I took a sip of the steamy beverage. “Thanks. This is good.”
“I sprinkled some cinnamon on top and used cane sugar, like you told me.”
I liked Madison, and it wasn’t only because she could whip up a Starbucks-style cappuccino. Unlike some of the other interns, who moaned and groaned when we asked them do mundane tasks, like make copies and order lunch, Madison always flashed her pleasant smile and said, “Sure!” Also, the girl was never, ever on CP time! No matter how late we worked at the station, she was at her desk promptly at six thirty every morning.
Madison was inspired by my rise from intern to the station’s top investigative reporter. The first time she met me, she said, “You must have worked really hard to make it this far.”
I told her, “Maybe I’m not working hard enough. I haven’t made anchor yet.”
“Oh, you will. You’ve got that whole Tyra Banks/Robin Roberts thing going on. I mean, you’re really pretty, Ms. Lewis, but you’re also a serious journalist.”
I smiled at the comparison; I would have loved to have even just a taste of the success those women had enjoyed, and it was something I thought about everyday. For the time being, though, I was trying to make the most of it in the D. I knew things could be much worse. Some reporters had to slum it in small-media markets like Tupelo, Mississippi and Norfolk, Nebraska. At least I was with my family, and while Detroit was far from perfect, it was never boring. The crazy stuff that happened in Motown was more entertaining than any plot Hollywood could dream up. Every time a politician was indicted or a kinky sex scandal was uncovered, it was paradise for a news junkie like me.
On the company website, my biography referred to me as “a proud graduate of Cass Tech High School and Wayne State University.” There were also a few sentences about me volunteering at a nonprofit organization for disadvantaged youth on the East Side and how I enjoyed reading Walter Mosley novels in my spare time. What the biography was lacking was the real reason why I’d become such a rising star at Channel 5.
I didn’t want to tell Madison, my would-be protégé, about my secret résumé, but it wasn’t because I was ashamed of the path I’d taken to career advancement. Many successful women wouldn’t hesitate to do what I had done. In fact, my sister did it every night, and she had a lot less to show for it. Still, there was something about Madison’s schoolgirl, naïve, almost innocent smile that made me want to shield her from that sinister part of the news business like a mama bear protecting her cub from predators.
“Now that you’ve got me all caffeinated and sugared up, let’s get to work,” I said.
Madison walked behind me through the chaotic newsroom. People were shouting, telephones were ringing, and monitors, computers, and various digital devices were blinking, blipping, buzzing, and beeping all around us.
I turned down the hallway and opened the door to my editing suite.
The small room was dark, except for the glow of several flat-screen televisions. My editor banged his sausage-like fingers on the keyboard. Sam was a big man, six-four and about 300 pounds. He looked like he should have been chasing down a running back in Ford Field, and I was surprised when I learned that he’d never set foot on a football field. All he’d ever wanted to do was edit, and he was fantastic at it.
Sam really knew how to tell a story with video. The previous year, thanks to his help, my special news report about the revival of downtown Detroit had been nominated for a local Emmy. If Sam wanted to, he could have easily packed up and moved to New York to work for one of the big TV networks, but he was far too in love with Coney dogs, Red Wings games, and the Woodward Dream Cruise to ever leave Motor City.
Sam pushed loose strands of blond hair off his high forehead and looked up at us. “Top of the mornin’ to you,” he said.
“Hey, Sam. How’s it looking?” I asked.
“Well, I been at this for fourteen hours, and to be honest, I’m still not happy with it. I really want you to bring home a gold statue this time. You deserve it, Kai.”
“Thanks. Can I take a peek at what you’ve got so far?”
Sam smirked, as he didn’t like to reveal his masterpieces early, but then he hit the spacebar on his keyboard, and my face filled up the screen. In the video, I was wearing a hunter-green blazer and a cream-colored shell top. My Victoria’s Secret push-up bra transformed my tits into the main attraction. The wind was trying to assault my hair, but my stylist was such a genie with the flatiron that my natural hair and my weave blended together flawlessly and would withstand even a hurricane. Not to sound stuck up, but I looked like I belonged on the cover of Essence, except for the pimple between my meticulously tweezed brows. Despite the layers of airbrushed makeup, I couldn’t help but think about my nephew’s three-eyed alien stuffed toy, and high-definition video only gave my zit a large shadow all its own. Nevertheless, I tried to concentrate on the footage rather than the fact that I looked like the “Before” picture in a Proactiv commercial.
In the video, I was standing in front of a brick warehouse. I walked toward the camera and said, “The city that was the birthplace of the automobile and was once known as the ‘Paris of the Midwest’ has been ravaged by poverty. These days, one of the fastest-growing businesses in Detroit is happening far away from the assembly line…
“Sex has become a major commodity. The city’s police force reports that prostitution-related arrests have increased by over 34 percent in the past 2 years. Unfortunately, underage girls are driving this demand. Today, we meet fifteen-year-old Tymeisha. She should be out enjoying time with friends and preparing to take her driving exam, like other children her age, but Tymeisha has dropped out of high school and is now earning hundreds of dollars a day in the world’s oldest profession…”
“Looking good, Kai,” a man said from the doorway of the editing suite.
I knew who he was before I even turned around; I had heard his voice on television, in staff meetings, and moaning my name during our marathon lovemaking sessions. “It’s a work in progress,” I explained.
Frank Anderson was the lead news anchor for Channel 5. He had a bronze complexion, naturally wavy black hair, suave features, and a dimpled smile. I knew every crevice of his muscular body that was hiding under his Hugo Boss suit. My pussy tingled with the memory of his slightly curved, ten-inch dick, and the scent of his cologne filled my nose.
Every time I saw him, I was reminded of what we’d once shared. I recalled the giddy feeling I used to get whenever he walked into the room. I could still remember his kisses and promises. I remembered that I’d even started to subscribe to bridal magazines and practice signing my name as “Mrs. Kai Anderson.”
I was so in love with Frank that I couldn’t see the truth about him until it was too late. After we broke up three years ago, I promised myself that I would only maintain a professional relationship with him. Unfortunately, quitting Frank cold turkey was harder than turning down a free sample of Godiva chocolate, and the fact that we worked together really complicated things.
When Frank came around, looking and smelling so good, he put my fragile willpower to the test. Sometimes, I was just too weak to resist the man. I’d fucked him under his desk, on the elevator, and in the utility closet too many times to count. When he was deep inside of me, I closed my eyes and tried to pretend there wasn’t a gold band on his ring finger. I never wanted to be the kind of chick who’d sleep with a married man, but “never” seemed impossible when it came to Frank.
It had been seven months since my last interlude with him, and I was very proud of myself for having brushed off his advances for so long. Only God knew how I managed to pull that off and leave him alone. I hadn’t even hugged the man recently, for fear of one thing leading to another. Now, I had an even better reason to stay away from Frank.
For the past few weeks, Deandre and I had been spending all of our free time together. When we couldn’t see each other, we texted all day and video-chatted on Skype at night.
I’d forgotte
n how good it feels to be with a man who was single and available, all mine. With Deandre, there were no phone conversations held in hushed tones or abruptly canceled dates, and I was looking forward to spending New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day with him at my side, as opposed to sitting in my apartment alone, drinking Arbor Mist, watching Waiting To Exhale on DVD, and hating everything to do with midnight kisses and cupid. No matter what, I wasn’t going to allow Frank to ruin what I had with Deandre.
Frank grinned and asked, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“I’m listening,” I said.
“I mean…privately.”
“Sorry. I’m in the middle of working on this.”
“It can’t wait, Kai. It’s kind of…time sensitive.”
I sighed. “What is it, Frank?”
“I’ll wait for you in my office. We can discuss it there.”
“All right. I’ll stop by when I finish up here.” I took another sip of my cappuccino. The way he looked into my eyes gave me flashbacks of our intimate times together. I was so nervous that I spilled a few drops of coffee on my pink blouse, right between my breasts; Frank’s presence always brought out my clumsy side.
He stared hungrily at my chest for a moment, like he wanted to lick the sticky-sweet spot right off my blouse, then said, “I hope you have something else to change into.” He looked down at his platinum Rolex. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, Kai. I’ve gotta drive up to Lansing for the governor’s luncheon.”
As he walked away, I try to wipe away the brown stains, but I only succeeded at making more of mess. I had no desire to be alone with Frank in his office, but I really didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t my direct manager, but he was, technically, my superior. As the lead anchor at the station, he might as well have been everybody’s boss.
“How rude,” Sam muttered under his breath. “Why that guy commands a seven-figure salary is beyond me.”
“Huh? He makes a million dollars?” Madison asked, wide-eyed.
“Probably more,” I explained.
“I wouldn’t even know what to do with that much money.”
“Whatever you do, don’t ever lose your sense of humility like he did,” I said. “Why don’t you both take a break, okay? I’ll be right back. I wanna get this over with.”
CHAPTER 6
I walked down the hallway to Frank’s office, my heart beating faster with each step. There had been a time when my love for him had invaded my emotions, overridden my senses. Back then, his dimpled smile was all I wanted to see, his Armani cologne was all I wanted to smell, his voice calling my name was all I wanted to hear, his soft lips were all I wanted to taste, and his dick thrusting inside my wet pussy was all I needed to feel. That time had passed, but I couldn’t help remembering it now and then. I took a deep breath and knocked on his door.
“Come in,” he said.
I opened the door and stepped inside, wearing an oversized Channel 5 t-shirt that fit me like a tent.
He smiled. “Real cute, Kai.”
“What do you want?”
“Have a seat.”
I sat down in the chair across from him. There were plaques for various awards on his walls, dozens of trophies on his shelf, and pictures of him with politicians, celebrities, and world leaders like Nelson Mandela and Kofi Annan. My heart dropped when I saw the photo of Frank and his wife on a yacht, holding glasses of champagne and grinning in the sunlight.
That should be my life. I’m prettier than her. Tisha had beady, gray eyes and a big forehead. Her only attractive feature was her mouth, with very full lips; I figured that was all that mattered to Frank, because he’d always been a sucker for a good blowjob. Tisha also had a mane of wavy hair that fell down to the middle of her back, and every strand of it was real! I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous, because under my weave, my real hair was only about three inches long. Some people claimed she looked like Sade, but I thought that was a bit of a stretch. Maybe she could pass for the soul singer’s distant cousin—maybe.
Not only was I better looking that Tisha, but I was also more accomplished. Hell, she’d never even worked. I guess you could say she was born with a platinum spoon in her mouth, because her father owned the second-largest steel manufacturing company in Michigan. Tisha got her undergrad at Spelman and earned a master’s degree from Yale, but for her, college was more about looking for matrimony than a higher education. For women like her, finding and being married to a husband like Frank was her career.
I didn’t fully understand why he chose to stay with her when he could have had me. My sister reminded me all the time that it had nothing to do with my fake hair or the fact that my family is more at home at the chicken shack than the country club. According to LaNaya, “Leaving ain’t easy when you got kids with somebody.” I thought of her point of view as I glanced at a picture of Frank’s sons at Disney World. Frank Jr. was six, and Winston was four. In the photo, the brown-skinned boys were posing with Goofy, smiling widely in front of the Magic Kingdom.
When I had fallen for Frank seven years prior, I’d had no clue about Tisha. I didn’t know she was his fiancée or that she was pregnant with his child. He was at expert at concealing his home life. He simply lied, claiming that Detroit restaurants were “too ghetto” for his “sophisticated palate,” so we went on dates in faraway cities like Ann Arbor and Port Huron. Whenever I asked him why he didn’t answer his cell phone consistently, he explained, “Oh, I forgot to charge my battery.” And, the reason that he rarely invited me to his mansion was because my apartment was “just minutes away from the news station.” His place was an hour away, and he was too impatient to make such a long drive with a woman as sexy as me.
Frank convinced me stay quiet about our relationship, stating, “Going public will get me in trouble with Human Resources.” He was scared of getting fired or, even worse, blackballed. I knew a scandal like ours would certainly ruin his journalism career. Before Frank was my lover, he was my mentor. He used his pull behind the scenes to land me top news assignments and three promotions.
Back then, I was twenty-five years old, earning enough money to pay own my rent and my mother’s mortgage too. I was leasing a brand new Jaguar. It was the entry-level X-Type model, and it didn’t have a sunroof, but it was a big upgrade from the rusted Chevy Lumina I’d driven around during my ramen-noodle-and-grilled-cheese college years. Best of all, I had Frank Anderson. If I wasn’t me, I would’ve despised myself for having it all.
My perfect little life unraveled the morning I paged through the Sunday edition of The Detroit Free Press and saw a photograph of Frank and Tisha in the “Wedding Announcements” section. Her round belly, an obvious baby bump, betrayed the whiteness of her wedding gown. I still remembered the caption verbatim: “The lovely couple exchanged beachside nuptials. Their destination wedding in the Bahamas was attended by close friends and family. They are expecting their first child in three months.”
The sight of them together disgusted me so much that I vomited all over my kitchen floor. Little did I know that Tisha and I had more than Frank in common, but the next morning, I called in sick and scheduled a doctor’s appointment. My piss in that little plastic cup revealed that I was, in fact, two months pregnant. The next morning, I stormed into Frank’s office and cursed him out. I told him I didn’t want anything to do with him and that I planned to raise our child on my own. Then I marched my pregnant self out of there before he could so much as shape his lips to tell another lie.
I took a personal leave of absence for a much-needed reprieve from Frank and a chance to try to plan some kind of future for myself. I enrolled in a master’s degree program at the University of Detroit and bought a copy of What To Expect When You’re Expecting. I had no illusions about the single-mother challenges ahead of me, for I’d witnessed it all firsthand. After my father passed away, Mama struggled to raise LaNaya and me, but raise us she did, and I intended to do the same for my baby.
Sometimes,
though, I got so lonely that I’d pathetically dial the first few digits of Frank’s phone number. Despite what he had done to me, I still loved him, and carrying his child only amplified that love. I sobbed whenever I watched him on the five o’clock news. He had disappeared from my life at that point, with the exception of an occasional email and the bouquet of roses he sent for my birthday.
By the time those flowers shriveled up, I was so depressed that I didn’t even bother getting out of bed most days. I stopped attending classes and rarely left my apartment at all. I even skipped Mama’s Sunday soul food dinners. The whole family was worried about me, but I lied and blamed my antisocial behavior on severe morning sickness. At the beginning of my second trimester, I felt a sharp pain in my abdomen. LaNaya took me to the hospital, and I left alone, without a baby. On top of the miscarriage, I also received more grim news: a diagnosis of fibroids.
The doctor explained, in an unnervingly calm voice, “Your uterine tumors will make it difficult, if not impossible for you to get pregnant again. If you do happen to conceive, you may not be able to carry a viable fetus to term.”
I was a journalist who made my living in communication, but there simply were no words to encompass the sadness I felt. My baby was gone, ripped away from me, along with my chances of being able to have another. I had always wanted children of my own someday, and now there was a good chance that someday would never come.
Frank had the nerve to show up at the hospital. If I hadn’t been so emotionally and physically exhausted, the nurses would’ve had to restrain me from beating his ass, and he likely would have needed a room of his own. I had been crying for hours before he walked into the room. He took my hand and said, “I’m so sorry for everything. I’ll never forgive myself. I know you don’t wanna see me right now, but I love you too much to stay away. You might not want to hear this right now, but you should know that one day, when you finally decide to give me a second chance, we’ll start a family of our own the right way.”
I’d been crying for hours before he walked into my room uninvited, and I sniffled and sobbed and told him about my diagnosis.