Chapter 3
Basra saved $1,000 of the $4,000 from her first date with Lawson. She sent the other $3,000 home to her mom and dad in Somalia. However, on her second date with Lawson, she pocketed $5,000 and kept all of it except one grand. In two weeks, her bank account went from $400 to $5,000. The lifestyle was quickly becoming addictive. However, Hollis wasn’t calling her for any other men, and Lawson was headed back to Texas. She desperately wanted to convince Hollis that her “no sex” theory was worth exploring, but Hollis wasn’t willing to take a chance, and Lucia wasn’t helping. In fact, Lucia was barely talking to her. Basra didn’t know if Lucia was more upset about the fact that Hollis hadn’t insisted she leave the agency, or the fact that she was receiving thousands of dollars to keep her legs closed. However, in Basra’s mind, she didn’t need to convince Lucia. Hollis was her target, and since she wasn’t returning her calls, Basra knew she had to plan to “accidentally but conveniently” run into Hollis on the street.
Basra put on her plaid Tom Ford shirt dress, with a pair of Converse, and took a cab to the Upper West Side. She breezed in and out of a few boutiques before she wandered over to Ninety-third Street and took a seat by the Joan of Arc statue. She had passed the statue several times but never really paid attention to it until that day. As far as she knew, it was just a random woman on a horse. She thought it was an interesting sculpture, and had heard the name of the woman on the horse, but didn’t know much about Joan of Arc’s story, nor cared. However, that day, she had close to an hour to spare before Hollis returned from her daily yoga class and so she decided to look up Joan of Arc on her iPad. As Basra read, she became more engrossed in her story.
“I had no idea,” she found herself saying aloud. “Wow, how crazy,” she continued to speak while gazing back and forth between the computer and the statue. Hollis read six stories on Joan of Arc in those few minutes. She put away her iPad and stared at the sculpture that she now knew was created by Anne Hyatt Huntington. She smiled proudly as though it were 1429 and she were riding in the French Army brigade next to Joan, the unconventional leader. Basra continued to think to herself. I can be a leader. Somehow, Basra had connected with this young girl and likened her mission to create a new escort service to that of Joan’s to conquer the English. Though the missions were polar opposites, Joan’s story gave her a spark of confidence, which was all she needed to talk Hollis. Basra quickly rose and walked over to Caffe Mocias, which was across the street from the yoga class. As soon as she ordered her latte and paid, Hollis walked through the door. Her coincidental meeting happened perfectly.
“Hollis, how are you?”
“Great, just finished yoga. What are you doing on this side?”
Basra expressed a silly grin and took a sip of her latte. She had placed so much focus on running into Hollis that she didn’t think beyond the meeting for an excuse as to why she would be on the Upper West Side at ten in the morning.
“They have the best lattes,” she replied with a quick chuckle.
Hollis motioned with a slight nod to the cashier, slid two dollars on the counter, and moved to the side to wait for her cup.
“You must come here a lot.”
“Why would you say that?
“Because she knew what you wanted without you speaking.”
Hollis grabbed her cup and took a sip. “The Ethiopian Ardi blend is delish. But, you probably wouldn’t like that, right?”
“Why?”
“I mean Ethiopia and Somalia have been at odds for years.”
Confused, Basra squinted and replied. “What does that have to do—”
“It was a joke,” Hollis interrupted. “Why are you on this side again?”
Basra spit out an excuse. “I have a friend who lives over here. I spent the night. Oh, and they have the best lattes.” She smiled bashfully.
Hollis smirked. “How sweet. Friends don’t last long in this business,” Hollis said, walking out of the door. Basra followed as she saw this as her segue.
“Well, I think they can. It’s about honesty.”
Hollis stopped walking and took another sip of her African morning brew. “What is it with you? You can’t have it both ways. Either you play the money game and do what you have to and become rich, or play nice, work hard, and retire at sixty. The choice is yours and you can’t feel guilty about the lifestyle you want to have. How many people from your country would kill to live like us?” Hollis continued walking.
“Actually, there are lots of rich people in Somalia. Wealth beyond your comprehension.”
“I’ve partied with royalty; I doubt it.”
Basra ignored Hollis’s crass remarks and kept focus on her mission. “Where are you headed? May I walk with you for a minute?”
“Walk,” Hollis coldly remarked.
Basra continued up Amsterdam, walking just half a step behind her boss. This was her closing argument and she knew she only had minutes before her verdict, therefore her points had to be strong and effective. “There are other men out there like Lawson. Men love the chase; it actually makes men feel like the woman really likes them. I’m sure you know that when a woman likes a man, she doesn’t give it up so quickly. Me not doing it is another type of mind game. I’m the girl you want but can’t have. The majority of your clients may not want to go out with me, but a few will love me. You pride yourself in offering a variety. I’m another choice for Choice.” Basra stopped walking as added punctuation to her statement. This decision forced Hollis to also halt. She turned and gave Basra a once-over.
“I’ll put some feelers out there and get back with you. Is that all?”
Basra knew she’d said enough and so she nodded quietly and smiled. Hollis lowered her shades and gave Basra another glance. She placed them back over her eyes and turned away.
“I’ll call you,” she said after taking two steps.
Basra watched Hollis walk down the block and turn the corner. Whether Hollis called or not, Basra felt victorious. Joy began growing from within her belly. When she thought about the recent deposits into her bank account, the joy grew and her nervous energy grew to an emerging smile. Basra quickly turned and tossed her coffee cup, which she had been carrying empty for two blocks, into the green trash bin on the corner. Ironically at that moment, her cup collided with an empty fast food bag also being tossed in, and the bump knocked her empty latte container onto the dirty pavement.
“Sorry,” said the gentleman as he knelt to pick up her cup.
Basra spotted his nice physique and perfectly shaped chin that held a small cleft. Their eyes connected and there was a silent moment as they both took notice of each other’s beauty.
“You’re, um ... you’re quite beautiful,” he said.
“Thanks,” Basra said with a giggle. “Well, um ... I’m going to go.”
“Hold up, I’m Grayson.”
“Basra.”
There was another pause just before he extended his hand to shake hers. She knew he wanted more conversation, and though he was absolutely adorable, she didn’t want to add a man to her complicated life.
He nervously adjusted his black-framed glasses and asked, “You live over here?”
“No.”
Grayson sensed that she wasn’t giving up any information, but he wasn’t ready to give up. “I’m an artist. I don’t live over here either. I’m hanging some of my work in that gallery right there.”
Basra glanced to her left and saw the gallery space. She smiled politely, and commented.
“It was nice meeting you, Grayson. I have to go.” She gently brushed her hand against his arm as she turned and walked away.
Grayson stood by the trash and watched her stroll down the sidewalk. The moment was like a daydream, as he was literally captivated by the jolt of energy she’d just placed within him. It was so jarring that as soon as she disappeared, an idea for a painting came to mind. He rushed inside the gallery to write down his concept.
Basra hopped on the train and headed back home. She liked the train but had become accustomed to taking taxis because of Lucia, who only took taxicabs or private cars everywhere. Basra enjoyed the lavish lifestyle, but didn’t want to become a slave to it. She knew Lucia wasted mounds of money and Basra’s plan was to save not spend. Thus, she was thrifty whenever possible. By the time she hopped off the number one and stepped out on to Twenty-third, Basra no longer wanted to go home. She wanted to go shopping. Other than a few pair of jeans, she hadn’t purchased any new clothing in months. Lucia shopped daily and didn’t wear half of her things, so when Basra had the craving to wear a new dress, she shopped in Lucia’s closet where half of the items were still adorned with high priced tags. But Lucia had been acting more like a “frenemy” lately, and since Basra didn’t know where their relationship stood, she didn’t want to ask any favors. In truth, Basra wanted to start saving for her own place, and so as quick as the shopping thoughts appeared, she put them out of her mind and went to the fresh market for items to make a fruit salad. Proud that she’d only spent fifteen dollars, Basara quickly went home to dig into her healthy lunch.
A few feet from the elevator, Basra was approached by Lance, one of the tenants in the Echelon.
“Basra, right?” he said as he rushed to catch up with her.
“Hiiiiiiii,” she replied, stretching out the word in hopes his name would pop into her head before it became obvious she’d forgotten it.
Lance said, “I live above you and Lucia, I’m Lance.”
“Yes, I know. How are you?” Basra continued to walk.
“I’m good. So, I’ve been trying to catch up with you to talk.”
“About what?”
“Can you stop walking for a second?” Lance asked.
Basra halted and turned to face him.
“We should go out.”
“Are you asking me out?
“I am. Tonight. Come with me to a party.”
Basra paused and contemplated his request. Lance was definitely a great catch, on paper at least. He was an architect for a large firm, single, and very handsome. She’d heard his name mentioned within the circles of women in the building but he didn’t seem to date that much.
“It’s taking you a long time to respond,” he expressed.
Basra wasn’t sure how long she had been standing there, but it was apparent she was not jumping at the idea of going out with him.
“It’s just a party, we’ll have fun. If not, we’ll leave and I will bring you back home.”
“What time should I be ready?”
“By eight. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
That was quick and painless. Basra knew she over-thought most situations and sometimes it was just best to do, but spontaneity wasn’t in her character. But this worked in her favor, for she simply needed the excuse to do something she already desired, which was shop. Hence, Basra went upstairs, quickly made her fruit salad, and then headed back through the Flatiron District to a few of her favorite boutiques and searched for an outfit for her evening with Lance.
That evening at 7:50, Basra applied her final layer of gloss across her scarlet-red lips and walked downstairs to the lobby. Lucia was out of town, which was perfect. She didn’t care to explain the details of how Lance approached her, how she responded, and how the date went. Lucia was extremely nosy, and often asked details that were a bit out of order and sometimes rude. Basra didn’t mind so much, but lately Lucia was getting on her nerves and her bothersome little characteristics were becoming increasingly annoying. She was definitely glad to not be agitated by her that evening. Basra stepped into the lobby wearing her white Stella McCartney ruffled blouse and tan tuxedo-striped shorts. Lance was waiting by the front door when she walked up behind him.
“You look hot!”
“Thanks, so do you,” Basra said, making note of his brown Gucci suit.
Basra liked the fact that he was six feet five, which meant she could wear her heels and still look up to her date. Most times when she wore heels, she was eye level with most of her male companions.
“You ready?”
Basra nodded and they headed into Manhattan.
The party was a red-carpet opening for one of the buildings Lance’s company had designed. In short, it was a glamorous corporate party. She and Lance mingled but he held her hand throughout the night and made all aware that she was his date for the evening. They received awkward stares upon entering because although it was 2012, people were still curious and sometimes thrown by interracial couples. Ironically, Lance was of African American and Jewish descent, but he had assimilated 100 percent into the Jewish community. His skin was light, his hair was straight, and from afar he looked Caucasian, with very few black traits. He never hid the fact that his mother was black, but it rarely came up. Basra had only learned the fact because of nosy Lucia, who got everyone’s background within the first hour of meeting. But despite the occasional glances, Basra enjoyed her night out with Lance; it was quaint, and required little conversation, just nods and smiles. He networked most of the evening so after he made introductions, she stood by his side and looked beautiful. After two hours, he was ready to go.
“I know you don’t want the evening to be over just yet,” he said as they stepped into the cab.
Basra surprised herself when she replied, “I would like to hang out a little longer.”
Lance leaned up and gave the cab driver an address. Traffic was thick but close to thirty minutes later they were pulling up at a brownstone in Brooklyn.
“One of my friends is having a house party. We’ll hang out here for a little while before going back in.”
“Sounds good,” Basra replied.
This crowd was much more laid back and trendy, and Lance’s posture changed drastically upon crossing the threshold. Suddenly, he had swag. He immediately dapped up the guy who opened the door and began swaying to the hip-hop music that was blaring through the speakers. He could tell from Basra’s expression that she was shocked.
“I know how to have fun, too. It’s not always about work.”
“I see.”
“This is my boy Victor,” he said, introducing Basra to the host.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Make yourself at home,” Victor said as they walked in.
The party was a mixture of all ethnicities and cultures, but the one obvious common denominator was wealth. But it wasn’t that nouveau riche crowd. This was old money. Kids whose ancestors had buildings named after them in downtown Manhattan. Lucia said you can always tell old money from new because most of them were not ostentatious or braggadocios. The casual manner in which they left their four-thousand-dollar purses unattended instantly told Basra that money was not a big deal and that they never had to work hard for it. Yet, except for an occasional stock tip, there wasn’t much conversation about money, it was a just a party with plenty of liquor and loud music. Lance didn’t stay as close once they got inside Victor’s four-level townhome, and Basra spent most of the first hour going room to room looking for him. Finally, she gave up and decided to enjoy herself. She mingled with some of the girls, one in particular who had recognized her from a recent spread in Grazia, an Italian fashion magazine. The girl mostly wanted to know what designers Basra had worked with and how many exotic places she’d traveled to. The woman was obsessed with modeling and finally Basra had to ditch her by escaping to another part of the house. Oddly, no matter what room she wandered in, she noticed this guy always checking her out from across the room. She’d seen him in the building a few times with Lance, but was never introduced. He finally decided to approach after he spotted her looking at him.
“I’m Campbell; my friends call me Camp.”
“Hi, Campbell, I’m Basra.”
“You can call me Camp.”
“But I’m not a friend,” Basra commented.
“We can work on that,” he said. “You live in Lance’s building. I’ve spoken to you.”
“Yeah, I remember,” said Basra.
“You play poker?” he asked.
“Believe it or not, I do.”
“Let’s go.”
Basra followed Campbell into another part of the party, which was now packed with at least a hundred people. They went to the fourth floor where three other men had a poker game just starting.
“We want in,” Campbell said as they entered.
“It’s five to get in,” said one of the guys.
“I’ll cover us both,” replied Campbell as he pulled a roll of money from his front and back pockets. He glanced over at Basra and motioned for her to sit.
“I didn’t realize you were playing for real money.”
“How else would you play?” another male responded. “Texas hold ’em, beautiful; you sure you want to get in debt with us?”
“It’s cool, I got you,” said Campbell while throwing $1,000 on the dealer’s table.
“But what if I lose?” she asked.
He shook his head and motioned once again for her to sit.
The men introduced themselves and asked a few questions about her while they played the first hand. Yet, when questions were addressed about Basra the guys deferred to Campbell. The men were basically talking around her.
“She came with Lance, one of his models,” he remarked with a wink.
While they were talking across her, Basra stayed focused on the game and soon it was down to her and Nick. The first pot was already at $500 and Basra was sure she was going to win as she held four of a kind. However, she was cautious and didn’t want to raise the pot. She and Nick stared at each other across the table and he confidently threw two more chips in the pot.
“I raise you a hundred,” he said.
Basra didn’t hesitate, wanting to look very comfortable in the poker environment. She immediately tossed in her chips. “I call,” she replied with assurance.
Nick gave her one more glance and then placed his five cards on the table.
“Four of a kind.” He grinned, displaying his set of tens.
The other three folded players released anxious sighs and remarks. Basra then laid her hand down.
“Four of a kind, all ladies.” She smiled, displaying not only her pearly whites but her four queens.
“I’ll be damned,” Nick murmured as the dealer announced, “The pot of seven hundred goes to our lovely lady.”
“I win!” Basra yelped and she grappled through the mound of chips.
After a few more re-ups, and three more hands, all players cashed out. Basra had won $1,400, but Campbell was the big winner with three grand. Nick unfortunately left the game with two hundred bucks.
“I don’t know where you came from, but you’re bad luck. Don’t come back to any more of my games.”
“Excuse me,” she said.
Campbell pushed him aside. “Go sober up. You’ll play better.”
Nick pushed back but then quickly turned and went out of the door when he didn’t see Campbell backing down. Basra handed Campbell his $500, took her remainder, stashed it in her purse, and then looked at the time.
“Have you seen Lance?” she asked Campbell.
He shook his head.
“I’m ready to go.” Basra removed her cell phone to call him but quickly realized she didn’t have his number.
“Do you have Lance’s number?” she asked Campbell.
“You don’t?”
Basra nodded. “No, we live in the same building and this is the first time we’ve been out. We’ve been together all night so there was no need for his number.”
“I can’t help you with that.”
“You don’t have his number, but that’s your friend,” Basra said with confusion.
“I can’t believe you’re ready to leave.”
“Yeah, I’m tired, but I had fun, thanks.”
“Hold up,” he said forcefully, grabbing her hand.
Basra tried to pull away but his grip was too strong. “You’re hurting my arm. Let go.”
He did but remained close. “I can take you home,” he said.
“No, I’m going to find Lance.”
“I’m not good enough to take you home?” said Campbell, raising his voice.
Basra made her move toward the door but Campbell blocked it with his arm.
“I just want to spend some time with you. What’s the rush?”
“We just spent an hour together playing poker,” she said.
“Alone time,” he said, trying to kiss her. Basra dodged to avoid his lips but he quickly grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into his body. She squirmed to shake loose but couldn’t.
“Stop acting like you don’t want this.”
“Stop it!” she yelled. “Let me go.”
He pushed Basra down on the floor and held her down with his weight. He held her hands above her head and used his feet to block the door. Basra yelled, but no one could hear her over the music.
“It will be easier if you stop moving so much.” Campbell licked her face with his hot, sticky tongue. “You taste good,” he growled. Tears slowly rolled down Basra’s face. “What’s the matter? Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t pay you. Here!” Still smothering her body, Campbell took the money from his pocket and tossed it in her face.
“There’s three thousand and some change, that should cover it.”
“Please stop,” Basra whimpered.
“You’re too good for my money!”
“No, it’s not like that. I don’t have sex like that. Please let me up.”
“I don’t know a whore worth more than three grand.”
Campbell placed his left forearm over her chest to hold down her upper body as he attempted to remove her shorts with his right hand. His upper body weight kept her pinned to the floor.
“Okay okay!” she yelled. “I will sleep with you, but you have to be gentle. This is not how it’s done.” While Basra was attempting to bargain with Campbell, she managed to bend her leg and remove her shoe. Campbell lifted up slightly but still used his forearm to keep her pinned.
“How can I trust you?” he asked.
Basra paused, and then spoke, “You can’t.” She drove her five-inch stiletto directly into his temple. Stunned, he reared back and she clocked him again with the heel in his neck and a punch in the face. She quickly hopped up and kicked him in the stomach. Basra looked down and saw blood trickling near his ear. Frightened, she rushed from the room.
“Lance! Lance! Lance!” she yelled throughout the stairs, hallways, and into the main room. There was no sign of him. Still, Basra didn’t stop until she was out of the front door. She finally paused to take a deep breath once she was outside on the steps. There were people mingling but no one seemed to notice her turmoil. She wanted to yell out, “I was almost raped!” but she wasn’t sure anyone would hear or care. As she bent to place on her shoe, tears streamed with more force. “I was almost raped,” she whispered. Her body shook as she held on to the banister and walked down the remaining five steps. Basra looked back at the home in disbelief. She could have been raped that evening and no one would have known. It was obvious Lance knew what she did for a living and he must have informed Campbell. So she couldn’t help but wonder that if Campbell told everyone about her occupation, possibly know one would even care that she was attacked. Basra walked down the street a few feet and hailed a taxi. She hopped in while wiping her face, even though the tears continued.
“Where to?” asked the driver.
“Chelsea, thirty-seven West Twenty-first,” she spoke, nearly out of breath.
Basra placed her head against the window and let the tears continue to stream. Her legs and arms were still shaking as she heard Campbell’s words in her head. I don’t know a whore worth more than three grand. The tears welled more and rolled faster as she played the word “whore” repeatedly in her head.
“I’m so stupid,” she whispered.
Basra closed her eyes and tried to relax but her tears didn’t dry until well after the morning sun had blanketed the sky.