The Deal, the Dance, and the Devil (2 page)

It wasn’t just her features that held her secret. Her golden-tinted skin suggested that some East Indian, or maybe even Hispanic, blood flowed through her veins.

But she was a sistah-girl; I knew that ’cause black people knew black people. And when Shay-Shaunté opened her mouth and got to twisting her neck and rolling her eyes—she told me what her face did not.

So, I knew the big birthday was coming up—the big five-oh! In three weeks. On New Year’s Eve.

I guessed that since this was the big one, she’d decided to come from behind her private curtain and celebrate in public.

As visions of five million dollars in my bank account danced right out of my head, I wondered what kind of party Shay-Shaunté wanted for this kind of money.

“So,” I began. “This check is for your birthday? For a party?”

“Yes.”

I waited for her to say more; she didn’t. So I said, “You want me to plan it?”

She tilted her head, as if she had to think. Then, with a smile that looked kind of sly to me, she said, “You could say that.” Then, nothing else.

Okay, this was beginning to feel like some kind of game—which was strange, ’cause Shay-Shaunté didn’t play. She was always about business.

After a deep breath, she explained more, “My life has been pretty hectic.”

I shrugged. “Yeah,” was all I said to that understatement. Of course her life was busy—how many multimillionaires didn’t have full schedules?

And truth? I only called Shay-Shaunté a millionaire because that’s what had been reported in the media. But I would bet all kinds of money that there was more than one black female billionaire in the country.

I didn’t have a thing to substantiate it, but I guessed that Shay-Shaunté had come from humble beginnings; she’d had to grind her way to the top and never wanted to look back.

It was a guess; I didn’t know for sure.

When Ms. Givens, from the employment agency, had told me about this position, I’d had three thoughts. The first: What kind of name was Shay-Shaunté? Ms. Givens had told me that was her full name and that she never allowed anyone to shorten it. Second: What was up with the funny spelling of the company name—Ferossity? And third: If Shay-Shaunté and Ferossity were so huge—Ms. Givens had said Ferossity was a twenty-year-old company with $30 million in annual sales—why hadn’t I ever heard of her or the company, especially since she specialized in black hair care?

But I’d tossed away all my questions and taken the interview
once Ms. Givens had told me that I’d be earning fifty thousand dollars. I’d gotten the job the next day when Shay-Shaunté had hired me on the spot.

Working for her had been a complete pleasure, so I was willing to do anything she needed me to do to make her birthday a great one.

“Okay,” my boss said, “I’m gonna say this straight out.” Shay-Shaunté strolled away from me, returning to her high-back chair. “I’ve been too busy to plan anything special.”

I grabbed a notepad from her desk. “That’s okay. Rachel and I are on it.”

“You won’t need Rachel’s help.”

I frowned a little. With all that was on my plate—especially standing by for holiday replenishments that any of our accounts needed—there was no way I was going to be able to handle Shay-Shaunté’s party alone. It was already December 2.

Shay-Shaunté went on to say, “Don’t worry; you won’t need help,” as if she’d read my mind. “The thing is, with the way my life is going right now, I don’t have anyone special to share this birthday.”

I got it—she was trying to figure out how to have a mandatory party, probably right here in her corporate building, where she could strongly suggest that all of her six hundred employees attend.

She said, “You probably don’t know this, but I’m turning fifty.”

I wasn’t going to admit to being a snoop, so I said, “Fifty? Wow! Dang! No! I didn’t know. You look …” When she frowned, I closed my mouth.

She said, “Well, fifty is a special birthday and I don’t want this milestone to pass without some kind of celebration.”

I felt a tinge of an ache in my heart for the mogul. She might
have been giga-gorgeous, supersexy, and megarich, but she was alone. She was single, childless, and, as far as I could tell, without any relatives at all, since the only personal thing she’d ever shared was that her parents had passed away when she was young.

The only calls she ever got were from celebrities who wanted to thank her for one product or another. Though friendly, none seemed to be her friends.

Shay-Shaunté’s life was a constant reminder to me that money wasn’t everything, because no matter what Adam and I were going through, we had each other.

Shay-Shaunté said, “So, after really thinking about this … I want to pay you … for a weekend … my birthday weekend … to spend that time … with your husband.”

Okay, clearly, I had mentally checked out for a moment. Or maybe the fact that I was still holding on to this five-million-dollar check had me delirious. I placed the back of my hand against my forehead to see if I had a fever; to see if that was why my ears weren’t working.

Shay-Shaunté continued. “I know about the problems you and Adam are having. I know this money will help.”

So, I
had
heard her correctly. It must’ve been the way I sat there, staring, that made her continue. “I don’t
want
your husband, Evia. At least not permanently.”

Was that supposed to make me feel better?

“I only want him for a weekend,” she kept on like we were just girls, just talking. “To help me celebrate.”

That was when it hit me—what she
really
meant. Now I couldn’t move—I stopped blinking, stopped breathing, stopped everything!

I stared—no, I glared—at her as if she had lost her dang-blasted mind. Then I started to laugh again, and she stared back at me as if I’d lost mine.

“Girl, that was so funny.” I stood up. “And today’s not even
April Fool’s. Whew!” I reached out to give her back the check. “Well, I’ve got to get back to work.”

Shay-Shaunté made no move to take back the money. So I laid the check on her desk.

Her shoulders were stiff, her face solemn, her eyes small, focused, and intense, like she was stalking her prey. I’d seen that stance in so many meetings—when she’d been up against formidable opponents—when she’d always won.

“This isn’t a joke, Evia. That five million dollars is yours. If you and Adam agree … to take this deal.”

Now I was mad, because I had given her a way out. We could have treated this like a joke and neither one of us would have mentioned it again.

But, no. She had to keep it going—like she meant it. Well, I meant it, too, when I told her, “You have lost your mind!”

She settled back, crossed her legs, not at all fazed by my outburst. “I know this is unusual,” she began in a tone that sounded like she was just discussing her schedule. “But there is nothing usual about my life.”

I kept my anger inside because, after all, Shay-Shaunté was my boss and I needed this job. But I also needed to make my point. “Well, my life is not so unusual that my husband and I rent each other out.”

“I know you need money, Evia.”

That was another thing that was pissing me off at the moment … how did she know that? As private as Shay-Shaunté was, Adam and I were the same when it came to what we’d been going through.

Not that it mattered what she knew or how she’d found out. “We don’t need money that badly.” I might have kept the anger from my tone, but attitude was all over me as my head swayed and my finger pointed, like I was fourteen years old and living back in Barry Farm, where I grew up.

She tilted her head like she doubted my words.

So to make sure that she understood completely, I said, “This will never happen.”

“Never say never.”

No, she didn’t throw that tired cliché in my face. “I can say never to this!”

I was steaming; Shay-Shaunté stayed calm. “You and Adam need that money.”

Which was the only reason I didn’t tell Shay-Shaunté to take that check
and
this job and shove it anywhere—up her nose, up her behind; I didn’t care where.

“This could be a good solution for all of us,” she had the nerve to persist.

“Look, I don’t know where you got this craziness from, but we don’t even need to talk about it no mo’. It ain’t gonna happen.” I forget every English class I’d ever taken. “If you want a man, you need to find another one.”

“I want yours.”

Where I grew up, those were fighting words. I saw girls get beat down so bad over boys that they had to transfer to other schools. That’s what I wanted to do to Shay-Shaunté right now—beat her until she crawled out of the city.

But I was sixteen years out of high school and a long way from the place I once called home. I couldn’t go back there, especially since I desperately needed this gig, which had become a sixty-five-thousand-dollar-a-year job.

So I took a deep breath, found my decorum, and smiled. “Thank you so much for the offer, Shay-Shaunté. But my husband and I will pass.” Then I spun around so fast that I got dizzy. Surely, there was a trail of smoke billowing behind me as I stomped across the wide office, because I was hot!

Before I got to the door, Shay-Shaunté had the audacity to
add, “Think about it, Evia. Talk to Adam. I think after you two consider your options, you—”

I didn’t hear another word once I slammed the door, totally disrespecting the woman who signed my paychecks. But Shay-Shaunté needed to be disrespected. She needed more than that, but like I said, I needed my job.

“Hey, girl, what were you doing in there so long?” Rachel asked as I stumbled by her desk.

I waved her away as I made my way into my office.

“Evia!” Rachel called after me.

Once I closed my door, I didn’t have to worry about my colleague following me. She knew that whatever had gone down, I’d share the dirt with her later.

As I fell into my chair, I thought about all the days when I’d been so glad that Shay-Shaunté had given me—her most senior assistant—my own little space in her empire. This was one of those days, because I needed to be alone to figure this out. Had Shay-Shaunté really offered me five million dollars? For a weekend with Adam?

My fingers curled into fists. Glancing at the clock, I moaned—it couldn’t be only two thirty. I never left the office before six, but I didn’t have another minute in me today.

I grabbed my purse and down coat, then tiptoed to my door. Rachel would be waiting on the other side, so I had my lie ready.

But when I peeked out, Rachel’s desk was empty. I rushed into the hall, past the elevators, straight to the stairwell. It didn’t matter that I was on the twelfth floor. I would’ve scaled down the side of the Washington Monument if I’d had to.

Anything to get away from that crazy woman and her dang-blasted deal.

Chapter 2

P
EOPLE CONFUSED MY KINDNESS FOR NAÏVETÉ.
Folks thought they could walk over me, say anything to me, try to slip craziness by me. But on the real, they didn’t know that Evia Early Evans Langston did not play.

Yeah, I said it. My middle name is Early, bestowed upon me by a mother with a limited imagination. She wanted her firstborn to have all
E
s as a monogram—not that she knew what a monogram was. So, instead of all the names that began with
E
—like Ebony, or Elizabeth, heck, I would’ve taken Edith—she’d come up with Early because, “Chile, it was early in the morning and that was the first thing that came to mind.”

Even though I’d heard that story millions of times, I still had to shake my head. My mother could come up with some names! I still swore that my first name was supposed to have been Eve or Eva, but for some reason, early that Sunday morning, my mother had added an
I.

But no matter who or where I came from, I wasn’t going to be played by Shay-Shaunté.

Did that hooker really believe that she could buy me and my husband? Yeah, five million was a lot of money, and right about now, we could use five thousand, let alone five million. But this was the thing—my relationship with Adam Emory Langston was not a negotiable commodity. Please! We valued matrimony. We were solid as a rock, brought together by God, and no man—or rich woman—was ever going to come between us. Shay-Shaunté needed to take her money and go sit down. She’d never have a piece of what I had.

It wasn’t until the driver behind me started blasting his horn that I even noticed where I was. I’d been rolling slowly down I-395, not paying any kind of attention because all I was trying to do was calm down. I didn’t want to take all of this anger home—there were enough challenges there.

When the driver blared his horn again, I resisted the urge to grace him with the third-finger salute. It wasn’t his fault that I was in a cursing-out-the-first-person-who-stepped-on-me kind of a mood.

I sped up, over the Capitol Bridge, then slowed down, made a turn onto Firth Sterling, and drove into the heart of my childhood.

In Barry Farm—what some called the cesspit of D.C.—there was no talk of million-dollar deals, not even from the best hustlers. Here, it would be easy to forget what I didn’t want to remember.

Slowly, I rolled through the familiar streets and let the memories settle me. Not much had changed since I’d been an eighties child raised in the hood. Barry Farm was the oldest African American neighborhood in D.C., and it was still ninety-nine percent black and one hundred percent poor. Almost entirely made up of public housing, the neighborhood
was steeped in the worst elements of poverty: violent crime, drug abuse, and the stench of defeat. The weekends were riddled with shootings, leaving on average two families weeping in the streets for their dead loved ones. Not even the mean-mugged D.C. police spent too much time here.

These streets didn’t scare me, though. Just about everyone could find some solace at home—no matter where home was.

I eased the car to the curb and stopped in front of the blue slat house that had been standing on this block in the middle of the projects since the sixties. Most people would call this a shack; I’d once called it home.