by Rowena
“‘Court.’ What is this—the 1500s? And what do you mean quality? Because some of them have money and want to prove yet again that they can buy pretty much whatever they want? They only want me for my virginity and their ego apparently, but I’m supposed to be flattered.”
“Well, once you decide what you want in a partner—how important their status, bank account, sincerity or whatever is—you’ll have the pick of the litter. Most guys only want what’s between your legs anyway, regardless of income level. ”
“Sincerity is obviously a big one in terms of qualities. But how can I possibly tell who’s sincerely interested in me beyond my ‘purity’ now?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, girl. But it might not be a terrible idea to go out with a few of the obviously insincere ones and let them show you a good time on their dime.”
“No thanks. Dating around is definitely not good for my image. And I really don’t trust myself around some of the more powerful ones—who knows what could happen if they get me somewhere alone? And then it’s my word against theirs, and I’m in a disadvantaged position.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” she says, sounding a lot more serious now. “But you’re pretty good at picking out sleaze; I’m sure you’ll choose well when the time comes.”
I let out a breath. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Seriously—I’m not being sarcastic.”
“I know.”
My phone buzzes as another call comes in.
“Hold on, that’s my manager…”
I switch over, accepting my manager’s call—the one person whose call I answer no matter what.
Well, besides my mom.
Even Angel gets ignored sometimes, although she knows by now it’s best to text first if she wants to talk.
“Hey!” I answer brightly, wondering what Mary’s about to drop on me.
It could go any direction—a new possible gig, a canceled one, results of pay negotiations, a check-in with my schedule…
“Are you still free this Sunday?” she asks briskly.
Things have been moving fast lately, and I say yes to most things she proposes—there are no days considered off-limits since…well, I don’t really have a life outside of this.
Even something like Christmas, which I spend with my mother, is now negotiable.
I did have plans to hang out with Angel on Sunday but any plans I make with Angel can be postponed.
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I’m not allowed to give more details than this so don’t ask—a wealthy businessman wants to have brunch with you to discuss your charity. He’s interested in becoming a donor so this is a golden opportunity to get some solid funding!”
“Oh, awesome!”
I hadn’t expected anything like this—Mary usually contacts me about things career-related but she is the logical person to get into contact with when someone wants to reach me about anything.
My new phone number is now guarded like crazy.
Not that a lot of people had the old one before, but enough who’d think it’s no big deal to pass it on to anyone who happens to ask and so on and so on until some stranger can directly reach me.
I have social media accounts, but I don’t deal with them—I’ve got someone on payroll handling posts and comments, and I don’t really care to check in.
Sure, some people are nice and positive, but there are always negative assholes whose sole goal it is to ruin your day, it seems.
I don’t need to expose myself to that crap.
Before becoming a bit of a celeb, I was an active forum browser and read Twitter and Facebook threads. I saw the way people talked about and to celebrities.
I know I’m not immune to crazies and trolls, and that I have an additional disadvantage of being black on top of being a female.
“Yeah, totally! Let’s do it!” I tell Mary.
“Great. I’ll add the details to your calendar.”
I make a mental note to check my calendar after talking to Angel as I switch back over.
It’s still kind of weird that something like this is part of my life—giving someone access to a personal calendar they can add events to and program parts of my life.
My manager can add and change details of career events at any time so that checking my calendar later today, I might see that a tentative interview has been scheduled all of a sudden.
She won’t see when I plan to go grocery shopping or to the doctor or anything like that—I try to retain some sort of privacy so that she can only see I’ve blocked out a certain time period but not why—but it’s still weird.
It wasn’t that long ago I was quietly minding my own business, self-sufficient and solitary, and now suddenly I have people handling things for me!
I’ve gone from a regular person to a business, so I have a general manager and a promotional department. Instead of doing my own taxes, I now have a tax guy, an accountant.
Everything is changing, and I have a feeling that massive changes have only just begun.
“What was it?” Angel asks as I greet her again.
“Some rich guy wants to meet with me to talk about my charity. Huge potential for donor money.”
“Nice. Funny how all these people are coming out of the woodwork, huh? I bet he, too, was inspired by your interview. Girl, everyone’s coming for your V-card, and some are willing to pay for it!”
“Oh, man—I really hope that isn’t it,” I say, my shoulders drooping.
Silly me—I’d let my guard down for a moment and actually thought someone might have genuinely been interested in helping me grow my pet project.
But Angel is right—stuff like this is usually not innocent or altruistic; one way or another, this person is probably looking to help themselves.
“Anyway, definitely let me know how the brunch goes! Give me all the details—let me know if he’s some old, decrepit billionaire looking to go out with a bang or whatever.”
“I will.”
I end the call smiling, not actually worried about what awaits me on Sunday.
I look at it the way I look at a lot of things these days—as an opportunity.
I’ve discovered there is opportunity in every interaction—to learn, connect, improve—so no matter what this guy’s intentions, I look forward to seeing what the universe has in store for me.
Sunday
It’s only brunch, but I googled the location and it’s a really nice place with upscale clientele—or at least those that don’t mind dropping a Benjamin or so on a two-person daytime meal.
My income might have gone up from the barely livable wage I was making before things started taking off for me, but I still balk at paying what I consider too much for certain things.
I dress in a designer casual top and jeans so that I look camera-ready in case someone takes a photo but nothing overboard—it’s still just brunch.
I turned down the offer to have a car pick me up and drop me off because I don’t know this guy, and it seems like an easy way to go missing; I can’t put my mother through that.
I have way too much sense to allow myself to get trapped in a rich stranger’s vehicle.
So I’m meeting the guy at the restaurant at the appointed time and I can leave whenever I want—I’m taking my car, and we’re meeting in a public location with lots of people around.
I feel totally safe.
This isn’t the first or last time I’ll be meeting with someone over coffee or lunch or whatever to potentially make a deal—it’s a regular part of the entertainment industry.
So I’m excited but a little worried this time—Angel got in my head about this person’s true intentions.
Is this really just some elaborate way to try to divest me of my virginity?
I’ve already gone over the many ways I can turn a perv down; after all, I pretty much said I was waiting for marriage, didn’t I? Whether or not that’s the case, I can tell interested guys it is.
Truth is, being a virgin this
deep into my twenties wasn’t really my choice.
Hell, I was planning to lose it on prom night, but my date back then humiliated me.
I’m so glad he decided to show his ass before I gave him mine; in fact, I still can’t believe how close I came.
But I pretty much had no chance against that guy—not only was he super hot, he also turned out to have a charming personality. And a brain.
Sure, he needed help in a few academic areas, but he was actually killing it in others.
It was no wonder why so many girls—including me—had a stubborn crush on him.
I knew I had no chance with a guy like him from the get-go, so I never bothered to entertain the idea of the two of us together (outside of a few dirty fantasies), but once he responded to the tutoring offer I pinned on a cork board of announcements, the fantasies of him falling in love with me wouldn’t stop.
I think I handled myself well while dealing with him on a business level, and he certainly seemed to be in no danger of falling for me.
Eventually, I relaxed—we got along pretty well and ended up bonding as friends.
Then at some point, he seemed to be looking at me differently.
I thought it was all in my head until he kissed me one day.
Holy hell, it’s a wonder I didn’t bust open my legs right then, but I guess I was drugged by shock and joy, unable to move. Trapped in awed wonder.
Anyway, that was a long time ago, and no one has made me feel the way he did since.
Also, I got lucky that fate threw him onto my path the way it did; guys didn’t typically choose to pursue me if they happened to notice my existence—there were always better-looking females around.
I was quiet and blended into the background like you wouldn’t believe—a position that allowed me to observe and eavesdrop on all sorts of human interactions.
On the rare occasion someone turned interested eyes toward me, it was always because they’d struck out with their top choices first, and I knew this because I’d been watching.
But even though I wasn’t necessarily in a position where I could be picky, I had some goddamned pride—no way was I going to be settled for.
Things only changed for me once I started working in the music industry, and those working with me jumped at giving me a makeover. They went to town on my image, gussying up my looks.
I had to get used to contacts, then eventually got LASIK so no more glasses (although I still sometimes wear a pair to look more serious when appealing to potential donors).
My hair no longer goes in a french braid or hundreds of tiny ones or some other protective style—I let down here and there and I am often fitted with weaves so stylists don’t tear my own hair to shreds when they go to town on it for shows and appearances.
Besides prom night, when my mom helped me with the basics, I never even wore makeup, but now, professionals hook my face up for everything.
I’ve learned enough to have the basics on whenever I go out (never know when someone might recognize you and want a pic), so I never leave home without foundation, powder, eyeliner, mascara, lip stains.
And my wardrobe has been significantly upgraded.
With these fairly small changes, and before anyone knew who I was, I started to get some serious attention—attention I regarded with suspicion because it was so obviously due to superficiality.
And now that I actually have a recognizable face and some status due to my growing fame, I’m practically beating guys off.
My social media person keeps wanting to share some dick pics, etc., that get messaged to me, but I’m not interested.
Okay, just one time I looked out of morbid curiosity because she said it was so huge (and she was right) but that’s it—I’m even more withdrawn in a way when it comes to relationships because who the hell can I trust wants me for me now?
As I pull up to the restaurant, my heart’s beating a bit harder, and my mind hasn’t settled on a single image of the mysterious potential benefactor—I have no idea who or what to expect, and I’m excited to find out what this meeting has in store for me.
Will it end up being a giant boon for my charity? Another lesson in how to gently turn down an indecent proposition while asserting my worth?
Will someone else dining here take notice of me and a different opportunity spawns from there?
Seems I could be surrounded by wealthy and powerful people and anything could happen.
I take one more deep breath as I head toward the smiling young hostesses—a redhead and a blonde.
“I’m here to meet with a Mr. Long?” I say.
I swear the blonde’s eyes twinkle a bit while the redhead’s smile changes subtly, making her look like she’s holding back a secret.
I figured the reservation name’s fake, but their reactions make me wonder yet again who the hell I’m meeting with.
The hostesses are around my age and seem excited in a way that tells me this guy isn’t ancient—he’s virile-looking and has a handsome face at minimum, so he’s probably between the ages of twenty and fifty. And possibly famous. In which case, the age range widens—he could be a Pitt or Clooney type.
“Right this way!” the blonde says as she moves from behind the hostess stand.
My heart speeds up again as I follow her.
We take quite a walk, ending up in a quieter part of the restaurant at a booth.
I don’t know what she says next, if anything, as my eyes lock on my brunch companion; in fact, I suddenly feel like I’ve been thrown into the deep end of a pool.
All sounds around me have been muffled somehow as the man’s face registers and I immediately recognize him.
Liam Cox, the man who broke my heart seven years ago is sitting—no, standing now—in front of me, greeting me with a sly, self-congratulatory smile.
3
Kiara
I shake my head a little as if I’ve tricked myself into a sort of daydream and managed to let this relic from my past slip in, but no—Liam’s still there, smiling a blinding smile, looking even more handsome than he did all those years ago.
Who knew it was possible for him to get so much hotter? This isn’t fair!
“Kiki,” he says warmly, making a puddle of my heart with his deep voice, the affectionate look in his eyes, and his slight smile.
No—I can’t let him see the havoc he’s wreaking inside me!
It’s just the unfinished business and hurt not dealt with bubbling up; I’m not still weak for him as I was before, so you know what? I’m glad we’ve been brought together again to sort of deal with our past.
We can tie up loose ends and I can finally move on—that experience with him kept me emotionally crippled too long.
Kiki.
Liam and my mother are the only ones who call me that.
I remember thinking back then how fitting it was that the two people closest to my heart chose the same nickname for me.
“Liam Cox,” I finally say, getting myself together and sliding into the seat opposite him instead of hightailing it out of there like part of me desperately wants to do. “Or should I call you Mr. Long? Where’d you get that one?”
He shrugs. “As in ‘Long Time No See.’ Or ‘Dick B. Long’—take your pick.”
“Ha, ha,” I say dryly.
I can’t believe this guy is the wealthy potential donor—Mr. Most Likely to Succeed himself.
Is this a prank?
Should I—Ms. Most Likely to Work in a Lab—expect a bucket of pig’s blood to be dumped on my head in the near future?
Liam wasn’t from a wealthy family or anything when I knew him—he was barely middle class like the rest of us—so maybe he and some friends pooled together resources to fuck with me.
But why? Why not wait until the ten-year high school reunion? It’s just three years away.
Maybe Liam finally wants to apologize for what he did to me—although this is a lot of trouble for just that—this place is outrageously expensive. We could have met
for coffee!
So what’s he up to?
A server arrives to take our orders and I can only put in for a drink. Non-alcoholic, of course.
Then I grab the menu and look through it, deciding quickly on the food I want.
I glance around and notice this booth is big enough for six goddamned people.
And, my goodness—look at the centerpiece with its pretty flowers. Is it standard here?
I quickly notice each table has a different arrangement.
And that the silverware is actually…
“Kiara,” Liam nudges firmly, a command in his tone that makes my eyes snap to his obediently. “It’s really great to see you,” he finishes so genuinely, I almost believe him.
Angel’s words come back to me and they help me get my shit together a little more.
“You’re here for my virginity, I take it,” I say flatly.
Liam’s eyebrows lift briefly then he throws his head back and laughs heartily, looking even more beautiful.
Christ, I need to muster up all the defenses I’ve built since birth for this guy!
I’m still mad at him in a way for sure—he really hurt me all those years ago—and yet, it’s pretty damned clear to me I still have a huge soft spot for him.
His good looks and apparent warmth toward me aren’t helping me keep a distance.
I know I can never get involved with him again—he’s obviously not the settling down type, at least not this young, and I only risk being devastated again.
I can’t get distracted anyway—my career is launching and I need to be laser-focused on that.
Men come and go, and there’s limited time to build your own legacy…
“I don’t blame you,” he begins. “I can only imagine how many people are after you since that interview of yours.”
His expression shifts briefly—too briefly for me to interpret but his face seemed to darken momentarily.
“I’ll be honest with you, though…”
“That’s a nice change.”
“…I’m not here only to find out more about your charity.”