“So when you criticized the Black Lives Matter movement last week on your website, you were actually criticizing the entire black youth culture, correct?”
“No,” he said nervously. “I never said that. All I said was that white lives matter too.”
“Right, but you understand why the community perceives that as racist?”
“No, I mean yes. Well…it’s like this. I believe in equality.”
“Uh huh?”
“And…I think that all lives matter. And I think that all lives matter, blacks, whites, mixed…”
“Right…”
“I am a huge supporter of animal rights too. And I think that in a perfect world we’d all be equal and treated with respect.”
“Okay,” she said with a smile. “So you’re basically saying that black lives are on par with animal life?”
“Well…that’s not exactly what I…what I meant to say was…”
“All I’m asking, Mister Crowley, is if the rumors are true. That you’re racist.”
“No, no, not at all.”
“Even though on your Twitter account…”
“That was my ex-secretary. She runs the Twitter account for me. It wasn’t even aware what was being said.”
“So you’re denying the allegations.”
“I’m not in denial. I’m just saying I’m not a racist. Everything about me has been misconstrued.”
“So when you held a yacht party last year, did you or did you not say that no black people were allowed on your boat?”
“No, that’s not what I said. I barred one man who used to do contract work for me from coming to the party and he happened to be black.”
“And so then you said all black people were banned from your boat, meaning it as a joke.”
“No, that’s not true. Someone blurted out, ‘Hey why don’t more black people ride boats?’ And then someone else said answered “Because they’re not falling for that again.”
“Uh huh.”
“Yes. I didn’t say it. Because I thought it was in bad taste.”
“And the person who heard you say it…”
“They’re making things up. It was an entire boat full of staff workers. It was a mob and people were heckling, people were drinking and laughing. And you know that’s just the way the media works. They want a story. If you’re rich and successful, suddenly, there has to be a big moral flaw about you. Nobody can be rich and a decent human being. It’s either one or the other. You know that.”
“Why would I know that, sir? Are you saying I must be poor and a decent human being because I’m black?” The woman said, tilting her head.
“No, no,” he said nervously. “Look…uh…can we edit this part out of the interview?”
“Sure, no problem,” she said with a smile.
By the time, Darren saw himself on television, it was a public relations nightmare. The young and ambitious reporter had edited the piece to make it look like Darren was making racist statements, and hiding all of his uninteresting defenses and explanations. Great, that meant another long weekends of answering irate phone calls, coming from sponsors, politicians, watch dog groups and angry family members.
He tried to put it out of his mind. Who cares, he said, as he relaxed in his million dollar loft in New York, doing the absolute worst thing a rich white man could do. Watching reruns of Sanford and Son while drinking spiked Kool-Aid. All it took to tune the world out would be four mixes, a big bag of ice and equal measures of tequila, whiskey and rum. Getting piss drunk out in public and laughing at stupid jokes. Man, what he could do back in the day before anyone knew his name.
Now they were all watching him like a hawk, trying to say he was a Trump supporter and that he was the shame of his family. He wondered for a moment what it would be like to vanish and to live a normal life. Living on an island somewhere, with millions in gold, of course. But not having to carry the weight of the Crowley name everywhere he went.
He laughed his ass off watching his favorite show while drinking alone. Sure, he could call a half dozen hookers over and make this night feel like a real success. But the idea just didn’t seem appealing tonight. Somehow, all of these expensive things didn’t glow the way they advertised. They only seemed to remind him of how much fun yacht parties were—not because they were ridiculously over priced but because of the people who made life so fun, so loud and inviting.
He snorted at the last few moments of the show before dozing off.
***
Chapter 2
Darren had bizarre dreams, all about Fred Sanford, TV reporters, Donald Trump and the Kool-Aid Man—the one that screamed “Oh Yeah!” as he burst through walls, always at the perfect moment. But when he woke up he had a particularly bulbous and “red” face glaring back at him.
The tyrannous Doc Crowley, the patriarch of the family. The oil baron turned computer technology investor that seemed to have the whole world by the balls. And whenever dad showed up he always had something heinous and unkind to say.
“So. You thought it funny to appear on national television and turn our family name into a laughing stock.” Doc Crowley frowned hard, giving his already weathered face another dozen wrinkles.
“What?”
“The press is having a field day with your interview. Seriously, Darren? Making an Amistad joke in public? You know the media has no tolerance for that.”
“I didn’t say it. I denied saying it. She twisted the story around.”
“Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “When reporters ask you to clarify something you deny, deny, deny. How many times have I told you that?”
Darren shook his head. “So what, are they asking for an apology?”
“You fool. They’re trying to boycott you. Our stock has already plummeted because of your shenanigans. And I warned you it doesn’t help that you’re still single and screwing everything that returns your phone call.”
“Damn,” Darren said, shaking his head and trying to calm his nerves and his hangover.
“If things get any worse, I’m going to have to cut you off from the family name.”
“What?”
“You’ll still have your shares. But I’d be foolish to let you remain vice president, wouldn’t I?”
“Shit,” he said, getting up and pacing around the room, finally feeling the seriousness of the situation. “Okay…okay…how do I make this right?”
He eyed his father then grabbed his head in angst, trying to come up with a solution. “How about I apologize? I hold a press conference and…”
“No,” Doc said firmly. “You’re already a public relations nightmare. For the love of god, stop talking to reporters.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll do anything I have to do. I know I can make this right.”
“Well…there is one thing you can do.”
Uh oh. Darren took a gulp. Whenever dad said that, usually some ridiculous and off the wall favor followed. One that the other person could never afford to refuse. HE knew he was screwed. Dad wasn’t being especially hard on him. Everything the media said about Darren was the result of years of thoughtless statements and a “who-cares” attitude about offending people. It was all finally catching up to him. One more scandal and the world would stop supporting Darren Crowley.
“Fine. What is it?”
“What if…and this is just a scenario, mind you…what if you were to turn the rumors upside down and actually…”
“Oh wow, you’re right!” Darren interrupted. “I could start dating a black woman. That will put the rumors to rest for good.”
“Actually, I was thinking something a little more serious. How about you announce an engagement? You find some B-grade actress, date for a while, announce an engagement and then dump her a few months later. A lot of men do it.”
“That’s smart,” he said, excited about the chance to vindicate himself—and for once, doing something he loved. Charming the pants off of women! “I can see this working.”
“Yeah. A
nd then you can make the world think you actually like black people.”
“But…I do, dad. I’m not actually a racist, you know.”
“Sure, son. Say it just like that.”
Darren tightened his brow, annoyed at the Godfather of the Crowley fortune. His dad was a faker for sure. But he would be damned if the world was going to besmirch his name. Darren wanted badly to make a name for himself and pick up the reins of the family name, carrying it into a new generation of political correctness.
This was the first step in the right direction, a new change…maybe even a brand new chapter in life. It all sounded great, like an idea that was bound to work and make the new year a success.
Then Darren made the mistake of drinking too much…
***
Chapter 3
He woke up in a stupor trying to remember what crazy things he did last night, reckless and hammered as always. He remembered talking to his father. He remembered looking for a woman to date, just as they had talked about.
“Oh shit…”
Then he remembered something else.
He saw himself, fifteen hours ago, tipsy and playing on social media. Someone suggested he look for a mail order bride. They said it would be easier. They said it would be hilarious, to show up the press and make headlines. They said all those things and Darren was so high on life he didn’t realize that he actually placed the order.
He frantically searched his web history to see what he did and if all those crazy notions in his mind actually happened.
He clicked on the Lily Brides website, and saw dozens of purple links, already visited web pages of South African mail order brides. He couldn’t seem to remember who or what he actually ordered, only that the order email came through.
Then, just as he started to panic, the truth came charging in with a new email.
Have you met her yet?
Crowley remembered what happened. He didn’t just talk to a friend—he actually spoke with a representative of the website. Josiah, a travel agent / mail order connection, probably not legal, and definitely a man with ways to get things done—not the kind of man you want to renege on.
Darren replied back quickly, making a simple request.
I’m so sorry…I don’t remember a lot of what happened. I thought we were discussing things in hypotheticals. -D
No, sir. You already forwarded my payment. It is non-refundable. -J
Fine, just cancel the travel plans. Something came up. -D
That’s unfortunate, sir. Because as I explained yesterday, during your “party”, my delegate is already in the United States. And she was already staying in a hotel, awaiting my orders. You paid for her. Now you have the responsibility to dispose of her. -J
What?! This can’t be legal. I want this order canceled! -D
No one ever said this was legal. And Mister Crowley, I suggest you not talk about legalities with me. I know who you are. I know you cannot afford to run your family’s name through the mud. –J
So what, you’re extorting me? –D
No, sir. I am simply saying you ordered her. Now you dispose of her in whatever manner your conscience allows. You won’t be hearing from me anymore. -J
“Shit…”
Darren argued on the phone with his lawyer for a good half hour. Nothing he didn’t already know. He was stupid for trusting someone on the “deep web”, double stupid for ordering a mail order bride, and just about out of “get out of jail free cards” when it came to bad publicity. If it got out that he was fooling around with mail order brides—and African mail order brides at that—it was going to go from a national scandal to a worldwide disaster.
His heart sank as he heard a light knock on his front door. That must be her, he thought. He sighed deeply. In his “happy hour” he had inadvertently affected the life of an innocent woman. Probably a barely legal kid, a foreigner who spoke little English and was scared to death of her “husband to be.” This was a terrible situation for everybody. At this rate, maybe the best thing to do would be to pay her off. But then what about the scandal? What about breaking immigration laws?
It was a mess.
He went over and opened the door slowly, flinching as he looked out and met the face of his “wife”.
He looked down but didn’t see a short girl at all. Instead, he was introduced to Kacie, a cocoa-skinned beauty with dark silky hair and a toothy smile. She wore a smooth blue sweater and carried a large designer bag by her side.
“Oh,” he said, caught off guard at her womanly appearance. “You must be…”
“And you must be Mister Crowley,” she said with a British accent, surprisingly mature and congenial. She looked to be about late twenties, far from the poor child stereotype he was expecting.
“I…I am. Umm…” He laughed, a bit nervously. “This is strange. I’ve never quite done anything like this.”
“My friend did indicate that you were slightly intoxicated when you made the order. You probably weren’t expecting to meet me so soon, were you?”
“Well no, it was a bit of a shock.”
“Not to worry,” she said with a smile. “If things don’t work out, they don’t work out.”
“What…did he tell you?”
“Well, of course, that we would meet in a neutral location, have a drink, and then see what happens naturally.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, almost relieved at the idea of a “no strings attached date.” Unfortunately, Kacie didn’t quite understand the transaction. Legally speaking, she was Darren’s responsibility, and as far as the “provider” knew, she was Darren’s property. He already took off letting Darren know in no uncertain terms, the fifteen grand was un-refundable and everything else was a secret between he and the FBI’s spy equipment.
“Well, all right,” he said with a shrug. Best not to let her know just what a precarious situation she was in right now. Maybe after a long talk at dinner, they could figure something out.
*
Darren took her to Landry’s, one of the premier restaurants in town. To Darren’s surprise, Kacie was downright urbanized, already knowing what she wanted on the menu, and already discussing New York landmarks she was dying to see. She was very much unlike any stereotype he had ever met.
“How do you know all of these things?” he had to ask. “I mean, about the Statue of Liberty and about the Ed Sullivan Theater?”
“What, because I’m South African I speak broken English and only know National Geographic?”
“I didn’t mean…” He said, biting down on his lower lip and frowning.
“I’m just teasing you,” she said. “I am from Cape Town. We do have Internet there and many other conveniences that are not typically associated with the starving, desperate African cliché.”
“And yet you are a mail order bride. I have to wonder, why are you running away if things are going so well there?”
“You sound like Brian Williams,” she said with a smile. So investigative. Are you always so formal on dates?”
Darren laughed. “No, I guess I’m not. I just…” He shook his head. “You were not what I expected.”
“Most American men seem to say that. I guess they are unaccustomed to how real African women behave. To answer your question, Cape Town is a fairly violent place. In the touristy sections, it is okay. But if you go deeper into the townships it can be a demoralizing place. There are gang members there. Robbers. Men without honor. Very desperate people. It is not a luxury to go to America for some women. It is a necessity.”
“I see,” he said, holding his hand in front of his mouth and studying her face. Her confidence was beaming. She seemed to speak like him, like a rich woman, or one accustomed to high society.
“I am blessed because I graduated college and learned how to speak English. But even I have been ‘dating’ on those websites for five years now. Not many single women dream of living all their lives in South Africa. Just knowing that so much evil is being perpetrated in your own co
untry, it makes one want to run away.”
“Well, we are in New York. It’s not exactly heaven here, either.”
She laughed the thought off. “You Americans take everything for granted. That you can go to the store or to a bar without worrying about your life. I have been to Central Africa and I have seen horrors that no white man would ever want to see.”
He laughed heartily. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman said anything remotely sounding like criticism of his lifestyle. “Isn’t that a racist statement?”
“Racism,” she said with a tsk, “you don’t even know what the word entails until you leave your mansions behind and travel to a place where you have no power. I am racist, Mister Crowley. I have seen the evil that white men can do, and black men can do. But I also believe that there are good people, no matter their color or allegiance. Don’t you?”
“I do,” he said with a weak nod, studying her face and trying to figure out just who in the world she was and why she—from a world of poverty—wasn’t that impressed with him. Did she know how much money he had? She certainly didn’t seem to grasp the power he had over her life and death, given the mail order scam that just took place.
But he enjoyed the feeling of just talking as equals for once. For all she knew, he wasn’t a billionaire, at least not like the kind on television. She seemed to think he was just some nice American man…
“You have a very funny nose,” she said, stifling a big smile.
“What’s that?” he asked grinning back at her.
“Your nose is interesting. Not at all like your stereotype.”
“And what is my stereotypical nose?” he asked, with a shake of his head.
“Most American white men I have met, they have very strong noses. Almost like black men. It reminds me of how aggressive they have to be. To get along in the world. But your nose I admire. It is baby-like, not assuming at all. I think you are a humble man.”
Darren laughed hard again. The first time he had ever been called a humble man, that’s for sure. “Well Kacie, you sure are music to a man’s ears.”
SCOTTISH ROMANCE: My Sinful Surrender to a Highlander Werewolf (Scottish Werewolf Pregnancy Romance) (Historical Medieval Shape Shifter Paranormal Science Fiction Short Stories) Page 89