Love’s Inconvenient Truth
What can Elle Jarreau, a seasoned woman with a skewed view on love, learn about the verity of fairy tales from a man nine years her junior? Apparently a thing or two.
“I don’t believe in fairy tales; only acquainted with reality. I understand there are people who are genetically damaged in the womb. Some of these people, like me, are destined to be alone. We’re too strong willed; our power too potent and can destroy all around if wielded.”
Jackson Q. Hunter isn’t your average 26 year old. Forced to be a man before his time by his well-connected, extremely resourceful, and very wealthy father, Jackson is especially conversant on commitment and crowning a woman.
“Fairy tales don’t always have to be a forsaken concept. Sometimes it’s a matter of viewing it from the right perspective. Sometimes you have to simply choose a more suitable illustrator. Even we haunted cynics can find liberation in the mendacity of fairy tales. Sounds like your demons would fit nicely in my haunted closet with the rest of my iniquities.”
As secrets are unveiled and nightmares illuminated, see what they learn about self-acceptance and self-forgiveness when they find redemption through their mirrored self-exiled darkness.
Excerpt
Excerpt
“Where ‘da burfday boy?”—he scratched the record several times—“Where ‘da burfday boy?” He repeated this several times, inciting the crowd until Jackson appeared at the booth with him. Jackson’s smile was well measured, eyes gleaming with contentment as the two men gave each other some dap.
“Yo, man, I remember meeting you like eight years ago, and was blown the fuck away when they told me how old you was.” The crowd when up with hoots, screams and applause, apparently affirming the D.J.’s experience. Khaled tumbled over in a quick chortle. “Yo, for real, man! Your swag was on one hun’ed all the damn time. When I put together you being Quincy’s seed, it automatically made sense. It’s only right for his dun-dun to inherit the king of swag crown that, that dude sported like nobody else man!” Khaled’s delivery was always hyped up, to the point of screaming. It was an organic emcee trait.
I watched as Jackson gave a mild nod of humility, agreeing to the memory of his father.
“Yo, let’s give it up one time for our man, Quincy Hunter. The best to ever do it!”
He played a track and the crowd went up again. Even I found myself clapping with vigor. Jackson, once again, nodded and pumped his fist in the air. He hid his emotions like the best of us. Jackson still didn’t speak about his dad to me with ease. Only when it was relevant to business or when I cashed in one of my questions.
The music lowered again and Khaled shouted, “Q would be proud. I see you celebrating it real big tonight and I ain’t mad. When they called, asking for me to spin for your born day, I said to ‘dem, “you already know…!” Nah mean? And this your joint, man? Anytime you want me to come grace the wheels of steel, it ain’t a question, man!” That earned him more dap from Jackson. “Say something to your guests, man!” The hyped D.J. handed the microphone to Jackson.
The crowd went wild again. I didn’t know how Jackson could handle the fanfare, but he didn’t seem the least bit fazed.
“Yo,” Jackson began, adorning the biggest smile that shrunk his eyes. “I don’t have much to say.” He tented his free hand over his eyes to shade the glaring spotlight on him and perceptively scanned the enormous room. “I’m just looking forward to my cake at the end of the night.”
My thighs clenched at the first pulse of my clitoris. Though being amusing, I understood Jackson’s double entendre. It was a cute…and shocking reference.
“Hold up, we ‘bout to get to that now, whodie!” Khaled shouted into the microphone. “That’s what was next. Roll out the big homie’s cake.” Jackson, still wearing an adorable…and now mischievous grin, shook his head. The D.J.’s eyes grew large in recognition. “Oh, nah? Not that cake?”
“Nah,” Jackson clarified. “The cake I’m talking about having tonight, ain’t nobody else sampling,” he confidently declared.I squirmed in my seat.
“See, girl,” Marie popped me excitedly on the shoulder from behind. “Jamie don’t know what he be talking about when he say Jackson’s dull.”
And that’s for damn sure…
“Oh, shit!” Khaled exclaimed on a titter. “That type of cake! Where she at?” Khaled gave a cursory glance of the room, mimicking a search.
“Easy, man. I’m just fuckin’ with y’all,” Jackson chuckled, further sending me into a lecherous zone. I had no idea why I allowed myself to be so affected: he’d be too busy partying until dawn to deliver on that. “She ain’t surfacing…trust!”
I didn’t know how I felt about that. I assumed he was referring to me, but was he? He sounded too confident as though there had been an understanding with him and this lover of his.
Damn…
The alcohol certainly set in. OF COURSE IT’S YOU! YOU DEMANDED DISCRETION!
I flinched at my own scolding.
The night went on. Jackson was presented with a big cake in the image of a photo of his dad and himself when he was school-aged. Why that twisted my chest similar to other affairs of Jackson and Candice that didn’t concern me, I had no idea. I could tell it was a touching moment for him, too, no matter how cool he played it.
About forty-five minutes later, I found myself back in V.I.P., enjoying the view of people watching. Something in my peripheral caught my eye. I turned to my right and in between the beefy guards that patrolled them, I was able to see a woman giving a man a lap dance—and not just any lap dance. This one was skilled. I couldn’t remove my gape as I watched her bent over in a tea-length skirt that was drawn up just above her knees because of her sensual movements on the lap of a spellbound man. I inclined a few inches and recognized Azmir Jacobs with his head cocked to side, raptly observing every inch of his private dancer’s frame. And what a body she had. Her hips were perfectly round above fit thighs and strong calf muscles that were able to keep her steady without hands as she intermittently allowed her ass to touch his pelvis, but clearly didn’t do it relieve her legs. She swirled and popped with perfect precision. Her arms and hands sensually moved into the air or roved over her body in a teasing manner as she gyrated over him. His gaze didn’t shift even when she, at one point, grabbed her ankles and swayed her cheeks inches from his face.
That’s talent!
It was nothing short of a skillset that this woman could capture and isolate the attention of this mogul when there were half naked dancers twirling all around the club. He was aroused. He had to be. My eyes keened in on his lap and sure enough, his impressive erection was present. Holy shit! Azmir was large. My lewd mind wondered if he was as big as Jackson. I shook my head at that inquiry. I couldn’t believe where my mind had ventured to. This was a private moment between the two, even if in a club amongst about a thousand patrons.
Then I sensed him, received his scent before registering his being.
“Rayna has a talent for arresting his attention.” His thick voice, spoken directly in my ear over the glaring music, caressed my skin, causing my lashes to flutter.
When I regained myself, I uttered, “Talent.” That’s the only way I could describe this skillset. To shake the provocative mood they set a few feet away, I shouted over to Jackson as he lent me his ear, “It’s crazy to be in the same room as him. I’ve dreamed of working for him…heading up his public relations. I didn’t know you knew him this well.”
I’d heard lots about Azmir Divine Jacobs over the years. He’d been renowned for his shrewd business savvy and keen eye for trends and setting them over the past few years. His Mauve deal would go down in African American pop culture history. It was unprecedented until the rapper Jay Z did a similar deal with D’USSÉ nearly two years later. Not even Diddy’s relationship with CÎROC, giving his ability to pull them out of the throes of debunk status was as impressive. Azmir Jacobs began his relationship with the Moreau brothers, the original owners of Mauve, as an ambassador of the brandy line. It became so profitable, and literally overnight, that Jacobs became a co-owner of the brand, buying a huge portion of shares. Some say Jacobs strategically took ownership, understanding the power of his brand and being confident in his ability to turn a profit for the Moreau’s.
I was mindful that all of this was just a morsel of his total portfolio.
“Well, don’t try to do it now,” Jackson’s throaty tone broke me from my trance. “I need you on my team.”
Despite myself, I giggled, thrilled by his admittance. Jackson cracked a knowing smirk.
