Getting Lucky

The conversation that follows is easy, and Mark is definitely the kind of eye candy I can stare at all night. I never really noticed how attractive he was before. I suppose before I only had eyes for Adam.

No, it’s more than that, I realize as I assess him. If I’m not mistaken, he’s slimmer than he used to be. Slimmer and more toned. He was never fat, but I can tell that he has worked out to get into better shape.

“I’m excited about the new magazine,” Mark is saying. “Hip-hop culture is so prevalent, I’m surprised it took us this long to try to penetrate the market.” Mark has just told me that it was his vision to begin a new magazine, Hip Vibe, and that his father finally agreed.

“So it’s your baby?” I ask.

“Yep. I’m in charge of everything. Getting it off the ground, overseeing editorial. I’m having a blast with it.”

“Congratulations,” I say. “I’m sure it’s very rewarding to see your dream come to fruition.”

“Two more months and it hits the stands.” Mark grins, then takes a sip of his red wine. “You know Rugged? The rap artist?”

“Yes, of course.”

“He’s on the cover of the first issue. We did the photo shoot a couple of weeks ago. Amazing shots, I tell you.”

“Just Rugged? Or is he with his fiancée?”

“Just Rugged. He wasn’t engaged then. Though in a future issue, we’ll likely do a story on him and Randi. I already talked to him about having one of our photographers at the wedding.” Mark sips more wine. “Anyway, enough about me. I’ve been doing all the talking. Tell me about you. Your mother said you’ve been doing a lot of charity work.”

Hearing Mark speak so passionately about his career, I can’t hold back a small frown. This has been a bone of contention in my life for a while. I keep feeling as though I’ve missed my calling. Like I’m not doing the one thing in my life that will totally fulfill me.

“Yes,” I tell him, but I don’t say that I haven’t done much charity work in the last year. I haven’t had the stomach to show my face at too many high-profile events, knowing what people have been saying about me and my failed engagement. “But lately, I’ve been contemplating what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. Charity work is great, but I want to find something more … I don’t know … personal?”

“What do you like to do?”

I draw in a breath, consider the question. How can I be thirty-one and not know how to answer this question?

“I like helping people,” I finally say.

“In what capacity? What are you passionate about?”

“I suppose I can see myself mentoring kids, or counseling.” I pause, stif ling the embarrassing thought that has come to my mind. The sad truth is, I never gave much thought to a career outside the home. I always figured I would be married by now, a wife to someone, perhaps already a mother.

Adam has taken that dream from me.

No, I tell myself. He has not taken that dream from you. The dream is simply delayed.

“What?” Mark is looking at me oddly.

“I guess—if you want to know the truth, I always thought I would be a wife and mother. Yes, I would do volunteer work. Get involved with charitable organizations to help people. But I always thought my primary focus would be my husband and children.”

“I know you were engaged to Adam Hart,” Mark says softly.

“Yes.” In so many ways that seems like ancient history, and yet Adam was such a big part of my life. “I have no regrets over my breakup with him. I want to make that clear.”

“No regrets?”

Mark raises his eyebrows slightly as he asks the question, and I get the sense that he is asking me something entirely different.

“I don’t want to talk about Adam,” I quickly say. Want to kill your chances with a new guy? Go on and on about your ex.

Thankfully, the waitress arrives with our appetizers, helping to quash any further talk about Adam. We dig in to our cheese mashed potatoes and onion straws. As I pour myself more wine, I go on to talk about some of the good news in my life—the fact that Annelise is having a baby and how excited I am that I’ll become a godmother. And when I ask Mark to tell me more about the publishing business, he doesn’t hesitate to go into detail about every aspect of his work.

He talks a lot. Much more than most guys I know. Which is kind of nice because there are no lulls in the conversation.

My steak was outstanding, and I’m so full, I pass on dessert—even though the options look fabulous. Mark passes on dessert as well, and asks for the check. Ten minutes later, we are strolling out of the restaurant. A real gentleman, Mark walks me to my car.

I retrieve my keys from my clutch, and then we stare at each other awkwardly for a few moments. I giggle nervously, wondering if he plans on kissing me. I wouldn’t mind. It’d be nice to kiss him, see if there are any sparks.

Mark steps toward me and slips an arm around my waist. I do feel some butterf lies. I don’t know if I’m imagining them, or if I’m desperate for them to be there, but I feel something.

“I really enjoyed getting to spend time with you,” Mark says. “I’ve been looking forward to going out with you for a long time.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He grins down at me. “In fact, I’m not ready for the night to end.”

I blush, tickled that he likes me. “Is that so?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What did you have in mind?”

He raises a suggestive eyebrow. “The Ritz-Carlton hotel is next to the restaurant … “ He gestures to it with a jerk of his head. “Hmm?”

I know that earlier I thought I wouldn’t mind if the night led to sex, but I’m rethinking that. I like Mark, and I want to get to know him better before going to bed with him.

“How about you call me, and we’ll plan another date,” I suggest.

“You know, I heard some things,” Mark says in a lower voice. He gives me a pointed look, his eyes sparkling beneath the street lamp.

I begin to get an odd feeling. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you don’t have to play the good girl with me.

I heard about some of the stuff you and Adam were into. I liked it. I love a girl who can get her freak on.”

His words are like cold water being thrown in my face. Is this why he wanted to see me? He wanted to go out with me because he’s heard about my sordid sexual past with Adam?

“Exactly what things are you talking about?”

Mark chuckles softly. “You don’t have to be shy where I’m concerned,” he tells me. “I love it. I love it dirty.” And then he puts his mouth to my ear and whispers, “What was it like the first time you tasted another pussy?”

I push myself out of his arms so violently that he actually stumbles from the force of it. I stare at him, mortified. I cannot believe what he has just said to me.

Is he for real?

“Claudia? What is it?” he says, and has the nerve to look surprised.

“You’re a pig,” I tell him. “I’m not—I’m not the kind of girl you think I am. I didn’t do those things.” Not that I owe him any explanation. In fact, he’s the one who owes me one.

“Tell me that’s not why you asked me out,” I forge on. But I already know the answer. He’s not the first guy to be curious about the fact that I did some racy things, something Adam clearly spread to the world in an attempt to humiliate me. Unless the source was someone else—someone who happened to see me at the swingers club when I went there with that jerk of an ex-fiancé.

Mark stares at me, saying nothing, which in itself is all the answer I need. He’s not simply curious—he was hoping to get lucky.

“Ma’am, are you okay?”

I turn at the question, surprised to see an older African-American gentleman standing there. Mid-fifties, I would guess. He has a look of concern on his face as his stare volleys between Mark and me.

“I—I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I begin to back toward my car door. “Thank you.” I quickly press the button on my remote key to unlock my BMW, thankful that the stranger is keeping watch to make sure I’m fine.

And then I am scrambling into my car and driving away from the restaurant in haste. If only I could put the incident out of my mind as quickly as I am putting distance between me and Mark.

I make my decision, right then and there, to swear off sex. I’m a woman with needs, but I do not want to engage in another sexual relationship just for the sake of physical enjoyment. I did that in Vegas—and I don’t have any regrets about it—but I do regret where I let myself go with Adam, just to please the man I thought I was going to marry.

And I especially hate that the stigma of it has clearly followed me to this day. It’s as good a reason as any to abstain from sex.

Yeah, celibacy is looking really good right now.

Not for religious reasons, though I certainly understand the moral reasons for waiting until you’re married to lose your virginity, and perhaps things are much simpler when people do. The religious argument suddenly makes sense to me. There’s no doubt in my mind that sex outside of marriage has complicated the heck out of my generation.

But because of what I did with Adam, how I let him convince me to do things sexually that I never wanted to do … this is why I no longer want to jump right into bed with anyone.

And there’s something else, something I can never confess to either Lishelle or Annelise. Something I am more ashamed of than the sexual acts I was convinced to try.

I had an abortion.

At the time, being involved with Adam but not engaged, I knew how it would look to have a child out of wedlock. And so did he. But if he had given me any encouragement, I would have kept the baby. Instead, he drove me to the clinic where I had the procedure done. Problem solved.

Only it’s something that’s haunted me from time to time over the past couple of years. And now that Annelise is pregnant …

Well, now I’m feeling even worse about the decision.

I know I have to forgive myself, that I can’t turn back the clock, and most of all, I’m truly happy that I never married Adam. So logically, I know I’m better off without his baby.

Emotionally … That’s a different story.

Will I ever be a mother?

Will I ever be a wife?

Perhaps it’s just a phase I’m going through, one that I’ll get over once Annelise has the baby. I’m going to be the best aunt ever. There’s no doubt about that.

I drive with a heavy foot—until I realize that if I don’t want a speeding citation, I’d better slow down.

So I do. I have to get over the disastrous evening with Mark, put it past me and forget the blow to my ego.

When I was dating Adam we lived in Buckhead, but now I’m back at my parents’ place in Sandtown. Sandtown is an affluent area southwest of the city, where a lot of the African-American elite reside. It’s where I grew up, and I love the area—but every time I head back there, a part of me feels like a failure.

I’m supposed to be married and living in Duluth.

Irritation washes over me as I drive south on Peachtree Road. I’m annoyed with myself. Perhaps it’s the date with Mark—which has served to emphasize how my reputation has been tainted—that has me thinking of supposed-to-be. Because honestly, I haven’t been pining over our breakup. I’m elated that I didn’t take a doomed walk down the aisle with him.

It’s just … It’s just that I wish I weren’t single.

My gaze wanders to the right. And suddenly I see something that gets my attention. Two people standing on the sidewalk, arms flailing. My first guess is that one of them might be drunk. But as I get closer, I realize that the two people—a man and a woman—are having some sort of dispute.

The female looks young, while the man she’s with is definitely older. Her father?

I drive on, but find myself looking in my rearview mirror. Within seconds, I am making a U-turn. What if that man isn’t a father, but someone else? I know that I can’t leave this young woman who might be in danger.

In the restaurant parking lot, a stranger had intervened to make sure that I was okay. How can I not do the same?

I drive slowly as I double back, eyeing the girl and the guy. When I see the girl pulling her arm violently from the man’s grip, it is clear to me that yes, she’s in trouble.

My tires squeal as I make the quick U-turn to put me back onto the side of the road where they are. The sound causes both the man and woman to jerk their heads in my direction. No sooner do I brake to a stop at the curb, I am out of the car, charging forward without thinking. It doesn’t occur to me that what I am doing could be potentially unsafe.

“Hey,” I say, forceful. The guy—way too old to be with this girl, who’s only got to be in her early twenties—stares at me with an annoyed expression. My gaze goes from him to the girl, who is definitely cowering. My gut tells me that this isn’t a father dealing with an out-of-control daughter, but something else.

“Are you okay?” I ask the girl.

“Mind your own business.” This from the man.

I walk straight up to the girl. “Are you okay?” I repeat.

The shake of her head is slight. She’s afraid of this man.

“Look, lady.” The guy is pissed. “This is a private matter.”

I whirl to face him, putting my body between him and the frightened female. “How old are you?” I ask, an accusation.

“What?”

“You should be damned ashamed of yourself.” I turn to face the girl. “Come with me.”

“Excuse me?” the man says, outraged.

“I’ll take you someplace safe,” I go on. “Anywhere you want to go.”

The girl nods, and we begin to move. I don’t even notice that the man is approaching me until he has a firm hold of my arm. “If you know what’s good for you—”

I pull my arm from him so harshly that he actually staggers backward. I’m not sure where I’ve gotten the courage to be so tough. This isn’t me. I’m out of my element. But I stand up to this man, one who clearly likes to dominate young women.

“Touch me again, and it’ll be the last thing you do.” I’m amazed at the words that come from my mouth. Did I hear that line in a movie? When the hell have I become this kick-ass type of chick?

As I begin to doubt my feigned bravado, the man takes a step backward and even raises both hands in an attempt to show me that he isn’t dangerous.

I’m amazed that my words have had their intended effect.

“Sasha,” the man says, his tone soft. He is trying the nice-guy approach now. “Sasha, you know I didn’t mean it.”

I place a hand on Sasha’s back and guide her to my car. Looking back over my shoulder, I give the jerk a warning glance. It says, Don’t even think of making a move, you piece of shit.

I open the passenger door and Sasha climbs inside. Then I quickly round the car to the driver’s side and get behind the wheel. Thank God, the man stands on the sidewalk and watches, not making a move to come toward the car. Quickly, I shift the gear stick in my car and send the BMW flying into traffic.

I drive for about a minute without speaking. Then I glance at my passenger, whose eyes are focused on her lap.

“Hey,” I say gently. “You’re okay now.”

She faces me. Nods.

“Was that guy your boyfriend?”

Another nod.

“He’s a bit … old. Don’t you think?”

“Maybe.” Sasha’s voice is soft, vulnerable.

Sasha’s phone rings. In her eyes, I see fear. It must be the boyfriend’s number.

“Don’t answer it,” I tell her.

Sasha worries her bottom lip, clearly torn and unsure what to do. “Don’t,” I reiterate. “Whatever happened, let him cool off. At least.”

Sasha raises the phone, and I mentally scream, No, no, no! But instead of answering the phone, she presses the button to turn it off.

Good, I think. That’s good.

Another minute or so passes. I’m not sure what to say to this girl. I don’t want to come off as preachy, but I also want her to know that she can open up to me. “I’m Claudia, by the way.”

“Do you always run to people’s rescue like that?” Sasha asks.

“Actually, never.” Thinking of my actions, I’m still surprised. “But I couldn’t keep driving … not when it looked like you needed help.”

The girl nods.

“Where should I take you?” I ask.

She tells me an address south of midtown.

“You don’t live with him, do you?”

“No.”

“Good.” I pause to negotiate a turn. “Where we’re going … it’s someplace safe?”

“Yeah. My sister’s place.”

She’s younger than I first thought, no more than twenty, and I can’t help wondering where her parents are. Not in the picture? Deceased, maybe? And how is it that her sister is allowing her to be out with a man more than twice her age?

There’s a story there. “Listen, if you ever need to chat. Or if you’re ever in trouble and want to talk to me, I want you to know that you can call me.”

“Why?” Sasha asks, sounding skeptical.

Why indeed? I have never done anything like this before. But something about this girl speaks to me. I’m not sure why.

“Because we all need someone to talk to from time to time. I’m a good listener.” I smile.

The girl nods, then looks forward again. After a while, she tells me to turn right. I do, and she continues to guide me the rest of the way to her sister’s building.

It’s not posh, but neither is it run-down.

Her fingers curl around the door handle. Before she can open it, I say, “Wait a second. Let me put my number into your phone.”

Sasha hands me her phone, and I enter my name and number. As I pass it back to her I say, “I don’t know what the deal is with your boyfriend, but it’s obvious you were afraid of him. If he comes around tonight—or any other time—don’t be afraid to call the police.” I’ve got a pretty good idea what this man is like, and he reminds me of Annelise’s sister Samera’s ex-boyfriend, Reed. Men who feel like they possess you are the most dangerous of all. There’s no telling what they’ll do. “Or, like I said, you can call me. Whatever you do, be safe.”

I wonder if my words have gotten through to Sasha at all, or if she’s going to exit my car and immediately call the man I rescued her from. It wouldn’t surprise me.

But as much as I fear she’ll do that, I also know that the hard sell to stay away from him—words from a stranger, no less—might just have the opposite effect on her and send her running right back to him.

So I drive away from her sister’s apartment, happy that I’ve done a good deed. One that has helped—at least somewhat—to dull the memory of my date with Mark.

Chapter four

Annelise

“I FEEL LIKE I NEED TO ESCAPE,” CLAUDIA SAYS. “I’m not going to meet anyone in this city who doesn’t know about my engagement to Adam. And … some of the things we did. Everyone’s so damn interested … as if they’re all virgins, or something. Probably all closet freaks themselves,” she adds with a scowl.

“Exactly,” I tell her. “Please, sweetie, don’t let them get to you. Mark is clearly an asshole, and it’s better that he let you know his true nature on your first date, rather than your tenth.”

“I know.” Claudia sighs. “All the same, maybe I ought to leave Atlanta. Move to California, or Seattle. Or heck, Timbuktu.”

Claudia is downright miserable. After she told me about her date with Mark, I suggested we go shopping for shoes at DSW. Shopping always lifts Claudia’s mood.

But not today. No matter how many times I tell her to stop worrying about what people think, I know she can’t help it. Raised in an elite African-American family, appearances have been important to the Fishers for generations. Even if Claudia personally couldn’t give a crap, her family puts the kind of pressure on her about her public profile that is hard to ignore.

And knowing that she was looking forward to meeting Mark, given that he’d be the kind of guy her family would approve of, I can’t help feeling bad for her. She didn’t deserve to be treated like a whore last night. Claudia’s beautiful both inside and out, and I want nothing more than to see her find a man who will love and adore her.

“Don’t let what Mark said get to you,” I tell her. “Obviously he’s a slimeball.”

“If only he were the only one who saw me as some perverted whore. But there was that other guy, remember? He didn’t come right out and say what Mark did, but he was curious about what I’d done with Adam. Obviously word has gotten around. And it’s not even like I did anything extra freaky. You know the fucking rumor mill. Sure, there was that bartender … but that wasn’t my idea, and I was cornered into doing that.”

I notice that a woman is lingering near me and Claudia, clearly eavesdropping. I’m sure our racy conversation has intrigued her.

“Can I help you with something?” I say sweetly, and the woman quickly hurries in the other direction. When she is out of earshot I continue speaking to Claudia. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, but please try to put it out of your mind. And for God’s sake, don’t blame yourself. What happened with Adam happened. Really, it’s not even that big of a deal. People just like to talk.”

“Especially in my circles.” Claudia takes a low-heeled sandal out of a box and slips her foot into it. She examines the way it fits her, then frowns and takes the shoe off. “Seriously, I need to get away.”

Her words give me an idea. Maybe that’s exactly what she needs—what we all need. “You know what? We should plan a trip.”

“Getting away will be nice … but I’ll still have to return home. Maybe I should go to Europe for six months.”

“And miss your goddaughter being born?” I say, shooting her a stare. “No way.”

“I know. I can’t do that.” Claudia forces a smile, but it’s weak. “I love you for caring. But I’ll be okay.” The grin widens, begins to resemble something genuine. “I will be, promise.”

I head back to my photography studio after my shopping break with Claudia. I have an elderly couple coming in an hour for fiftieth-wedding-anniversary portraits, an aspiring model after that. Not a very busy day.

It’s the kind of day where I have time to think, and that’s what I’ve been doing—thinking about Claudia’s offhanded comment about getting away.

Going on a trip—anywhere—will do her a world of good. Not to mention Lishelle. Getting out of Atlanta while the city is buzzing over Rugged’s engagement will be ideal for her. Especially since she sent me a text letting me know that she’s no longer interested in Damon.

Maybe we can go to one of those adults-only resorts. Sure, people likely head to places like that with hookups in mind, but there have to be at least a few happily-ever-after stories. And if the only thing that comes of the vacation is that my friends flirt, have fun, maybe even get laid … well, that’ll do a lot for their dismal states of mind.

I am sitting at my desk, pondering exactly what to do, when the door chimes sing. Whipping my head in that direction, I see one of my favorite people entering my studio.

“Hey, Jared,” I say as I rise to meet him.

“Hello, gorgeous.” His eyes lower to my belly. “Wow, look at you. Pregnant!”

“Five months.”

Jared hugs me. “Congrats.” And as we pull apart, he asks, “Have you set your wedding date yet?”

“Hmm.” My smile is pure saccharine. As much as I love Dom, I’m not sure I want to take another walk down the aisle. When you’ve had a marriage crash and burn, it makes you a bit wary of the institution. I was raised in a very religious household, and always believed marriage was the only way. But despite my ex-husband’s own Christian upbringing, he didn’t feel he owed me fidelity.

No, Dom and I don’t need to make it legal in order to be happy. Not that Dom necessarily shares my opinion. And his mother, an Italian Catholic, definitely wants to see us married before the baby is born.

“Not yet,” I tell Jared.

“Make sure I get an invite.”