Page 5 of The Heir

Hendrix King, who I've nicknamed King because, well, he damn nearisone, was picked to build the place. And I was picked to make it pretty.

Thinking of King, my sex clenches greedily, having not been satisfied.

I meet with him once a month to go over this project in a painstakingly long, drawn out process that I think might be unique only to him, because the few other folks I've done business with do not operate the way he does. No, King really takes his time to go over every detail, asking me question after question. Making me explain my process and the why's of it all.

Whydoes this material need to be used, the structure will need to be built differently to accommodate it?Whydoes this space need to be so open, it'll affect the integrity of the ceiling because of the beams we need to use?Whyput the fountain feature there, it'll disrupt the piping for the industrial work?

Why, why, why.

Last meeting we had, I told him to go fuck himself because I was getting that fountain in that exact spot I wanted it, and I didn't care if he had to break his fingers to build the damn thing himself to make it work.I was getting what I wanted.

I'll never forget the way he looked at me when I verbally set him out that day. It was a Friday afternoon, a little later in the evening. Heusually sees me around five-thirty, or six, letting me know that he's a late worker, doesn't fuck off like other people do the moment the clock strikes five.

The sun was starting to make it's way down in the sky, and the light slashed across his face just right that his eyes turned this magnificent shade of blue, making his dark brown hair look almost auburn like mine. The sun really was magnificent that day, highlighting the rich cream tone of his office with his dark mahogany wood desk, and the light gray suit he was wearing. He had two shirt buttons undone, showing crisp chest hair that wasn't too thick.

He'd sat back in his seat, nailing me with his gaze, looking delicious.

"I see you got a fiery temper to match that fiery hair," he'd said. "Tell me, is it natural, or do you dye it that color? It's rather unusual… but goes rather beautifully with your skin tone."

I'd rolled my eyes and scoffed, because just like so many white, straight men in his field that I've encountered, he just doesn't know how to keep businessbusiness.My response was a sharp one, and why I'm sure King elects to take me on personally, and not leave me to the lower associates.

"I guess you're going to grab me by the pussy next, huh?" I tilted my head and gave him a slow once over of my own, because he's not the only one with eyes. "Boy, you wealthy white men are all the same, aren't you? Rich, entitled, arrogant, spoiled,out of touch.Some would even say delusional,King.Handle the shit, please, so I can give our client the restaurant of his dreams andstop talking to me about fucking nonsense that has nothing to do with work.I'll have you know that I amnotthe weaker sex. You can't just talk to me any kind of way because I'm a woman."I grabbed my briefcase, and snatched the paper he was holding out of his hand and turned to walk away. "Oh, I want thatfountain in thatexact spotI said I wanted it. Make it work. If you don't, next meeting I'll come with attitude."

"You're capable of even more attitude than this?" he'd retorted.

I'd turned back to him and raised a brow. "Oh, I can raise straight hell if you'd like?"

The slow smile he gave me was enough to ruin my panties and make me realize that Idowant just a little more than what I'm getting from Christopher. But needs come before wants, and I need stability more than I need excitement and a chaotic sex life.

I rolled my eyes at him before exiting the office without waiting for him to walk me out, or a fancy receptionist to see me to the elevator. I was pissed the entire drive home too, because he made me think of my father.

Yes, my hair is real, courtesy of my red head evil father who I haven't seen since I was five years old. Almost twenty years ago. It's a dark auburn, but glows almost copper in the sunlight. My mother is a beautiful African American woman, hence my mixed race. I guess I could count myself lucky he didn't try and touch it, as that happens more often than I'd care to think about.

Do people not realize you shouldn't touch other people's hair without permission? It's fuckingrude.

I finish up in the shower and head straight back to bed, happy to see that Christopher has remade it, and thanks to our lackluster sex life, the fitted sheet where I was laying was bone dry. You can't even tell there was any fucking going on.

To be honest, Christopher and I can have sex even less and it wouldn't hurt my feelings any. We love each other, we depend on each other, but the passion just isn't there.

As I lay down, I look at him. He's a hunk of a man. His goatee is always perfectly trimmed, his hair is always in these beautiful waves,and god, he smells amazing. What attracted me to him initially was his eyes were hazel, just like mine, and I wanted hazel-eyed babies one day. But what really got me going was he's an accountant. But not justanyaccountant, Christopher comes from a prestigiously wealthy family who's accountant pedigree dates back six solid generations.

To put it mildly, I was attracted to the stability that not having to struggle would bring me.

I couldn't live that life anymore. My mom said she risked her life to get me out of the lifestyle my father was living. Apparently he was a part of the mafia or something. She told me one day she found a body in the trunk and bolted and never looked back. I don't know if my trauma was such that I'd made up that story or not, but either way he hasn't been around, and mom and I don't talk about him.

But, man, did we struggle! I mean we were so dirt poor that I started working at fourteen in order to help keep us from going into a shelter. When I was sixteen I fucked our landlord for two hundred dollars so we wouldn't be put on the street.

The whole time he was using my body, I was praying to God to give me a decent life where I would have money and wouldn't have to fight to survive. Make it to where I could be successful so that I could take care of myself, my mom, my baby sister. So that when I have kids one day my child won't have to decide between fucking some guy to make rent or be evicted.

My mother, still to this day, doesn't know some of the things I did to make sure we could make it. To make sure we didn't lose my baby sister Melody to the foster care system. But whatever I did, it still was hardly enough for us to scrape by.

We ate so much top ramen that it took meyearsto be able to eat anything that had a noodle in it. I still won't, because it will make megag. I substitute every noodle dish with rice. That's why it's so ironic that my first big break came in the form of an Italian restaurant.

It felt utterly symbolic, like I'm about to turn a page into the next chapter of my life.

So when I met Christopher a year after I graduated from school, and he was just so normal,dependable,I glommed onto him quick. However when I found out that he hadmoney,I jumped all over him like he was a freaking lifeboat and I'd been drowning. Because I know what it's like to be be destitute, and I am never going back.

Don't get me wrong though, I don't want to just marry into money. I want to give it to myself.

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