The Venture Capitalist (8 page)

We bobbed our heads enthusiastically, yet again. “As your father, it’s up to me to train you in all things about life and morality. You should’ve been off-limits to Ms. Kirkson sexually, and I’m not speaking as a jealous former lover, but as your father. She should never have taken advantage of you considering the age difference and her relationship, or lack thereof with me, to introduce you to a lifestyle that could change your view of sex forever. That should have fallen to me. All that said, do you have any questions of me?”

“So, what she taught us isn’t freaky?” Nathan asked.

Father perched on the edge of his desk and answered in a professorial way. “Nothing done in the bedroom is freaky, if there are two consenting adults engaging in safe and sane sexual play. I believe the clergy refer to the marriage bed being undefiled, or something in that vein. However, engaging in sex whether single, married or otherwise, you’re being entrusted with something sacred in my opinion, so you should treat it as such. We’ve had the discussions about keeping yourselves clean and protecting your bodies from sexually transmitted disease, so are we still good with that? You’re both wearing condoms, right? Even if you think it would be cool to go without if they say they’re using birth control, you don’t want what they could transmit to you from another sexual partner. And I’m not ready to be a grandfather. Yet.”

“Yes, we’re taking precautions, Father,” I said earnestly.

“Good,” he said, as he smiled at us for the first time. I could have sworn I saw a hint of pride in his expression, despite his every effort to remain stoic about all that had transpired.

“So, are we good?” Nathan asked. “Because I’m hungry.”

Dad patted him on the head. “Basketball’s gonna make you eat us out of house and home.” Truth be told, Nathan could over-eat for the rest of his life and never eat us out of house and home.

Nathan grinned sheepishly. “Coach made us do drills ad nauseum today because Chip kept missing his free throws.”

“He’s trying to teach you guys discipline. You should be able to make shots like that in a pinch, even when everything else has gone to hell.”

“I understand, but try telling Chip that.”

“This is why you will get a college education, because even if basketball becomes your vocation, you will always need to learn the strategy, play intelligently, and discipline yourself to play even when you don’t feel like it, because it is your job.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Nathan said and prepared to bolt out of the room, before I cleared my throat, and Father held him back.

“I have a question,” I said.

“Yes, Tristan.”

“If BDSM isn’t freaky, then why is it a secret? I guess I mean, why do people hide it?”

“Simply put, because everyone isn’t bound by the same moral codes, and social mores prevent it from becoming mainstream.”

My father taught Nathan and me something that really stuck with us that day. Every couple has a latent and oftentimes overt power exchange which exists in their relationship dynamic, whether they are in the lifestyle or not.

“Where do you think that old adage comes from regarding ‘who wears the pants’ in a marriage? It came from a man who understood that power exchange occurs in all relationships. Generally, the dominant wears the pants and the submissive the skirt. But someone came along and turned than theory on its head. That’s when dominatrixes were born and submissive males who often dominate in other areas, needed a chance to let go of the power they wield in society, in their homes, or otherwise, to relax and be controlled. Some are naturalized and others are made.”

It is at that moment that my next question had been answered. My father was a Dominant and my mother had been a submissive. Neither I nor my brother needed to ever ask the question. That is what stayed with me from that day until the present day, but Nate had another focus.

“What’s going to happen to Ms. Kirkson?”

Father’s face darkened like a storm cloud. “Maryse has been dealt with. She won’t be a guest in this house again.”

It occurs to me once I’m fully clothed, have walked down to the kitchen, and completed my trip down memory lane that Ms. Beale may have difficulty locating the kitchen, but she turns up as if I’ve conjured her with my thoughts. I log-off my iPads and put them away in a neat stack to my left.

“Hello,” she says, undaunted by the rather awkward situation that necessitates us having breakfast together.

Keisha seems no worse for the wear after having endured ingesting a date-rape drug for someone’s nefarious purposes. My money is on that Byron/Blake character, but Velasquez should be uploading the security feed from last night to my server this morning, and I’ll have all the proof I need to prosecute the bastard who had the audacity to victimize the woman I hope to make mine in short order. My submissive, that is.

I try to rein in exactly how pleased I am to see her. “Hello,” I reply as I stand and hold the back of the stool on my right, and offer her a seat.

When I retake my seat, Mrs. Naven emerges from the butler’s pantry.

“Good morning, Ms. Beale,” she says in her perpetually pleasant manner. “What may I get for you?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Naven. Whatever you’ve already made.”

I’m impressed that she actually took the time to remember Mrs. Naven without having to be told again. Blue Bloods are notorious for insisting that service staff be ever-present and available but near-invisible. It has never been our practice, and I’m delighted that Keisha respects Mrs. Naven’s station enough to remember her name.

I lower my voice to sound conspiratorial, while noting Mrs. Naven can hear me, judging by her indefatigable smile. “Don’t feel as if you have to eat anything you don’t like. Mrs. Naven will be happy to prepare anything you desire.”

“I’m easy.” Keisha says. She clarifies that loaded statement when my lips twist into a smirk. “When it comes to food.”

Mrs. Naven fixes her a plate which a calorie-counter might consider too-generous portions, but Keisha tucks in unembarrassed by her ravenous hunger. My housekeeper serves me my usual sprouted whole-grain raisin bread toast, scrambled egg whites, and organic coffee.

Keisha sips her coffee. “Ugh, this can’t be real coffee. What do you have against caffeine?”

“Other than it constricting the blood vessels in the brain and forcing the heart to contract with stronger force, nothing,” I say.

Mrs. Naven saves me, as per usual. “Would you like a real cup o’ Joe?”

“Yes, please,” Keisha says. “I’m never fully awake until I’ve had my caffeine.”

“I have just the thing.” Mrs. Naven returns to her quarters, most likely to share her personal brand of coffee with Keisha. She must like this girl, because she’s never offered to do this for any of my other submissives.

Keisha turns her attention to my food. “What kind of bread is that?”

“Sprouted whole-grain raisin bread. It’s extraordinarily good for you.”

She scrunches up her nose in distaste. “Looks kinda nasty to me.”

“I assure you, it isn’t. The pancakes you’re eating were made from the same type of spelt.”

“Oh.”

She eats heartily as Mrs. Naven returns to grind a half a pot of coffee, which she and Keisha consume in turn.

Keisha also has a juice glass full of fresh-squeezed orange juice and one final cup of caffeinated coffee. “Thanks so much, Mrs. Naven,” she says, “Breakfast and this coffee? Dope. I-I mean it’s very good. It was delicious.”

Mrs. Naven actually blushes. “Why thank you, Ms. Beale.”

I watch the exchange between them without interruption, and I know Keisha’s help is not going to be welcomed when she moves to take her dishes to the sink.

Mrs. Naven stops her with a gratuitous smile, “I appreciate your help, dear, but you’re Mr. White’s guest and this is my job.”

As Mrs. Naven busies herself with the task of clearing away the breakfast dishes, I take Keisha’s hand and lead her out of the kitchen and into the dining room. My large hand engulfs her small soft one and I am tempted to sigh very much unlike the alpha male I portray to the world, but I hold myself in check. What is this woman doing to me?

“Will you come with me to my office?”

“Yes.” Her breathy answer assures me that I’m not the only one with a visceral reaction.

We walk in silence up the stairs, down the hallway, to the end of the hall, where I open the door for her to enter my home office. It’s appointed in much the same way as my office at work.

I pull out one of the chairs that face my desk for her, then round my desk where I retrieve her purse, or rather the authentic PRADA bag I had Darryl purchase for her in lieu of the counterfeit one, from the bottom drawer. I also collect her business plan and a binder that contains an NDA among other documents.

When I return to sit in the chair opposite her, I present the handbag to her. She immediately begins a thorough check of its contents, then rolls her eyes, as if in annoyance at herself when she remembers it’s been in
my
possession. I watch engrossed by her insistence, despite how ludicrous it may seem, on making sure everything is there.

She looks at the bag, then looks again and says, “Um, this isn’t my bag.”

“Yes, it is,” I say. “Darryl noticed the one you had was… how might I put this delicately? Not of sufficient quality.”

She furrows her cute brow. It’s my turn to roll my inner eyes.
Cute brow?

“Sufficient for what?” she insists.

“A woman with your beauty and style. Please take the handbag as a gift from me and as an apology.”

“For?”

“Accosting you in my office last week. I was out of line. Had you been of a mind to, you could certainly have capitalized on that.”

“An apology alone would have been sufficient, Tristan. As it happens, now I owe you an apology, so I guess that would make us even.”

“Why do you owe me an apology?”

“Not thanking you for keeping whoever drugged me from having their wicked way with me.”

“Speaking of which…” I stand to get my phone out of my pocket. “My head of security sent me a couple of multimedia stills of the culprit.” I hand her the phone.

“Wait. Is Wicked yours?”

“Yes, I own a controlling interest in it.”

She scans the pictures, anger blossoming on her face. “That bastard!”

I allow her to see for herself that Blake, the rapper, dropped something in her drink when she and Darnelle were otherwise engaged.

“I. Am. Going. To. Kill. Him.” She rages accentuating each word.

“If I don’t get to him first.” I think I put a bit too much venom in that declaration, because it unsettles Ms. Beale, who chooses her next words nervously.

“Um, I didn’t mean I would literally kill him. You don’t either, do you?”

“At the very least, he deserves to go to jail, Keisha. My security chief has already sent a copy of these to the Chicago PD, together with the results of your blood test.”

“Tristan, that will ruin his life.”

“He was all set to ruin yours.”

“I’d like to see him suffer, but I don’t want to send him to jail. It’s hard enough for a black man in this world.”

Her protestations don’t move me as much as my lack of context. Having been born a White, there was never a time that I’ve had to fear injustice from the authorities. Even when my first submissive, Aimee Gabriel, suffered her catastrophic accident, local law enforcement treated me with a deference that was shameful, given that I wasn’t the one lying mangled and bleeding in the land rover on the side of that mountain. I didn’t flaunt my inappropriate entitlement then, and I won’t do it now.

“The authorities have the evidence. Whether you choose to press charges is entirely up to you, but I encourage you to do so.”

She points to her business plan with some relief that I’m dropping the subject of trying the rapper, whom my security chief informed me was an ex-boyfriend of the lovely Ms. Beale. A woman like her is wasted on an idiot like him. I’m not jealous because he poses no threat to me. Then or now.

“So, you’ve changed your mind about our business arrangement?”

“Yes and no,” I say.

“Don’t tell me you’ve all of a sudden gotten a raging case of Romnesia.”

There’s that eye-roll of hers again. I can’t wait to get her into my Grotto to unburden her of that nasty habit. I pretend I’m unfamiliar with the borrowed quasi-political term she’s dredged up from presidential elections past.

“Romnesia?”

“The Romney flip-flop, or rich man’s amnesia.”

“No, but do I have a counter offer for you.”

“Okay, let’s hear it,” she says with a modicum of impatience.

“You’re certainly in a hurry to be introduced to a world that could change your life forever.” My tone is set to upbraid on purpose. “Believe me, once you hear what I propose, you may insist I go fuck myself and leave you the hell alone.”

“Are you a serial killer, Mr. White?”

“Oh, it’s Mr. White again, is it? After the intimacies we’ve shared?” My teasing evokes a blush of color that fans my imagination of the color her ass might be after a thorough cropping.