Bad Girls Finish First Read online

  Years back, Erika had had a three-month fling with Michael Joseph because he captured her with his wit and with what she admired most in men—power. David was even sexier than Michael and wielded considerable influence across the state. What bothered Erika about David wasn’t that he was black; it was the hungry way he looked at her. She’d seen that look too many times and it meant only one thing: her primary draw for David was her white skin.

  She imagined what her girlfriends would say if they had been able to observe her and David together. Among Erika’s friends, the word was that single black men of David’s age and stature all wanted a white woman. When Erika and her friends got to drinking and talking about men, the talk would sometimes (but not nearly as often as one might think) turn to what they called their “blacklist.” They’d snicker as they ran through the list of black men, from entertainers to coworkers, to guys who sold newspapers on street corners, who lusted after white women. Their list didn’t include black men who dated whomever they liked irrespective of race. It was limited to guys who had a thing, an addiction, a real problem, when it came to white women. The women’s blacklist had many categories and they moved the men back and forth from group to group: too scared to chase, actively chasing, about to get in trouble for chasing, and about to go to jail for chasing. Erika played the game because she thought men who made the list deserved to be mocked.

  When she had been seeing Michael, Erika didn’t tell her friends because although they talked about black men dating white women, they never admitted to having crossed the color line themselves. It was always someone else, a friend of a friend. Also, back then, the good senator had been looking to take down any woman he could. She could be red, white, and blue all over, for all he cared, as long as she was sexy, willing, and discreet.

  As she pulled into her garage, Erika’s thoughts again turned to David. I could be wrong about him, she reminded herself. Erika had her doubts about David, but she couldn’t get the image of his supple fingers twirling the glass round and round out of her mind.

  One of the things that Raven didn’t like about being a candidate’s wife was that she had to pretend to like everybody, including citizens who were stuck in the old South. Civil War Southerners, Raven called them, folks who would prefer to see her in the kitchen of the governor’s mansion rather than the sitting room. So when Raven received an invitation to a high tea and fashion show hosted by the Texas Daughters of the Succession Society, she didn’t want to go to the affair, which was and forever would be all white.

  “What will I be?” she asked Michael when he told her about the event. “The honorary negress? What if they decide they need to make a human sacrifice?”

  Michael chuckled at her appraisal of the invitation. “I wish I didn’t have to ask you to do this, but it’s a big deal. Historically the wives of the candidates not only attend, they’re asked to play an active role. At least I was able to get you out of being on the program.”

  “Bet that wasn’t too hard to finagle. Sweeney’s wife refuses to speak at any public events, so there’s no way they were going to let a black woman take charge of the microphone by herself. Who knows what I might say?”

  Raven was right. The society extended the invitation to Raven as grudgingly as she accepted it—neither side wanted to start a controversy. The members of the society didn’t have anything against Raven personally, or black people in general. In fact, Raven ran into most of the women on a regular basis. She’d even been an invited guest at many of their homes. Exclusivity, as the members preferred to call their segregation policy, wasn’t meant to discriminate against anyone. It was merely a tradition that had to be maintained.

  “C’mon, honey. Go for me,” Michael pleaded.

  Raven was still skeptical until Michael came up with an idea. “You’re making history, baby, being an integrationist. Why don’t we use this as an opportunity to add a serious splash of color to the society’s white cream?”

  And so, there Raven found herself, the black host of the only multicultural table in a sea of fifty or so tables filled with designer-clad women. Instead of having Raven sit on the dais, as the candidates’ wives usually did, Michael bought Raven the best table on the floor, front and center.

  When Raven and her guests walked in, one young member whispered to her mother, “Mom, can you believe this? Here comes the rainbow coalition.”

  The mother arched one eyebrow and said to her daughter, “It’s long overdue, don’t you think?”

  Raven’s table represented just about every minority that had a substantial presence in Texas—and Michael didn’t have to look beyond his own staff to fill the seats. Genie Dupree sat next to Raven. They filled out the table with Chin Le Quan, Dr. Melissa Alvarez, Laurie Fritzman, Maya Abouda, and other top-level women.

  As they ate their salads, Genie said to Raven, “This is a good thing you’re doing, Mrs. Joseph.” She looked around the room. “I see so many people I know.” She craned her neck for a better view. “There’s Jessica Ama-rault! She lived next door to me in the dorms.”

  “Why don’t you go over and say hello? We need to make contact with as many people as we can while we’re here,” Raven suggested. “Who knows, maybe your friend will nominate you for membership.”

  “Doubt it,” Genie said as she stood to join the rest of the people who were milling around, exchanging air kisses and hugs. “Somehow I don’t think I fit their member profile.”

  Raven thought about taking her own advice, getting up and working the room, but decided against it. I’m going to be governor’s wife. Let them come to me, she thought. She pushed her chair a little away from the table and angled it to get a better view of the room.

  “Hey, you,” someone said and tapped Raven on her shoulder. Erika Whittier scooted into Genie’s seat. “You’re a hard woman to catch up with.”

  Damn.

  “Hello, Erika. You’re a member of this group, I suppose.”

  Erika gave a little shrug, as if to say “Wouldn’t you know it?” but her eyes were alight with pride. “Inducted into their hall of fame two years ago.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  Erika wore a green Tahari suit, set off by a pair of the finest sling-backs that Raven had wanted to buy but didn’t because she couldn’t find them in her size. When Erika crossed her legs, Raven thought, I hope she doesn’t think her legs look better than mine.

  “How’re things going?” Erika asked.

  “Rolling along pretty well.”

  “Rolling along! I’m sure your days are more hectic than that. You’re so busy these days you don’t even have time to return phone calls, at least not mine.” Someone called Erika’s name and when she turned to say hello, her beautiful hair swung from side to side, like she was starring in a slow-motion shampoo commercial.

  Why is she shaking her big bobble head like that? My hair is every bit as silky as hers. When Erika turned back around, Raven tossed her own mane for good measure. Raven owned the hair toss.

  While Erika made small talk, Raven dissected her. Her criticisms of Erika came in rapid succession. How old is she? Way older than me, that’s for damn sure. Look at the way her top lip wrinkles when she talks. Hasn’t she heard of Botox? I look better than her and I’m smarter than her, too. Rich bitch.

  “I’ve been keeping up with the campaign, and I have to say, I’m a little concerned. Michael hasn’t been as noncommittal on gun control as I hoped he’d be,” Erika said.

  Raven forced herself to keep smiling. So far her subtle attempts to steer Michael away from gun control had fallen flat. She promised herself to get Michael in line within the week. “Erika, it might be hard to tell from the outside looking in, but I’ve got it covered.” Raven waved the subject away, “Don’t worry about it.”

  Erika looked doubtful. “When can we get together?” She leaned toward Raven and whispered, “For half a million dollars, I’m afraid I need to hear something more definite than, ‘I’ve got it covered.’”
r />   “Umm, I don’t know when, but you’re right, let’s talk soon.” Raven waved at the state comptroller, a stylish woman in her mid-sixties, and motioned for the woman to come over to the table. “Erika, I’m so sorry, but I’ve been trying to catch up with Carol for a month.” Erika gave Raven an understanding look and turned her back.

  Erika’s smile never faltered, but her eyes glinted fire. For her own sake, Raven damn sure better be a woman of her word, she thought.

  David exited the elevator on the eighth floor and strolled toward the door at the end of the hallway. His casual air covered the fact that he perfectly timed his stride so that by the time he got to the door, which read, “Dr. Cheryl Flanoy, Obstetrics and Gynecology,” the hallway would be empty.

  David glanced behind him to make sure he was alone, then ducked into the stairway next to the doctor’s office. He bounded up two flights of stairs, looked at his watch, and at exactly 12:35:10 stepped quietly out of the stairwell and across the hall into Dr. Laverne’s office. The doctor’s reception area was empty; the receptionist, whom David had never met (and never would, if he kept to his schedule), had just left for lunch. She’d be back at her desk at exactly 1:30 just as David, having taken the stairs to the third floor, and ridden the elevator down the rest of the way, emerged onto the street.

  David entered Dr. Laverne’s office without knocking. The doctor sat behind his desk, waiting for David.

  “I keep telling you, David, no one places a stigma on your being here except for you. There’s no need to go to the trouble you do, taking an early morning flight here, sneaking in and out of my office so you won’t be seen. I know several Dallas therapists I can recommend. Excellent doctors.” The doctor twirled a pen as he spoke. “Including a couple of black men. You might find it—”

  “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.