Chapter 13 Maverick
CHAPTER 13
MAVERICK
T here’s no such thing as Black Girl Magic.”
Hendrix, the last of the three Aspire Fund partners to speak, looks out over the hotel ballroom for the founders’ showcase. The muted color palette reflected in the dove-gray walls and soft peach accents, along with the dazzling chandelier suspended overhead, creates an atmosphere that is somehow intimate and elegant. Radiating power and confidence, Hendrix takes her time assessing those assembled. Even at the back of the crowd, I feel how this woman just being in a room manages to stir its air.
“I know as soon as I said that,” she goes on, her full lips tipping into a wry grin. “Many of you inwardly responded the way my grandfather did when I was growing up in the country: The hell you say. ”
Laughter trickles through the room, and Hendrix waits for the humor to abate. She’s standing up front now, but even all night mingling with the crowd, she’s been hard to look away from; beautifully conspicuous, like a flamingo, standing tall in her bright pink dress. The bodice is some kind of bustier, the ribbing subtly sequined. The waist nips in and flares to accommodate her rounded hips, but tapers to the long line of her legs. Instead of shying away from her height, Hendrix plays it up with glittery stilettos that put her at eye level or above most men in the room. On many women, it would feel like a statement. On some, it would telegraph I’m trying too hard or I’ve got something to prove. But on Hendrix, the I don’t give a fuck what you think message resounds throughout the room as surely as if she had rung a bell.
“I know that for many of you,” she continues, “shoot, for me, there was a time when questioning Black Girl Magic would feel like sacrilege. It’s our battle cry, our hashtag, our reassurance that there is maybe something mystical propelling us to rise above every obstacle every time.”
Determination sweeps the last residue of laughter from her eyes.
“We are not magic,” she says. “We are resilient. It’s not a wand. It’s work. We work harder and shine brighter to survive. Excellence for us has been a matter of necessity. In a climate where less than half a percent of venture capital funding goes to Black women, women founders still perform sixty-three percent better than all-male founding teams in the first round. With those odds, we can’t leave our success to chance and we for sure can’t depend on magic.”
She relaxes the line of her jaw, settling into a smile. “But we can depend on some of you. The brilliant, industrious women who are our Aspire founders are not asking for charity. They are counting on your gut instinct for a great investment, depending on the most successful among us to know a good deal when they see it.”
She points to a young woman in the crowd, maybe in her late thirties, who wears a colorful headdress and flawless makeup.
“Take Hannah Carter, for example,” Hendrix says. “You may have met her tonight, or maybe you saw her in Forbes or on CNN or in Wired magazine. Hue, her cosmetic company utilizing groundbreaking technology for full-proof color matching, is approaching nine figures in revenue. She was part of our first round of funding, and like so many, has more than fulfilled the promise of greatness we recognized in her from the start.”
Hendrix’s eyes soften, and she shares a quick smile with Hannah before continuing.
“She downsized her car, crowdfunded the first six figures to launch her company, and at one point in her journey…” Hendrix says, pausing to make room for her next words, “… took out a second mortgage on her house. That’s not magic. It’s sacrifice. It’s grit. It’s the best kind of obstinacy that refuses to stay down when put down. And it embodies the spirit of the Aspire Fund.”
She nods to another woman seated near the front who sports an abundance of natural curls.
“Or Halle Jenson, who recognized that Black hair care is a three-billion-dollar market, with only three percent of it owned by Black women. Watch out for Coil, her new hair-care line that we are looking to scale.”
It’s so quiet, I hear the people beside me breathing. Hendrix holds us all rapt and eating out of her well-manicured hand.
“The definition of ‘aspire’ is to long for, aim, or seek ambitiously,” Hendrix says. “To be eagerly desirous, especially for something of great or high value. Too often, ambition becomes a dirty word when applied to women. Not here. We encourage the women of Aspire to long for, to aim, and to seek. We want to be an incubator for Black women’s highest ambitions and hopes and accomplishments.”
She spreads a smile around the room. “As you mingle and meet our founders, we hope you’ll consider joining us for the second round.”
The other two women, Nelly and Kashawn, rejoin her at the podium and they link arms.
“We’re so glad to have you here,” Nelly, the senior of the three women says. “Don’t let all this good food and booze go to waste.”
“Enjoy yourselves,” Kashawn adds. “We’re available to answer any questions. Thank you for coming.”
Needing a distraction from the hint of cleavage Hendrix’s dress revealed and the way her voice dipped the whole room in honey, I swiftly leave the ballroom and head for the veranda. As I make my way through the crowd, people grab drinks and heavy hors d’oeuvres from trays. Several of them recognize me, try to catch my eye, but I ignore them. I’m not here for whatever they have in mind. I slip through the balcony doors and take in a lungful of cool air after the stuffy room.
“We’re leaving soon, right?” Bolt asks, joining me on the balcony and surveying the illuminated Atlanta skyline.
“Yeah.” I rest my half-empty glass on the flat balcony railing.
“Tell me again why we’re here,” Bolt says, standing next to me and nursing the one alcoholic drink he’ll allow himself all night.
“Just doing some research.”
But between Bolt and the financial adviser who digs up every known fact about any prospective investment, I’ve gathered all I need to know about Aspire. This trip wasn’t necessary. I glance over my shoulder back into the ballroom, and a flash of bright pink catches my eye.
Inside, Hendrix stands at the center of a group of people. For a second, her gaze collides with mine and she doesn’t look away. Neither do I. It’s like a showdown, but after a few seconds, she slides her eyes away like she can’t be bothered to participate anymore.
“Research, huh?” Bolt huffs a breath, skepticism in the look he angles at me. “The fund or her?”
I meet my assistant’s eyes squarely. “What?”
“I’ve worked with you long enough to recognize disruptions in your pattern.” He gives an almost indiscernible tilt of his head in Hendrix’s direction. “She’s a disruption.”
“Fuck outta here. You’re reading too much into this.”
“We were meeting when she texted you.” He adjusts his ever-present bow tie, tonight one with red polka dots. “You were, dare I say, borderline giddy.”
“No, you don’t dare say if you want to keep your job,” I threaten with mock severity.
“And immediately after that text you mentioned coming to Atlanta soon.”
“Quite the detective, aren’t—”
“Two things seem to truly pique your interest lately,” Bolt goes on, ignoring the exasperated look I’m pinning him with. “Buying the Vipers and this small venture capital fund that wouldn’t typically register as a blip on your radar. Why are we here when there are a dozen opportunities that actually would merit your personal attention? What are you doing?”
I frown and swing him a querying glance. “What do you mean, what am I doing?”
“She’s producing a show with Zere.” In the light of the balcony lamps, Bolt manages to look simultaneously curious and knowing. “Do you not see that as a problem?”
I force myself not to look over my shoulder and find Hendrix again in that dazzling pink. “Business is business. Zere knows I’m looking to invest in Hendrix’s fund.”
“She has no idea how you look at her, though.”
“I don’t look…” I shake my head and blow out a breath, impatient not with him, but with myself. “I barely know the woman.”
“True, which is why I think we’re here.”
I can’t win in this conversation, and the last thing I want to do is examine whether Bolt’s assessment has any merit.
“Sorry to interrupt,” a young woman says, appearing beside me. “Excuse me, Mr. Bell.”
She’s average height and has golden-brown locs gathered into an elegant chignon. She’s slim thick and when she speaks, every word is perfectly articulated but seems to lean , each syllable taking its time in her Southern drawl. Polished with an edge is how I’d describe her.
“And you are?” Bolt asks, lifting one imperious brow.
“Ms. Barry’s assistant.” She tilts her head in a way that suggests she believes it’s none of his business. “I’m Skipper.”
“That’s your adult name?” Bolt asks, rude even for him.
“That’s your adult bow tie?” She bristles. “And, yes, Skipper is my government name.”
“Didn’t we speak on the phone about arrangements for this event?” Bolt demands, eyes narrowed.
“Oh, let me see.” Skipper touches her chin. “Rude, bougie, unpleasant—yeah, that conversation is coming back to me. I believe I hung up on you.”
“You were incompetent, I recall,” Bolt says. “Sent the wrong address for the event.”
“No, as I tried explaining, but you wouldn’t listen, there was a change of venue,” she corrects, her smile at him a rictus of contempt as she turns her attention very pointedly back to me. “As I was saying, Mr. Bell .”
She pauses to sniff dismissively in Bolt’s direction. The more annoyed she becomes with Bolt, the deeper her drawl becomes.
“I’m Hendrix’s executive assistant. I wanted to make sure you have everything you need.”
“I think I’m good,” I say, making my voice extra pleasant to atone for Bolt’s rudeness. “We’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”
“Oh, then I’m glad I caught you before you left,” Hendrix says from the door leading back into the ballroom.
It’s our first time being face-to-face since Miami, and my senses are instantly on alert.
“I was just making sure Mr. Bell didn’t need anything,” Skipper says, leveling a disdainful glance on Bolt. “Since it seems he may have inadequate personal support.”
“ I’m inadequate?” Bolt practically spits, taking a step closer to Skipper. “You strike me as the kind of woman who gets the word of the day in her email, but can only handle one a week without confusing maturation and masturbation.”
“Funny you mention masturbation,” Skipper fires back, taking a step closer to Bolt, standing a few inches above him and leaving little space between them. “Since you strike me as a man who has no other options.”
“Skipper!” Hendrix’s horrified gaze bounces from her assistant to mine. She looks as mystified as I am by the escalating tension between our staff.
“Oh, it’s fine, Ms. Barry,” Bolt says. “I would expect no more from a woman whose namesake is a character from Gilligan’s Island .”
“It was Barbie’s sister, dickhead,” Skipper snaps, before turning to Hendrix. “Sorry. You know I don’t do well with lower life-forms.”
And she storms off.
Hendrix and I both look to Bolt who, for some inexplicable reason, starts after her, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in ten.”
I stare after his departing figure, shoulders held tight and his gait stiff and yet… eager?
“Bolt’s never behaved that way,” I say, almost apologetically.
“Skipper’s usually the most even-tempered woman you’d ever meet.” Hendrix pauses to narrow her eyes. “Why do I feel like we just witnessed some kind of hostile mating ritual?”
“You think they’re smashing right now?”
“Oh, a hundred percent.”
Our gazes tangle and laughter erupts from us both.
“It was like an episode of Will & Grace ,” she says. “Kind of Karen and Beverley Leslie, but with prickly sexual vibes.”
“I’ve never seen Will & Grace ,” I admit. “But I’ll take your word for it.”
“You’ve never seen…” Her dark eyes go wide, the feathery false lashes nearly brushing her brows. “Oh you gotta watch. It’s a classic.”
“One of your favorites?”
“Well, yes. Not the favorite, but one of them.”
“What’s the favorite?”
“Wow. That’s tough.” She kicks off one shoe and wiggles her toes. “Don’t look at my feet. I didn’t have time for a pedicure.”
I glance down.
“What did I just say?” She chokes out a laugh. “Don’t look at my feet.”
She tucks the bare foot behind her ankle, effectively hiding it, but not before I’ve seen the dark, chipped polish. It’s a pretty foot with a high arch. The tiny imperfection makes me feel like I’ve gotten a glimpse behind a gilded curtain—not just the polish on her toes, but the polish on her . That I’ve seen something real, authentic.
“Hmmmm.” She tilts her head back. “All-time favorite may be The Wire .”
“Ohhhhh,” I say approvingly, leaning one elbow on the balcony railing. “Good taste. You like Top Boy , too?”
“I’ve never seen it. I need something really good to watch.”
I pound the balcony railing with one fist. “Damn, I envy you getting to watch that for the first time. It’s British. I’ve only gotten through season one, but it’s incredible. Like The Wire , but East London. So fucking good.”
She flutters her fingertips together. “I’m in.”
“Watch Summerhouse first. Sort of a prequel, but it’s short.”
“If I got nothing else from tonight,” she says, “I have a new show to watch.”
“Seems like you’ll get a lot out of tonight.” I nod my chin over my shoulder toward the ballroom. “Quite a presentation you and your partners put on. And you have a great group of founders. Thanks for inviting me.”
“See anything you like?”
I consider her in the light of lamps and moonbeams with her skin warm and deep chestnut against the vibrant pink of her dress.
I see something I like much more than I should.
“You already know I want in on Hue,” I answer the unwittingly loaded question as innocuously as possible.
“Of course. I’d be surprised if you didn’t. Anything else intrigue you?”
Too many wrong answers to that question, too.
I settle on: “We’ll see.”
“Take all the time you need.” She leans her elbows on the railing and stares at the view, her profile a bold etching against the city’s glow. “I appreciate you coming.”
I weigh the question that has been plaguing me since I first saw her tonight.
“I meant to check earlier, but there wasn’t time,” I say. “How’s your mother?”
She drops her chin the slightest bit and bites her bottom lip before snapping her head back to a proud angle. “Hanging in there. Doing pretty well, considering. My aunt’s having major surgery in a few weeks. She’ll be on bedrest and will need assistance with Mama, so I’ll be going home to help.”
It was always tough seeing my grandfather after not visiting for a while. Every time I saw him for the first time again, his vitality seemed to be fading a little more. Alzheimer’s as a concept a few states away is very different from the daily reality of it in person.
“You know,” I say, “my mom got into a support group for loved ones and caretakers. That might not be a bad idea for you, especially as things progress.”
Something akin to panic freezes on her face for a moment, but then melts into resignation. “You’re probably right. I think being home that long might force me to face the inevitability of this situation in a way I haven’t had to before.”
“And home is where?”
“Charlotte. Well, a little town right outside of it. When you’re from a rural area, you kinda just claim the closest big city.”
“I would never have pegged you for ‘rural.’”
“I country code switch,” she laughs. “Let me get around my people for a few minutes and the country comes out. So you grew up on the West Coast?”
“Pretty much. When I was young, my dad played for the Clippers. The team had relocated from Buffalo to San Diego and then to LA, which is where I was born.”
“Your dad played with them his whole career?”
“Nah, near the end he got traded a few times. We bounced around some, but we kept our place in LA. When he retired, we moved back there until he got a job as an assistant coach with the Vegas Vipers.”
“So you spent a lot of time in Vegas?”
“Yeah, middle school, high school. Even though I was born in Cali, Vegas felt most like home. It’s a hustler’s town. Risk is in its blood, and that appealed to me.”
“So you played ball?”
“Like most sons of pro ballers I thought I could dribble in my father’s footsteps,” I say, mocking myself. “My mom stole some inches from me, her short self.”
“She was petite?”
“Yeah, man. Like five four. My dad’s six six.”
“And you’re what? Six feet?”
“Six two.”
“You got me by a few inches.”
“Not tonight in those shoes.” I let my eyes slide down her body, suppressing the urge to linger on her breasts and everything on the way to her feet. “In those, we’re about the same height.”
By the time my gaze finds hers again, her eyes are narrowed on me. Not necessarily suspicious. Cautious. She should be. Under normal circumstances, I’d make a play. Take a chance. Ask her out because the pull between us is evident, and if I’m being honest, has been since I sat down beside her at my party. But these aren’t normal circumstances. Since she’s doing this show with Zere, I’m not sure they ever will be.
“So you defer college to work with your dad for a bit,” she says. “And then go to Caltech, knock up your STEM girlfriend, she gives you an app and a baby, and a happily ever after?”
“Not quite. We were both happy with the app and the baby, just not with each other for ever after. As friends, yeah. She didn’t want to run a business. She wanted to teach and to cash a nice fat check each month, so she sold her controlling interest to me. Still owned a little piece, but not enough to carry much responsibility.”
“And you made a ton of money off gambling?”
“You judging?”
“No, admiring. I’ve never been into chance, in real life or virtually. I’m more of a calculated risk kind of girl.”
“I calculate to a certain point. If my gut points me in a different direction than my calculations, I’ll usually choose my gut.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have thought that about you.”
“I’ve never been afraid to risk or lose it all. I can always rebuild. I’ve had to sometimes. Not bankrupt, but damn close. So close I thought I’d lose everything.”
“What saved you?”
“Some investments no one thought I should make.” I laugh at the surprise on her face. “No, really. Literally everyone on my team at the time advised me not to invest in this.”
“What was it?”
“Weed.” I say it with a straight face, but can’t hold my laugh back when her mouth drops open. “Your expression right now.”
I reach one finger under her chin to gently push her jaw closed. There’s a sizzle where our skin meets, and it burns through the thin skin of my fingertip. She slowly tilts her head until my touch falls away. The amusement drains from her striking features at the same time the smile fades from mine.
“Ahem.” She licks her lips, glances down at her shoes, and resumes the conversation, her voice a shade huskier. “Weed, huh?”
“Medical marijuana, yeah. Though now with so many states legalizing it, I’ve invested in quite a few farms focused on recreational production.”
“And that saved you?”
“I mean, I wasn’t gonna be living on the streets, but it kept me very wealthy, and made me more so.”
“Now you’ve sold the app and made billionaire status.”
“To misquote, reports of my wealth have been greatly exaggerated.”
“Oh, so you’re not the next Black billionaire?”
“Maybe next, but not quite yet. I should be soon. It’s been a goal of mine for a really long time.”
“Since when?”
I screw up my mouth and narrow one eye. “Maybe twelve years old?”
“Twelve?” Her laugh is incredulous. “Are you shitting me?”
“Nope. I was the kid with the lemonade stand and the lawn-mowing business and a constant hustle. I even shined shoes for guys on my dad’s team. They didn’t actually need it. They just indulged me, but I didn’t care. Money was money.”
“I guess I thought you being the kid of a professional basketball player, you’d have been kind of spoiled.”
I take a sip of my drink and lean against the balcony rail.
“My mom wasn’t having that. I got an allowance, had chores. She kept life as normal as possible for me, even though I saw my dad on television more than at home for years.”
She pinches her brows together and reaches to cover my hand.
“I can’t imagine how hard it was losing your mom soon after your grandfather. I’m sorry.”
“It could have been a decade and I wouldn’t have been ready. My father never could have been. They had one of those great loves.”
She lifts her hand, and I miss the contact right away. Have to stop myself from grabbing it back.
“My parents had that, too,” she says.
“For real? How’d they get together?”
“In the eighth grade,” she says with a grin. “If you can believe it. Well, at least that was when they first met. My father used to say he knew right away Mama was supposed to be his wife.”
“She was feeling him, too?”
“Nope. She made him work for it.” Amusement lights her dark eyes and her smile is so pretty I almost forget what the hell I asked. “They didn’t start dating until the tenth grade, but that was it. They went off to college together. Got married as soon as they graduated. No looking back.”
“Based on what you’ve said, with your aunt taking care of your mom… is your father not—”
“He died six years ago.” She draws a breath in sharply through her nose. “Drunk driver.”
“Fuck.” This time I reach for her hand on the railing. She doesn’t pull away, but returns the squeeze. “I’m so sorry, Hendrix.”
“It was the most painful day of my life.” She shoots me a wry look. “Only the day my mom was diagnosed came close. It’s like you said. The difference between someone being snatched away unexpectedly and someone falling away a little every day like sand.”
“Both ways suck. It feels like my father will grieve forever.”
“Same. My mother… she’ll get this look in her eyes. She gets kind of stuck in earlier seasons of life, and it’s nostalgic, but this is different. This is a longing. She does have hallucinations occasionally, and I wonder if she’s seeing my dad because she looks so happy. I hate that she’s happiest when she’s hallucinating and that real life feels bleak and disorienting to her sometimes. It’s so hard to see her this way and to know it’s only going to…”
A lone tear streaks down her cheek.
“Shit.” Hendrix swipes under her eyes with the hand I’m not holding and leaks a watery laugh. “This is a morbid-ass conversation, Mav.”
I enjoy the simple intimacy of her abbreviating my name. This whole encounter feels like we’ve fallen into a well, and the rest of the world is above ground, completely oblivious that down here, we’re getting to know each other. It shouldn’t be this easy to bare your soul, but I could stay at the bottom of this well all night learning Hendrix’s secrets, her fears. Sharing mine.
“Sorry about that,” Bolt says, striding back onto the balcony.
Hendrix does jerk her hand away then as if the touch she’d forgotten about suddenly burns.
Bolt lifts his brows, inspecting the spot on the balcony rail where our hands were joined seconds ago. “Am I interrupting?”
“Why is your bow tie upside down?” I demand, diverting the suspicion back to him. “And you have lipstick on your collar.”
He glares at me and parts his lips to reply, I’m sure with something rude and insubordinate, but Skipper comes up behind him, equally disheveled. Her locs, earlier tamed into an elegant style, now hang around her shoulders, half up, half down. The buttons on her blouse are misaligned like she’s tried to hastily restore her appearance to some semblance of order.
“I think your, um, shirt is…” Hendrix gestures vaguely toward Skipper’s torso where her bra is playing peekaboo through a small tear in the blouse.
“Oh.” Skipper’s hand flies up to cover her heart and other things. She aims a malevolent look at Bolt. “This is your fault.”
“My fault?” he hisses. “You’re the one who—”
“I think we should probably go,” I interrupt, pushing away from the railing. “Before you get arrested for indecent exposure.”
He looks shamefaced for about a second before his usual arrogant mask falls into place.
“The driver’s downstairs waiting,” he says stiffly.
“I should go fix this,” Skipper says, clutching her torn blouse a little tighter. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Bell.”
“It was certainly an experience, Skipper,” I say, keeping my tone neutral as much as I want to tease them both. I’ll wait until we’re alone.
She turns to walk away, but pauses and scowls over her shoulder at Bolt. “Don’t call me.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” he answers, rolling his eyes.
As soon she’s gone, his rigid mouth yields the tiniest scrap of a smile.
God, spare me Bolt infatuated. I can withstand a lot, but not my near-robotic assistant navigating actual emotions.
“It was good seeing you again,” I tell Hendrix.
I’m surprised at how much I want to stay. I have business, pressing business to take care of in Seattle and we’re flying there as soon as I leave. My mind would typically already be on the next thing, but my brain is snagged on this woman.
And that’s not good.
I’ve been attracted to women many times, but this, the way my mind frazzles and sharpens simultaneously when I’m talking to Hendrix, how aware I am of where she is at all times. It’s annoying to be this tuned in to someone I barely know, to feel this compelled to share so much with someone I’m not even certain yet that I should trust.
“If you have any questions,” Hendrix says, her face carefully smoothed into a flat expression, “you can contact my office. Skipper will make sure we connect.”
I want to disrupt that studied indifference.
“I’ll call you ,” I assert.
Her lips tighten, and that impassivity cracks for a nanosecond before she snaps it back in place. “Of course. I’m available to answer any questions you have about Aspire’s portfolio or any of our founders.”
I don’t know why I’m resisting her efforts to rebuild the wall of politeness that seems to collapse as soon as we start talking. I should want that, too. I want to see what’s behind that wall, though, even if I can’t ever touch what I find.
“The driver, Mav,” Bolt reminds me, staring at his phone. He’s not fooling me. He’s as attuned to my interaction with Hendrix as surely as if his phone were an antenna.
“Right.” I give Hendrix the smile I would offer any business associate. “I’ll be in touch.”
Once in the car, I let out a breath that’s been caged in my ribs for the better part of the night. The effort of not paying attention to Hendrix was more taxing than I’d realized.
“Shit,” Bolt mutters, jerking off his bow tie and unbuttoning his shirt, which has lipstick smeared around the collar like someone was trying to chew his neck.
“Did you really fuck a perfect stranger at a founders’ showcase?” I ask, unable to hide my shocked amusement. To call his behavior tonight out of character would be an understatement.
“There’s nothing perfect about that woman.” He glowers at the parade of lights the skyline offers as we drive through downtown Atlanta, but a smile teases the corner of his mouth. I drop my head back against the car’s seat cushions. At least one of us needs to be reasonable. To my dismay, it’s not him.
And I’m afraid pretty soon, it won’t be me.