An Arrangement of Love
An
Arrangement
of
Love
Kenya Wright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Arrangement of Love
Copyright © 2014 Kenya Wright
Edited by Megan Martin Editing Services
Cover design by: Najla Qamber
Proofread by Joy Hunter Editing Services
Tested on and certified by Team Wright Beta Readers
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
http://www.KenyaWright.com
To
My husband Jacob
Thanks for introducing me to the art of food.
Chapter 1
“
How many sexual
partners have you had in your life?” Mr. Stone browsed my college transcript and then flipped to my resume. “That’s including oral and anal.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
Did I hear him correctly?
I’d been prepared to answer several questions for this job interview: What are your strengths and/or weaknesses? Are you okay with the straining time commitment of an executive assistant? Will you be comfortable being the only black person in an all-white corporation?
Time to brush up on sexual harassment laws for private companies. And do I really want a job where the boss wonders about my sex life? Dang it. But, do I even have other options?
Mr. Stone tossed my resume on the table and picked up a folder with my name on it. “Did you understand the question?”
“Yes.”
“How many men have entered you?” He opened the folder, turned a page, and then targeted me with green eyes that boasted amber hues around the irises. No blemishes, wrinkles, or splotches decorated his tan skin. Midnight-black waves framed his face. Interrupting my ogling, he said, “Do I need to draw diagrams or bring out visual aids, Ms. Montgomery?”
He’s gorgeous, but he’s an asshat.
“No.” I twisted my lucky copper ring on my pinky finger. “I’ve had two partners.”
“Only two?”
The redheaded woman next to him covered her mouth and snickered. The other panel members wore neutral masks on their faces—from the old graying men in designer suits to the stunning women coated in make-up and expensive perfume. Each person was the head of a multi-million dollar company Stone owned. All of them had been his or his father’s executive assistant. If I got the job, my future would be laid out with sparkling platinum bricks and a servant to guide me through my career, bearing wine and pricey caviar.
Just get through the interview, Jasmine. No rash decisions. No cursing him out and stomping out of the office. At least see where this goes.
“Yes.” I twirled the ring. “I’ve only had two partners.”
“Any female partners?” He curled his lips at the edges. His cheeks quivered a little, as if he was holding in laughter.
Oh, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?
“No women,” I said.
Stone set the folder on his desk and knitted his fingers together. His hands screamed manicured—nails filed even, a gloss of clear polish, and no bordering cuticles or abrasions.
Those are billionaire hands. I’ll bet he has a servant who wipes his behind after he goes to the bathroom.
“Are you with the second partner?” he asked.
“I’m single.” I tapped my right foot. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of my face. I didn’t wipe it away, in fear that I would reveal shaking fingers.
“What happened with your last boyfriend?” Stone glanced at my shoes.
I hid the shoe with the scuffed tip behind my other leg. “I caught him cheating on me with my best friend.”
“Besides breaking up with him, what did you do when you found out?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you still friends with both the ex and best friend?” He leaned back in his chair.
“Yes.”
“Have they married?”
“Yes.” I stopped playing with my ring and shifted to twisting my index finger.
“Did you go to the wedding?”
“I was one of their bridesmaids.”
The redhead scribbled notes on her paper. Other panel members exchanged glances.
I’m so missing how this is related to the job?
“Why only two sexual partners?” Mr. Stone asked.
“Excuse me? What is the relevance of these—”
“You’re a pushover with no fashion sense and standard looks, but you have a nice body and an interesting pair of eyes. Are they hazel?”
“Yes.”
“I gathered from your background check that you grew up in a rough neighborhood on the South End. It makes sense that you would’ve had sex with more than two men?”
Just go ahead and say it. “You have a stereotypical lower income background, drug addict black mother, unknown white father, most of your relatives are in prison or receiving government assistance. Why aren’t you pregnant with your fifth kid, sitting on the couch, and scooping spoonfuls of lard into your mouth?”
An exasperated breath escaped my lips.
Relax. This is just a weird test. Worst case scenario is I don’t get the job.
Suck it up.
“I only had the opportunity to sleep with two guys.”
“I don’t believe that.” He tapped the edge of his desk with his thumb. I’d noticed he did that a lot.
Is he nervous too? Doubt it.
Again, he tapped. “Come on. You’ve done a lot to get to this final phase. Don’t bore me with half-thought-out answers.”
I
had
done a lot. The hiring process incited exhaustion and manic hysteria. Stone required a recommendation from his employees to even be considered as an applicant. My friend’s father, Benny Nix, was on the company’s corporate legal staff and had been my recommender. Once I met that requirement, I underwent a knowledge examination, lie detector test, two sessions with a psychologist, and a medical physical that included a pap smear as well as drug and STD tests.
“Why only two lovers?” He repeated the question.
“I have five older brothers.”
Who enjoy shooting people and think the county jail is their second home.
“No one wanted to deal with them. I remained a virgin until college, where I met my two ex-boyfriends.”
“Abortions?”
I flinched as if he’d slapped me. “I’ve had one abortion.”
“Why?”
“I’d just discovered my boyfriend cheated on me. I had no money. I was at Harvard on an academic scholarship—”
Mr. Stone raised his hand to stop me. I exhaled, but the guilt rose inside my core. I’d taken a life, due to inconvenience and my own stupidity from not taking my pills. The choice haunted me each time I thought about it.
God, will this interview ever end?
He snapped his fingers. “Are you with us?”
“Yes.” My voice screeched a little.
“What’s going on with your hair?”
Black kinky curls teased my shoulders. “I wear my hair natural. I don’t believe in damaging hair with unnecessary chemicals.”
He turned to the redhead. “What’s the African American actress’s name who just won an Emmy?”
“Sally Nayson.” She pulled out a thin silver phone. “Do you want me to make Ms. Montgomery a hair appointment?”
Excuse me?
“Yes. Make sure it’s one of my mother’s salons,” he said. “Have them do whatever that actress has done to her hair and have them fit her in for tonight.”
“Okay, Chase.” She stood up, typed on her phone’s screen, and marched away.
“Umm . . . the actress has a perm,” I muttered. “Perms are chemical hair products.”
Mr. Stone ignored me. “Congratulations. You’ve got the job.”
All the panel members rose from their chairs and left one by one. My stomach coiled with exhilaration and uncertainty.
Hair appointment? Tonight?
I cleared my throat. “Thank you, Mr. Stone.”
“Call me Chase.”
“Thank you, Chase.” I formed my fingers into little fists and dug my nails into my palms. “I’m really happy to accept the job, but I’m wondering about the hair—”
“The woman who’s making your hair appointment is Lucy. She’ll also take you shopping tonight and will be training you for the next three months.” He rose and towered over me. “You’ll only deal with her or me. Don’t interact with other employees in the building. We’ve had some fatal outcomes with my past assistants. I don’t want those types of endings to be your fate.”
“What happened?”
The muscles in his jaw twitched. “Lucy will explain.”
Suspicious. I’ll ask her about it, when I tell her I’m not perming my hair!
“You’ll receive a low salary during your training.” He unbuttoned his jacket, took it off, and slung it over the back of his chair. “Around $185, 000 for the first year.”
I choked on my saliva and coughed several times into my hands.
Fine. I’ll perm my hair.
“After three months, I’ll decide if you remain my assistant or not.” He walked around his desk with fluid movements that emitted pure confidence. I rose and he halted three feet in front of me. A spicy cologne drifted from him and reminded me of the scent of new leather mixed with vanilla.
Goodness.
He was as tall as my brothers, and they were all over six feet. He extended his hand, wrapped satin fingers around mine, and encased my skin in heat.
“Spend time with your family and friends this weekend.” He tightened his grip. The added pressure didn’t hurt, but I knew he had power in that hold. “When Monday morning arrives, you’re mine. There are no sick days or time off unless I say so. Other than that, you sleep and eat when I do. You’re issued an iPhone. You miss my call and you’re fired. I don’t care if it’s 3:00 a.m., your mother is in the hospital, and you’ve just been attacked. I am your god.”
What?
I gazed into his green eyes and waited for the punch line. An unnerving quiet thickened the space. He pulled me in closer until only two inches stood between us.
“Say it,” he said in a low voice. Shock coursed through my veins.
“What do you want me to say?” I shifted my focus to his broad shoulders. Since he’d taken his jacket off, I could now see the muscles in his arms stretching his white shirt.
Rich,young, sexy, and flawless skin. Nobody’s that perfect. His penis must be an inch long.
“Look at me,” he said.
I swallowed and followed his order. Our eyes met. And there came a look from him that froze me in place, one that dizzied my brain and made me sway. It was like alcohol poisoning to the bloodstream, and I felt like a drunkard on his tenth shot, realizing it was too late for salvation and certain of keeling over to the ground.
What the hell am I getting myself into?
“Say I am your god.” No hint of humor skittered across his expression.
Any other time I would have laughed, but when it came to my financial situation, I held my mocking inside. Those four words,
you are my god
, guaranteed a six-figure salary—one I thought I wouldn’t reach until my fifteenth year of working. Here it was, my first official job out of college, and my salary exceeded my expectations
.
The things I could do with that amount danced in my head—pay school loans, get a new car, help my mom raise my nieces and nephews, finally present my other roommate/best friend the rent money I’d never been able to give her since we’d moved into our place a year ago.
I centered all of my attention on Chase and displayed what I hoped to be a self-assured smile. “You are my god.”
Chapter 2
They’re all dead?
That can’t be a coincidence.
I stumbled toward my apartment door. My phone buzzed for the thirtieth time that night. My mom’s name flashed on the phone’s screen. I’d been too busy to answer it in the salon, clothing stores, or on the limo ride to my place where Lucy told me my duties. My head boomed in pain from worry, exhaustion, and insecurity. When I asked Lucy about Chase’s prior assistants, she’d simply explained that the last three died: suicide with prescribed sleeping pills, accidentally electrocuted in a pool, and attacked leaving the office.
