Exit Strategy (23 page)

My eyes light up. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

He gives me a playful, annoyed look. “You already have a huge crush on the president. I didn’t want you to get too excited about flirting with yet another man tonight.”

I take the refreshed champagne glass from him. “I’m not trying to be Olivia Pope to the first lady’s Mellie Grant.”

“Who?” Tristan says before taking a sip from his own glass.

“These characters on an ABC TV show called
Scandal
.”

“Is that the one where this sexy black actress is having an affair with the president?”

I giggle. “Yeah. Hey, how did you know about that?”

“You know how when you buy a new car, and you really don’t pay attention to that particular make and model until you own one? Then you see them everywhere?”

“No, because I’ve never owned a car, remember.”

“Well, trust me. That’s what it’s like.” He grins. “Since we’ve been together, I notice other interracial couples more. I saw a preview of that show on television one night while I was watching the news.”

I frown. “Let me give you a tip, Tristan. Never compare a woman to a car, no matter how good the analogy is, unless you’re Prince. If I weren’t so confident in my exquisite female form, I might be offended.”

He eyes me appreciatively and positions himself so he can speak closely into my ear. “I have to agree with you on the aesthetic beauty of your form, Ms. Beale. I can’t wait to get you back to the condo and—lovely as it may be—out of that dress. I’m hankering to take our “Little Red Corvette”
for a spin.”

His naughty words thrill me, but I play it cool and reply, “I didn’t take you for a guy who knows the symbolism of songs, Mr. White.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he says. His eyes move to my lips as though acknowledging where his want to be. “Speaking of songs, they play some great music on that show.”

“What show?”

“Never mind.”

A lightbulb goes on in my head. “You watched
Scandal
, didn’t you?”

He looks chagrined. “No.”

“You totally checked it out, Tristan. Admit it.”

“If I did, I was totally thinking about you when I saw that actress in her lacy, expensive lingerie giving it up to the fictitious leader of the free world.”

“Hmph. Kerry Washington’s got nothing on me, and I’m satisfied most days giving it up to the leader of Chicago’s financial world.”

Tristan grins until something I’ve said jolts him. “Most days?”

“I can’t have you getting a big head, Mr. White.”

“I’ve got your big head, Ms. Beale,” he says, then whispers close to my ear again. “And I’m going to prove it to you as soon as I get you into my role-play room tonight.”

I feel doubly dirty from Tristan’s words when the pre-event music stops and the band begins to play ‘Hail to the Chief’.”

The president and first lady enter the room and are greeted by his honor the mayor. When they are seated at the dais, the master of ceremonies admonishes the guests to end their mingling and find their seats. Tristan’s table is at the front of the room, very close to where the mayor and the president are seated.
Why am I not surprised?

We greet the other members of his staff, who were fortunate enough to score tickets as a result of his generosity. I’ve been to other social events with him, so I know most of the muckety-mucks from his firm.

This is one of those intimate, after-election fundraising events designed to retire some of the president’s election expenses, no doubt, and I’m fairly certain the privilege to dine here is upwards of several hundred dollars a plate. We are offered a choice of filet mignon, mahi mahi, or a gourmet vegetarian dish, with a salad to start and accompanying entrees. Tristan and I both choose the filet mignon.

Once we are served our decadent desserts and coffee, the master of ceremonies returns to the podium and begins the short program. Chicago’s reigning R&B princess sings a couple of solos. The mayor introduces the president, and he speaks candidly to the audience for approximately twenty minutes. Hearing him speak in such an intimate setting reminds me of why I chose to work on a presidential campaign for the first time in my short life.

The mayor gives a brief, five-minute spiel, and the program is done. The master of ceremonies encourages the guests to dance on the parquet floor where we mingled before dinner, which has been cleared, and the band is playing a selection of top forty hits.

Tristan and I take a turn on the floor, and as always, he amazes me with his dancing skill. We are having a good time, and about a half hour later the crowd seems to part and the president and first lady joins us on the dance floor.

A line forms after the president and his first lady share a dance; people at the event are clamoring to have their turn with them on the dance floor.

“C’mon Tristan,” I say. “Let’s dance with the president and first lady.”

“You go right ahead,” Tristan says. “I had that pleasure at the inaugural ball.”

I am rendered speechless, but I quickly find my voice. “You went to
the
ball?”

“Yes,” he says. “And, I might add, the guests of honor were not happy that you were conspicuously absent from my arm.”

“Even they knew about us?”

“Yeah, I guess they catch Chicago news outlets from time to time, and the odd entertainment gossip show.”

“You should’ve called me, Tristan. I can’t believe you let me miss that opportunity.”

“You were the one who insisted on leaving me. I tried to get you to stay.”

“That’s neither here nor there. You know how much I love the POTUS.”

“If I’d known all it would’ve taken was an invitation to the inaugural ball to get you back, don’t you think I would’ve done just that? You threw us both for a loop when you bailed. I think it’s safe to say neither of us was thinking straight in the last few weeks.”

“You must’ve been a
big
supporter of the president during his reelection. Why did you let me think you weren’t a Democrat?”

Tristan looks sheepish. “I’m not. Don’t mention this to my dad, though, okay? I just couldn’t vote for the other guy this time.”

I laugh. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Tristan corners the mayor for a business conversation, and I go in search of the powder room because the line to dance with the first couple is ridiculous. I decide I’d better take a break while the line to the ladies’ restroom is short.

I freshen up, using my travel toothbrush for the second time. The bathroom attendant surprisingly has my fragrance on hand, and I take advantage of it and tip her generously. When I return to the ballroom, the president and first lady have gone, and the dance floor has returned to some semblance of normalcy for these types of affairs.

Tristan and the mayor still seem to be deep in conversation, so I take the time to walk around on my own. I head over to the group from White Enterprises, since they are the only people I know at this function, when a woman near the double doors leading out of the ballroom catches my eye. I’ve seen that fiery red hair only once, but I would know it anywhere now.

Aimee realizes I’ve noticed her, and my heart begins to race. I blink once. Twice. I look down at my arm, which is only adorned by a tennis bracelet. The Hulk watch wasn’t an appropriate accessory for this dress, but I could really use it right about now. I search the crowd for Tristan, to see if he’s seeing what I’m seeing, but he is still talking to the mayor and his back is to the door.

When I look up again, my chest heaving from my labored breathing, I see her smiling wickedly at me. She makes a gun gesture with her hand, pretends to shoot me, and blows on the tip of her finger. I am so focused on the conundrum of how Aimee could be dressed to kill and walking that I don’t jump on the bandwagon with my Fairy Hoochie Mama, who is in her “bring it” stance. Even my Triple-G has adopted a “Let’s Get It On” swagger.

I regain control of my frozen legs and move toward her, but she pushes the door open and slips out. My legs wobble as I walk. Unlike a panic attack, there are no warning signals. I go down in a dead faint.

I’m not out for long. I hear people gasping from what seems like far away, but they’re only feet away from me, and the couple closest to me come to my aid.

“I... I can’t breathe... Tristan... please... get Tristan White. . .” My words punch in staccato fashion through my hyperventilating.

As people begin to circle around me, the man clears the crowd. “Give her some room to breathe, for God’s sake.” I see him waving his arms and clearing a path while the woman supports me with one hand and fans me with her program. “Somebody find Tristan White, stat!”

I am so relieved when I see Tristan striding purposefully toward me, tears of relief prick my eyes. His mouth is in a grim line, but his eyes reflect familiar and welcome concern.

~*~

We’re on our way to Tristan’s condo before he begins to question me about my most recent episode. How do I tell him that the former sub he moved into his building, whom he believes is paralyzed, was actually at the event tonight? I shouldn’t, because I’m not supposed to know about her, but this could be an integral clue to determining who’s been sending Tristan those threatening letters.

I take a deep breath and spill my guts. “Tristan, I saw a woman in the condo below yours the night I came back to you.”

He sighs. “I know, Aimee told me the elevator malfunctioned and you saw the EMTs getting her settled in.”

“It’s been almost two weeks, and you’ve known I knew about her all this time?

He narrows his eyes. “What exactly do you know?”

“Well... ” I wince, realizing I can’t continue down this road of full disclosure. I see a punishment deck in my future if I go that route, so I wuss out and fast forward from the eavesdropping episode. “I did some Internet research on you, and I found old articles about you and all your former submissives. Then I found the article about the accident in Telluride. There were pictures, so I had a name to go with the face.”

His voice is tight when he responds. “You’ve been rather enterprising, Ms. Beale. I suppose turnabout is fair play since I did a background check on you. But tell me, what does any of this have to do with you fainting tonight?”

“I saw Aimee Gabriel at the function tonight, dressed in formal wear—in flawless makeup—and walking.”

His face goes through a rainbow of emotion in a few seconds. “That’s impossible, Keisha. Aimee’s had the best physicians in the country tell her she will never walk again. She has machines keeping her bodily functions going. I don’t know who you saw, but it wasn’t Aimee.”

“Right, so I saw the ghost of a living, paralyzed woman that sent me into apoplectic shock?

“I don’t know, but trust me, it couldn’t have been Aimee.”

“You think I liked fainting at a mayoral function? That shit was embarrassing. Does she have a twin, too?”

“No, Aimee is an only child, adopted by a couple who should never have been allowed to, which is why the responsibility of her care fell to me after her accident. If she has a twin, neither she nor I know about it.”

“Then it must’ve been her evil fucking doppelgänger, because I saw her, or someone who’s the spitting image of her, standing in the door at the ballroom.”

Tristan shakes his head, a look of skepticism obvious on his handsome face.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Keisha, I don’t know what to believe, but the two threatening letters I’ve received recently assures me we shouldn’t take this lightly. I’ll have Velasquez look into it.”

He pulls me closer to him. “Barring sightings of the ghost of a living ex-sub and your spectacular fainting spell tonight, did you have a good time?”

“I did,” I say cheekily. “But I’m so glad the president and first lady had already gone before I passed the fuck out.”