Black Lies(3)
Yet, five years later, I was still stuck. I’d had a few wild nights. Fucked some strangers with calluses on their hands. Visited a 7-Eleven and bought a hot dog. Went to Tijuana long enough to realize I would never go back. Then… like a migrating bird, I drifted home to this world. Settled back in without even realizing it. Five years later and I was still surrounded by the people from my youth. The friends who weren’t friends. The parties in which everyone smiled but no one had fun. Where life was a constant race to one-up each other, and the prom queen was still the bitch no one liked but everyone flocked to like maggots to meat. I needed to escape this life, I needed to find something different, I needed to make my own path, but it was hard to escape the only world I had ever known.
The man appeared in the doorway behind me, his chauffeur hat in hand, and met my eyes in the mirror. “I’ll be out front, whenever you are ready to leave for the event, Ms. Fairmont.”
“Thank you. I’ll be out shortly.”
He nodded, turning to leave, my eyes returning to the mirror. Brown eyes lightly outlined in mint chocolate. Enough makeup to hide flaws, but no more. Classy, not trashy. My mother had trained me well. I stared into my eyes and tried to find the person in them. The mirror showed the woman I had been raised to be. Designer gown that was subtle yet sophisticated. A polished exterior, from my hair to my heels. I stared at my shell and wondered why I couldn’t break from it. Tonight was the primary fundraising gala for an organization close to my heart. An important event that shouldn’t be missed. Maybe tomorrow I could turn over a new leaf. Try again to leave the nest and live a genuine and happy life. I applied a coat of clear gloss over my lipstick and avoided my eyes in the mirror.
“Brant Sharp.”
“Layana Fairmont.”
“I like your hair.”
“I’m not a prostitute.”
His mouth didn’t change, but his eyes warmed. “I can overlook that fact.”
The five lines of our meeting, uttered two hours into the fundraising gala. Unromantic. I blamed my bold response on alcohol, two glasses of wine already downed, my self-loathing slightly pacified by merlot.
I accepted the hand he extended, shaking it firmly as I studied the man, his name instantly recognized as soon as it had floated off his gorgeous lips. I had—on some minor level—stalked this man ever since I got involved with the Homeless Youth of America.
Brant Sharp. Genius. Billionaire. Philanthropist.
He was even better looking than I imagined, the tiny thumbnail image used in press releases barely showing his features. Certainly not doing this man any justice, his looks worthy of a GQ cover. But his intensity, that was what really surprised me. He peered at me as if I was a problem, and he searched my soul for a solution. He also seemed inordinately pleased by my hair, his eyes frequently leaving mine to stare at their erratic strands.
I can overlook that fact. I laughed at the response, the sound one he seemed to enjoy, his own mouth twitching a bit. Not a smile, but close. For me, one for whom a smile meant masked emotion, it was a refreshing change.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m a big fan of your work with HYA.” Homeless Youth of America was the only holdover from my mother’s painful rearing—a charity she pushed me into at a young age, one that ended up gripping my heart and not letting go.
Any hint of a smile dropped. “I wouldn’t call it work. My office cuts a check. Nothing else is done.”
“The funds mean a great deal.” Funds was putting his contribution lightly. Last year I personally donated half a million dollars, six percent of the annual donations. His check covered ninety-two percent. It was enough to make him the honorary Chairman of the Board, though he’d never shown his face at the facility or the board meetings. We had heard, discussed freely over coffee and stale donuts, the rumors surrounding our chairman. Beth Horton, a sharp-tongued mother of seven, whose face carried a permanently dour expression, unless sharing an exciting piece of gossip, had brought up the escorts to me.
“There’s been hundreds,” she confided at last year’s board meeting, wedging an entire powdered donut into her mouth as I watched closely, as interested at the prospect of her choking as I was in the discussion of Sharp’s sex life. “My driver’s brother is a doorman at his downtown condo and said the girls show up all hours. Beautiful girls, but clearly prostitutes. He never leaves with them, and they only stay for a few hours.” I nod, half-believing the words. It would explain why he’d never been photographed with a woman. The man appeared to not date, a fact that drove the women of San Francisco mad and had sparked occasional rumors of homosexuality. The rumors never went too far… too many women who had met the man, worked for the man, dissuaded them. I liked the idea of prostitutes, of the man unleashing holy hell on a woman of the night in the privacy of his home.