Zariah
“Connie, if I never get rewarded with a red vine again, it won't be too soon.” I pluck the candy up that she just tossed at the side of my head and shoot it back in her direction.
“Well, we have half a tube left. It's not my fault you excelled in Constitutional law today. Now, we better beat my uncle Samuel to the car, or he will honestly leave without us. He has this habit of being on time to court.”
We both rise from our seats. The conference room of Billingsley Legal is cluttered with textbooks, the quintessential hub of my bar exam studies, and a few cases that Connie is currently assigned are here, too.
Connie gets to the exit first and opens it. It's refreshing to see a predominantly minority group of lawyers and assistants scattered throughout the office.
Samuel is already headed toward the front door. Navy blue business suit, canvas briefcase strapped to his shoulder, and phone super glued to his ear.
“Sam,” Connie’s voice is at a respectable interoffice volume as she calls out.
“Oh, sweetie, I almost forgot about the two of you.” He pulls the phone from his ear, murmuring to whomever was on the line that he will be there shortly.
“We are a stellar team in the making,” he brags, patting my shoulder, while allowing us to pass through the door first.
###
Later in the evening, I attend a birthday dinner for the governor, Taryn’s father. I had no intentions of attending, but this is the moment where my father planned to ‘plant the seed’ for his quest to run for mayor. Since I haven't moved out of his house yet, and we hardly see each other in passing, I felt half bad for excusing myself from it.
I'm in a golden cocktail dress that hugs at my curves. As I glance around the venue, I notice people are dressed to the nines. Many of them are in the Republican Party, who my dad swore told him it would be a good idea to run.
Well, at least I straightened my hair tonight. The place is a notch below black-tie, until I spot Taryn. With her tight eyes and dark skin, she is an exotic beauty. She's in a tutu like skirt that hides the fact that she wasn't blessed from her black mother’s side, with an ass or hips. Yet, anybody else would look like a young girl, but she would get a nod from Tyra Banks, herself.
“Hey, where's your dad, so I can wish him happy birthday,” I tell her.
She hugs me. “Girl, see him later. Actually, my father told me that you probably should blow this joint, ha, ha.”
Her Asian father always thought he was a comedian. We let him tag along when the first ‘Hangover’ movie came out, during our last year of high school. My eyebrows knead together. “What do you mean?”
“Phil,” she mouths. “C’mon, my father is the governator,” she jokes in a Terminator franchise voice. After Arnold Schwarzenegger’s term ended, her dad’s began. “However, my dad can't very well talk badly of his benefactors. And he knows about my yacht parties and how much ‘you know who’ was in love with you. Actually, scratch that. Still is in love with you.”
“You can't be serious,” I groan.
“Well, my dad, your dad, and Phillip IV, they all had their expectations. So, allow me to be frank,” Taryn says, though she's never offered anything less than a hard dose of reality. “Maxwell and both the damn Phils are living in the olden days. That's why your dad begged you to come tonight.”
I grumble. “Well, they all have another thing coming.”
“Hey, where's your fighter?” Before I can answer, Taryn’s voice rises as she glances behind me, “Phillip Everly,” Taryn fakes interest, while cueing me to look behind me. “Wow, you've traded in Ralph Lauren for custom made.”
I’m too irritated to thank her for the heads up. They hug. I glance around the venue, in blatant disinterest. Damn, my father is sauntering up the stage now. From about fifteen yards away, yet still at the side of the stage, he glances at me. He then glances at Phil, smiling while his gaze pans back toward me, once more.
This is a setup if I ever saw one.
There's a round of applause as my dad starts sweet talking to the crowd.
“You look stunning,” Phil whispers, coming to stand next to me.
“Thank you.”
“I saw you the moment you walked in.” His arm goes around my back, skimming my opposite shoulder. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”
“About what? Beautiful little mulatto children?” I cackle, shrugging my shoulder. He doesn't remove his hand.
“Why am I still paying for what Landry said?” he speaks through gritted teeth.
“Excuse me, Phil. Maybe I confused you for your father, or any other man who has balls enough to tell his friend off, for speaking ill of their girlfriends. Landry mentioned how cute little mulatto kids are. He jokes and acts like an idiot. Actually, I was seventeen, and dumb, too. I thought the best form of defense in responding to his covert racism was to say no, we aren't together for gold complexion offspring, but love. No, I never actually loved you, although I believed the stupid words you said about loving me. And it's not just Landry and his mulatto statement, or the other snide shit he said. It's just the simple fact that you being a rich white boy doesn't mean I'm fortunate just to be dating you. Oh, and I can't afford your love at the moment because it comes in the expensive, addictive white powder form. So, fuck off.”
I stalk away, rubbing my skin where he’d touched it. Perhaps, I chewed his head off a tad more than necessary, but, hopefully, he will see this as a learning lesson for the woman who doesn't itch in his presence.
About an hour later, I'm able to inch my way into one of my father’s conversations.
“You've stolen every potential vote here, Dad, come November there'll be no stopping you. They all love you,” I whisper. “I'm gonna slip out the side door now.”
“Oh why? You have a hot date tonight? Every man in here dotes on you, and wouldn't have to work too hard for my approval.”
Good for you “Actually, it's a group dinner I'm attending.” My tone is so blasé he isn't interested in learning any more regarding my dinner with Vassili, two business persons, and another Resnov. He brushed us off at the Laker game, so why bother?
“Sounds like fun. Will you be accompanying Zariah as well?” He asks. I glance over and Taryn is there.
“I sure am.” She offers me a wink.
“Damn you,” I grumble as Taryn catches my stride, toward the exit. She's always embraced her Japanese side over the black. “What happened to snagging rich boys with a pedigree? I swear I saw royal-marriage material here.”
“Been there, Booboo.” She replies, unamused. “You’re going to see Vassili, aren’t you? And if you’re going to see him, that cousin of his, Yuri, has a super fat cock—my name is written all over it and that's a place I can come again and again.”
###
Succoso Pomodoro–Juicy Tomato–is an expensive Italian restaurant on Rodeo Drive. The restaurant has a grand, dramatic environment with marble walls. Touches of oak wood offer a classic Italian villa style. And the aroma wafting through the place, as Taryn and I are escorted to Vassili’s table, is to die for. We’re already thirty minutes late, since Taryn had to say goodbye to her father, and I was obliged to ‘thank’ him for the heads up, even if Phil succeeded in pushing my buttons, anyway.
Air hitches in my lungs as Vassili comes into view. He’s seated at a table, cater corner from me. The only tattoos visible are the ones creeping up the back of his neck, and disappearing into the curly tail end of his Mohawk, and those along the backs of his hands. He’s dressed in a black suit, which complements his broad shoulders and thick biceps. There’s a blond next to him. The trick does her best to touch him, every chance she gets. Damn, his cold shoulder is fit for that nasty, little fly.
Another Caucasian man is seated on the opposite side of her, with Yuri rounding out the table.
“Good thing you brought me,” Taryn grits in a whisper. “That bitch will bow down, one way or another.”
I shake my head. Taryn has never had to work, so the mean girl mentality from high school still rides deep on occasion.
The hostess parts ways with us as we continue to weave around the tables in the dark-lit atmosphere.
“Ah, you must be, Ms. Washington,” the man with the perfectly cropped hair says, arising first.
Vassili’s entire demeanor comes alive. The blonde’s ambitions fade into oblivion as he arises from his seat to hug me. Vassili hugs me so tightly that my body sways, and I mold to his muscles.
“Zariah, you brought Taryn. Damn, you’re now family in my book,” Yuri raises his snifter, clear liquid sloshing around, toward me while he slides his arm around Taryn to grope her hip. He’s at least a hundred pounds more than her hundred pounds.
“Drinks! We need real drinks,” his voice rises.
“Yes, the best wine!” the man says.
“No, wine. Vodka.” Yuri snaps his fingers, and a waiter rushes over. “Two extra chairs and your best vodka, don’t play me either, your best.”
“Baby, here sit.” Vassili offers me the chair next to the blond chick. “Oh this is… Uh… Dale Landry and Mrs.… Yuri, fucking help me out here. Manage the situation.”
They both laugh. Dale’s chuckle starts off slow, as if getting a feel for whose ass he should kiss. She is clearly his boss.
“Jennifer Pruit,” the blonde reaches out a hand to me, as Yuri offers Taryn his seat, not paying a lick of attention to anything but her.
“The conversation has evolved around you for almost twenty minutes,” Jennifer tells me, which causes me to be even more unapologetic to her trifling ass. Either she's attempting to flatter me or this hoe tried to steal my man while he continued to mention me.
I offer a fake smile. “We were late.”
“It was all my fault,” Taryn chimes in as two chairs are positioned on either side of us.
“So tell us how you plan to make my man rich.”
“Direct. I like her.” Dale grins.
Yuri scoffs. “Word from the wise, don’t like Zariah, too much. It isn’t safe. The champ is a jealous man.”
Vassili places a possessive arm around me.
Yuri offers a smug grin. “See, and this is clearly how I manage the situation.”
My man reaches over to whisper in my ear, “I can’t eat this fucking food. When I get you home, I’ll have you all night long.”
A silly ass grin is slapped on my face, and anyone looking can ready his intentions.
With his arm around me, Vassili rubs my cheek with his thumb. “Look at that gorgeous, coy smile. So, should I eat you tonight?”
“The best is here,” our waiter says, stepping to the table.
Before cheering with the rest of them, I subtly nod to Vassili, “Feel free to eat me all night long if you’d like.”