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Charles chuckled nervously. He didn’t expect her to be so candid. That made him feel uneasy about her, as if she didn’t know any better. They were the worst type of girls to try and keep a secret with. Naivety can be reckless . . . and dangerous.
He said, “Well, of course you would never tell him something like this, right?”
She frowned and said, “No, I’m not stupid. Why would I do that?”
Charles could think of five million reasons why. But he kept those ideas to himself. He didn’t want to create what he was thinking by speaking it into existence.
Instead, he said, “Ah . . . I just wouldn’t be too loose with talking about this, that’s all.” He grinned and added, “It’s like Vegas, you know?”
She looked at him confused. “Like Vegas? What do you mean?”
Every word out of her mouth made him feel more anxious. “You know, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. You’ve never heard that saying before?”
The young woman continued to stare at him, as if she had no idea what he was talking about. “I mean, I’ve never even been to Vegas before. What do they do out in Vegas?” she asked.
Charles became so disturbed that he sat up in bed to think. “Ah . . . how old are you again?”
She started smiling. “Okay, like . . . I’m legal, but I’m not twenty-five yet. So, I can’t get into, like, the older parties unless somebody lets me in. But I can get into everything else. I just haven’t been out to Vegas yet . . . to do whatever the Vegas people do.”
All of a sudden, the hotshot director felt like someone had tossed him into a frying pan with seasoning sprinkled on him. He was speechless, realizing that he had made a huge mistake.
He thought, This girl’s a complete freakin’ airhead! What the hell did I just do to my career?
But then she bailed him out of the fire.
“I’m just fucking with you,” she admitted with another giggle. “You should have seen the look on your face. I should have taken a picture of it.”
She laughed and said, “I’m twenty-seven, and I know what they do out in Vegas, I just haven’t been there yet. They have legal prostitution there, right?”
Charles nodded, but he didn’t think any of it was funny. She had left him speechless.
“That was a little, ah . . .” he mumbled, and stopped.
“Off the cuff, right?” she filled in for him. “I just wanted to show you some of my acting skills. You know, too many people look at me as just a pretty face and good hair. But I can really act though.”
Charles didn’t really care at that point. He was scared to death of her and didn’t know what to expect. So, he shook his head and no longer believed anything she had to say. It could all be an act.
Did she just suck me off, or was I imagining that? he questioned. He started to believe it was an illusion to dismantle his feelings of anxiety.
He even told her so. “You know what? I don’t believe anything. This could all be an act.”
But it was not, and his pants were still down with semen dripping out of his penis to prove it. So, he quickly pulled his boxers up and zipped up his pants.
The pretty young woman looked down at him and repeated, “You don’t believe it? What don’t you believe? I’ll do anything for this? Just ask me.”
He said, “I did ask you. I asked you not to talk about this. And you turned it into a big old joke.”
“I just wanted to show you that I could act,” she repeated. “I told you that.”
The director had turned the tables on her and had her feeling anxious. She felt as if she had just messed up her big opportunity with him. And he could tell. So, he decided to use his new leverage on her.
“I don’t know if you’re mature enough for this business,” he told her. “When people ask you not to do something, that’s what they mean. Your coachability and protocol in this business is everything.”
She looked at him frantically. “I said I wasn’t gonna talk about it. I told you that,” she insisted.
Charles looked at her exotic frame of curves standing there inside the hotel room with her beautiful face, hair, and stylish clothes, and he wanted to test her, while testing himself. How much power did he really have?
“Okay, so you’ll really do anything?”
“Yes.” She didn’t budge or waver.
There was a moment of silence, while he thought of everything he could ask her to do. But instead of going overboard, he kept it simple.
“Okay. Take everything off . . . and get back in bed.”
She eyed him without a word and began to strip naked, starting with her top, as her pert breasts popped out in front of him. Next, she pulled and tugged and wiggled out of her form-fitting blue jeans, revealing a perfect shaved punany, and an ass as perfectly round as a basketball. Then she climbed onto the bed and slipped under the cool white sheets.
Charles watched it all in amazement, as if filming it for the big screen. The man couldn’t believe his luck. He had been an awkward suburban kid with big, visionary dreams, who could never get the girls. But now . . . he felt like he could have them all. And he loved it, even though it terrified him to get caught.
I really shouldn’t do this, he warned himself. This could really come back to haunt me. I don’t even trust this girl.
But it was the business. And in the big leagues, there was no time to fear anything. Either you pushed ahead and got what you needed to get to keep going, or you got nervous and allowed yourself to get left behind. Or at least, that’s what Charles had told himself.
So far, he had succeeded with the game plan of pushing himself ahead. So, he took off his clothes, clicked off the lights, and climbed back into the bed with this gorgeous, aspiring actress, with the intent of making her call him daddy.
JOSEPH DRAKE
Reflection 15
IMAGINE BEING INSIDE A ROOM WITH A GROUP OF VERY WEALTHY AND powerful White men. Old White men, the kind who don’t apologize. It can be very stressful for a woman or a person of color, unless you feel like you’re accepted by them, or you’re doing a major business deal that they have to have. Because everyone and everything has a price. That’s how they think about the world. It can all be bought.
Joseph Drake was a White man as well, he was just less wealthy and less powerful than the rest of the men inside the room. He was slightly younger too. So, he had to deal with the natural rules of the pecking order.
“Drake, go get me some more spinach dip.”
That was Cunningham, a real estate tycoon in his seventies. He was holding out an empty plate for his young hedge fund partner to refill. He was all gray on top and smallish in size. He was the perfect example of a Napoleon complex, a little man with a big appetite and ego, who was buying, selling, and renting big buildings.
With Cunningham being in his seventies, Joe didn’t mind catering to the older man. The more he catered, the more he imagined positive gains from their relationship. But he didn’t feel that way about all of the men in the room.
“Hey, Drake, how long have you been a closet rapper?”
That was Wilton, a technology investor in his mid-fifties. He used the same joke from Joe’s last name nearly every time they saw each other. Tall with a solid build and energy, Wilton was physical like a professional athlete. He reminded one of a highschool jock and bully who made life a living hell for any and everyone who was not on his level. And he continued to dye his hair to maintain a young and fierce business look.
Joe smiled and tolerated the man as he slid past him toward the table of finger foods that featured refreshments, beer, wine, and dip. But Joe didn’t like the man. In fact, several of the men didn’t like Wilton, particularly the older guys in the room who had less money. Sometimes, a younger man could be a little cavalier based on the size of his bank account. And they didn’t like it.
“Hey, Drake, how’s it going?”
That was Fincher in his sixties from Texas. He was a financial specialist who had written some of the biggest business plans in the country. He was also a gay man who wasn’t bashful about it. If you were willing to be had, he was willing to have you. But Fincher typically dealt with younger men in their twenties and thirties. His boy toys.
Joe liked to keep his conversations short and sweet with Fincher. As a chest-thumping, type A man, he didn’t want to accidentally say or do something awkward that may trigger the financial specialist to not want to work with him in the future. Fincher had been known for tuning guys out who he had a vendetta against, but he would never tell you. And Joe didn’t want to sit on that side of the fence.
“I’m just staying on my best behavior and trying not to be too naughty,” Joe responded with a grin. It was his code language, respecting the lifestyle of an opportunist, while slyly stating that he wasn’t on the market for anything extracurricular.
Fincher smiled, realizing as much. “There’s a time and place for everything,” he responded.
“Don’t I know it.”
Joe filled the empty plate with more spinach dip and chips and was on his way back to Cunningham.
“Hey, bust a rhyme, Drake,” Wilton teased on the way back. He was now flanked by Jacobs and Smith, two lackeys who smiled and laughed at everything Wilton said or did.
Joe decided to patronize the man. “Ahhh, one and two / and I buckle my shoe / three and ah four / and I open that door / five and ah six / and I . . .”
He laughed it off and kept it moving with the plate of spinach dip and chips in hand. But Wilton was feeling the improv rap and wouldn’t let him leave. He even grabbed Joe’s arm.
“Hey, keep it going, Drake. We’ll make it rain for ya.”
Jacobs and Smith howled laughing, while Joe held his tongue and his temper.
“Hey, I need to get this food back over to Cunningham. He’s waiting for it.”
Wilton looked in Cunningham’s direction and frowned. “Aw, that old bat ain’t going anywhere. Give us another rhyme.”
Joe thought, Jesus, I hate this guy! He’s such a fucking asshole! And Jacobs and Smith are fucking cheerleaders! They need two skirts on with pom-poms!
Nevertheless, he forced out a smile. “Maybe another time,” he said, while brushing Wilton’s hand away from his arm.
“Awww, party pooper,” Wilton whined as Joe walked off. Humans could all be harassed and made fun of, man or woman, White or Black, rich or poor, Muslim or Christian. And we can all react to it the same way, pissed, while forcing ourselves to remain civil.
Then you have your no-nonsense leadership.
“All right, gentlemen, let’s take our seats and dive into it.”
That was Sampson, the lead domino in the room of nearly thirty White men. He was a hyperfocused computer software and games developer in his mid-sixties, who still had a lot of youthful energy. He was one of those guys who could find relatable conversations to connect to everyone. And he was no joke when it came to investing. So, even though he didn’t have the most money in the room, he had the most respect and was very comfortable in leading their financial discussions.
The men all found their seats in five rows that stretched from the front to the back of the room, while Sampson continued to stand.
“Davis will lead with the updates of our goals and the status of our new efforts.”
Davis was one of the younger men in the room with Joe, both in their forties. He was chubby and wore glasses, the kind of awkward, academic man who found solace in his expertise and research. He was most comfortable in what he could study and master, which did not include women. So, he was still unmarried and barely dating.
Davis took center stage in the room and said, “Our goal is to raise three hundred million dollars for the College Prep Initiative hedge fund. We are now at eighty-two million and change with two hundred and eighteen million left to go.
“So far, our new efforts have been . . . I guess adequate, but we could do a lot more,” he concluded.
“You, ah, mentioned to me a few days ago, Davis, that you felt opening up the initiative to the Black and Hispanic communities could push us over the top a little bit faster. It that right?” Sampson asked him.
That question got Drake’s full attention. How did the rest of the group of White men feel about helping minorities?
Davis nodded. “That’s right. The increase of social media, interviews, and minority news articles could help take us over the top rather quickly.”
“Yeah, but then they’ll take over the fund. And it becomes a Black and Brown initiative instead of the red, white, and blue initiative that we all planned.”
That was Allen, the tight ass in the room. He was slightly on the younger side himself in his early fifties with a pharmaceuticals, packaging, and distribution company. He was also one of the top three moneymakers in the room. He could finance the whole initiative by himself if he wanted to.
He said, “The problem with including the multicultural and minorities conversation is that they become insatiable. All of a sudden, everything becomes about them, and what they feel we should do, and how they feel the initiative should be run. And they just complain, and bitch, and gripe, and eventually they’ll try to dictate what they feel we’re supposed to be doing with our program when we’re the ones who decided to help. You don’t get to tell us how we would like to help. It just strikes me as being unappreciative.
“But if we continue to build this fund and initiative in secret, where we’re not in the public eye, then no one gets bent out of shape, and we can include the number of minorities that we want to help, along with poor White kids, instead of having the Black and Brown dictate what we do,” he concluded.
Joe looked around the room for a response and was itching to jump in, especially when he saw that no one outwardly disagreed. It takes courage to dissent. And Joe had to force himself to have it.
“You know, the problem that we get ourselves into when we do things in secret, is that the general public typically looks at that as if we’re trying to hide something from them rather than us trying to help them,” he commented.
Wilton smirked and said, “We are trying to hide it from them. But it’s for their own good. It’s like hiding the toys from the kids before Christmas. It’s better that way. If you let the kids know where the Christmas presents are before you wrap them, they’ll fuck them all up. You know that, Drake. Or maybe you don’t know. You don’t even have any kids.”
Joe paused and thought about it. He did have kids. He just didn’t let them know about it. In fact, most people didn’t know about Joseph Drake’s kids, not even his own family members.
Sampson broke the silence and said, “Wilton, are you comparing the African-American and Hispanic communities to kids on Christmas?”
Wilton held out his opened palms in innocence. “I’m just making a simple analogy about transparency. Sometimes it’s not the best thing.”
“I agree,” Cunningham spoke up. “You have to allow the chef to finish preparing the meal before you start asking him for a taste test, because the meal is not officially done yet. Then you’ll have people leaking out information and getting upset before we’ve had a chance to execute all of our plans.
“So, Wilton is right,” he concluded. “Too much transparency, too early, can actually cripple a plan more than enhance it, particularly if we’re referring to something more complicated and nuanced than what they’re used to.”
“Yeah, the main goal is to be inclusive of everyone, but that goal becomes compromised when the Black and Browns begin to view the funds and the initiative as only for them, which it is not,” Allen argued.
“Okay, but we still need to inform the various communities that these funds are gonna be available for everyone. That way, they’ll know when, where, and how to apply, and we’ll get a significantly larger number of applicants who qualify,” Joe insisted. “That’s all I’m saying. There’s nothing wrong with us doing that.”
“Yeah, and we’ll do that after we finish raising the money,” Wilton countered. “That way they’re not all anxious about it.”
“But that would destroy the whole idea of us raising the money faster. Right, Davis?” Sampson asked for clarity.
Davis nodded again. “Yeah, with us publicizing the funds and the initiative—with the help of the Black and Brown communities—we would allow more people who want to help to know about it.”
Cunningham said, “Now, are we also assuming that the Black and Brown communities are going to contribute to the funding themselves, because you know how they look at us. We already have the money, so they won’t respond well to a bunch of rich, old White guys asking them to help raise more of it.”
“And they’re not going to contribute either,” Allen argued. “These Black and Brown athletes and entertainers are only concerned about themselves and their own charities. They don’t care about anyone else. It’s all about their people. And they complain about everything we try to do that includes others.”
Allen was really going in on it, displaying his honest emotions and true-blue colors, which made Joe’s blood boil.
“Why are you talking about athletes and entertainers? They’re not the only people who matter in the Black and Brown communities,” Joe argued.
Cunningham answered, “But they’re the only ones who have any money. What was there, five new Black billionaires over the past couple of years? And they’re all in the sports and entertainment fields.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re the only ones who can contribute. We have plenty of Black and Brown doctors, lawyers, and businesspeople who can contribute to the fund as well,” Joe stated.
“Yeah, just not enough of them,” Wilton countered, jumping back in. “And what are they gonna give, a thousand dollars apiece? That’s not any money. I gave two million.”
“Yeah, you have two million to give,” Joe reminded his rich White peer.
“This is all what Allen and Cunningham are both alluding to,” Sampson cut in. “Is it worth the risk and the public confusion to bring in these additional communities to help raise the funds if we know they’re gonna prioritize their own personal or community concerns, which have nothing to do with our overall goals and mission to help everyone?”
