Authors: Cas Sigers
Chocolate Dove (5 page)
“I know you don't want the evening to be over just yet,” he said as they stepped into the cab.
Basra surprised herself when she replied, “I would like to hang out a little longer.”
Lance leaned up and gave the cab driver an address. Traffic was thick but close to thirty minutes later they were pulling up at a brownstone in Brooklyn.
“One of my friends is having a house party. We'll hang out here for a little while before going back in.”
“Sounds good,” Basra replied.
This crowd was much more laid back and trendy, and Lance's posture changed drastically upon crossing the threshold. Suddenly, he had swag. He immediately dapped up the guy who opened the door and began swaying to the hip-hop music that was blaring through the speakers. He could tell from Basra's expression that she was shocked.
“I know how to have fun, too. It's not always about work.”
“I see.”
“This is my boy Victor,” he said, introducing Basra to the host.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Make yourself at home,” Victor said as they walked in.
The party was a mixture of all ethnicities and cultures, but the one obvious common denominator was wealth. But it wasn't that nouveau riche crowd. This was old money. Kids whose ancestors had buildings named after them in downtown Manhattan. Lucia said you can always tell old money from new because most of them were not ostentatious or braggadocios. The casual manner in which they left their four-thousand-dollar purses unattended instantly told Basra that money was not a big deal and that they never had to work hard for it. Yet, except for an occasional stock tip, there wasn't much conversation about money, it was a just a party with plenty of liquor and loud music. Lance didn't stay as close once they got inside Victor's four-level townhome, and Basra spent most of the first hour going room to room looking for him. Finally, she gave up and decided to enjoy herself. She mingled with some of the girls, one in particular who had recognized her from a recent spread in
Grazia,
an Italian fashion magazine. The girl mostly wanted to know what designers Basra had worked with and how many exotic places she'd traveled to. The woman was obsessed with modeling and finally Basra had to ditch her by escaping to another part of the house. Oddly, no matter what room she wandered in, she noticed this guy always checking her out from across the room. She'd seen him in the building a few times with Lance, but was never introduced. He finally decided to approach after he spotted her looking at him.
Grazia,
an Italian fashion magazine. The girl mostly wanted to know what designers Basra had worked with and how many exotic places she'd traveled to. The woman was obsessed with modeling and finally Basra had to ditch her by escaping to another part of the house. Oddly, no matter what room she wandered in, she noticed this guy always checking her out from across the room. She'd seen him in the building a few times with Lance, but was never introduced. He finally decided to approach after he spotted her looking at him.
“I'm Campbell; my friends call me Camp.”
“Hi, Campbell, I'm Basra.”
“You can call me Camp.”
“But I'm not a friend,” Basra commented.
“We can work on that,” he said. “You live in Lance's building. I've spoken to you.”
“Yeah, I remember,” said Basra.
“You play poker?” he asked.
“Believe it or not, I do.”
“Let's go.”
Basra followed Campbell into another part of the party, which was now packed with at least a hundred people. They went to the fourth floor where three other men had a poker game just starting.
“We want in,” Campbell said as they entered.
“It's five to get in,” said one of the guys.
“I'll cover us both,” replied Campbell as he pulled a roll of money from his front and back pockets. He glanced over at Basra and motioned for her to sit.
“I didn't realize you were playing for real money.”
“How else would you play?” another male responded. “Texas hold 'em, beautiful; you sure you want to get in debt with us?”
“It's cool, I got you,” said Campbell while throwing $1,000 on the dealer's table.
“But what if I lose?” she asked.
He shook his head and motioned once again for her to sit.
The men introduced themselves and asked a few questions about her while they played the first hand. Yet, when questions were addressed about Basra the guys deferred to Campbell. The men were basically talking around her.
“She came with Lance, one of his models,” he remarked with a wink.
While they were talking across her, Basra stayed focused on the game and soon it was down to her and Nick. The first pot was already at $500 and Basra was sure she was going to win as she held four of a kind. However, she was cautious and didn't want to raise the pot. She and Nick stared at each other across the table and he confidently threw two more chips in the pot.
“I raise you a hundred,” he said.
Basra didn't hesitate, wanting to look very comfortable in the poker environment. She immediately tossed in her chips. “I call,” she replied with assurance.
Nick gave her one more glance and then placed his five cards on the table.
“Four of a kind.” He grinned, displaying his set of tens.
The other three folded players released anxious sighs and remarks. Basra then laid her hand down.
“Four of a kind, all ladies.” She smiled, displaying not only her pearly whites but her four queens.
“I'll be damned,” Nick murmured as the dealer announced, “The pot of seven hundred goes to our lovely lady.”
“I win!” Basra yelped and she grappled through the mound of chips.
After a few more re-ups, and three more hands, all players cashed out. Basra had won $1,400, but Campbell was the big winner with three grand. Nick unfortunately left the game with two hundred bucks.
“I don't know where you came from, but you're bad luck. Don't come back to any more of my games.”
“Excuse me,” she said.
Campbell pushed him aside. “Go sober up. You'll play better.”
Nick pushed back but then quickly turned and went out of the door when he didn't see Campbell backing down. Basra handed Campbell his $500, took her remainder, stashed it in her purse, and then looked at the time.
“Have you seen Lance?” she asked Campbell.
He shook his head.
“I'm ready to go.” Basra removed her cell phone to call him but quickly realized she didn't have his number.
“Do you have Lance's number?” she asked Campbell.
“You don't?”
Basra nodded. “No, we live in the same building and this is the first time we've been out. We've been together all night so there was no need for his number.”
“I can't help you with that.”
“You don't have his number, but that's your friend,” Basra said with confusion.
“I can't believe you're ready to leave.”
“Yeah, I'm tired, but I had fun, thanks.”
“Hold up,” he said forcefully, grabbing her hand.
Basra tried to pull away but his grip was too strong. “You're hurting my arm. Let go.”
He did but remained close. “I can take you home,” he said.
“No, I'm going to find Lance.”
“I'm not good enough to take you home?” said Campbell, raising his voice.
Basra made her move toward the door but Campbell blocked it with his arm.
“I just want to spend some time with you. What's the rush?”
“We just spent an hour together playing poker,” she said.
“Alone time,” he said, trying to kiss her. Basra dodged to avoid his lips but he quickly grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into his body. She squirmed to shake loose but couldn't.
“Stop acting like you don't want this.”
“Stop it!” she yelled. “Let me go.”
He pushed Basra down on the floor and held her down with his weight. He held her hands above her head and used his feet to block the door. Basra yelled, but no one could hear her over the music.
“It will be easier if you stop moving so much.” Campbell licked her face with his hot, sticky tongue. “You taste good,” he growled. Tears slowly rolled down Basra's face. “What's the matter? Oh I'm sorry, I didn't pay you. Here!” Still smothering her body, Campbell took the money from his pocket and tossed it in her face.
“There's three thousand and some change, that should cover it.”
“Please stop,” Basra whimpered.
“You're too good for my money!”
“No, it's not like that. I don't have sex like that. Please let me up.”
“I don't know a whore worth more than three grand.”
Campbell placed his left forearm over her chest to hold down her upper body as he attempted to remove her shorts with his right hand. His upper body weight kept her pinned to the floor.
“Okay okay!” she yelled. “I will sleep with you, but you have to be gentle. This is not how it's done.” While Basra was attempting to bargain with Campbell, she managed to bend her leg and remove her shoe. Campbell lifted up slightly but still used his forearm to keep her pinned.
“How can I trust you?” he asked.
Basra paused, and then spoke, “You can't.” She drove her five-inch stiletto directly into his temple. Stunned, he reared back and she clocked him again with the heel in his neck and a punch in the face. She quickly hopped up and kicked him in the stomach. Basra looked down and saw blood trickling near his ear. Frightened, she rushed from the room.
“Lance! Lance! Lance!” she yelled throughout the stairs, hallways, and into the main room. There was no sign of him. Still, Basra didn't stop until she was out of the front door. She finally paused to take a deep breath once she was outside on the steps. There were people mingling but no one seemed to notice her turmoil. She wanted to yell out, “I was almost raped!” but she wasn't sure anyone would hear or care. As she bent to place on her shoe, tears streamed with more force. “I was almost raped,” she whispered. Her body shook as she held on to the banister and walked down the remaining five steps. Basra looked back at the home in disbelief. She could have been raped that evening and no one would have known. It was obvious Lance knew what she did for a living and he must have informed Campbell. So she couldn't help but wonder that if Campbell told everyone about her occupation, possibly know one would even care that she was attacked. Basra walked down the street a few feet and hailed a taxi. She hopped in while wiping her face, even though the tears continued.
“Where to?” asked the driver.
“Chelsea, thirty-seven West Twenty-first,” she spoke, nearly out of breath.
Basra placed her head against the window and let the tears continue to stream. Her legs and arms were still shaking as she heard Campbell's words in her head.
I don't know a whore worth more than three grand
. The tears welled more and rolled faster as she played the word “whore” repeatedly in her head.
I don't know a whore worth more than three grand
. The tears welled more and rolled faster as she played the word “whore” repeatedly in her head.
“I'm so stupid,” she whispered.
Basra closed her eyes and tried to relax but her tears didn't dry until well after the morning sun had blanketed the sky.
Chapter 4
Basra spent the next day in bed. Though her mind flurried nonstop with thoughts, she couldn't muster the energy to get dressed. She only rose from bed to relieve her bladder, but had no appetite for food. Around ten that night, her self-loathing emotions turned to anger. She began thinking about Lance and wondered what he had said to Campbell about her. Could the whole thing have been a setup? She wondered. Basra contemplated the situation for close to another hour and hopped from bed a little after eleven. She tossed on jeans and a T-shirt, and brushed her teeth. Moments later she was on her way up to the penthouse to pay Lance a visit. Basra had lived in the building for close to a year but had never been up to the top floor, which only held two apartments. Yet she knew where Lance lived, because he held parties every other month at his place and there was always morning-after buzz about the events in 15B.
However, the elevator wouldn't allow her to go past floor fourteen. Frustrated, she went back down to the lobby to speak with Abdul, the concierge with the huge crush.
“Hi, Abdul, you look nice this evening,” she flirted. “I was hoping you could help me out.” He obliged with a smile. “I'm looking for Lance, have you seen him?”
“Not tonight,” he replied.
“I need to get up to the penthouse.”
“Call him,” Abdul suggested.
“See that's it, I think he has my cell phone. We hung out and I asked him to hold my things ... You know what, never mind, I don't want to bother you,” Basra said, batting her big, sad eyes.
“Let me see if I can help,” said Abdul.
He whispered to the other concierge and came from around the desk. As the two of them were stepping into elevator, Lance was exiting.
“You!” Basra yelled before turning to Abdul to say thanks.
“What happened to you last night?” he asked.
Basra pushed him back into the elevator and when the door closed she commenced to yell.
“I was attacked because of you!”
“What?”
“Your friend Campbell tried to rape me! What did you tell him about me?”
“I didn't say anything to Campbell. He's asked about you a few times and I told him you and Lucia were roommates. Hold up, he attacked you?” By now they were back to the top floor and Lance invited Basra in. “Start over, what happened?”
Basra explained the entire ordeal, but to her surprise Lance wasn't completely shocked.
“So he didn't rape you?”
“No! But he tried. This is serious. Why aren't you angry?”
“Campbell gets out of control when he drinks and ...” Lance paused.
“What?”
“He's gone out with Lucia before and so he assumed it was okay.”
For the first five seconds Basra bought the reply, but then she became more enraged. So much so that she punched Lance on the arm. “No! He tried to rape me! I was saying âno, please stop, don't do this,' and he just kept going.”
“Did he try to pay you?”
“That doesn't matter.”
“Sure it does.”
“No, it doesn't. I told him no.”
“He probably thought it was part of the chase. Some men like that. Unfortunately, you are judged by the company you keep. Your girl Lucia is a wild woman.”
As she processed the conversation, Basra rose, walked over to his enormous terrace and gazed out into the night sky. “Why did you ask me out?”
“Wanted a no-pressure date. I'm at the settling down age, and I can't go on a date without a woman asking me if I plan on having kids and settling down. You're easy on the eyes and I didn't think you'd be trying to marry me within the first ten minutes of the date. Come sit down,” he requested.
Basra slowly sat on the couch beside Lance.
“When I asked Lucia about you, she said you were one of the girls. You didn't seem like one of them, but then again, I don't know you. I have to admit, though, I was curious about you. You never come to my parties. You don't spend hours in the fitness club like everyone else in this building and you're very beautiful.”
“So, basically, you wanted my services for free.”
“No. I could have easily paid you for the evening but I didn't want to have sex, or have you feel the pressure. I just wanted to go out with someone I was interested in. It was just a date, plain and simple.”
“But you left me. I couldn't find you.”
“I'm sorry, I looked all over for you. I thought you'd left me, and so I came home. I didn't have your number.”
Basra saw the sincerity in his face. “I really did have fun at the party for your job,” she said, walking toward the door.
“What are you going to do about Campbell?” he asked.
“I'm not sure. If I go to the police, it's going to be an even bigger issue. He'll tell them I'm a call girl, and I can't get into that. I don't know.”
“I'll talk to him.” Basra nodded as Lance came to the door to walk her out, and got on the elevator with her. It was silent on the five-floor ride down to Basra's place, but when she stepped out Lance asked, “Can I get your number?”
Basra simply smiled as the doors were closing but never gave a reply. Close to five minutes later, Basra was undressed and back in her bed where she remained until morning.
Feeling a bit more rejuvenated, Basra walked to the Union Square Greenmarket first thing Sunday morning. She loved to juice and owned a very expensive high-powered juicer that hadn't been getting enough use. She returned home with bags of organic carrots, celery, tomatoes, and an assortment of fruits. As she juiced, Basra looked online for apartments. She knew she couldn't afford anything as luxurious as her current domicile, but that didn't matter. She knew that she had to slowly dissociate herself from Lucia, get back in school, and find a job.
“There's nothing wrong with living a normal life,” she stated to herself.
Problem was, Basra had sampled an appetizer of the good and lavish life. Working a nine-to-five making meager means would prove to be difficult, and deep inside she knew this. Via e-mail, she reached out to her agency and let them know she was available for any and all international work.
“I need new pictures,” she mumbled while sipping on her carrot and celery blend.
Basra needed new pictures for her book: photos with straight hair. She'd booked 90 percent of her jobs as a Somali model with thick, curly hair. But when she straightened her hair, she looked more American. To procure more work, she needed to diversify her image. Hence, she set a salon appointment that Thursday.
“Today is going to be very productive. I can feel it,” she said with a smile.
Basra got dressed, and headed to check out the neighborhoods of the few places she'd found online.
Throughout the day, she thought of her incident the night before with Campbell, but she refused to let it get her down. Her ability to overcome distress and traumatic situations developed when she was a young girl. In Somalia she was exposed to so much, so early in life, that there was nothing that Basra knew she couldn't endure. Her community back home had been pillaged several times. At twelve, she witnessed her aunt being beaten to death for having an affair. She had young cousins recruited as warlords and knew of many killings and murders. Basra knew how great her opportunities were in New York, and again it was her responsibility to aid her family. She wasn't going to let Campbell or Lucia cause a diversion in her mission.
That evening around seven, Lucia strolled in, and plopped down next to Basra on the couch. She wrapped her arms around her roomie and placed her head on Basra's shoulder.
“I missed you,” she said.
“Are you schizophrenic?” asked Basra.
“Bipolar maybe, but not schizoid,” Lucia answered.
Basra wasn't sure if she was joking and so she didn't give her reply any attention.
“I had the best weekend,” Lucia said. “I was in Miami at this party, where the cocaine flowed like snow.”
“You shouldn't do that.”
“I don't. Not all the time. Just an occasional party now and then.”
Basra slid her shoulder from underneath Lucia's head and continued to watch television as she scooted a few inches away.
“What did you do this weekend?” Lucia asked.
Basra, with the task in mind to slowly detach from Lucia, decided to keep mum about her eventful weekend. The less Lucia knew the better. Basra replied, “Nothing,” and continued staring at the boob tube.
“Well, listen to this. Next week there is a party in Isla de sa Ferradura, Island of the Horseshoe,” Lucia said with excitement in her voice. Basra cut her eyes toward Lucia but refused to give her full attention. “You can make some real good money.”
“I'm not going.”
“You're going to hate you didn't go. Have you ever been to a private island? It's near Ibiza. I know you've never been there.”
“I don't care. I have two interviews this week,” Basra lied.
“Doing what? Waitressing? You'd rather bring home fifty dollars in tips when you could make five thousand?”
Campbell's words were still haunting her. “I'd rather not be thought of as a whore,” Basra said as she rose and walked into the kitchen. Naturally, Lucia followed.
“I'm trying to help you. You said you wanted to save money. You said you wanted to help your family. It's not about what others think of you, but what you think about yourself. I don't care if people call me a whore, because I will be a whore who's retiring as a millionaire before the age of thirty. I can invest, become a multimillionaire by thirty-five, and no one will care how I earned my first million.”
Lucia's words now had Basra's full attention. “I hear what you're saying, I just wasn't raised that way.”
“You think I was? You think my mother sat me down when I was little and told me I had gold between my legs and that I should exploit my body for a better life? My mother, God rest her soul, wanted me to be a pastry chef like her and the other women in my family. But my mother died with two hundred euros to her name, which is about three hundred dollars. I'm not living like that. I have been given a great opportunity that most would kill for, and so have you. Squander it if you want, but I'm not, and there's nothing you can say to change my mind.” Lucia grabbed the big bottle of homemade carrot juice and motioned. “May I?”
Basra nodded. She finally got to see a side of Lucia that wasn't the money-loving party girl she so casually displayed. Even though they'd been roommates for seven months, Lucia never talked about her family, and since Basra wasn't one to pry, fashion, modeling, and men were the bases of their conversation.
“I don't judge you,” Basra said.
“Even if you did, I wouldn't care. The juice is good,” Lucia commented as she walked toward the back.
Basra realized that her and Lucia's missions were very similar, and until that conversation, she saw Lucia as being the weaker female in the apartment. But now she pondered the strength and determination of Lucia's mind, to go daily without caring about what people thought.
“I could never do that,” Basra whispered as she watched Lucia stroll toward the back.
It didn't change her mind about sleeping with men for sex, but she understood Lucia's desire to create a new generation of wealth, and there was a piece of her that admired that.
School was starting in a month and Basra knew she didn't want to wait another semester before enrolling full time. She had a few classes under her belt, but was anxious to delve into her major at Saint John's University. Although she had a little money saved, she went to the school that week and applied for financial aid. While there, Basra also got information on a few grants. She went by the Fashion Institute and even got some information for her baby sister. She didn't have enough money in the bank to do half of the things she wanted, but with a few thousand saved, she felt empowered. Her dream was becoming a blueprint. But, unfortunately, the plans she made that week only increased her desire to get more money. Basra applied for three jobs, all at high-end restaurants, one referred by a friend in the building, who bragged about making over one hundred dollars in tips every night. Sure that sounded like a lot of money, but it was nothing in comparison to what Basra knew she could make. Yet she felt she was on the right path, one her family would be proud of and that mattered. Thursday evening when her sister called, Basra couldn't wait to talk to her about her new American look and the FIT visit. But Amina was not in the mood for lighthearted gab.
Her first words were, “They're bulldozing the home next week.”
“What do you mean?” Basra questioned with panic.
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