Bad Girls Finish First (9 page)

“C'mon, Laverne, you're wasting my time.” David had taken a hard-backed chair from a corner and placed it in front of Dr. Laverne's desk. David refused to sit on the sofa or in a comfortable chair, the way Dr. Laverne's other patients did. He preferred to sit across the desk from the doctor, man to man, rather than doctor to patient. If David could have his way 100 percent, Dr. Laverne wouldn't be sitting behind his desk; the two of them would be seated at a conference table, acting as though they were hammering out a deal. David had instructed Dr. Laverne not to take any notes during their meetings; he didn't want any evidence, not a file or so much as a shred of paper to link him to Dr. Laverne. The only way David could stay in therapy was to pretend he wasn't in therapy.

“I don't know why we have to go through this every couple of months. Every black therapist in Dallas is a member of my congregation. Every white one knows who I am. I'm too high profile to let it get out that I see a psych—that you and I have these meetings. If you can deal with Dudley's . . . issues, then you can deal with mine.”

“I know you're well known, David. It's just that you might find it easier to open up if you didn't stress yourself out by running a marathon to get here. I'm trying to look out for your best interests.”

David's stubborn expression never changed, so Dr. Laverne moved right on. “What's on your mind?”

“Being a minister is hard,” David said. He rarely got straight to the point. David talked as though he were talking to himself. “You've got to be a negotiator, a financier, a marketing whiz.” He gestured toward Dr. Laverne. “A counselor.”

“And there's the spiritual realm,” the doctor said.

“Of course.” David popped his knuckles as he spoke. “Juggling those jobs is difficult, but it's nothing compared to trying to maintain your privacy. Most people don't know that, but it's true.

“I'm single, and I'm human, you know? I need a woman to spend time with. The way I see it, what a woman and I do together is between her, God, and me. Nobody's got the right to judge me, or be in my business,” David said. He scratched his temple. “When you're part of the black church scene, it's almost impossible to have a personal life. And if you're as well known as I am—forget it.”

“I take it you've met someone,” Dr. Laverne said. By now he knew how to decode David's ramblings. They'd been over variations of David's “poor me, I'm a big fish in a clear pond” shtick many times and it always boiled down to the same thing. “And I assume she's a woman who's not within the black church social circle.”

David, who wasn't slumping to begin with, sat up taller. “Erika Chaseworth Whittier,” he said. Dr. Laverne heard pride in David's voice. “Certainly you heard the name,” David continued. “I'm just getting to know her, but from what I've seen, she's incredible. Smart, beautiful, wealthy. She's the kind of woman I could get into.”

“Then why don't you? David, this is the twenty-first century, people don't care about interracial dating the way they used to,” the doctor said emphatically.

David wondered, not for the first time, why he bothered seeing Dr. Laverne. The simplest truths seemed to escape the man. “When you use a benign term like, ‘interracial dating,' people don't care, but call it what it is—‘a black man chasing after a white woman'—and it's another story,” David explained.

“Then why put it that way? You're the one who makes it sound ugly, like something you should be ashamed of.”

“I wasn't ashamed in the beginning,” David mused. “I started dating white women because I was fed up with the hassles I ran into when I dated black women. A white woman will let me hit it once or twice and think nothing of it. But a sister? After two dates, she figures we're engaged, just because I'm a minister.”

Dr. Laverne tried to reason with David. “Then dating white women is a practical solution to a real problem. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“It
was
a solution.” David frowned, self-loathing clouding his handsome face. “Now it's become an obsession.”

“Every man has a type of woman he prefers. Some men go for tall women, others for petite ones, or redheads only. You're lucky enough to have discovered a woman with the look you like, not to mention all her other qualities, yet you label it an obsession. Are you sure you aren't being too hard on yourself?” Dr. Laverne asked.

There he goes again
, David thought.
I really do wish I could find a black doctor
.

“Let me explain something, Dr. Laverne. Within the black race, I can find any kind of woman I want.
Any kind
. I can get a woman who looks like Serena Williams or one like that sister on CNN everybody thinks is white. So my preference isn't about a look. It goes deeper than that. Obviously I'm attracted to the blood running through a woman's veins.” David, who had leaned forward while he spoke, slumped back into his seat.

“I'm a so-called icon of black empowerment and all I want to do is find a white woman and put her on a pedestal like I'm some field slave.”

“So you're no longer attracted to black women at all?” the doctor asked.

Images of Raven, in the hotel bar that night and at the gala flitted through David's mind. “That's what I was afraid of, but no. A black woman can still get a rise out of me.” He exhaled and felt that his vision of Raven somehow redeemed him. “So I guess there's hope after all,” he said.

Their time was up, so Dr. Laverne ended their session the way he always did. “What is your Christian nature telling you?” he asked David.

“To be honest, the only voice I hear is one that tells me how tired I am of always being on guard with women. How lonely I am and how much I want to be with somebody who sees me as just plain David.” He rubbed his goatee. “I don't know if God is a part of that conversation.”

David handed an envelope containing two hundred dollars to Dr. Laverne and walked out.

Dr. Laverne reached in his side drawer and pulled out a file with David's name on it. He didn't care what he'd promised David, Dr. Laverne had no intention of getting hit with a malpractice suit for not keeping accurate medical records. He made a few notes to David's file and put it away.

 

 

“You're staring.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to,” David said. Then he added, “But what man wouldn't? You're beautiful.”

Erika and David were on the balcony of The Alamo Restaurant, which despite its warrior name was the most elegant eatery in Austin. They had a sunset view of Lake Travis, nestled in the Texas hill country. David had to sneak away to be with Erika because every time he came to Austin members of the New Word finance committee accompanied him. The committee included women, and as much as he wanted to see Erika, David wasn't ready to kiss his career good-bye by being spotted with her.

The committee spent its time with a lobbyist who would make the pitch for New Word to get a part of the faith-based initiative money. The faith-based initiative was a program operated by the state that encouraged religious organizations to run social programs that, of late, had been run by the government. The organizations would receive grants to do everything from offering prenatal and literacy programs to feeding the homeless. Religious outfits throughout the states were gearing up to plead for a chunk of the money. The newly elected governor, be it Joseph or Sweeney, would have his plate full dealing with the competing churches' proposals.

“I've found that men who're surrounded by beautiful women all the time don't normally stare. They get accustomed to the view,” Erika said.

“I'm surrounded by women, yes . . . but days can pass, weeks sometimes, between the times I get to share an evening with a woman as stunning as you.” David's voice sounded alien to his ears and his throat felt thick, the way it did whenever he lied and felt bad about it. But David was being honest and it burned his conscience more than lying ever did.

Erika knew she was good-looking but being over forty, she'd reluctantly gotten used to having men look at her appreciatively, though briefly, before their eyes settled on a woman twenty years younger. She remembered what it was like to have a man focus on her like she was the only woman on earth, but that hadn't happened in over five years. Despite being flattered, she began to feel self-conscious beneath David's intense gaze.

“What a line,” Erika said, laughing uncomfortably. “Every Sunday you get to see hundreds—excuse me—thousands of women, and I'm sure there's a bit of eye candy in the bunch. Doesn't that news anchor, Kema Mitchell, attend your church? Kema's incredibly beautiful, don't you think? She looks like an African princess.”

“She does,” David agreed. “Kema and I are close friends.” David sipped his wine and tried to keep his voice neutral. He and Kema had dated for a while, and at the outset he'd been optimistic that it might work. But when his gaze wandered off once too often, always to follow a white woman's movements, Kema fired David. But as he told Erika, Kema was a gem, and they had managed to build a friendship out of their broken romance.

Erika asked David about another gorgeous woman. “What about Michael Joseph's wife? At the gala, she ushered you away from me like you were her private property.”

“Raven? You think she's interested in me?” David asked in what he hoped was a “surely you're kidding” tone.

Erika delicately wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Oh, for sure. She's got a huge crush on you.”

Yes!
David thought, but all he said was, “I didn't notice, and for the record I think you're wrong. Raven strikes me as exciting, which I like, but I'd never get involved with a married woman.”

“Reverend Capps, men do a lot of big talk about what they'd never do. But I'm sure you know that.” Erika was enjoying David's company, and she figured based on what he'd said about Kema and Raven, that she had him pegged wrong. He wasn't attracted only to white women, which meant he didn't have to go on her blacklist. David Capps was fair game.

“There's one thing about you that doesn't fit.” Erika looked perplexed and fascinated. “You're one of the most dynamic people I've ever met when you're in a crowd or talking business, but here,” Erika motioned toward David then toward herself, “one on one? You seem almost—oh, I don't know—almost shy.”

“You call it being shy, I call it being reserved and discreet,” David said. He'd had enough wine to put him at ease and make him accept the fact that he'd asked Erika out for a reason and it wasn't to become her best pal.

“I guess it's time for me to be direct. I find you incredibly sexy and I want to get to know you better.”

“Why me?”

Isn't it obvious?
David thought. “Why not you?”

Erika cocked her head to one side and thought about it a minute. “You're right. Why not me.”

David finished his wine in one gulp. “Ready to go?”

As David walked Erika to her car they made small talk about politics.

“I'm surprised you're going to vote for Michael,” David said. “Guns are not high on his agenda.”

“Agendas change,” Erika said cryptically.

Erika's car was at the far end of the parking lot. As they approached it, Erika kept talking but David fell silent. His eyes roamed the parking lot and although he appeared casual, he made absolutely sure that there were no other blacks milling about and no white person he knew. As far as people he didn't know recognizing him—a man had to take risks sometimes and in David's slightly drunken opinion this risk was worth it.

As she pressed the button to unlock her car, Erika said, “And if I can just get the African American community to understand—”

David took Erika's hand, slowly raised it to his mouth and kissed her palm. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, Erika found herself drowning in a pool of irresistible eroticism.

“I've wanted to do that all night. I know your lips taste even better,” David murmured. He pushed Erika against her car, gently palmed her face with his huge hands and kissed her. He bent his knees so that he could press himself to her.

David leaned his face against Erika's and whispered, “My life is already complicated and I'm not interested in bringing any drama into it, but I have to have you.” He buried his face in her hair and inhaled its fragrance. “My God, you're so perfect!”

Erika ran her hands down David's broad back and ended at his rock-hard butt, which she held on to for dear life. As turned on as she was Erika still felt a twinge of disappointment. Although David's hands roamed her body, deftly gliding between her legs and caressing her breasts, he obviously enjoyed stroking her silky hair more than anything else.

10

T
he next morning David woke up with a pounding in his temples, which wasn't due to his overindulgence in wine. He lay in bed and chided himself for losing control. Fooling around with Erika in the parking lot had been a mistake. During dinner his eyes had constantly roved the restaurant for familiar faces, and seeing none, he'd been lulled into a false sense of security. David was usually more careful and didn't take women like Erika to public places, at least not when he was in Texas. Yet, she was one of the most elegant women he'd ever dated.
I had to show her off
, he thought, and immediately felt ashamed.

David rummaged through his overnight bag in search of Tylenol. He tossed back three, returned to bed, and pulled the covers over his head. As he waited for his headache to go away, David replayed the feel of his body against Erika's and ping-ponged between worry and lust.

When David finally opened his hotel room door, the
Austin American-Stateman
's front page restarted the jackhammer in his head, and made him completely forget about Erika.
THIRTY-TWO DIE IN DEADLIEST WEEKEND EVER
.

In a perverted confluence of events, thirty-two Texans had been violently killed in a twenty-four-hour period, and there wasn't a mass murder in the bunch. Of the gory total, two of the victims were stabbed and one was bludgeoned. The other twenty-nine were shot to death.

 

 

Dudley rapped twice on the door, stuck his head in, and said, “We're ready, Michael.”

“Two minutes, I'll be down.” Michael and Raven were alone in the minister's study on the second floor of a weathered east-Austin church. On hearing about the bloodbath that had taken place over the weekend, Michael had called an emergency press conference. He chose the church, Saint Mary's, because only hours before, a homeless man on a bicycle had been shot down as he peddled past. Michael cracked the blinds to take a look at the crowd assembled below. Raven came to his side and placed her hand in his.

The media pool covered the church's narrow sidewalk and spilled onto its manicured lawn. The reporters and cameramen who usually smoked, chatted, and looked bored while they waited for a press conference to begin were eerily quiet.

The media pool was ringed by an even larger group of people from the neighborhood. They too stood silent and motionless as though they were waiting for someone to wake them from a forty-eight-hour nightmare.

“Look at them,” Michael said quietly. “I've been through enough post-disaster press conferences to know the drill. Something different is going on out there. There's a sense of shared sorrow in the air.” He asked Raven, “Can't you see it in their faces? Everybody's emotions are on edge, even the reporters'.”

Michael sighed and said, “I fucking hate guns.”

“I know.” Raven's voice was low. “Like you said, we're all emotional right now, even you. But you've got to rise above emotion and take a stand that's best for the long run. You know that, right?”

Michael turned from the window to Raven, his face questioning. He let go of her hand. “What do you mean, ‘the long run'?”

Raven ran her hands down the front of her husband's lapels. “No matter how much you hate guns, there are a lot of voters who don't feel the same way.” She paused. “Don't alienate them, Michael.” Raven pinched her index finger and thumb so close they almost touched. “We're this close to being in the governor's mansion, but if you go out there and preach gun control, you're going to lose a lot of people. Don't do that to yourself. Once you get elected, you can say whatever you want about guns. But not now.”

Michael stepped away from Raven and began buttoning his jacket. His air was dismissive and so were his words. “I know you mean well, but I didn't get this far by lying to the public about my stand on issues. I'm going out there and saying what I know is right,” he said, ending the conversation.

But Raven couldn't let it go.
If he goes out there and screws up, Erika's going to be all over my ass,
Raven thought. She blocked her husband's path.

“Well, at least tell me exactly what you're going to say.”

Raven was right about one thing: Michael's emotions were running high and he'd had about as much of her meddling as he could stand.

“Move,” he said in a voice so unlike his own that Raven practically hopped out of the way. As he closed the door behind him, Michael thought,
Right about now, I sure do miss Grace.

When Michael exited the doors of St. Mary's, the Democratic nominee for lieutenant governor, Ted Ballentine, was at his side. Usually the candidate for lieutenant governor stayed in the background, and Michael wanted to do things the way they'd always been done, but the party leaders insisted on putting Ballentine out front with Michael.

“We've got to make folks comfortable, Mike,” the head of the Texas Democratic Party had told Michael over the phone that morning. “Especially at a time like this.”

“The people got me past the primaries,” Michael had replied. “They're comfortable. It's you boys who can't seem to get over it. All Ballentine gets to do is stand there. I'll do the talking.”

As he walked to the microphone, Michael was almost blinded by the camera flashes. He didn't need a scripted speech. On this one he could speak from the heart. “Over the past two days, this state experienced unprecedented acts of senseless violence. No area of the state, no social or economic group, was spared. Thirty-two of our citizens are dead.
Thirty-two
.” He paused, letting the number sink in.

“We don't know what caused the carnage; it was senseless and random.” Michael paused again and gripped the podium. Christopher, who, with Raven, had come to stand behind him, bowed his head. “Nineteen-year-old Rico Houseman, a student at North Texas State University, shot as he walked from a frat house to his dorm. Ms. Pasha Pardesi, forty-six, was robbed and shot while leaving a baseball game in Houston. Three-year-old . . .” Michael's voice faltered. “Three-year-old Keeley Schuster of Brenham, also shot. The list goes on.

“Thirty-two dead and twenty-nine of them were killed by guns. When I first joined the Senate, I tried, and failed, to pass gun control legislation.” Michael put his hand to his heart. “My failure,
our
failure, as a state to do the right thing, cost these people their lives. A bloodbath like this has no place in a civilized society, a society that values education and economic opportunity for all. If you elect me governor, things are going to change in Texas. I pledge to you, as governor of this state, that this will not happen on my watch.”

When Michael signaled that he was ready to take questions, a reporter known for stirring things up asked, “Mr. Ballentine, if elected as lieutenant governor, you'll be the one who's responsible for pushing Senator Joseph's agenda on the floor of the legislature. Where will you begin?”

“I'm glad you asked,” Ballentine said. He stepped closer to Michael, edging his way toward the center of the podium. He placed one hand on Michael's shoulder.

“Senator Joseph is a good man and, um, that was heartfelt, heartfelt.” Ballentine slapped Michael's shoulder again, buying time until he could think of what to say next. “I agree that things need to change, but the question is, what things? We all know that guns don't kill people, people do. A good economy, education, all that's fine, but first people have got to feel safe in their own homes and in their communities. We need to lock up the thugs who did this and throw away the key, or better yet give them the same death penalty that they gave to their victims.” Having found his stride, Ballentine leaned closer to the microphone and said, “If poor Ms. Pardesi had had a way to protect herself, she'd probably be alive today! But in this state it's illegal to protect yourself in a sports arena. That needs to change!”

The press pool went after Ballentine's buzz words—death penalty, protect yourself—like sharks to blood. Cameras flashed and reporters vied for the lieutenant governor's attention. “It sounds like you're advocating more access to guns, not less. Doesn't that put you at odds with Senator Joseph?” the same reporter asked Ballentine.

Christopher knew, without being able to see his father's face, that although Michael's expression never faltered, his eyes had gone neutral. There was no way Michael was going to open tomorrow's newspaper and find Ballentine's agenda and picture on the front page.
Handle your business,
Dad, Christopher thought.

Michael gave Ballentine a bear hug, and at the same time (although he was smaller than Ballentine) managed to reposition himself in front of the microphone with Ballentine at his side. Michael motioned for the press to calm down.

“A civilized society, by definition, puts a premium on the safety and protection of its citizens. A civilized society is also one of enlightenment. Under my leadership, Texas will be safe. Our safety is going to call for a mixture of old-fashioned law enforcement and a new way of looking at things. Under my leadership we will have both. God bless this state!”

As the photographers began taking pictures, Michael let go of Ballentine and motioned for Raven to join him. He reached for her hand, but Raven slipped her arm around Michael's waist and kissed him on the lips. The kiss was the perfect gesture to express security and support, two things that the public desperately needed to believe in at the moment. Christopher, observing his father and stepmother, had to admit that Raven's move was smooth. Senator and Mrs. Joseph's kiss of comfort would be the next day's front-page photo in every newspaper in the state.

 

 

Grace sat on the sofa, her Bible on the table in front of her, and watched Michael's press conference. She'd spent the half hour before praying for the victims' families. Her prayer shifted and she'd found herself praying for Michael, too, for his success. Although she'd always stayed in the background when she was Michael's wife, Grace knew politics as well as any highly paid campaign advisor. She knew Michael's position on gun control went against the deeply rooted convictions of many Texans, and she also knew that during his press conference he wouldn't back down on what he believed. So, Grace prayed for her ex.

As Grace watched Michael deftly handle the questions put to him and vanquish Ballentine, she smiled and nodded. He was going to make an excellent governor. She could see Christopher, standing with Raven, in the background. Grace felt lonely, outside the loop of the life that had once been hers, but she didn't give in to it.
You helped make Michael what he is, be proud,
she told herself. She kept self-pity at bay until the kiss. When Raven stepped forward and embraced Michael, Grace's heart fell to her feet. Even to her eyes, Michael and Raven looked liked the perfect couple.

Grace shut off the television and picked up her Bible. She read a few passages and then got on her knees. This time she prayed for herself.

 

 

Although his press conference was well received, Michael's camp knew that the real test was the upcoming debate. It was one thing to utter feel-good sentiments right after a tragedy, and a completely different thing to persuade Texans to lay down their weapons.

Dudley was beside himself with worry, “Why'd those idiots have to go on a shooting spree right in the middle of the election season? Why not wait a few months? After this, how's Michael supposed to look into TV cameras and tell people that he's against gun ownership? It's political suicide.”

Dudley was talking to Dr. Laverne. He wouldn't have said these things to the election team—Michael wouldn't allow it. Although Michael shared his doubts with whomever he felt like, he couldn't abide a panicky staff.

“I'm surprised at you, Dudley. I expected you to be filled with cheer today. I was really moved by Senator Joseph's speech. And the kiss with his wife was perfect.”

Dudley ran his palm across his sweaty face. “The fact that the kiss came off well was just a fluke. When she pranced up to Michael, I halfway thought he'd turn his back on her. They'd been at each other's throats right before that.”

“So they're not the happy couple they make themselves out to be?” Dr. Laverne asked.

“Hell no. Raven's a barracuda. She's everything bad that a woman can be: bossy, nosy, and irrational. And she nags Michael to no end.”

“Sounds like you feel sorry for him.”

Dudley snorted and gave what passed for a smile. The folds of his neck wrinkled. “Nah, Michael's getting what he deserves. I feel sorry for
me
. Raven started out all right—I'd put a bug in her ear and she'd take my advice, no questions asked. Now she thinks she's so hot that she doesn't need my counsel. The worst thing I could ever have done was set her up with Erika Whittier.”

“Oh?” Dr. Laverne, resigned to having to listen to Dudley whine, suddenly perked up. From what David told him, Erika was a fascinating woman and Raven had a mystic air about her that was captivating. The two of them together would be an interesting mix. “What's their connection, are they friends?” the doctor asked.

Dudley's little eyes bulged, which according to Dr. Laverne's notes was a sure sign of nervousness. “Forget about it,” Dudley said quickly. “My point is that Raven's in my way. She's trying to get Michael to rely on her rather than on me.”

“Maybe you should talk to her. She might not know that she's invading your territory.”

“She knows, all right. Besides, Raven's not the type of person who responds to talk. I've got some ideas in mind on how to put her back in her place.” Dudley picked up the candy dish on Dr. Laverne's desk. He dug through the M&M's, touching every piece of candy in the process as he scooped out the yellow ones.