Mr. & Mrs. Wright: A BWWM Romance (Wright Brothers Series Book 2) Page 3

  “Yes, and make sure to bring the complete book of your prior work with you,” he said.

  Brooklyn blinked into the phone. An hour? She scrambled to do the math in her head. Even if she could somehow get out of work right now, it meant going home to get the book, then making it to SoHo by one.

  She also took a look at how she was dressed, navy peddle pusher pants, gold flats, and a long black tank top. Nothing about it screamed artist!, but it would have to do. She was caught off guard after all. Thanks to a crack down from the higher ups, her hair was all the same dark brown mass of natural curls, instead of sporting some fun vibrant color. It made her look even more mainstream and dull…exactly the look she shouldn’t be going for.

  “I’ll do my best,” she said.

  “How badly do you want this Ms. Jefferson? I’m a busy man, so I hope your best has you here in an hour. I’ll see you at one,” he said, leaving no room for argument.

  “I’ll be there,” she said with determination, but she heard only silence on the other end. He had already hung up the phone.

  She tapped her fingers against the phone in anxious excitement figuring out what she had to do. Then it occurred to her that she was wasting precious (precious!) time.

  She practically ran back into the IT work area and made quick strides to George’s office.

  “George,” she said, not caring what he was in the middle of, which, as it turned out, looked as though he was mimicking his underlings in surfing the web in boredom. “I don’t feel well, I think I need to take the rest of the day off sick.”

  He frowned at her and she knew what was coming. She had used up every last bit of her vacation to spend two (wonderful!) weeks in Paris with Alex.

  Alex had been the one to prod her into actually making strides to become the professional artist she knew she truly was. Since then, it had been one gallery visit after another, her being at their beck and call to come show her work. That was a lot of time off “sick” from her day job.

  “Brooklyn,” he sighed. “Last week it was three half days. The week before that, it was two. At some point I’m going to need a doctor’s note.”

  She felt bad about the card she was about to play but today it was worth it. “It’s…a female issue,” she said, casting her eyes toward the floor with faux embarrassment.

  The look of momentary horror that crossed his face was both comical and guilt-inducing. Brooklyn chose to focus on her priorities.

  “Well…um…” he stammered, his face getting red. “I suppose I can let you go—”

  “Thank you!” she shouted, not letting him finish as she ran to her work area to grab her bag and rush out the door.

  * * *

  Under normal circumstances, making the trek from Wall Street, where she worked to Chinatown, where she lived, then over to SoHo wouldn’t have been a problem. It was all pretty much downtown. But New York was New York.

  As such, she made it to the gallery just after the bell. Jared, the gallery owner, was intent on letting her know that fact. He stood there, arms crossed, lips pursed, brow alarmingly furled above the black framed glasses on his round face.

  At 5’7 he was no taller than Brooklyn. What he lacked in height, he made up for in overt displays of pomposity. Everything from his colorful bow ties to the patterned socks he made sure were not-so-subtly displayed beneath cuffed pants legs, screamed look at me! His head was completely shaved and she had never once seen the man smile, at least not in a way that gave out positive vibes.

  “I’m not quite sure what your understanding of one o’clock, sharp is Ms. Jefferson,” he said as she breathlessly rushed through the front doors of the small independent gallery. “It is now exactly 1:05. That’s five minutes of time, completely wasted.”

  Brooklyn took a moment to catch her breath. This was not a good start. The Manix Gallery wasn’t even her first choice. Yes, it catered to the kind of art she produced, but she hadn’t exactly sensed the warm and fuzzies from the owner. On the other hand, she was used to overt pretension in the art community, so she sucked it up and considered it a stepping stone to bigger and better opportunities.

  By way of greeting he simply held out his hand to take her book which held images of her every last bit of her work. It had cost a pretty penny on her part to have the images of her large canvases reproduced in stellar quality but, much like the taxi fare she wasted trying to hustle here by one o’clock, she considered it an investment. Lately she was using up a good portion of her meager funds for “investments.” The canvases she created for the Paris Series, had cost her dearly. Hopefully this would all eventually pay off.

  Jared took the book and began opening it as he walked back to his office. Brooklyn just assumed she was meant to follow. The first part of the book had her latest work, inspired by her two weeks with Alex in Paris. It was not only her best work yet, it was the most meaningful.

  “Lucky for you,” he commented, as he entered the office, “you have Dalton Peterson in your corner.”

  Peterson had been one of her professors, and most supportive cheerleader, at Pratt Institute, where she went to college.

  “Your work is good,” Jared, said, sitting back in his chair and flipping through the pages. “I’m sure it will sell, despite you being a complete unknown. Just because we are small and new-ish here, doesn’t mean we take just any old stray off the street.”

  Brooklyn just stood there taking it, keeping the words she wanted to say firmly in her head.

  Yes, one day this would all be worth it.

  * * *

  “They’re representing me!” she screamed into the phone.

  Brooklyn had kept a straight face throughout the entire demeaning afternoon of Jared’s constant put downs and underhanded compliments of her work. In the end, he had agreed to show her work, even scheduling a “tentative” date for a showing.

  “That’s great, Brooklyn!” Alex exclaimed on the other end of the line. “Just let me know when and I’ll be there at the opening, checkbook in hand.”

  “Alex,” she chided, even as she smiled into the phone, “you don’t need to pay my way, it was enough that you kept pushing me to make this move.”

  “What if I actually want your work?” he replied. “I kinda like the Paris at Dawn one, for obvious reasons.”

  Brooklyn’s smile grew even brighter, remembering him undressing her on the balcony of their Paris apartment right before the city woke up. “I’ll make sure he puts a hold on it for you,” she said.

  “How is L.A.?” she asked, moving the topic around to him.

  “Just taking it easy before I actually have to work. I think this club, Ménage, has potential. I even had an old friend of mine hit me up with an offer to make an appearance. She knows that actress Trina Robbins and her boyfriend Troy Higgins, from that band. I don’t even know them, but the more the merrier.”

  Brooklyn idly wondered who this “old friend” was, but let it pass. She knew she had nothing to worry about with Alex. He was hers.

  “Trina Robbins from those awful spoof movies?” she laughed. “I mean Troy is cool and all, but really?”

  “Hey, a celebrity is a celebrity,” he replied. “Surprisingly, it works much better than having a serious actor or actress make an appearance.”

  “Well, I suppose we both have something to celebrate tonight. It’s just a shame you’re all the way on the other side of the country,” she mused.

  “I’ve got plenty of miles left to bring that sweet ass of yours out here to join me,” he said suggestively.

  Brooklyn laughed. “It’s bad enough I’m using sick days for this whole art thing. I’m this close to being fired,” she said, only half joking. “We’ll just have to make up for it when you get back.”

  “I’m holding you to that, woman.”

  “You damn well better, mister.”

  Chapter Five

  Michael braced himself for what was coming. A protective hand instinctively went over his crotch as he exited the ele
vator to the penthouse suite where his father lived. His past few experiences with his youngest half-brother Chauncey had taught him to be prepared for a pubic assault.

  He had left work early (which in his job meant before 7 o’clock) to drop in on his father and see how this morning’s jarring news had affected him—most importantly this crazy idea of his to run for mayor. Secretly, Michael hoped there was a silver lining to this mess, and his father would just drop out.

  “Good evening Mr. Wright,” James, his father’s butler greeted him.

  “Good evening James,” Michael replied. “Any idea of what weapon our beloved Chauncey might be brandishing these days?”

  James offered a professionally stoic demeanor as he responded, but Michael saw the tight lipped strain in his features. “The young Mr. Wright has been taking….karate lessons.”

  “Sweet Jesus, who thought that was a good idea?”

  As if to stress the point, both men turned their faces in stunned surprise as a loud “Hi-ya!” came from the hallway, followed by a loud crash.

  “Chauncey Wright, you come back here right this moment, young man!” the British cry of his latest nanny rang out.

  It was patently ignored as a 6-year-old blur sped past Michael, then back tracked as he saw his older brother—and favorite victim of target practice—waiting by the door.

  Chauncey was dressed in all black and completely barefoot. He had a sheer, silk stocking over his head, mushing his facial features. The lacy edge that ringed his neck let Michael know that Svetlana, his father’s current wife, had a missing piece from her collection of intimates. The leg portion was knotted on top of his head, making him look as though he had a long ponytail.

  It would have been comical if Michael wasn’t acutely aware of the diabolical mind underneath that ensemble.

  As soon as that thought entered his head, the little terror came at him with another loud Hi-ya! and kicked him painfully in the shin.

  “Beware the ninja!” Chauncey yelled.

  Michael cursed and, in an act of pure instinct, grabbed the length of silk stocking above the knot and yanked it up. He heard a satisfying squeak on the part of his youngest brother. Even more satisfying, was the look of sheer surprise on Chauncey’s face that was comically elongated by the strain of the, surprisingly sturdy, silk stocking.

  Michael stood there admiring the result of his quick thinking as Chauncey struggled and grunted trying to grab at his hands.

  “Rule number 1 of attack,” Michael warned. “Never leave yourself vulnerable to the enemy.”

  He ignored Chauncey’s cries as he directed his attention back to James. “I assume that I find my father in the living room?”

  James miraculously held his emotions in check as he nodded in answer, “yes, sir,” but Michael didn’t miss the tiny tug at the corners of his mouth.

  He decided to bring Chauncey along with him. Perhaps he could deal with two family problems in one today. The boy struggled, clawing at Michaels hands and making the sorts of threats 6 year olds who are used to getting their way make.

  On the way, they passed Michael’s second youngest half-brother, River, a product of Richard’s third wife. Based on the ripped black clothing and black nail polish and lipstick (good grief), he was still going by “Riot” these days. In fact, the only bit of color he sported were the bright green eyes, framed in heavy black eyeliner. His typically sullen and cynical expression was momentarily brightened as he saw the display before him.

  He pulled an earbud out of his ears. The music, if you could actually call the riotous noise coming out of the iPhone music, which could already be heard yards away even when the buds were in his ears, became obscenely loud. Michael wanted to give the boy a lesson on the fragility of ear drums, but he had enough on his plate at the moment.

  “Fuckin’ A!” Riot exclaimed nodding and smiling at Chauncey’s apparent despair. His little brother just shot out a kick, which Riot easily avoided, laughing out loud.

  “What the heck is going on out there?” they all heard Richard say from the nearby living room.

  “Welcome to the freak show,” Riot grumbled, rolling his eyes as he went back to frowning. He stuck his ear bud back in, and made a quick escape in the other direction.

  Richard, Michael’s father, stood there, the same tall build, dark hair and cleft chin that all his sons had inherited, though Chauncey had yet to grow into some of his.

  “Alright, alright,” Richard sighed. “You can let him go. We all know he’s a holy terror.”

  “Karate lessons?” Michael asked incredulously.

  “It was supposed to calm him down.”

  “In the same way a nuclear bomb might ease traffic congestion?” Michael asked sarcastically.

  He gave one final tug and the stocking came off, eliciting a squeal of protest from Chauncey. The boy gave another firm kick to Michael’s calf as he stuck his tongue out and ran off.

  Michael gave his father a look that said, see what I mean?

  Richard just shrugged in response. They both winced as another crash was heard throughout the penthouse, followed by another stream of scolding from the nanny.

  “Don’t even start, Michael,” Richard said before he could open his mouth. “I’ve seen the papers. You would think what two consenting adults decided to do in the privacy of their own home…” he mumbled, trailing off as he took up his usual stance facing Central Park with his hands held behind his back.

  Michael wanted to point out that it was hardly two people and if it took place in Richard’s home, it was in some secret room he had yet to be privy to. Instead he left it, focusing instead on some delicate way to inquire about his decision to continue on in this absurd quest to be mayor of New York.

  He decided the quickest path was the best way to go. “So I guess this means you’ll be removing yourself from the ticket?”

  Richard spun around and looked at his son incredulously. “The Wrights are not quitters, son. In fact, this only makes me a better candidate.”

  Michael couldn’t believe his ears and spoke before thinking. “How in the world do you figure that?”

  Richard collected himself and returned to his imperious stance, staring out the window. “The reason I’m the lead Republican candidate is because the people know I’m different from your average politician.”

  “There’s the understatement of the year.”

  “These photos only prove that.”

  “Actually, based on what I know about politicians, you might be wrong about that.”

  “I’m real, son. The real deal. In fact, I already have a new campaign slogan.”

  Michael braced himself, full of dread as Richard turned around with a grin on his face. “Whipping New York back into shape!” he said using his hands to draw out the line.

  Michael closed his eyes and shook his head wondering how they shared the same genes. “I think it’s terrible.”

  Richard frowned. “Well, I always had my sneaking suspicions you leaned Democrat. This confirms it.”

  “This is what confirms it?” Michael laughed. “Listen, Dad, I actually came to see how you were holding up with this latest news, but it seems, as usual you’re completely unfazed.”

  Richard beamed. “That’s right, son.”

  “It wasn’t necessarily a compliment.”

  “Michael, I’m going to give you some advice that has served me well. When life throws you punches, the best thing you can do is hit back twice as hard. Double down, son; double down.”

  “You know,” Michael said, pondering that statement, “That was surprisingly profound.”

  “Well, I have always been known for my smarts Michael. How do you think you were so successful at Harvard? It’s in the genes, son. In the genes.

  And…they were back to the real Richard Wright.

  Chapter Six

  “Oh, Richard,” Frank Jefferson laughed, looking over the same headline that London had discovered yesterday morning. “I always knew there was some
thing off about you.”

  “Daddy,” London admonished. “Just because he’s…into…certain things, doesn’t make him ‘off’.”

  Her father gave her a suspicious look. “London, I’m going to refrain from assuming that you speak from experience seeing as how you’re my daughter, and currently dating one of his sons.” He closed his eyes as if to erase any thoughts that statement conjured up.

  “I thought you were good with me—and Brooklyn—dating the Wrights. You met him. He’s a good man.”

  “That was before the patriarchal Wright turned out to be ‘oh so Wrong’,” he said, shaking the New York Post in his hands blasting the headline. He chuckled as he looked at the headline again. Then his face took on a frown as he looked down at the New York Times.

  “Then there’s this,” he sighed, obviously referring to the news about Claudia Rivera. “It’s practically mutinous, I tell you. No loyalty in the Democratic Party, no loyalty at all.

  London kept her mouth firmly shut. Even though their firm did represent Dion Davis, she had no problem with the Democratic Party’s “disloyalty.” Maybe they, like her, just wanted a candidate that would actually be good for the city.

  * * *

  “Dion!” Frank Jefferson exclaimed, greeting the New York State representative with an eager pump of the hand.

  “Now, I know this latest news about Council Member Rivera is upsetting, but rest assured, we have everything handled.”

  London watched as Dion Davis greeted her father with a confident air. She had to admit that he was a good politician. One would have never guessed that his campaign for New York City mayor was hanging on by a thread.

  The media was still eagerly reporting about the Summer Lunch Program scandal, which did nothing to help Davis, even though he had yet to be directly tied to any wrong doing. His former Chief of Staff, Sean Carmichael, was currently being indicted. Clayton Moore, his former Senior Legislative Assistant and London’s ex-boyfriend, was in the process of being disbarred for fraudulently accusing the Jefferson firm of being involved. Davis’ only hope was that it would all be over and done with come election time.