Chocolate Dove Read Free Page A

life, it changes your entire perspective.”
    They listened to the jazz band that covered at least nine Tony Bennett songs throughout the next hour. But Lawson was losing interest and Basra could tell.
    â€œAre you ready to leave?” she asked, hoping he would say yes and they could part ways.
    â€œYes. I have an apartment not far from here, let’s go.”
    â€œWait a minute, I thought we were just doing dinner and jazz. I can’t go to your place.”
    â€œWhat do you mean? The deal was we were going out for the evening, and it’s still evening.” Lawson reached in his pocket, pulled out his cell, and called the car.
    â€œThe keyword being ‘out.’ Not in, or inside. I can’t go to your place.”
    â€œI get it. No means no. I’m not a rapist. I’m not going to try to have sex with you. I’m a wealthy man. I can have sex with ninety percent of the women I meet, and that’s because the other ten percent are underage. You intrigue me. I simply want to engage in more conversation with you. Let’s go.”
    Lawson rose and held out his hand. Basra felt trapped. She knew if she didn’t go, he would call and give an unpleasant report to the agency, and she didn’t want that. But she knew if she went that it might lead to a situation beyond her control. Yet she continued to follow him toward the door. As she approached the exit her grip tightened and anxiety heightened. The car pulled up moments after exiting Smoke and Basra slowly got in. Lawson was very lucid considering the grand amount of sake and champagne he’d ingested. There was no way he was going to pass out, as she wished the entire ride over to East Seventy-seventh Street. They walked hand in hand into The Pavilion and went up to the thirty-first floor, two floors shy of the penthouse. It was nice, but not as extravagant as she’d imagined. As she walked in the apartment, Basra immediately took her shoes off, a habit she’d grown accustomed to as a child in an African household.
    â€œYour feet are very nice, as I assumed they would be.”
    Basra looked around and took a seat on one of the black leather couches. “How often are you here?” she asked, looking over at the seemingly untouched kitchen.
    â€œAbout once a week. I normally stay at my home on Long Island.”
    â€œOh.”
    Lawson grabbed anice-cold Voss from the refrigerator and took a sip. From the kitchen, he looked at Basra, who was now reading a magazine. Both were quiet.
    â€œI guess we discussed everything we had to say over dinner and music,” Lawson joked.
    Basra looked up and replied, “I guess so.”
    â€œTime for bed, I guess.”
    Basra’s body stiffened. “But ...”
    â€œI’m kidding,” Lawson said, removing his buttoned top shirt, exposing a heather grey shirt underneath. He sat close to Basra on the couch, placed her feet in his lap, and began rubbing her arches. Although she welcomed the foot massage, she was too nervous to enjoy it.
    â€œSo, we didn’t talk too much about Somalia. What do you miss most about home?” Lawson asked.
    â€œMy family. We have a big family. I have six uncles and too many cousins to count, and we all lived close to one another. I miss the dinners and laughter. I had a great childhood. I miss my best friend too, a lot. It was so much fun, I never realized how poor we were until I came here.”
    â€œI can’t imagine what that would be like.”
    â€œWhy would you want to imagine being poor?”
    â€œI meant having family. My dad worked all of the time, my mother drank all of the time, and I have no siblings. I spent my entire childhood in boarding schools.”
    â€œThat sounds horrible.”
    â€œLike you said, as a child you don’t know any different. I didn’t really know we were rich until I was in high school.”
    Basra gave a big smile at the first sign of similarity.