"I'm not offended. I just didn't expect that response. Carson." I extend my hand.
“Rachelle.”
She takes my hand, and the room spins. What the… Straight fire. And for a second, I expect her to pull away, then I remember she just called her boss a bitch-ass. Something tells me pulling away isn't in Rachelle's blood.
“Damn. Give me my hand back. You might have me butt naked in the hallway.”
“I’m a man who aims to please.” I tease back.
"All right then, Carson." She gives me a sexy smirk. “So, are you lost too?”
I stop and stare at her. “What makes you say that?”
“We’ve passed this picture three times.”
“Not lost, but distracted by a beautiful woman,” I say.
"I have that effect on men." She winks, and I laugh.
“Let me get you to your destination. I need my head on straight to get through this day.”
We walk, and my thoughts center on the woman beside me. She looks half a foot shorter than my five-eleven. Her frame is curvy, average bust with wide hips. I open the door to the business center and step aside, and notice she has a great ass.
"Nice." She selects a computer by placing her documents next to the keyboard.
I clear my throat, yanking my eyes from her butt. “Did you need anything else?”
“Yeah, I need a shuttle sent to the airport on Sunday. I can’t have my girl lost in NYC.”
“Mr.–”
"Merrilyn, can you pass a message to Deacon?" I ask her before she says my name. It's obvious Rachelle doesn't know me. I smile, embracing anonymity. "What's your friend's name?"
“Daiya Treshelle Prince.”
Merrilyn asks for the correct spelling. "Yes, sir. I'll be back in five minutes." Merrilyn says, catching on to my desire to have more time alone with Rachelle.
"Thank you." Rachelle smiles, sitting in the chair, turning on the computer.
“What brought on this girl’s trip, if you don’t mind me asking?”
"I needed out of L.A. to regroup." She types for a few seconds and turns in the chair. "I'm at a crossroads, and I'm trying to figure out where I am and what's my next move."
“And NYC was the answer?” I sit on the edge of the table.
"Running away was the answer, and NYC is far as my bank account would allow." She chuckles and shrugs. "I finished college with this plan to take over Hollywood, and seven years later, I'm… stuck. And I can't quit because my dreams don't pay the bills." The humor fades from her expressive eyes. “Crazy? Huh?”
“Yes, I’ve been there.”
“Really? What did you do?”
“Considered what had me stuck. Then I created an alternative plan.”
“Hum. And?”
“And… I realized my goals were the same, but I had lost my way. Mostly being young and listening to the opinions of people who shouldn’t factor into my business decisions.”
“Hum.” She nods. “It sounds so easy.”
“Deciding is easy. The work is usually not. So, what is it you dreamed of doing?”
Rachelle stares at me with a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. “Promise you won’t laugh.”
“Never.”
“I wanted to create shows like The Cosby Show–pre-Bill scandal, The Hughleys, Martin, Girlfriends. Not cloning, but the essence of seeing Black people as regular people, not a single spot of color in a show full of a White cast. No offense. But I want to give others what I needed as a kid. They gave me permission to do something with my life, to be someone different. You know?”
I nod, but I’ve never thought of TV that way. My father was all the model I needed. He groomed me to fill his shoes from the moment I showed interest in The Wellington.
“What’s stopping you?” I ask.
“Life. Finances. My skin. The fact that I have two legs and not three.”
“Three?” Instinct takes my eyes to her jean covered legs.
“A dick.”
My eyes pop up, and I burst out laughing.
“You promised.”
"I did, and I'm sorry, but you're something." I laugh until my side hurts, brushing tears from my eyes. I'm always surrounded by women, but I can't find a single one in my memory that compares to Rachelle. "My father used to tell me challenges are God's way of sharpening your gifts. So, Rachelle, what if your skin, your finances, and your anatomy are exactly what you need to pursue your dreams?”
She sits back. “Then my whining is what’s holding me back.”
I smile. “And if that’s true, what is the next best step for you to take?”
“Before or after I tell them to kiss my ass?”
I freeze.
“It’s okay. You can laugh.”
And I do. Head back, and for the life of me, I can't remember the last time I laughed this hard.
“Sir?” Merrilyn stares at me as if I’m a stranger.
"I'll meet you in the hall," I respond.
“Yes, sir.”
The moment we’re alone, Rachelle says, “Don’t snap at her. It’s hard being an assistant. And you don’t want her accidentally spitting in your coffee.”
I look towards the door. “Why on earth would she spit in my coffee?”
She shrugs. “Asshole behavior awakens the petty in me.”
I could kiss her sassy mouth. She faces the computer typing with a slight tilt of her head. Then looks back up at me.
"Enough staring. I have work to do, and Merrilyn's patiently waiting in the hallway."
I stand, but my feet won’t move. “How long will you be in town?”
“A month.”
“Here?”
“Yeah, so I guess I’ll see you around.”
“You will.” Then something she said resurfaces. “What does your skin have to do with your dreams?”
“Honestly?”
I sit back down.
“Sir?” Merrilyn sticks her head back in the room.
"I'll kick him out in five minutes." Rachelle winks at Merrilyn and turns her attention back to me. "Some days, it feels like I'm on top of the world, and other days the clear ceiling sits like a weight on my chest."
Hot and cold.
Fire and ice.
Hilarious and thoughtful.
She is something.
“What does that have to do with your beautiful brown skin?”
Her eyes snap to mine. “Beautiful?”
“Exquisite.”
“Are you flirting with me, Carson?”
“I guess I need to step up my game.”
“Your game is pretty strong from where I’m seated.” Her steamy gaze roams my body. “And to answer your question, it’s a reality of my world you may never understand. Hollywood is run by and financed by White men. Brown-skin women are treated like extras, and I want to do more than look pretty. I want to say something, do something.”
“So, what’s stopping you?”
“I told you.”
I stand. “You don’t seem like the passive type.”
“I’m not.” Her back stiffens. “I’m stating facts.”