Authors: Cas Sigers
Chocolate Dove (2 page)
“I'll be back.”
Basra pushed back from the table, and rushed toward the restrooms. She immediately grabbed her phone from her tiny clutch and called Lucia, who answered on the first ring.
“Is everything okay?”
“I can't do this,” Basra replied as she stepped in the bathroom.
“Do what? Aren't you at dinner?”
“This man is going to spend thousands of dollars tonight.”
“So what? He's a billionaire. You have to stop thinking regular thoughts; you're in another league now. To you that's a lot of money; to him, it's pocket change.”
“He wants to have sex,” Basra whispered as another patron entered the restroom.
“He told you that?”
“No, but it's obvious. I just don't want to do this. I can't be myself, and I feel like a whore. This isn't normal.”
“By whose standards? Again, stop thinking regular thoughts. Lawson is a good guy, not some weirdo who is into crazy sex fantasies. He thought you were beautiful and wanted to take you out.”
“Then he should have just asked me out.”
“But you were with me, and he thought you were an escort. You know all of this. You're the one who asked me to get you on with the agency. You're the one who gladly took four thousand from the agency fee. This is what you signed up for. If you don't want to sleep with him, fine. But you have to finish the date or else we both look bad.”
Basra stopped pacing the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. “I'm just nervous.”
“I understand, but just have dinner and hang out. Get to know him, pretend like it's a real date. It's acting. Tonight you are a character. Give your character a name, and that's who is entertaining, not you.”
“Okay,” Basra replied.
“You sure you're okay?” asked Lucia.
“I am. I will see you later tonight.”
“Okay, call me if you need me.”
Basra hung up and leaned over the counter so that her nose was almost touching the mirror. “You're a character,” she said. “Get into character.” She took several deep breaths and walked out.
When Basra returned to the table, it was covered in small bowls of colorful, wonderfully smelling dishes. Lawson was already eating.
“You didn't wait for me?”
“Was I supposed to?” he asked.
Basra didn't reply, she simply took her seat and placed her napkin in her lap.
“Try this,” Lawson said, sliding a small plate across the table.
As Basra lifted a small piece of the white filet, she asked, “What is this?”
“Blowfish sashami with lemon vinaigrette,” Lawson replied.
She tasted a small amount, smiled, and replied, “Interesting.”
After the blowfish, she sampled each of the dishes spread across the table, which included lobster sashami, foie gras, Japanese gingko nuts, and several different truffles. As soon as a few bowls emptied, more were brought over. Finally, Basra was stuffed.
“I can't eat anymore, but it's so good I can't stop.”
“I can imagine that's what the men say about you,” Lawson replied with a contemptible grin.
“Get your mind from the gutter,” Basra said.
Lawson's grin evolved into a full chuckle. “I can't help myself. But I promise I won't touch.”
“Are we going to dinner?” Basra asked, only to receive a puzzled look from Lawson.
“Dinner? We justâ”
“I mean dancing. Are we going dancing? I'm sorry, I'm justâ”
“A little nervous. I can tell. You've had two hours to warm up. Am I making you that uncomfortable?”
“I have a confession,” Basra expressed. “This is my first date like this.”
“When you say like this, you mean as an escort.”
Basra nodded her head.
“Good, I've always been fond of virgins.”
This time, his look started to make her stomach rumble with rolls of nervous energy, but luckily the head chef came to the table and greeted them.
“Lawson, it's good to see you again, my friend,” Chef said.
Lawson rose and gave the chef a hearty hug. They spoke in Japanese for a few seconds and then Lawson introduced Basra.
“I hope you have enjoyed your experience,” said the chef.
“My taste buds thank you,” Basra replied with a sweet smile.
“This one is beautiful,” Chef said to Lawson.
“I'm sure they're all beautiful,” Basra mumbled to herself. Lawson cut his eye in her direction but Basra pretended as though she'd said nothing. The chef walked away and Lawson placed his card on top of the ticket. Basra tried to sneak a peek at the bill but couldn't see the numbers and dared not to ask.
It's pocket change. It's pocket change,
she continued to think.
she continued to think.
“So you mentioned dancing?” Lawson asked.
“Only because you mentioned it earlier when we spoke on the phone. We don't have to go dancing. If you're ready to go home ...”
“Home? I have you for the evening. And the evening has just begun,” Lawson said while reaching across the table to hold Basra's hand. She lowered her head to gain her composure and then lifted it with a pleasant smile. She felt like rented property, and there was nothing she could do about it, and so they left dinner and headed to Smoke for cocktails and jazz. Smoke was much more casual and laid back. She immediately felt more at ease once they walked in the door. But Lawson once again took control of the situation as they approached a table near the back corner.
“I'm getting a bottle of champagne,” he said before walking away from the table.
“I don't like champagne,” she whispered into the atmosphere. “He doesn't care,” she sighed. Basra looked around the room at the couples holding hands, flirting, and smiling. She honed in on an Italian-looking couple canoodling three tables over. Somehow, she became so lost in their world that she didn't realize Lawson had snuck up behind her.
“I bet they're having sex tonight,” he whispered in her ear.
Basra, startled by his presence, let out a small yelp. “I'm sure they're having sex tonight, and I'm sure they're a real couple. Unlike us.”
Lawson sat as the server placed the bottle of champagne and two glasses on the table.
“I don't like champagne,” Basra said.
“That's because you've probably only had cheap champagne. You will like this, I promise.” Lawson took the liberty to pour her a glass.
“I've been drinking sake all night. I don't think I should mixâ”
“Shhhh,” Lawson said, placing his finger to her lips. “Drink. It will make me happy.”
Basra placed her lips on the edge of the glass, sipped, and pretended to enjoy.
“See, I told you. Once you've had the finer things in life, it changes your entire perspective.”
They listened to the jazz band that covered at least nine Tony Bennett songs throughout the next hour. But Lawson was losing interest and Basra could tell.
“Are you ready to leave?” she asked, hoping he would say yes and they could part ways.
“Yes. I have an apartment not far from here, let's go.”
“Wait a minute, I thought we were just doing dinner and jazz. I can't go to your place.”
“What do you mean? The deal was we were going out for the evening, and it's still evening.” Lawson reached in his pocket, pulled out his cell, and called the car.
“The keyword being âout.' Not in, or inside. I can't go to your place.”
“I get it. No means no. I'm not a rapist. I'm not going to try to have sex with you. I'm a wealthy man. I can have sex with ninety percent of the women I meet, and that's because the other ten percent are underage. You intrigue me. I simply want to engage in more conversation with you. Let's go.”
Lawson rose and held out his hand. Basra felt trapped. She knew if she didn't go, he would call and give an unpleasant report to the agency, and she didn't want that. But she knew if she went that it might lead to a situation beyond her control. Yet she continued to follow him toward the door. As she approached the exit her grip tightened and anxiety heightened. The car pulled up moments after exiting Smoke and Basra slowly got in. Lawson was very lucid considering the grand amount of sake and champagne he'd ingested. There was no way he was going to pass out, as she wished the entire ride over to East Seventy-seventh Street. They walked hand in hand into The Pavilion and went up to the thirty-first floor, two floors shy of the penthouse. It was nice, but not as extravagant as she'd imagined. As she walked in the apartment, Basra immediately took her shoes off, a habit she'd grown accustomed to as a child in an African household.
“Your feet are very nice, as I assumed they would be.”
Basra looked around and took a seat on one of the black leather couches. “How often are you here?” she asked, looking over at the seemingly untouched kitchen.
“About once a week. I normally stay at my home on Long Island.”
“Oh.”
Lawson grabbed anice-cold Voss from the refrigerator and took a sip. From the kitchen, he looked at Basra, who was now reading a magazine. Both were quiet.
“I guess we discussed everything we had to say over dinner and music,” Lawson joked.
Basra looked up and replied, “I guess so.”
“Time for bed, I guess.”
Basra's body stiffened. “But ...”
“I'm kidding,” Lawson said, removing his buttoned top shirt, exposing a heather grey shirt underneath. He sat close to Basra on the couch, placed her feet in his lap, and began rubbing her arches. Although she welcomed the foot massage, she was too nervous to enjoy it.
“So, we didn't talk too much about Somalia. What do you miss most about home?” Lawson asked.
“My family. We have a big family. I have six uncles and too many cousins to count, and we all lived close to one another. I miss the dinners and laughter. I had a great childhood. I miss my best friend too, a lot. It was so much fun, I never realized how poor we were until I came here.”
“I can't imagine what that would be like.”
“Why would you want to imagine being poor?”
“I meant having family. My dad worked all of the time, my mother drank all of the time, and I have no siblings. I spent my entire childhood in boarding schools.”
“That sounds horrible.”
“Like you said, as a child you don't know any different. I didn't really know we were rich until I was in high school.”
Basra gave a big smile at the first sign of similarity. Lawson saw this as his opening and leaned over and kissed Basra. She pulled away and jumped up from the couch. Lawson quickly rose as well and pulled her body close.
“Just one kiss,” he said.
“No. I have to go.”
“Kissing is not sex!” he yelled, following her to the door.
Basra grabbed her shoes and tried to exit, but Lawson placed his hands on the door.
“I'm sorry, please stay,” he said gently as though he were suddenly another person.
“No. I am not comfortable.”
“But we were having such a good time. I'll pay you extra, under the table. What do you want, another couple grand?” Lawson said. “Wait right here.”
Lawson disappeared into the back room, and when he was out of sight, Basra quietly but quickly exited. She hurried down the hall with her shoes in hand and jumped inside the elevator. She heard Lawson calling her name as the doors closed. The temptation of the extra cash didn't even hit her until she was rushing through the lobby and nearly tripped over her long feet, trying to place on her high-heels.
“An extra two thousand,” she whispered before shaking the thought from her mind. Outside, she hailed down a taxi. But, immediately after sliding in, the tears started to stream as she rested her head on the back of the torn leather seat.
“Where you headed?”
“To hell, probably.”
“Excuse me, ma'am?”
“Thirty-seven West Twenty-first Street.”
After five minutes in traffic, the tears subsided and Basra started to think of the money she'd just made. For the five hours she'd hung out, she would get $4,000. As uncomfortable as it was, she couldn't deny the easy money.
“This is how people get caught up,” she whispered. “I can't get caught up.” Basra took a deep breath, rolled down the window, and loudly yelled, “ I won't get caught up!” into the late-night air. The release sent surges of energy through her body, and its power brought another flow of tears to her eyes. She rolled up the window, leaving a small crack for fresh air. Then, with a tiny smile on her face, she closed her eyes the remainder of the ride home.
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