Chapter One
“I don’t know about that,” Sam Green, the editor of the San Francisco Tribune, replied to Kimani Taylor’s suggestion. “A profile on Gordon Lee? It sounds like a fluff piece, and we don’t do that kind of stuff.”
Kimani, sitting on the other side of Sam’s desk in his office overlooking downtown San Francisco, persisted. “The paper did a profile of the mayor of San Francisco last year.”
“San Francisco is our base. You know our East Bay section is limited as it is.”
“The election of mayor to the eighth largest city in California is a big deal.”
Sam eyed her carefully, seeking her ulterior motivation. “You seem to want to do this as badly as you wanted to do that scoop on the Scarlet Auction.”
Kimani lowered her eyes for a moment. Her undercover story of the Scarlet Auction, in which women sold themselves for a week to the highest bidder, had yet to be published, at the request of the district attorney’s office, which had begun an investigation into the Scarlet Auction and didn’t want to sound any alarm bells before they had collected enough information to bring charges.
It was actually no longer Kimani’s story. She had become too involved, thanks to the man who had “bought” her. Benjamin Lee.
In case Sam believed she was biased in favor of Gordon, Benjamin’s uncle, she added, “I’m not suggesting we do a profile just on Gordon Lee, but all the other candidates in the Oakland mayoral race. So it’s fair.”
Sam steepled his fingertips. “That’s a lot of real estate you’re asking for.”
“I don’t think the people know the real Gordon Lee. They see him as a boring bureaucrat, but he’s more than that.”
“And you know this because you’re well acquainted with the guy?”
“Not so well that I can’t remain impartial, but if you’re worried about that, I don’t mind doing the work, the research, the writing, and handing it off to someone else so they can have the byline.”
“That’s very philanthropic of you, but you’re not going to get very far in your career with charity. You know that there are very few jobs in journalism these days. It’s a dog-eat-dog world now.”
Kimani appreciated the advice from her mentor and former graduate school of journalism instructor, but until she made things right with Gordon Lee, guilt would forever gnaw at her.
She had screwed up. Badly. Royally. If she had never told Sam of the text that had come across Ben’s cellphone when she was using it, a text that was a private communication from one of Ben’s business colleagues, Sam wouldn’t have thought to write an article about Oakland Forward, a political action committee formed by local developers and business interests in support of Gordon Lee for mayor.
By law, independent expenditures such as Oakland Forward could not coordinate with the campaign of an individual candidate that it was supporting, but because Ben was family to the candidate, Gordon was implicated. As a result of the article, the state’s Fair Political Practices Commission had launched an investigation into Gordon’s campaign. While Ben had been the one to suggest the formation of a political action committee, he had stepped away from the PAC before its official formation. It was not his fault that the new chairman of the PAC had chosen to share some good news with Ben.
It had been an oversight. Kimani was sure of it, but in her initial skepticism of Ben and her eagerness to give Sam what he wanted, she had betrayed Ben.
In her defense, she didn’t know what Sam had planned to do with the bit of information she had unwittingly passed on to him. But that didn’t exonerate her. She could’ve done better. And even though she had gotten what she had set out to achieve—landing her dream job as a reporter for the San Francisco Tribune—her dream-come-true felt miserable. And even Ben’s forgiveness would not wash away the pit in her stomach.
The fact that he hadn’t forgiven her, however, did make her feel worse. He hadn’t returned any of her calls. After trying him several times, in all the ways that she knew how, she had written him an old-fashioned letter addressed to his office in San Francisco.
His receptionist had said Ben was back in China, with no word of when he would return to California. Kimani didn’t know if the letter would reach him, and if he would read it if it did. She had omitted her name in the return address to bolster the chances that he would at least open the envelope. But after seeing it was from her, maybe he would just cast it into the nearest wastebasket.
She had ceased trying to contact him after sending the letter. At this point, she didn’t expect to ever hear from him again. And she didn’t blame him for not wanting to talk to her.
But even though she reminded herself each day of the benefits of putting Ben out of her mind, deep down, a part of her still wished he would call. Even if it was to put some closure to the end of their brief but emotional relationship.
Relationship wasn’t quite the right word. It was four and a half days of sex. The guy had “bought” her for a fling because he had been the only guy at the cabin without a date. He’d wanted a fucktoy for himself.
Somehow, in the course of their time together, she had developed feelings for Ben. And it wasn’t just because he was the nicest compared to the other three men she considered racist, misogynist, or naïve frat boys. She had to admit that being with Ben was exciting, exhilarating, enlightening, and fun. Not to mention he’d taken her to the most amazing sexual heights, always pushing her body to the brink when she thought there was no way she could take any more, when she thought she would crack, but instead found greater and greater euphoria.
Now, her vibrator had never looked so boring. It was hard not to relive those moments bound in his shibari, pinned to his hardness, and falling to pieces at his touch. For a while, she had avoided pleasuring herself so that she wouldn’t drift back to those memories, but the memories had a way of coming after her anyway. She had purchased the Womanizer and the LELO SONA, both of which Ben had used on her their first night in his penthouse, but it still wasn’t the same. The fact that he’d wielded them had made all the difference.
“You want me to undo the best weave I’ve ever done?” Keisha had asked when Kimani had gone to see her a few days ago. “Not that you weren’t a fine sister to begin with, but this here weave makes you look hotter than Beyonce.”
Kimani hadn’t been thrilled to see the braids with gold sewn in taken apart, but she remembered all too vividly Ben’s reaction to her weave, and how he had taken her in the bathroom of the coffee house afterward.
“I got a new job as a reporter for the San Francisco Tribune,” Kimani had explained. “I need a look that’s less flashy and more professional.”
Keisha had put a hand on her hip. “You saying my weave doesn’t look professional?”
“No, it’s just...”
“You can’t look gorgeous and professional at the same time?”
“I just want a different look. More ‘me.’”
Keisha raised a doubtful eyebrow. “Un-hunh.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means he ain’t out of your system, is he?”
“Who are you referring to?” Kimani stalled, knowing that Keisha more than likely referred to Ben.
“That Asian guy. You still got a case of rice fever.”
“I don’t have rice fever.”
“I heard you only had two dates with Marcus, and that brother is fine, so I figure you—”
“Look, Marcus is a nice guy, but—”
Keisha put up a hand. “Hold up. You don’t have to say anything more. ‘Nice’ says it all. This guy from Hong Kong must be something for you to turn down Marcus. You don’t even have to date the brother. Just sleep with him. I heard the brother is so damn hung, his dick could dig its way to China.”
Kimani rolled her eyes. “You going to do my hair or what?”