Page 3

Chapter Two

Dereck

“C ongratulations on the engagement. This is a splendid party Dereck. Or do I call you, my Lord.” Mrs. Broulee flutters her fan against her chest.

I restrain myself from groaning or rolling my eyes. I inherited an empty title from my father, who inherited it from his before migrating from England to Lakeshore. Now with my engagement to Ilyana I’ve acquired what the title never gave me, money and power.

“Lord can be reserved for my father. Dereck is fine for me,” I look at the women in their regal dresses, the men either are looking for a wife or a new affair. The party is in full swing with my fiancé missing.

“Oh, humble and handsome. Dereck, you will be an amazing husband. It’s a pity my Jane didn’t grab you before Ilyana did.” Mrs. Broulee’s blue eyes catch the attention of someone behind my back.

“Excuse me. Sir,” I turn to see Ilyana’s butler Higgins. With a gloved hand, he pulls me to the side and whispers in my ear.

“Sir, you have a guest in the study.”

I send my gaze out into the ballroom. Everyone that is here should be here.

“Send them away, Higgins,” I reply.

“Sir, it’s Ms. Miranda, and she is upset.” Higgins squeezes my forearm as if to emphasize the urgency of the problem.

Without a second thought I rush through the door down the halls. I haven’t seen Miranda in almost a month. God, I missed her. To have her here in my home, my legs are carrying me faster than I even knew they could.

I skid to a stop, my shoes screeching against the floor and grab the doorknob; I slam the door open.

Miranda gets up slowly from the chair she is sitting in. Her eyes are wet and puffy.

“Block the door Higgins,” my eyes never leaving Miranda’s.

As the door closes, her long fingers fidget with the handkerchief in her hands.

I stretch my arms open to her, and within seconds she rushes into them. Tension drains from my body as relief travels through me. I squeeze her tightly, smelling the sweet oils in her hair, rocking her on my chest. Her tears are seeping through my shirt, and I don’t even care.

“I missed you so much,” I whisper, pressing my lips against her forehead and she quiets down.

“I missed you too. Dereck we have to talk,” she says her voice reeks of desperation.

I take her hand and lead her to sit on the leather sofa near the arched window. Slowly, I rub my finger between hers, taking my time, feeling the softness of her delicate hands, studying the contrast of her smooth dark skin against my own.

“You thought about it, I know I have. I spoke to my lawyer; we can have the apartment ready for you. In five years, I will be out of this marriage we can get married and ? —”

“I’m pregnant,” she whispers her eyes catch my gaze.

Everything freezes. Her words echo in my mind “I am pregnant.”

PREGNANT! What the fuck? No this can’t be happening. Not now.

Instantly her fingers weigh down my palm. Slowly I pull my hand away from her and jump to my feet. A high pitch sound whistles in my ear. It’s sharp and relentless. Shit. The collar is so tight. My fingers claw at my neck as I try yanking at my bow tie for air.

Cupping my mouth, I begin to pace the study. Pregnant? She can’t be pregnant. I’m too young to be a father.

Raking my hand through my hair, she’s fucking pregnant. We only had sex once and I haven’t seen her for a month. Did she let another man touch her? Another man’s hands on what is mine? My ire rises. “Whose child is it?”

She stands slowly, as the soft crescendo of ballroom music invades the room. “Come again?”

“Whose child, is it?” I ask, knowing that it’s mine, hoping that I’m the only man that touched her.

Her fists ball to the side of her. “I’m willing to give you a second to correct yourself.”

“Fuck, sorry.” I know the child was mine. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to keep it,” she whispers, looking at me to agree.

Keep it, of course she wants to keep it. A little boy with my eyes and her face. I can see it. I walk to the large oak desk. It’s a perfect copy of the Resolution Desk in Washington. A desk like this, only men with power has sat behind it.

My fingertips caress the grooves of the desk. I think about the secrets that bind me. The debts that have been paid since my engagement to Ilyana. The clubs I have been welcomed into; I rub my finger against my Quarter Master ring.

The power that is now within my reach. She can’t keep the child, it will destroy what I am trying to build for her, for us.

I set my gaze upon the only woman I have ever loved. She is wearing long bell-bottom jeans and a grey t-shirt. Her hand covers her stomach, as if she is protecting the child from me. But what kind of father would I be if I can’t provide or protect my kin?

Opening the desk, I reach for my leather-bounded file. With a sigh I write my solution and tear it out of the book and stand in front of her.

“Sticks, I can’t.” Before I could complete my sentence, she takes a step back.

“What’s that in your hand?” Her eyes are fixed on the paper that I am holding.

“All I need is five years, we can work this out. That’s all I need Sticks,”

She shakes her head; her gaze never leaves my hand. “What is that in your hand?”

“You can go to pre-med, and we can get married after. Just wait for me please,” She would never understand the hell I have been through. The debtors that came to my door late at night with threats of violence. Now those same men cower at me.

“What is that in your hand, Dereck?”

With one finger, I lift her chin. “I love you, Sticks.”

“Just not enough. What’s in your hand?”

My heart screams at me to rip up this paper. Tell her it’s nothing and just let it go. But I can’t. I take her hand, open her palm and gently lay the paper on it.

She inhales as the first tear drops. Bending her head, she reads the paper and steps away again.

“What is this for?” Her voice trembles, her hands tighten onto the paper.

“After you abort the baby, you will need money to—” The shredding sound of paper stops me mid-sentence.

“What the hell are you doing? Sticks, no.” I can only watch as the shredded pieces drift down to the floor.

She reaches for her bag and walks to the door. “$50,000.00 that’s all my child and I are worth.”

“I can give you more.” I can feel it, I’m losing her again.

“You don’t get it do you. I don’t want your money. I just wanted you.” She blinks trying to prevent the tears from falling onto her cheeks.

“You have me,”

Her bitter laugh makes my gut tighten. “I don’t have you, money does.”

This baby can destroy everything, she doesn’t understand. I almost lost my home, my family.

“Sticks, you can’t have this baby.”

“Don’t worry yourself whether I keep it or not. Keep your money.”

I reach out for her fingers again, warm to the touch. “Four years, give me four years.”

“I am giving you nothing but a goodbye. You will never see me again.” She tugs her hands out of mine and leaves.

“Sticks, please. Don’t go.”

My legs give out under me, and I fall to my knees. Even with all the money, I have never felt so poor and powerless as I do now.

* * *

TAREK

I think it’s Pride and Prejudice that once said, “It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” How do I know Pride and Prejudice ? I had a leggy German fuck-uation who was fucking obsessed with the book. I have endured more adaptations of Pride and Prejudice than I care to admit. Honestly, I think Colin Firth was the best Mr. Darcy.

But here’s the thing: the second I heard that line, I knew a woman had written that book. Had to. Because I am a man, single and in possession of a good fortune and I have no fucking desire for a wife, child or family. To me a family is just a natural disaster with lawyers on speed dial. A tornado matching Christmas pajamas. A slow-motion crash where everyone is screaming, I love you while airbags deploy.

But do I love women? Yes, I find them to be beautiful, elegant and breathtaking. Do I want to spend the rest of my life with one? No. But I love lying between their warm thighs waiting for that moment of attainable bliss. Hence, I devised a system that is beneficial for both me and the woman that I choose to entertain for a time. Which brings me to where I am now, opening my black, mother-of-pearl inlaid, mid-century Chinese console cabinet.

Here I keep all the things that prevent me from becoming a man like in the Jane Austen books. Blindly stumbling to love, marriage and messy obligations

I open the drawer quickly, pulling out the light blue box with a white bow along with a single pill from an antique pill box. The need for me to hurry is pushed on by the sniffling I hear behind my back. Fuck the cotton mouth that BX3 leaves behind is annoying. I feel the need to down a gallon of water.

“Is it really that time already, Tarek?” the voice squeaks behind me. My eyes roll back in my head trying to find the patience that I normally have for these events. I haven’t even had my coffee yet. Taking the glass of water at the side of the bed, I hand it to Veronica.

“Tarek.” She lifts her eyes and pleads. I have grown tired with all of her antics of late.

Placing the morning after in her hand, I kiss her wrist and let it go. Reluctantly she places the pill on her tongue then drinks the water. Relief swarms my body. I never want to be tied to anyone, especially by a child.

She bends her head in grief; her shoulders shake. Fuck me! She is going to cry. It’s so unnecessary right now.

Inhaling, I kneel in front of Veronica. “Shh. Shh Bella,” I push her dark hair away from her face. Her light blue eyes instantly meet mine, and tears run down to the side of her cheeks.

“I thought we were doing so well together. I love you. I thought last night was-” her lips trembles giving me warning of more tears to come.

Please don’t say magical, it’s a pet peeve of mine. It’s a fuck, and it’s a dick, there is nothing that magical about it. However, it does get hard and makes women happy so maybe it is…

“Magical. Last night was magical, Tarek.” She sniffles, snot is drifting slowly out of her nose. Yup, I have to wrap this shit up now.

I gently place the box into her hand. “Open it, Bella.”

She moves her hair out of her face and wipes her dripping nose. Slowly she pulls at the white bow. Over her head on the wall my clock reads 7:17 a.m. I really need to hurry this along.

Finally, she unravels the bow and places her trembling hand on the top of the box, and she pauses with a sigh.

My brain is shouting for me to speed this up. I place my hand on top of hers.

She gasps and her gaze reaches mine. Gently I squeeze the top of her hand. “Let’s do this together.”

I nod, knowing that my motion is going to be mirrored by hers.

Quickly I open the box, and her fingers touch the 18k emerald baguette pendant necklace.

Wiping her eyes, her fingers gently touch the emerald. “It’s absolutely beautiful. I have heard of the necklace but to see it…and to know what it means.”

Her fingers shake, more tears coming. “Its beauty can’t compare to you. Let me put it around your neck Bella,”

Taking the necklace from the box, with nimble fingers I clasp the jewelry around her neck.

Veronica sighs as she pulls her hair over the necklace. Sitting to the side of her on the edge of my bed I hold her hand in mine.

Now it’s time for the closing. This is the part where it feels I have to stick the landing after doing the flips on a parallel bar.

“Veronica, you are a special, woman. As we said before starting this relationship I need to….” I wait for her to say the word. I really want to scream hurry the fuck up Veronica, but this is a delicate matter that needs time to be executed right.

“Heal. But, Tarek, baby.” She tried to pull her hand from mine.

“We both know this wasn’t forever, and the time has come, Bella.” She bends her head to hide her tears. I press a hard kiss to her forehead. She needs to think this is as hard for me as it is for her. Glancing over to the clock, making sure it’s not 8:00 a.m.

“You are perfect for me, Tarek. I have been nothing but faithful to you.” She shakes her head and sniffles.

I have nothing left to say. Pulling her to a standing position I bring her into my arms and hug her tightly. “No, Veronica, I am nothing but manipulative and imperfect with a hint of narcissism. You know you can do better.”

She pulls back her head and nods. I take her hand in mind as I slowly begin to gather her bag and jacket.

“This was a beautiful experience,” she mutters as she slides her foot into her black, red bottom shoes. I hold in my groan as we begin to descend the stairs. We need to hurry the fuck up.

Walter my butler opens the front door where I can see a black car waiting for Veronica, right on time.

“It’s been a pleasure Tarek Fairisles. I hope the myth of the necklace is true,” she says chuckling. I wipe her tears away and guide her to the front of the door down my stairs.

With no time to waste I open the car door and usher her inside.

“The pleasure has always been mine. Take care Veronica,” I close the car door softly, then tap the roof signaling for my driver to move along.

My staff knows the drill, with no time to lose the car whisks down the driveway.

“4,3,2,1” I count waiting for her to open the window and wave. Right on cue like the others she waves. I give a small wave back polite and practiced. As the car disappears from view, I let out a groan and jog up the stairs into the foyer. Thank fucking goodness.

“What was wrong with this one?” Walter asks as he closes the door behind me.

I sigh remembering the flash of text on her phone reminding her to poke the condom before we had sex. I knew I could never trust her and sure enough, within a month this situationship met its end. Like I ever use a condom that is not from my stash.

“She started planning my future without consulting me.” I say flatly “Walter have them bring my car to the front.” I head up the stairs back toward my bedroom. I have to leave now. All I needed was a jacket, and I was out. Dashing into my closet I pulled on a custom-tailored charcoal jacket over my black shirt. In the mirror I give myself a quick once-over, tug at my cuffs, smooth the front of my pants and I was ready.

My phone rings in my pocket. I slip out my Air pods, pop them in and answer.

“Good morning STD in waiting,” Cole’s gruff voice comes through clear.

“Very funny,” I mutter, grabbing my watch and my money clip off of the closet island.

I move swiftly through my bedroom and then down the stairs.

“Veronica, has moved on to a better life,” I say under my breath.

“Aww, did she say she loved you? What was this one’s problem?” Cole asks. I can hear the mirth in his voice.

I nod to Walter as I pass through the front door and jump into my idling car.

“Of course she loves me. Condom sabotage, and I couldn’t stand the scent of her fucking hair,” I reply calmly as my car rolls down my driveway.

“You had a fucking problem with her choice of shampoo, while she wanted your babies,” Cole teases. I broke through three red lights, if the cop pulls me over, they will let me go. That’s the privilege of having a father in the Quarter Masters and politics. I need a fucking coffee, maybe I can get to the Screaming Bean with time to spare.

“They don’t want my kid; they want the money that comes with it. Hell, if they wanted just the kid, I would jerk off in a fucking cup or paid a surrogate for them.”

“True,” Cole states.

“Let me call you back in 10.”

“Sure.” Cole’s gruff voice sounds depressed.

“Cole man you good?” I ask.

“Yeah, just tired. In fact, I’ll talk to you tomorrow and congrats on the Michelin shit.”

“Start with that next time. Later.” As the call ended, I look at my watch. 7:45 a.m., swinging the corner I park in front of The Screaming Bean.

The enchanting fragrance of a slow roast coffee assaults my senses. All the anxiety that was on my shoulder quiets in The Screaming Bean.

Standing in the line I make eye contact with a girl, who recently had a one-hour-night-stand with me at Rhet’s club Sparkle, her cheeks instantly flushes as she recognizes me.

I point at my phone telling her to text me. She looks confused, because duh I never gave her my phone number, as a matter of fact only about six people have my real number.

She motions me forward and I surpass the line. Why the hell should I stand there when a girl who rode my dick some night ago is behind the counter. Now what’s her name again?

“Hi.” She blushes, flashing her crooked smile.

Ah, fuck it. I reach out and graze her chin. “Bella.”

Her cheeks redden, making her freckles stand out more.

The door swings. A pimple-faced, pubescent-looking guy comes out carrying a tray of hot buns.

She instantly straightens. “What can I get you, sir?”

“Sir?” My eyes hold her stare as a smile of remembrance hits her face.

“Um, what can I get you?”

“Regular coffee and three hot snickerdoodle cookies, please,” I reply.

Her fingers move briskly over the white flat screen. “The coffee is free and the cookies are $3.50.”

Taking a good look around, I casually said, “I should have ordered your cookie it taste better and its more expensive.”

The cash register beeped as I quickly swiped my phone.

Within seconds, coffee and a greasy brown bag of cookies slide across the table. I give her a nod and a smirk. As I pass the disgruntled looking people in the line, I shove my shoulder against the glass door, to push it open.

A small voice catches my attention. “My name is Lena by the way.”

I look back at her smiling. “That’s nice, but I like Bella more. Because look at you, you’re beautiful.”

She clasps her hand in front of her and rocks. Look at her thinking that I care about her name…poor child.

It takes me thirty more minutes to get to my restaurant. Pulling a break in front of the Glasshouse, I sigh as I take it all in. This was my baby. She is an exquisite blend of glass and industrial elements, embodying both elegance and strength, exactly how I love it.

Jogging up the stairs with the keys and a cup of coffee in my hand, I open the front doors. The clean scent of lemon and basil surrounds me. This is my favorite time of the day. There is a calm that greets me when I enter Glass House. The refracted light from the sun beams through the glass windows.

The white tablecloths rest on the tables like sleeping ghosts. Pressing my palm against the silver saloon doors, I stand still as the lights are automatically flipped on.

I don’t feel pride about a lot of things, but Glasshouse is my pride and joy.

Everything inside here, I worked my ass off to achieve. Why am I this early? I like the quiet as I get ready for the day ahead and I also like my staff coming in and seeing me here first. As if it reminds them that working in the kitchen means that we are all in this together. Grabbing my apron off the hook, I begin to work.

In the hours that I am here alone, I create the stocks, brine some chicken, break down some beef. I love seeing my knife slide through the cuts of beef and tuna.

Up next, I salt and blanch the skin of some fillet snapper. It’s now two pm and Natalie my pastry chef arrives finding her station, she begins her prep work. Bit by bit staff trickles into the kitchen.

The knock on the back door signifies that my premium groceries are here. After washing my hands, I inspect the groceries as they are being wheeled in. I bring a truffle to my nose, inhaling the earthy musky scent.

“Paulo, Perigord Truffles at $650.00 per pound feels like a rip off,” I say, throwing the truffle back into the box.

Paulo Bineco, takes off his baseball cap and scratches behind his head. “That’s the price the boss has it as, Mr. Fairisles.”

I pay but make a note to call the farmer to inquire about the price. It’s now 5:30 p.m., I’m sweaty and covered in blood and God knows what else.

The kitchen is running like a well oil machine. My head chef Marco is here, with a nod to him, I leave, and I should be back before 8pm.

* * *

PENNY

“I just wanted to say, ‘Fuck you, Rhet Banner.’ He was so mean at work today.” Zeeta voice empties from my speaker phone.

“I think he likes you, and you like him,” I reply finishing the last few lines of code on my screen.

The phone becomes silent. I stop my typing and stare down at my phone.

“Hello? Zee?”

“Heifer whose side are you on?” Zeeta snaps, her voice is loud through the speaker.

“Duh, yours.” I laugh, and I’m already starting to wrap up my work for the day.

“Okay, and you are my safety for the night. York is on a Bumble date after all,” Zeeta fusses.

As my computer logs off, I push away from my desk. “I got you. Where are you guys eating again?”

“Glasshouse.”

I clutch my hand to my chest. “I will give a rib just to eat there. I heard the food is so good.”

“To eat the food or the chef?”

I chuckle thinking about the time I had to search Beyonce’s internet to find the owner of the Glasshouse for Zeeta. Tarek Fairisles was a fine man.

“He is a looker but nah, I will pass.” My computer screen fades to black as the shut down finishes.

“What’s your plan for the night?” Zeeta asks.

I walk into my kitchen, reaching for a bag of chips and water. “I’m going to read E. Howard’s new book and chill.”

“So you and Melvin are really done,”

I wait for a twinge of pain, but nothing happens. It only cements in my mind that I had no feelings for him.

“Yes, we are.”

“Think of it as God protecting your PH.”

“Amen to that. Text me if you need me, okay? Enjoy your date.” I tap my earbuds to end the call.

Grabbing my blanket out of the rattan basket, I nestle myself into the corner of the chair. I have been dying to read Left At The Altar by E. Howard and tonight I actually had the time to do so.

* * *

TAREK

I take approximately four hours to finish up work, head home, shower, change into my charcoal and black suit and get back on the road. As I pull up to The Glasshouse, my phone rings, I tap my earbud and answer.

“Yeah.”

“You really need to work on the way you answer the phone buddy,” the deep gravelly voice echoes around me. I chuckle, feeling a strange comfort in the sound of it.

“Are you back in Lakeshore, Dax?” I ask, passing the keys to the valet, as I jog up the stairs into the restaurant.

The doorman steps forward, holding the door open. “Good evening Mr. Fairisles,”

I nod and stride briskly into the restaurant. A low hum of conversation fills the space, while soft tinkle of a piano drifts through the air. “I’m leaving for New York on a red eye. I called to say congratulations. Bad boy Chef Fairisles receiving a Michelin star for Glasshouse.”

I crack a smile sending a small wave to some guests, nodding to other guests as they vie for my attention. Everyone wants to act like they know me, like we are connected in some way or the other. It’s their claim to fame or longing to be in a circle that they will never be welcomed into. The scent of olive oil and grilled meat is prevalent in the air. There is a clatter of cutlery and plates. The patrons’ low murmurs. This is what I live for the rush of owning a restaurant.

“Thanks. It hasn’t sunken in yet. I’m meeting a project manager and a contractor to discuss constructing two new restaurants.” I wave to the private assistant of Lakeshore’s mayor. I hope to God that he stays seated. I am not in the mood to have any sort of small talk with anyone.

“Chef Fairisles?” a soft voice greets me from behind.

“Here we go, another challenger has entered the ring,” Dax groans in my ear.

“Shut the fuck up,” I grumble as I turn around, with a smile. A dark-haired beauty stands before me, her curves are wrapped in a strapless red dress. It leaves nothing to my imagination. I love that.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“Sorry, I’m on the phone with my friend.” I point to my ear pods.

Dax chuckles. “I will see you on Saturday. Tell me what’s her name when I see you.”

“Saturday,” I reply, clicking my fingers to end the call.

“Sorry about that. What’s your name, Bella?” I take her outstretched hand and bring it to my lips.

“Chriselle. Are you still with Veronica Simmons?” She smiles, throwing her hair over her shoulder.

“No. Sadly, we broke up.” I let go of her hand, lowering mine to my side.

“Oh no,” she gasps, bringing her hand to her mouth in shock. Internally I roll my eyes.

“No, it’s okay because she made room for you Bella. I finish work at two am, you ok with that?” I know what she wants, and what she thinks she could have. Why should I beat around the bush?

Her eyes brightened as she clasps her hand together in front of her in excitement. “I can wait.”

The clock on the far back wall reads 9:05 p.m. That’s a long wait, but if she wants to, let her.

I lean down and kiss her cheek, then I begin to move.

Pushing through the metal doors, I am greeted by the steady rhythm chef Jimmy, giving instructions over a crew of chefs, sous chefs and waiters. Each is dedicated to a different part of tonight’s seven course meal.

Jimmy’s voice reaches over the kitchen. “We are walking the foie gras torchon to table nineteen.”

“Yes, Chef,” the kitchen says together. Waiters waltz by with huge silver trays over their shoulders.

“I need a truffle tarte tatin for table three and let’s walk a coq au vin for table five please.” Jimmy stands behind a mini podium, reading from the order then driving it down the ticket stabber.

“Good evening, Glasshouse,” I shout, stopping at the side of Executive Chef Marco.

In a chorus, everyone says, “Good evening chef.”

Marco instantly pushes a clipboard into my hand.

“What is this?” I flip the paper looking at the list of names.

“These are the new line chefs to be interviewed for Helios,” Marcos states. Marco hails from Seville, Spain. His glossy black wavy hair speaks of his Spanish ancestry. I met him in Barcelona while I was doing my internship at Chef Pierre’s restaurant La Marie. We both were cooks there.

We hit it off immediately. Where I was skilled at cooking and recipe creation, Marco was great at organizing and being a leader in the kitchen. Hence my making him the head chef in Glasshouse.

“The project manager and contractor had to cancel, they both have COVID,” Marco states as I begin to walk to the back where my office is.

Climbing up the stairs leading to my office which my staff calls the Look Out.

“Shit,” I mutter as I open the door, Marco trailing into the office behind me.

“Should we get a new crew?” he asks closing the door softly behind him.

I toss my keys onto my desk and start pacing. “No, I actually like this project manager. We can wait.”

Before I can finish my thought Marco’s cell phone rings, and he answers. Whatever is happening makes his eyebrows touch each other.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, switching on my laptop.

Marco drags his hand down his face. “We have a small disturbance on table twenty.”

“I will take care of it, you go back down to the kitchen floor,” I state.

“Yes, Chef,” Marco opens the door and heads down the stairs toward the kitchen.

* * *