Most of the tables were semi-private, partitions of frosted glass strategically placed to block any gawkers, but that wasn’t enough for Grandmother. She always reserved the private dining room. She settled into her seat and promptly ordered oysters and a French Chablis. I think I was the only Carmichael who hated the raw, bluish-gray, booger-tasting flesh, and I was absolutely convinced that the first person who’d sampled one did so only in a life or death situation.

  The family’s quarterly dinners were more like board meetings held under crystal chandeliers and gilded ceilings. Tonight’s agenda contained the upcoming legislation sponsored by Mom and Uncle Owen, and how many votes they needed. Fee and I weren’t silent observers. We were expected to listen and learn, of course, but we would also have to give updates about our lives. Fiona stated her grades and that she’d been asked to cowrite an article with an esteemed professor. When my turn arrived, I drew a complete and total blank.

  Luckily, the server arrived with the wine and oysters, and Grandmother sampled the Chablis and gave an approving nod. Everyone but me tucked into the oysters.

  “Go on, Ainsley,” encouraged Grandmother.

  “I met someone,” I said.

  Fiona, usually the paragon of self-control around the old lady, dropped her jaw to her chest. No one ever shared personal details unless it was a big deal, like Ham’s marriage.

  Grandmother stared.

  “That’s good news.” Uncle Owen had always had a soft spot for me. “About time you finally went on a real date.”

  And then some.

  Mother tapped her manicured nails against the base of her wineglass. “That’s fine, Ainsley, but remember why you are in school. Look at Fiona‌—‌she’s coauthoring a paper. You need to think along those lines and not let your hormones get the best of you.”

  No one else spoke. Grandmother eyed me, deep in thought. The flesh hanging from her neck moved as she swallowed. “Are you going to tell me more, child?”

  “I’m doing well in all of my classes.” />
  “I know you are. The girl, tell me about the girl.”

  “Are you ready to order?”

  Thank God! Saved by Nadine’s efficiency. I kept my eyes glued to the menu, hoping that by the time everyone finished ordering, the conversation would have moved into less dangerous territory.

  Fiona kicked me under the table.

  Thinking it was my turn, I directed my gaze to the waitress.

  Maya.

  She wore a crisp black shirt, black slacks, and a short white apron tied around her waist. She stood with a subservient, stooped posture, arms behind her back, her gaze fixed on mine. What had happened to the dude who was serving us? Something about this bait and switch felt fishy.

  “Miss?” she asked.

  “Uh…”

  Maya didn’t blink.

  I didn’t want to order the lobster, not from Maya. But if I didn’t, it would ring alarm bells, force questions. I wanted to avoid any and all questions.

  “The broiled Maine Lobster, please.”

  “Any sides?” Maya’s beautiful face was devoid of all emotion.

  “The roasted autumn vegetables.” I nearly added, “sweetheart.”

  “Very good.” She turned to Fiona. “And you, miss?”

  Fiona smacked her lips together, and her eyes darted to me and then back to Maya.

  “The pan-roasted halibut, Maya. Thank you.”

  I cringed, but the rest of our party seemed oblivious to Fiona’s mistake.

  Maya didn’t miss a beat. “Of course, miss. Side?”

  “Pommes puree.”

  She dipped her head slightly, took the other orders with ease, and then disappeared out the side door.

  Grandmother dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Ainsley, you were telling us about the girl you met.”

  I stared at the door through which Maya had exited.

  The room was silent, and I realized they were awaiting my answer.

  “Oh, she’s a classmate.” I turned to Mother. “She’s in my history class with Dr. Gingas‌—‌now she’s an interesting character, lectures like a marine drill sergeant.”

  Fiona practically groaned at my obvious attempt at diversion. For my part, I was abhorred I’d provided a detail that made it easier for the goons to track down Maya. Stupid, stupid, stupid, Ains.

  Mother smiled without much warmth. Why?

  Grandmother cleared her throat and leveled her cold, birdlike eyes on mine.

  I smiled as innocently as possible. “Her name is Mara. Mara Channing.”

  “Mara,” repeated Grandmother. “Isn’t our waitress named Mara?” she said it with such a casual air that I almost believed her innocence.

  Mother shifted in her seat, but Grandmother stared her down.

  Fiona stepped in. “Maya,” she corrected. “She’s a friend of Pat’s. He used to work here.”

  “Maya, Mara‌—‌so close and yet so far,” said the calculating old lady. She stared at Fiona and then at me with a conspiratorial air, as if she knew we were playing her for a fool.

  My mind whirled, wondering what she knew. Would she know anything? Not yet, at least. Surely. Or had she been watching my every move? Was she the source of the quotes? Should I alert Ham?

  “Where is she from?” Grandmother asked.

  “Wyoming,” I squeaked, and then cleared my throat. Hold it together, Ainsley. Act normal. Avoid unwanted snooping.

  Grandmother raised an eyebrow. No one in our family had ever been friends with anyone from Dick Cheney territory.

  “She and her mother moved to Massachusetts a few years ago.”

  “Where do they live?”

  I never should have mentioned that part. I dug my nails into my legs. “Mattapan,” I uttered, washing the word away with a sip of wine. The staff at Nadine’s routinely overlooked underage drinking. They had turned the other way since I turned sweet sixteen.

  Mother didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. The snarl in her lip was clear enough. Sure, she wanted people from Mattapan to vote for her, but she didn’t want her precious daughter to date one of them. She angrily slurped an oyster. I wanted to shout out that she was a hypocrite, claiming to be a woman of the people.

  “I see. What does her mother do?” Grandmother asked.

  “She’s a waitress,” I whispered. Just like Maya at the moment. Would Grandmother circle back to that?

  “And?”

  I said the first thing that popped into my addled mind. “She’s Puerto Rican, descended from African slaves.”

  “You managed to find the only black lesbian from Wyoming in all of Massachusetts. Well done, Ainsley,” Mother said as she crisply refolded her napkin.

  “What does her father do?” Grandmother asked.

  “I don’t know. Maya hasn’t seen him for years.”

  Grandmother tittered. “Looks like I’m not the only one who can’t keep it straight.”

  “What?”

  Fee’s eyes widened as if she was trying to communicate telepathically.

  “You called her Maya, the name of the waitress.” She turned to Fiona. “Isn’t that right?”

  Fee’s tight-lipped smile was loud and clear. She wanted to tell the shrew to shove it, but knew she couldn’t.

  “Did I?” I squeaked, shifting in my seat. “This wine is going right to my head. I meant Mara hasn’t seen her father in years. Silly me.” Stop acting like an amateur!

  No one spoke. None of the marriages in our family were strong ones; they lasted, against all odds, because of the gray-haired woman at the head of the table.

  More oysters arrived. On the verge of tears, I excused myself, saying I had to use the restroom.

  Fiona crashed through the door seconds later. “That was the most entertaining interrogation I’ve ever witnessed.”

  “Not now.” I dabbed a tissue under my eyes, careful not to smudge my mascara.

  “Look at it this way, she hasn’t told you to leave her yet. That’s a good sign.” Fiona entered a stall. Bodily functions didn’t stop her from talking, not even pee splashing into the bowl deterred her. She said, “If you ask me, you’ve got her blessing for now. The only black lesbian‌—‌that was kinda funny, for your mother.” Fiona’s laugh was drowned out by the sound of the flushing toilet.

  She stepped up to the sink to wash her hands, watching my reflection in the mirror. Taking my purse from my shaking hands, she motioned for me to hold still and then applied fresh mascara to my lashes.

  “Let’s add a little color, too,” she said, taking out some blush. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Of course, mine won’t be as good as your Elizabeth Arden. Is she on call?”

  “Not now, Fee.”

  She concentrated on the task at hand. Finally, Fiona snapped the compact closed. “You know, next time, maybe you should open with something less alarming, like how you’re top of all of your classes, which you are. And then maybe say you have a wonderful ‘study buddy’ who’s been helping you. Ease them into the situation.”

  I groaned. “Why didn’t you prep me earlier?”

  “It’s not your first rodeo with Grandmother. How was I supposed to know you’d completely lose it, tonight of all nights?”

  “I’m not myself these days.” For weeks, I’d had Maya on the brain.

  “Love and Carmichaels don’t really go together. Besides, deep down, I think you want to get caught.”

  “What do you mean?” I crossed my arms.

  “I wouldn’t blame you. With the Carmichael quest hanging over your head, you wouldn’t be the first to choose self-sabotage.”

  “That’s absurd.” I took a step back.

  “Is it?” She raised both eyebrows.

  “Absolutely.” My tone lacked Carmichael conviction.

  Fee tilted her head. “That’s a shame, because if you are self-sabotaging, I’ll call in Pat and he can help you implode before dessert.”

  I laughed. What a relief to release some of the anxiety roiling in my belly. “That man has had di
arrhea of the mouth lately.”

  “Tell me about it. I nearly died when he told Maya you’re the Chosen One.”

  Some of the tension from earlier seeped back into my mood, and I gulped in air before insisting, “I won’t stop seeing her.”

  Fiona concentrated on fixing my hair and then hers. “We better get back out there.”

  “I won’t stop seeing her.”

  “No one has asked you to, darling,” she said in a voice that lacked her usual verve. The word “yet” bobbed overhead like a cartoon thought bubble.

  Luckily, by the time we returned, the conversation had switched back to politics. For now, I had a reprieve.

  Why had I even brought up Maya? And since I had, why didn’t I just introduce her? Grandmother’s goons were probably already running background checks, and it wouldn’t take them long to figure out Maya’s real name. Mara Channing. What had I been thinking? And mentioning the class we had together, too? Grandmother would likely get the full report before after-dinner drinks. I wondered what the old lady would say when she found out Maya and her mom didn’t even exist until 2003? I was drowning in secrets.

  Maya and a fellow waiter arrived with our meals. Neither made eye contact with anyone, as usual. Maya served Fiona and Uncle Owen, keeping her distance from me and Grandmother. Was that intentional? Even those who weren’t avid viewers of political talk shows had probably heard of Grandmother and the power she wielded over the Carmichael clan.

  I took a deep breath and held it, and then let it escape soundlessly through my mouth. It was a process I had to repeat for the remainder of the meal.

  ***

  After dinner, I ditched Fiona outside her apartment right after Mother’s driver dropped us off, and caught a cab straight back to the restaurant. Wrapping my coat tightly around my body, I staked out a bench across the street.

  Around midnight, Maya walked past me. I hadn’t seen her leave Nadine’s, but staff more than likely had to use the back door.

  “Maya!” I called.

  She spun, easily spotting me, in my heels, among a sea of drunk and disappointed Red Sox fans.

  “This is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t expect to see you again tonight.” Her smile faded into a frown as she took in my appearance. “Are you okay?”