Chaka took off her red-soled three-inch high heels while sitting in her silver Aeron chair while her Gucci one shoulder blue silk shantung dress snugly crept up her toned shapely legs and, in a continuously sweeping motion, put on her white jeweled Jimmy Choos. It was a quarter to six—and as everyone in the office knew, she had to make a stunning appearance at the Advertising Leader of the Year event at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Hoshiko “Star” Mathews, an art director, stood in the doorway, watching and stroking her furry friend with opal eyes.
“Got time to see the Nova rough cut?” Mathews asked as she cradled a well-behaved cat in her arms. The brown shorthaired female was a smart adult feline who seemed to be ambivalent to most people and paid respect and reverence to those who fed her or catered to her.
“No way, Star,” Chaka replied, clearly using Mathews’ nickname to soften the refusal. “Can’t risk it today. I’m hosting the VIP reception in less than an hour so just send me a link.” She stood up and looked into the full-length mirror behind her office door. She looked flawless.
“It’s better we do this now,” Mathews pressed. She let her voice go lower and harder than usual. Chaka might be the boss, but shit needed to be done.
“This isn’t a negotiation. Send me the link,” Chaka said as she grabbed her champagne Margot clutch and pushed past Star in the doorway.
“Done deal.” Mathews surrendered and slowed her roll while she walked down the red-carpeted hallway toward the creative department. She dropped her “ticked” tabby coated cat and let it stroll under her worktable and corner a red-rubber chewing toy. Susan Morgan, her boss, was putting the final touches on an art board as Star slipped her hands into the pockets of her artfully torn designer jeans and gave a status report.
“I’m sending Chaka a link to review tonight,” she said while her Abyssinian played at her feet.
The tiny bells in the ball jingled as Cleo nudged it with her small wet nose.
“Sixty seconds? You couldn’t get Chaka to stop for a freakin’ minute?” Susan didn’t look up from her work, “Girl, you got to learn how to make people do what you want them to. Even the CEO.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” Star said.
“Don’t apologize. Just get it done.” Susan finally looked up, right into Star’s brown eyes, and arched an unimpressed eyebrow.
Chaka headed to the Santa Monica Freeway in her chauffeured black Lincoln. She relaxed in the plush rear seat and listened to The Chronic. There was precious little time for her to relax and enjoy music and smoke a joint. Her “All Eyes on Me” ringtone announced a call from the honorable Kublai Khan.
“So how’s my girl?” he asked.
“Let’s keep it a hundred,” Chaka said. “How was your flight, honorable minister?”
“When will I see you?” he asked, ignoring the question.
“At ten.”
“Fantastic. I’ll order in Chinese with some of those spicy noodles you like.”
“Sweetheart, I mean ten in the morning. Tonight I’m staying at the Hilton. Can’t do a rendezvous tonight.” Chaka smiled as she said the last sentence, hoping it would ease Khan’s disappointment. “Let’s keep the good old days in a box for now.”
Khan gave a huff of disappointment. “Then I will see you at the office tomorrow with Reverend Hung,” he conceded.
“What’s he like?” Chaka asked.
“He’s a man of God in a blue pin-striped suit and huge diamond pinky ring,” Kublai Khan said.
“See you in the morning, muscles.”
“Goodnight, booty girl,” he said, and she heard the fond smile in his voice.
Chaka restarted the CD and drifted back into an imaginary musical wonderland. The Lincoln sedan driver Andrew made a right on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. She could almost taste the spicy noodles that she wasn’t going to have tonight.
Kublai Khan wore a black suit with epaulets. On his left wrist was an inconspicuous Patek Philippe watch and a twenty-four-karat gold three-string elephant-hair bracelet. Hung sported a fresh haircut, shave, and manicure. His fingers shone with clear polish. A security team roamed the halls and two enormous black Cadillac Escalades were parked at the curb.
Malcolm Gilmore explained the revised campaign platform.
“When we first accepted this assignment, our agency had a few well-constructed notions about race and ethnicity and how that might impact the campaign mission of making interracial couples more acceptable.”
Hung and the minister settled back in seats and relaxed around their hot beverages and began to focus on their laptops before turning their attending back to front of room as Malcolm spoke.
“After a few dozen focus groups and hundreds of shopping-mall intercepts, we trashed the first strategy and started over,” he said, and tossed the report binders into a compact recycling bin in the rear corner of the room.
WHAM!
One of Reverend Hung’s security men burst into the room with one hand on his concealed weapon and the other on his hip underneath his suit coat. Hung and Khan appeared surprised but in control of their emotions. The effect dissipated immediately. Gilmore continued.
“Why, in the early twentieth century, did some churches in America have a pinewood slab with a comb on a string outside the entry door?”
Silence.
“It was a signal that those whose skin wasn’t as light as the pinewood or who couldn’t rake a comb effortlessly through their hair were not welcomed in the sanctuary.”
Hung and his representatives seem to focus intensively on the slave history while Khan displayed the lack of interest.
“Did you know that this country once practiced a social rule that children of mixed race would be considered the race that was the least privileged? And yet, now we can make interracial dating fashionable.” Gilmore held a brown paper bag up, silently comparing its color to his darker skin.
“Are you saying we don’t have to do anything to speed up the creation of MRCs and mocha babies?” Kublai Khan asked.
Malcolm was ready.
“Of course, we have to lead the way. But the Forum marriages will be a beautiful event that’ll make those babies a prized social possession. It will no longer be an accessory exclusive to celebrities like Kanye and Kim. Mocha babies are for everyone.”
“We must find a way to show the positive economic impact that recently immigrated women have on the nation,” Hung said.
“We will create a social media site that will give mixed-race women all over the world an opportunity to express their fears, tears, and hopes for the future.” Chaka said.
Both men smiled.
After the meeting, when the team said goodbye to Hung, Chaka noticed Kublai Khan dismissing his security detail. Her team made a beeline for the elevators. Chaka said about a zillion “good works” and “goodbyes” and then turned to Kublai Khan, who had a shit-eating grin on his face. They were alone standing in the elevator foray. As they embraced, he cupped her butt gently and tenderly kissed her.
He whispered, “Are we alone?”
“Does it matter?” she asked as she pushed his hand up.
“Of course we are,” she said.
Without a word, Chaka led Khan up the staircase toward her penthouse office. Her black double-knit business suit with white trim accented the way her hips joined with her narrow waist. The passion he felt was increased by his reptilian brain instincts when he gazed at the mid-waist juncture of her body. Chaka paused on the stairs for a moment to squeeze the minister’s Johnson through his trousers.
“We’re alone, but you still have to wait to get to my office.”
“I may take you right here.”
By the time they reached the top of the stairs, the minister had his strong fingers searching up Chaka’s skirt. Khan pushed his forefingers past her panties, and caressed her vulva. Chaka jumped with surprise as he pressed her up against the wall at the top of the stairs. Her pearl necklace snapped on impact, its stones scattering on the polished plaster floor and cascading down the stairs like bouncing white rubber balls.
Kublai Khan thrust his penis against her and gathered her skirt above the silk half-slip that clung to her toned thighs. He pulled her panties down around her heels, exposing her unshaven labia. The frenzy of his actions made Chaka freeze, remembering.
“Give me a chance to breathe,” she gasped.
“I’m the one who needs oxygen,” the minister barked as he shed his pants.
He kissed her deeply and enjoined her tongue with his. She bit it firmly but gently. The quest of his hands excited her. The deeper they went, the more she pressed up against them. But she couldn’t help thinking of a butcher prodding a piece of meat, too. And she wasn’t a roast.
She resisted as he jostled her jacket off and flung it to the floor, followed by her skirt, slip, and panties. Her sheer blouse revealed her swollen nipples. He fumbled with the buttons and one of them popped free. He flung it into the mailroom.
“I can’t get your clothes off fast enough,” Kublai Khan said. He stood fully naked from the waist down, and she was down to only her half-open blouse and bra.
And suddenly she was back against a wall at a fraternity rush party. She could smell the apple wine and gin on his breath and feel the muscles in his arms rolling against her waist. She could almost hear the muffled, long-gone sounds of Motown from beyond the door of his bedroom.
She never had gotten the cum stains out of her shirt, and she never had decided just where the blame lay.
She pushed back and elbowed Kublai Khan in the stomach. He bent at the waist and gasped for air.
“Muscles. I won’t let you do this again,” she said.
He went stiff, stubborn, and stupefied.
“What are you talking about?” he demanded. “That was a hundred years ago.”
“It wasn’t that long ago,” Chaka replied, the knowledge swelling within her, “and today it would’ve been called rape.”
“I was drunk and stupid.”
“You were out of control.” Chaka stepped away, bending down to pick up her jacket and underwear.
Khan huffed.
“You can still catch your men in the lobby,” she said without looking at him. “I’m going to lock up and head home. Good night, Kublai.”
The honorable minister was already halfway down the stairs when Chaka pulled up her skirt and buttoned her shirt as she stared into darkness.