Jaded (3 page)

In the foyer, Rodney spun Jade around on her heels.

“Do not make a scene tonight. You should know that I have better taste than that anyway.”

She searched his eyes for the truth but the years of performing on camera and the campaign trail had turned him into a master of ambiguity.   

“I’m not sure what to believe anymore, Rodney. But let this be the last time you bring a woman into my home unannounced.”

“Huh, that’s interesting.”

“What?”

“The way you keep calling this your house even though you’ve never paid the mortgage on it.” A light glimmered in his eyes as he chuckled. “Get your coat, babe.”

Jade went to the closet and retrieved her fox fur. She leaned against the doorjamb as blood rushed to her head and her heartbeat quickened.

The way you keep calling this your home . . .

“Everything okay?” Millie asked from only a few feet away.

Jade composed herself then turned around.

“No. I’m not okay.” She looked at Rodney. “I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll sit this one out.”

“Babe, it’ll look a bit suspect if I’m out in public with a woman who is not my wife.”

“I guess you should’ve thought about that before you asked a woman who is not your wife to accompany you to the fundraiser. I’m not going. And if I remember correctly, you’re expected to speak. So enjoy your night. Babe.”

Jade slammed the door, threw her coat back in the closet, and sped up the stairs as fast as she could in the tight evening gown. Never had Rodney been so bold as to flaunt a woman in her face.    

One fucking paternity suit and you hold it against me for life
. . .

Jade had seen the woman who’d filed the suit on television. She was a former Miss Texas beauty pageant winner who’d come to New York looking for job opportunities. There had been a rumor that she had been interviewing for a reporter position on the local twenty-four-hour cable news channel. While in the city, she’d partied with minor-league celebrities, from ballers to rappers to reality TV stars. Nine months after arriving in New York, she had given birth to a child.

At first, the press, after learning of her paternity suit, had accused Rodney of bedding the beauty queen and called for his resignation from Congress. But when they later had discovered that the Texas Tart—as she’d been dubbed in the papers—had bedded at least three other men during that time, they had written scathing articles that eventually drove her from the city.

Never had Jade questioned the conclusive negative results of the paternity test. But the notion that he could have been a possibility had left an acrid taste in her mouth.

And now Millie.

Jade walked into Rodney’s closet, decorated with a slate-gray carpet and custom-built walnut shelves. An island of drawers topped with granite stood in the middle of the room, flanked by a cushioned bench. The pristine closet smelled like fresh cedar. Jade reached above her head and began peeling suits from their wooden hangers, dropping them in a pile to the floor as though preparing for a bonfire.

The way you keep calling this your home . . .

Dolce & Gabbana. Into the pile.

Gucci. Prada. Into the pile.

She opened drawers and removed cashmere sweaters and designer jeans. Carefully at first and then wildly she rummaged through Rodney’s clothing. After several minutes of random grabbing, she stood huffing and sweating in the middle of the pile at her feet.

When she had caught her breath, Jade dug through her purse for her cell.

“Yeah?” Maria answered.

“I need you to get back over here as soon as possible.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing yet.” Jade surveyed the pile of clothes on the floor. “And make sure you bring trash bags if we don’t already have some in the house.”

“You want me to come back over to take out the trash?”

“I called you to help me make an immediate donation to charity.” The image of Rodney screwing Millie in the back of the limousine popped into her head. Jade believed him when he said Millie wasn’t his type, but since when did that stop a man?
It’s a short journey from the back of a limo to the master suite of a penthouse
, Jade thought.

“I’ll deal with the trash myself.”

***

“Crouching Tiger, please.”

Today Syeesha was meeting her sister for an early lunch so she could tell her she’d just become another statistic. The strong drink would make the admission easier. Just in case Syeesha’s nerves went the same direction as her job, she was careful to dress in an unassuming black V-neck sweater and black slacks. Comfortable enough for the unemployed, yet professional enough to project a working-girl image.

The day Syeesha left Clarke, she had gone directly to an employment agency. Every seat had been occupied by well-dressed applicants who had had the advantage of having current résumés in their hands and appointments on the schedule. Syeesha had turned back home with the intent of planning her next move. Instead, she had found herself snuggled beneath her warm fleece blanket, watching an all-day marathon of
The Apprentice.
Each time Donald Trump had barked his catchphrase, “You’re fired!” tears had dripped into Syeesha’s never-ending bowl of Bridge Mix.

Now Syeesha watched as the bartender poured blue agave silver tequila and SOHO Lychee liqueur into a shot glass. He placed a napkin and the drink in front of her.

“You’re a doll for pretending this is as normal as pouring a glass of orange juice for breakfast.”

He grinned and it was as though a mask had slid from his face, inviting warmth.

“You’re looking at a guy who’s served four rounds of Jack at seven in the morning.” He shrugged. “Life’s tough. Sometimes we need a little more octane to keep us running on all cylinders.”

She had never envisioned herself as the type of woman who sits at a grungy bar and regurgitates her woes to a stranger who plies her with booze while he keeps a tab. But at least this wasn’t a dive; it was a chic Thai restaurant that her sister had chosen. Trina Green wouldn’t step one polished Ferragamo in a smoke-filled hovel.

“I hope I have enough octane to get another job soon or I’ll be in big trouble,” Syeesha said.

“You quit?”

“Laid off.”

“Ah. I’ve seen quite a bit of that lately. Don’t suppose you’ve got a backup plan?”

Syeesha looked around the restaurant. The oblong-shaped eatery was completely white with recessed pink lighting and metal chairs. The place had a soft yet futuristic feel. All of the staff that she could see was of Asian descent. The bartender, however, was not. He was tanned and wore his blond hair closely cropped; his arms—visible beneath the white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled high—were tattooless; his ears unpierced. He looked more like a young exec chilling in jeans on the weekend than a bartender of a trendy Manhattan restaurant.

“Backup plan.” Syeesha rolled the glass between her fingers.
“My father used to say that the only kind of people who made backup plans were those who were committed to failing.”

“Does overachieving run in the family?”

Syeesha downed the shooter. Its sweetness belied its potency. She wanted another but decided that slurring over noodles in her sister’s presence would only solidify Trina’s opinion, often stated to Syeesha, that she had a total lack of discipline. This lunch was Syeesha’s idea. The least she could do was stay sober through it.

A young woman slipped behind the bar. She pressed a few entries into the cash register, put a bill inside, counted out a few singles, then apologized as she scooted back around the bartender and left. She’d addressed him as Chuck.

Syeesha said, “My father retired as a midlevel sergeant in the U.S. Air Force. He considered himself a failure, but he was determined not to raise one.”

Chuck wiped down the countertop. “Ever thought about bartending? Make a little extra cash?”

“You know how long I’ve lived in New York?”

“No idea.”

“All my life. And you know how many black bartenders I’ve seen in Manhattan in that time?”

Chuck leaned against the bar and shrugged.

“One. But the club was owned by a rapper and the bartender was a relative, so it doesn’t count.”

He smiled and squinted his sleepy blue eyes. “How ‘bout you order some lunch?”

She shook her head and fumbled with the sleeve of her sweater until the silver dial of her watch appeared. “My sister should be here any minute.”

“Gonna hit her up for some cash?”

Syeesha chuckled. “Oh sweet, naive little Chuck. I’d rather call on Judas. At least he’d be kind enough not to use a dull knife when sticking it in my back.”

“That bad?”

“I exaggerate.” Syeesha rested her chin on the palm of her hand. “Big sisters were put on earth to test the mettle of their siblings. She’s just living up to life’s expectation of her.”

Chuck laughed before excusing himself to take care of another patron. Her eyes followed him as he grabbed three liquor bottles by their neck and sloshed liquid into a cocktail shaker. He was cute, and if she were in better spirits she’d let him know she thought so. But surviving off the three hundred bucks she’d get from unemployment was enough to worry about. Syeesha threw a few bucks on the bar and let the hostess escort her to a table.

Ten minutes later, still alone at the table, she received a complimentary shooter from Chuck. She caught his eye from across the restaurant and lifted her glass in a toast, then tossed it back. It was better than the last.

Syeesha checked her watch. Another ten minutes had passed and still no Trina. The restaurant was filling up quickly with the noisy lunch crowd. A waitress shot sharp glances at her so Syeesha ordered a house specialty drink.

Finally, Trina entered in her usual cool, businesslike manner. She dismissed the hostess with a wave and tight smile, then weaved through the waitstaff toward Syeesha.

There was little resemblance between the two. Syeesha always thought that Trina’s complexion resembled hot chocolate whereas hers looked more like cappuccino. Trina’s eyes were chocolate morsels—small, hard, and dark while Syeesha’s were caramel chews—bright, soft, and sweet. As little girls they would joke about being the perfect Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Now they were more like Reese’s Pieces—separate, each cloaked in a hard shell that neither could seem to crack.

“I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes,” Syeesha said.

“I can tell. You look like a drunken noodle when you should be eating one.” Trina released the tightly cinched belt of her Burberry coat, casually threw the coat on the cushioned seat next to Syeesha, and then eased into a chair across from her. “What’re you drinking?”

“A Bellini,” she replied. “I think it was test-marketed on eight-year-olds.”

An untrained eye would have missed the subtle ascension of Trina’s right eyebrow followed by the slight downturn of her mouth. Syeesha was trained in all things Trina, however. Luckily, she began to feel a buzz from the shooters and she leaned into the lightness, secretly wishing she could throw a grateful wink to Chuck for hooking her up.

“So,” Trina said. “What’s going on? Surprised you called me for lunch today when I haven’t heard from you since when? New Years?”

“Let’s place our lunch orders first.” Syeesha flagged down a waitress.

The chatter in the restaurant was at full pitch now and the smell of coconut milk and chili peppers made her mouth water. Her stomach grumbled and the image of her lonesome turkey sandwich sitting in the back of the fridge at Clarke reminded her of the uncertainty of life. Never would it have occurred to her upon awakening that last morning for work that she would be be sitting here today unemployed and buzzed.

When the waitress appeared, Syeesha selected from the menu like a child making a wish list from a Toys “R” Us catalog. “For starters, I’ll take the crispy shrimp and also the spring rolls with extra sauce on the side. Then let’s have the fried calamari–”

“Sy, I’m on a diet. I’m not eating fried shrimp.”

Syeesha blinked, confused for a second. “I’ll just get it anyway,” Syeesha finally replied. “In case you change your mind.” She turned back to the waitress. “The pad Thai noodles and shrimp fried rice. No, make that beef fried rice. Did I mention the calamari?”

The unsmiling waitress nodded as she scribbled the order.

“And I’ll take that fried rice with brown rice instead of white.” Syeesha handed the menu back to the waitress. “I hear that’s supposed to be better for you.”

Trina placed her order of green tea, soup, and house salad.

“That’s it? That’s all you’re having?”

“Unlike you, I have to watch my weight. I can’t eat like I’m preparing to swim in the Olympics and still walk around in a size six.”

Syeesha heard the roughness in her big sister’s tone so she didn’t bother to tell her that she was actually a four.

“I like your new haircut. You trying to ‘jack Michelle Obama’s style?” Syeesha asked.