Chapter 3
Kensie
Candle-lit dining room. First-class service.
White, linen-covered tablecloths. Pleasant chatter and tinkling glasses.
A live jazz band, playing smooth renditions of modern pop classics, permeated the upscale restaurant.
I loved the ambiance and class of the restaurant.
The L Spot always made me feel like a queen.
Worthy. Growing up in Shreveport, I’d been a pauper with visions of the very life I had now and all before the age of thirty.
A life where I could afford what I needed and mostly what I wanted.
A life where I vacationed alone in exotic and beautiful places worldwide.
All because of my social media presence and a book.
What started as thesis research on Black love led to followers seeking my opinions on men and relationships.
As my followers grew, I strategized using information I’d recalled from the one marketing class I’d taken on a whim while pursuing degrees in sociology and psychology.
Now, I have a top-selling book and over three hundred thousand followers who have heeded my relationship advice.
At the same time, I pursued my doctorate in sociology at the prestigious Rice University.
I toyed with the crab rice on my plate and barely ate the South African lobster tail. My thoughts were still consumed with a particular race car driver instead of the dinner meeting to outline the New Year’s goals.
“Kensie, where is your mind? You live for this.” Saraj stopped using his stylus. “You’ve given me nothing.” He gestured toward the food. “You’re picking over your favorite meal. What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I mumbled before forking a piece of lobster without dipping it in the warm lemon butter and putting it in my mouth.
Saraj gasped. “Now, I know something’s wrong. You never eat lobster without butter. Look, if it’s about the trolls talking shit that you’ve never been seen with a man, we can find some random and take pics at the beach or something.”
I looked at my friend. “Be real with me. Is it really hurting me that I don’t have a man?”
“You have half a million followers on IG and TikTok combined and over a hundred thousand subscribers on Spotify who listened to your book, and even more on YouTube without being a celebrity and having no man. With a man, especially eye candy, you would double your followers just like that. Black love is in, baby, as you know.” He snapped his fingers.
His ebony skin and pearly white teeth glowed from the candles on the table.
“I want women to know we can be happily single, especially on Valentine’s Day,” Kensie argued. “We don’t need men.”
“I don’t even believe that nonsense.” Saraj laughed and pushed back his long, blond and brown locs, which complemented his lustrous, black complexion.
“We don’t need men. They definitely don’t need us except for sex,” I said bitterly. “I refuse to be sad and lonely because I’m single when most men love being single.” Images of Canaan, the consummate player, flashed along with other men from my past.
“Says the chick who gets paid for selling love and sex. Your book is one of the highest-selling self-help books, and people want to follow you because men and women seek relationships. So, either change your brand or get a man.” He picked up his 24-Karat, a decadent vodka-and-Grand Marnier cocktail with a gold sugar rim.
“Valentine’s Day is in a few days. You need to find a man.
Get one of your benefits to pretend for a few photos. ”
I snorted. “There’s a reason they’re called ‘benefits.’ They’re not meant to come outside with me.
” Saraj referred to the two men I’d had been with over the past year, excluding Canaan.
“If I ask Dontrell, he’ll think he’s my man.
” I shuddered at claiming Dontrell, who thought his face and body were enough. “Aiden already has a woman.”
“I don’t know why I’m surprised you mess around with taken men.” He shook his head before taking another bite of his crab cake.
“Hey.” I put one finger up. “He has a girlfriend. I draw the line at married men. I’m not looking for long-term. An occasional date and good sex are all I want and need. Besides, what decent man do you know who is completely alone? Hell, the ugly ones with no job juggle women.”
Saraj chuckled. “Facts.”
“Do you need anything else?” a dimpled Latino waiter asked.
“Just your smile,” Saraj flirted.
His eyes darted toward the kitchen before quietly saying, “That could be arranged.”
Saraj’s pouty lips smiled before he lightly tapped the table. “I’ll leave my card. Use it.”
“One to-go box and the check, thank you.” I slowly moved my head, blocking the waiter’s view of Saraj, and smiled brightly at the waiter.
He nodded respectfully. “Of course.”
Saraj ogled the man, who headed back toward the kitchen. “Now, that’s the type of man you need on your arm. You’ll get the Latino crowd too. Interracial romance is hot.”
I quirked a perfectly waxed brow. “Are you getting him for you or for me?”
“Both, if I have my way.”
“I have a man I could ask if I really thought I needed one,” I commented as I gulped down the rest of my cocktail. The alcohol loosened my tight lips.
Saraj leaned closer. “Is this man the reason you’re distracted?”
Propping my elbow on the table to rest my chin on my hand, I glumly replied, “He’s driving me crazy, and I hate it.”
“This sounds good. What is he doing?” He took a long sip of his drink, paying rapt attention.
In the years we’d known each other, I was rarely affected by a man besides my ex-boyfriend.
Saraj had been a friend of mine since that one marketing class back in college.
He helped me promote my book two years ago, and together, our careers soared.
He now assists other authors with their social media presence and teaches them how to monetize their passions.
I remained his number one client and primary focus.
“Nothing. He’s someone I used to know. We spent New Year’s Eve together in Montego Bay and haven’t heard from him since.”
“He ghosted you?” He whispered like Canaan had committed murder.
“No, technically, I ghosted him first. I left while he still slept.”
The lines on his forehead increased. “Then why are you caught up?”
“Not caught up . . . just . . .” I rolled my eyes, trying to find the right words to describe my jumbled feelings.
Saraj smirked. “Caught up. It’s been weeks. You’re sprung if you can’t get him out of your head. That pipe must have been good.”
I groaned and closed my eyes. “Too damn good.”
“He might still be down if you reach out. You disappeared first.” Saraj clapped his hands in delight.
“Yes, yes . . . Call him, apologize, and convince him to take a few selfies or something. Make it Instagram official. Pretend to break it off by the end of the summer. And then do a book on enjoying the single life after a devastating breakup. Readers will be invested. People eat that stuff up. Think Usher and Confessions. That album broke records because Chilli broke up with him for cheating right before he released it, and the album wasn’t even about their relationship. It was all about the perception.”
Continuing to lean on my elbow, I shook my head vehemently. My brown blunt-cut wig swung with my motions. “Don’t think it’s a good idea. We hate each other.”
“Ooh. No wonder the sex was good. That’s an even better show. The Pleasures of Angry Sex. Kensie, you have to get him.” His eyes brightened, and he jotted down more notes on his screen. “What’s his social?”
I reluctantly went to his Instagram page and passed my phone to Saraj.
Saraj’s eyes rounded. “You did Canaan Jackson?” He bounced in his chair. “Oh my geez, this is about to be so lit.” Saraj was probably wilder than me, which is saying a lot. Yet, he attended Lakewood Church faithfully and refused to speak God’s name in vain or curse.
“You know him?”
“Duh . . . I follow anybody hot. Canaan Jackson is Insta-Platinum with his twenty-plus-million followers. He’s the darling of the city.
Not many men in NASCAR stand to inherit a billion-dollar empire from their rich daddy and represent Houston at the same time.
You have to reconnect with him. Apologize.
Give him some more. Whatever you need to do. ”
“No . . . no . . . No, Saraj. I can’t.” I couldn’t imagine calling him, especially now that I knew Canaan was a billionaire, a fact I’d been unaware of until this moment.
I knew he came from money, just not that much money.
He’d messaged me on IG with his number, and I hadn’t replied.
I refused to further engage with him after our hours-long sex-fest. We’d only stopped sexing long enough to walk to his luxurious suite and eat sushi and Tres Leche cake.
My pride wouldn’t let me reach out for many reasons, but the main one was that I didn’t appreciate feeling unsettled.
“A billionaire? No wonder he thinks all women want him. I’m not about to add to the thirst.”
“Kensie, this isn’t the time to be you. Do you understand how just a few hugged-up photos with him will raise your profile exponentially?”
“We will find someone else. He’s my college roommate’s ex, anyway.”
“Your old college roommate, Emme?” He frowned. “She’s engaged, isn’t she?”
Guilt pricking my skin, I stared at the uneaten lobster. “Doesn’t matter. I broke the friend code. I’m in her wedding, and I don’t know if she’s ever gotten over him. She just moved on because Canaan left her no choice.”
“Seriously? She’s about to marry another man, a fine and successful man, may I add. You sure she still hung up on Canaan?”
I displayed my phone, showing a shirtless pic of Canaan. “Can you get over a man who looks like this and has charm, wit, and money?”
“Damn. Way too much sexy for one man.” Saraj bit his lip and looked at me. “He really that good?”