“A light sentence?” he echoed. “You ever served any time, Ryann?”
“No,” she said. Now her arms were folded as well. And there was fire in her eyes. “But all I’m saying is that if you did hard time, you might feel a little differently.”
“Don’t come in here in your designer platform pumps and five-hundred-dollar suit and try to school me about prison. Because you’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Then tell me what angle you would prefer I took, Spencer,” she said mock-sweetly.
“Just tell the truth. Greg and I were two knuckleheads that made some wrong choices. And we got clipped. Now we’re trying to help brothers coming out make different choices, and demonstrate by our success that they can be successful too.”
“Sometimes all people have is a whole menu of wrong choices. Not a single right choice among them.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Fine.” Ryann huffed and stood, looking around for her pocketbook. “I’ll revise the narrative. But this next draft, needs to be the one we send over, because I can’t keep this fish on the hook forever.”
She reached over and slid the proposal off his desk and with some effort, crumpled all the pages into a large ball, tossing it into his wastebasket. Spencer watched her, waiting to see what she would do next. And when he saw that what she intended to do was yank open his door and storm out, he moved quickly and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her back and against his chest.
“Hey. Hey,” he said. “Why you so mad?”
Ryann let him hold her, but her posture was rigid. “I’m not mad. Just … I want this done already.”
“Why?” Spencer asked. “I’ve been kind of enjoying working with you.” He lowered his head and kissed her neck, trying not to smile when Ryann let her head fall to one side to make it easier for him.
“Then why’re throwing up all these roadblocks?” she asked. Her tone had softened a little, and she sounded slightly breathless.
“Not roadblocks. Your proposal was amazing. But it doesn’t represent us,” Spencer said, still brushing his lips lightly across her skin. “What do our materials say? ‘Accountability, Self-Sufficiency, Pride.’ Nowhere in there does it talk about feeling like a victim because you live in a racist society.”
Sighing, Ryann turned to face him. “I’ll revise it,” she said again, softening a little.
“Let me take you to dinner first,” Spencer said.
“I can’t.” She shook her head. “What you just told me means I’m going to have to spend my evening writing.”
“I’ll take you to dinner, and we’ll talk about the Coalition’s core values. Last time, you heard my story. This time maybe we should just talk about the values of the organization. Although I can’t believe you never picked that up after sitting on our board for … what? Two, three years now?”
He was running out of excuses to see her in the evenings. Pretty soon, he’d just have to ‘fess up to just how much he liked her company.
Ryann rolled her eyes. “You run boring-ass board meetings. Sometimes, to tell you the truth, I’ve got my mind elsewhere.”
“Tonight, let’s make sure you focus then. I’ll come get you at your office at six, make it an early one so you can go home …”
“Alone.”
“Okay, so you can go home, alone, and knock out the next draft.”
Ryann pulled loose of his arms. “Okay. And actually, that might work because there’s something else I want to run by you as well.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you tonight,” she said, her eyes evading his.
“Uh oh. I don’t like the sound of that.”
“It’s fine. It’ll be fine,” Ryann said.
She reached for the door knob but Spencer pulled her back for a moment and leaned in; and over her feeble and half-hearted protests, gave her one, long, deep kiss.
Just to get him through the day.
Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse was a favorite of Spencer’s because the cuts of meat were always good, and the prices not gratuitously high. He always got the 19-ounce New York Strip with a side of steamed spinach, and tonight was no different, except that across from him Ryann was having the same.
Cutting expertly into the large, juicy slab of meat, she matched him bite for bite, never stopping to pretend it was “too much” or that she “couldn’t possibly finish” her large meal. She had a healthy appetite and no qualms about showing it. They had also ordered a robust and smoky merlot to go along with the meal and so their conversation had been relaxed, swinging easily between business and whatever else entered their minds: politics, television shows they watched, and even sports they’d played in high school.
It turned out, Ryann wasn’t the kind of woman he would ever have to try to impress. Although he had tried to impress her with that first dinner he’d taken her to, at BlackSalt. His stomach still ached when he thought about that almost three-hundred-dollar tab. He did well for himself, and owned a lot a property, but by no means would he consider himself wealthy. That night, he knew she’d been testing him, maybe even warning him off: ‘I’m not a woman you want to keep around for a long time,’ she seemed to be saying. I’ll cost you.
But that had only stoked his curiosity more. Tonight, he was glad he’d stuck with it. This was the first time in a while he’d taken a woman out who didn’t make him want to rush through the meal, just to get to the much more interesting bedroom action.
“So, what’s the other thing you said you wanted to run by me?” Spencer said taking a healthy gulp of his wine.
He thought he saw Ryann hesitate for a second. She looked up at him, dabbing the corner of her mouth with her napkin.
“You aren’t going to like it,” she warned. “But I need you to hear me out, okay?”
“Hear you out, huh? I hate it already.”
“Tone is a visual guy,” she began slowly. “He’s always looking for how things are going to ‘play’. Y’know, visually.”
“Yeah …”
“So I’m going to need you and Greg to up your games a little.”
“What does that mean?”
“Spencer, you dress like the first-round NBA draft pick who grew up dirt-poor in Oxford, Mississippi.”
Despite himself, he grinned. “What’s wrong with being from Oxford, Mississippi?”
“Nothing. Except maybe the idea they have of what it means to dress well is likely to be … bolder than average.”
Continuing to cut into his steak, he considered what she said. Somehow, the way she said it—completely without tact—was less condescending than similar comments he’d heard from his sisters, and the occasional woman who after two dates thought she was entitled to fix his life, beginning with his wardrobe.
“What would you like me to do?” he asked, his voice measured.
“Just let me … dress you. Just for the day that Tone comes to visit. And you have to talk Greg into letting me dress him as well.”
“Now that brother. No style. That I agree with.”
Ryann shook her head. “Trust me when I tell you; y’all are neck-and-neck when it comes to fashion.”
“What? Hell nah.”
Greg wore an assortment of short-sleeved button-downs with baggy tailored pants that had gone out in the eighties. He looked like a high school principal who was trying too hard to look cool to the kids in his school. Even his hair bore a vague resemblance to the boxy high-top fades from back in the day.
“Yes, Spencer. Trust me.” Ryann held his gaze, unblinking.
“Didn’t seem to make a difference to you,” he pointed out.
“It doesn’t. The clothes don’t make the man. The man makes the clothes. Most of the time, you … transcend your ugly-ass suits. But they tell a story different than who you are.”
He nodded. “Okay, yeah,” he said, giving a brief shrug. “You can give me and Greg a makeover. But only for the visit from Tone.”
Ryann smiled. “Good. I promise, it’
s going to be fun.”
“You’re not hiring someone or something stupid that like that, are you?”
“No. You’re not that far gone that you need professional help. I think me and my girlfriend Ivy should be able to handle it.” Then she added. “You’re a very handsome man, Spencer. Your hair, your goatee, your …” Her eyes ran over him, making him feel for a moment as self-conscious as he imagined women did, when a man gave them the once-over. “Your … physique. You don’t need too much work.”
She took a slow sip of wine and offered him a little cock-tease of a smile.
“Keep lookin’ at me like that, and your ass ain’t goin’ home alone, tonight,” he warned.
“Keep lookin’ at me like that and I won’t want to,” she returned evenly.
She didn’t go home alone.
But at almost midnight, Spencer woke up in Ryann’s bedroom to an empty bed. Dragging on his boxers, he went in search of her. She was in the guest bedroom, sitting on the bed with her legs stretched in front of her, working on her laptop. When Spencer entered, she glanced up and smiled.
“I thought you were down for the count,” she said. “You snored me right out of my damn bedroom.”
Grinning, Spencer went to sit next to her on the bed, gently shoving at her thigh so she would make room for him. He sat next to her, taking a peek at what she’d been typing.
“Don’t come in here and distract me, Spencer,” she said. “I’m getting a lot done. I think I’ll have a good second draft by morning.”
“Don’t you need to sleep?” he asked. He looked at her, watching the way her brow furrowed and the way she sucked in her cheeks as she typed.
“No,” she said, absently. “Go do something somewhere.”
For once, she wasn’t telling him to go home.
“I know exactly what I’m gon’ do,” he said getting off the bed again. “Sleep.”
“Uh huh.” She didn’t even look up.
“Boo-yah.”
He was standing at Ryann’s kitchen counter, taking his mug of coffee from the Keurig when she slid a sheaf of papers in front of him.
“What’s this?” he asked, pretending not to know.
“While you were cutting wood in the next room, I was working it out. And this, Spencer, is the proposal that is going to get the Coalition a half-million dollars.”
“You sure of that, huh?”
“Positive,” Ryann enunciated. She took the mug that Spencer had been preparing to gulp down before he got on the road and headed home to shower and change.
It was still early, the sun only just emerging from her resting place.
When Spencer awoke, he was still alone in Ryann’s bed. He had dressed and peeked in the guest bedroom to find her just where he had left her, still typing. But now, it appeared her work was done, and she was happy with it.
There were smudges under her eyes and her hair looked like she had run her fingers through it repeatedly while she worked. Wearing nothing but her robe and a pair of rundown house-slippers, Ryann was clearly in need of a few hours’ sleep, but her eyes—tired though they were—were also alight, and excited.
Leaning back against the counter, Spencer watched her take her first sip of coffee. She closed her eyes in pleasure. Reaching above her head he found a second mug, then put a new pod in the coffeemaker.
“So, what you got planned for my and Greg’s makeover?”
“Don’t say it like that. Makeover,” Ryann looked amused. “You don’t need a makeover. Just think of it as … an image refresher.”
“Makeover,” Spencer repeated.
“Are your little feelings hurt?”
“Nah. Hell nah. I’m jus’ sayin’ … don’t have me lookin’ all …”
“Trust me. I’m going to have you looking like exactly who you are, and no one else.”
“Then why can’t I wear my own clothes?” he challenged.
“Because your clothes are hollering, Spencer,” Ryann said slowly. “And a man who looks like you only needs clothes that … whisper.”
He grinned. “I think you’re just flattering me to get me to …”
“I don’t need to flatter you,” Ryann said airily. She skirted past him, taking her coffee with her. “I already got you in my bed, didn’t I?”
For a moment, Spencer found that he was completely without a single thing to say.
“Lock up when you leave,” she said over her shoulder.
Then she left him in the kitchen with the sneaking suspicion that somehow, some way, he had lost all control of their situation.
~11~
Ryann wandered through the space, marveling at the transformation. The Coalition of One Hundred’s offices had been cleaned up for the occasion; nothing too obvious, but the rec room was more organized, the reception area neater and decorated with fresh flowers, the floors scrubbed and shining. And, she was pleased to see, the mish-mash of old flyers and posters had been removed from the announcement board.
The most impressive transformation, however, was of the two co-founders.
Greg, Spencer’s barrel-chested partner, apt to wearing baggy pants with sandals, and oversized shirts that made him look short and squat, now wore a crisp and well-tailored light grey pant with a size-appropriate, and well-fitting black button-down. When Ryann had tried to get him into a suit-and-tie, he balked, telling her that just wasn’t his style, and that no matter what, he had to feel like himself to be on point for Tone’s visit. So, she had given in, and let him choose this business-casual look.
It was a good choice. Greg, always charming, was more so now. Ryann thought she even detected a new cockiness to his walk as he showed his VIP guest around and introduced him to staff and clients. She tried not to feel smug that he had given in and was wearing the brand-new black leather loafers that he complained pinched a little bit.
And as for Spencer …
Ryann watched from across the room as he smiled and made small talk with Tone’s assistant, a young woman named Sharma, who had flown out with him from the West Coast to check out the Coalition. East Indian, and very pretty, she had been at Spencer’s side all day, frequently touching his arm as she asked him questions and laughed at his jokes.
Ryann couldn’t say she blamed her. Spencer looked damned good. Unlike Greg, he had thrown himself completely on her mercy, so she had gone the conservative route. She chose a charcoal suit for him, a white dress-shirt, and a dark tie. The only nod to color was the tie-pin Spencer had grabbed at the last minute when they left the tailor. And she had to admit, it definitely added something to the entire ensemble.
And there was no question that he stood a little taller, a little straighter in that suit which he’d derided as ‘boring’ and ‘corny’ when they were bickering over it at the fitting. She smiled at the memory and shook her head. She would have to remember to heap on the ‘I-told-you-so’s’ later. And she couldn’t wait for later, because the visit with Tone already felt like a triumph worth a little private celebrating.
“You should be smiling,” someone off to her right said. “You did a good thing here today.”
Ryann turned and smiled at Miss Gladys, the older woman who had been the Coalition’s receptionist and office manager for as long as Ryann had been associated with the organization. A slender-as-a-reed woman with dark-chocolate skin and coal-black eyes, she was related to Greg somehow, though Ryann couldn’t recall the particulars—an aunt, or second cousin, or something like that. She watched and clucked over both Greg and Spencer like a momma, and talked to them in a way that would have most people questioning who worked for whom.
“They deserve the recognition,” Ryann said.
Tone and Sharma had brought a photographer with them, as Ryann had known they would. The L.A. types, many of whom she’d worked with when she was arranging visits to Capitol Hill for celebrities as part of her work, rarely did anything without a camera in tow. Even the ones whose hearts were in the right place, came with publicists and managers wh
o were loath to allow a public display of civic-mindedness to go to waste. Even if Tone never donated a dime, he would likely used the pictures somewhere, and the Coalition would gain the notice of other high-profile potential donors.
“Still, they haven’t gotten the grant yet, Miss Gladys,” Ryann added. “So let’s not start celebrating too soon.”
The older woman made a noise of skepticism. “Oh, they gon’ get it,” she said. “Look at that girl all over Spencer.”
Ryann looked. And then looked away.
“She’s not the one making the decision, though. He is.” She nodded in the direction of Greg and Tone, who were having an animated conversation.
“Yeah, but he just as creative and flighty as I don’t know what. She’s the real brains behind the operation. So you mark my words.”
Ryann smiled. “Well let’s hope you’re right, because she sure does seem to be … into Spencer.”
This visit, today, as important as it was, wouldn’t be the main event. Tomorrow, Greg had arranged for Tone to visit the Baltimore City Detention Center. Interestingly, despite his film, Tone had never visited a jail or prison before. When he and Spencer had been discussing the drive to Baltimore, the young filmmaker admitted that the jail scenes in his film were “derivative of other material” which translated roughly, meant “stolen from other movies.” Spencer and Ryann had exchanged a quick look and smile, both of them probably cataloging the comment for later ridicule when they were alone together.
Since she’d brought him the possibility of the donation from Tone, they’d worked and spent more time together than Ryann could ever recall having invested in a man. And yet, she wasn’t feeling restless, impatient or bored. At least not yet. And maybe it wouldn’t happen at all, because after Tone’s visit, all they had to do was wait for the final decision. There would no longer be a need for their late-night “meetings,” dinners at her house while they discussed ideas, nor shopping trips to dress him for an event. It would be back to the normal rhythm of her life.
‘I like him,’ Ivy had said when she accompanied her and Spencer to Tyson’s Corner Center to pick out his suit. ‘And I have a feeling he really likes you.’
The Lover Page 10