Peyton had never been one for family drama. She’d been thankful when her parents moved from Cleveland to Philly in her teenage years because it separated them from the Cleveland Fosters and their madness. Somehow the work ethic and sense genes had skipped the majority of her father’s siblings, because few of them could ever hold on to a job or behave with any couth.  And since Peytons’s father, Perry was the sibling who was married, owned his home and had a well-behaved child, he and his family were often the target of the other Fosters’ anger and jealousy.  Perry was a man of few words who commanded enough respect to keep his siblings at bay. But young Peyton, as the daughter of the family member that everyone secretly hated and the smallest child of the Foster clan was regularly subjected to torture from her cousins. It was those fights that had contributed to her toughness. Even her young ego was too fragile to take too many losses so she learned quickly how to fight harder and smarter than larger foes.

Peyton had been surprised a year ago when her father had agreed to take in one of his troubled nieces from the Cleveland clan. “This one’s got some hope,” Perry said of the fourteen year old. “She kinda reminds me of you, Pey. She just needs a lil discipline and structure.”  As a high school teacher and basketball coach, Perry had a knack for spotting children with potential and typically had the recipe for getting the unruly ones in line. Unfortunately, his recent retirement had put him out of touch with the ways of the modern teenager. Perry and his wife had put up with young Tanisha’s eye rolling and sharp tongue for about a year, but they lost their patience when they’d caught her on their couch with a 22 year old drug dealer.

“I think Tanisha needs to come live with you for awhile,” he’d said to Peyton during an early morning phone call.

Peyton felt her tongue and throat burn as she choked on her Carmel Macchiato. “Are you crazy?” she shrieked.

She heard her father pause. “I’m gonna give you a minute to collect yourself and remember who you’re talking to.”  

It was Peyton’s turn to sigh. She felt like she was fifteen all over again. “Sorry Dad. I mean, excuse me?”

“Me and your mother talked and we think it would be a good idea if Tanisha spent some time with you. All she hears when we talk is old folks nagging. You can get through to her.”

Peyton instantly envisioned her hands wrapped around the teenage girl’s neck. “Now you know I do not have the temperament to deal with a teenager. I will end up in jail from beating the sh–daylights out of that little girl.”

Perry chuckled. “You like that cushy NBA job too much to risk jail so quit sellin wolf tickets. And she needs an example Peyton. She needs to see what she can have if she gets her head on straight. Because us threatening and punishing her ain’t workin.”

“I don’t know Dad,” Peyton searched her mind for more excuses. “I work like 60 hours a week, I don’t have time to keep up with her. How am I gonna keep her from runnin the streets if I’m never home?”

“Look,” Perry said sternly. “You are an adult so I can’t make you do anything. But I want you to keep in mind the sacrifices that people made to keep your little narrow behind on the straight and narrow. You’ve created a lot of success for yourself and your mama and I are proud. But you are 28 years old and you have yet to contribute anything of substance to the world outside of that ritsy New York crowd that you run with. Problem with these kids now is everybody runnin’ around tryna have it all that nobody makes time to talk to ‘em. Now I raised a tough cookie and I know that. But I didn’t raise you to be selfish and not care about folks, Peyton Quinn Foster.”

Peyton closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. The reason she’d stayed single and childless was so that she wouldn’t be responsible to anyone. Her life was arranged so that she could always put herself first.  And while she had meaningful friendships, they were with adult women who didn’t require more than the occasional ear and drinks every week or so. A kid? A smart-mouthed, hot-assed teenage girl nonetheless was more than she was ready to deal with. “Dad, I hear you. I really do. But you need to let me think about this. Can I call you in a few days?”

She heard Perry smile through the phone. As much of a bitch as she could be, she was still her daddy’s little girl. “Sure Pey. I’ll talk to you in a few days. Love you.”

“Love you too, Dad” Peyton replied as she turned off the speaker phone in her office. She already knew that she couldn’t call her father with a no. The only question was how she’d keep from slapping the child upon her first eye roll.  

Cherise stared at the blank computer screen. There were words somewhere in her mind, but she could not get to them.  They were trapped between memories of her last orgasm and the repeated attempts by Mr. Smith to get in contact with her.  For the last two days, her brain had been taken hostage by images of being wrapped around his brown body in various positions and locations. The way his fingers would hungrily graze her skin as though he could taste its sweet vanilla flavor through his fingertips. The carefully laid kisses on the nape of her neck and small of her back. The involuntary vibration in her thighs when it got too good to her.  With a sigh, Cherise removed her glasses to rub her temples. “Focus!” she whispered into the early morning quiet of the office.

But her brain was racked. Mr. Smith was in town to preview his new album to the press. Cherise had been relieved when the assignment was initially given to  another writer.  Her relief was short lived as assignments were rearranged after a writer had a death in the family. Of course Cherise ended up covering Mr. Smith’s listening party.  She’d tried during the staff meeting to keep her face together, but she swore that she’d felt it shatter and land in pieces on the office floor. Despite her best efforts to prevent it, she’d have to talk to him now. The careful dodging and short responses to his emails and texts had been pointless. The career gods were mocking her.  Perhaps even rolling on Heaven’s floors laughing hysterically at her expense.

Cherise had absolutely no clue how she was going to handle the evening. She’d spent two days planning her approach to the interview, but nothing stuck. She’d been obsessing over what she’d wear, but by some strange happening her entire wardrobe had morphed into ugly over night. It was ridiculous and she knew it. She needed to be talked down.  If only she could talk to her girls, but neither of them knew about Mr. Smith.  Cherise tried to imagine what they’d say. Mya had a penchant for mischief so she’d throw Cherise a  pair of Jimmy Choos and tell her to give him what he’s asking for. Peyton would give her the screw face and say, “You gonna let a man interfere with doing your job? You need to get your shit together ASAP.” Cherise had to chuckle at the amount of energy she was wasting on her silliness. She sat back in her chair and set her locks free from the messy knot she’d tied in her frustration. “I am trippin for real,” she said to no one in particular.

“Talking to ourselves this morning?” a voice broke through the fog in her mind. It was Morgan, the assistant fashion editor and one of her closest friends on staff.

“Something like that,” Cherise replied, a hint of dryness in her voice.

“Well, I’ve got some hot new samples from Tracy Reese and Giuseppe. Wanna raid the closet before the rest of these heifers  get hold of all the good stuff?”

Cherise smiled. The career gods hated her, but the wardrobe gods were clearly on her side. “Sure.” If she had to walk into hell, she was going to strut through the fiery gates in a pair of free Giuseppes.

Why is Cherise so against seeing Mr. Smith? Find out here.