“You asked us to push you no matter what, and that’s what we’re doing until you win a Formula One.” Pops added, “You’re too caught up with loose women and the celebrity world when your attention needs to be on winning.”
Taking in the stunning panoramic view of the Houston skyline from my floor-to-ceiling windows, I argued, “Women come with the territory, Pops. Winning races may make history and bring more sponsors, but the wealth that Dad can respect comes from deals made off the track. Got to use my hotness for more than just the women,” I bragged as I pulled off my T-shirt and checked out myself in the gold mirror across from my king-size bed. I kept my hair cut close, emphasizing my prominent cheekbones, round nose, full lips, and copper-colored skin. Add on the imposing height and muscles, and I’d been a winner before I won any actual races. My natural charm, mischievous eyes, and a broad smile enhanced my appeal to the masses. I had already received modeling and endorsement contracts outside the racing world.
“Boy, that big head of yours will get you in trouble. Arrogant like your daddy. It’s why he couldn’t hold on to your mama. Too focused on acquiring money and women instead of being a husband.”
My grandparents had been married for over fifty years. My father couldn’t make it five years with my mother, and she returned to her native island of Barbados with me. My mother and I lived alone until my disruptive behavior at home and school was so out of control at the age of ten that she dumped me on her parents’ doorstep. My mother had washed her hands of me, her parents, and the island in search of happiness. I rarely saw her since she’d remarried, had two more children, and moved to Chicago. It was like her firstborn had never existed. What used to burn a raging hole in my stomach now remained a gut clench whenever someone brought up my mother. I understood why she didn’t want to be with my controlling and philandering father, but not why she gave up on me. My grandparents, who never left Barbados, barely spoke to my mother, either, disappointed in her treatment of me. Truly a shame since they longed to know their granddaughters, whom they’d only seen in the occasional school pictures my mother sent. Family above all else had always been of value to them.
“You worry too much, Pops. Besides, I’m not on that family track. Got to stay focused on the goal. Remain on the grind.” I stripped to my boxer briefs and plopped down on the bed, needing to shower. “I’m almost thirty years old and almost too old for NASCAR. I’ll have time for wifey and a kid or two whenever I retire or win several cups and Formula One races. Whatever comes first.” I didn’t have the heart or courage to tell Pops, who believed so firmly in marriage and family, that I didn’t share the belief. Being the product of an unhappy union, witnessing the destructive power of love, and my own heartbreak, disillusioned my view of marriage—no fairy tales for me. The stakes were too high to take a risk on love, even for a man who loved to gamble with his life every time I slid into a car and raced at deadly speeds.
“You keep getting caught up with the wrong woman. The right one isn’t a distraction. That’s your daddy speaking,” Pops said firmly. “I don’t know why you don’t hear my voice.”
“Dad is good, and his life is even better. He doesn’t need a wife with how busy he is. All she would do is nag him.” Although I was closer to Pops than to my father, I couldn’t deny that I was proud of my father, a self-made billionaire through a Houston-based engineering and oil company he had founded. I also couldn’t deny that my father was often a tyrant, unhappy with my choice to race cars instead of running the company with him. I can still hear the disappointment in his voice and the yells once I graduated from college with honors in engineering and geology and used my trust fund to finance my dreams of motor racing.
“Then you’re choosing to see him through rose-colored glasses. Because he’s your father, I understand why you can’t see him in any other light.” Weariness and acceptance permeated his tone. “I’ll talk to you later. Make sure you call Mama G and wish her a happy birthday tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. Her gift should arrive tomorrow too.” My grandmother was a pillar in her community and church in Barbados. She’d been an elementary school teacher for years. She kept up with her students and was always invited to events or functions. “Where is she anyway?”
“One of her former students’ weddings.”
I chuckled. “She stays gone.”
“That’s because she’s missing you.” Pops paused before continuing. “Come home soon. You’re only a plane ride away. Love you.”
“Love you too.” I ended the call without making any promises I couldn’t keep. I honestly didn’t know when I would get a chance to go back to the island. As much as I loved my grandparents, going to Barbados brought back unpleasant memories of my mother. The minute I graduated high school, I moved near my father, started college at Prairie View, a university outside of Houston, and rarely looked back. I turned onto my side, pushed worrying thoughts about my family and fascination with Kensie aside, and crashed into a much-needed deep sleep.
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, Iknowsomething’s wrong. Younevereat 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’tneedmen.”
“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’tneed 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 menlovebeing 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.”
