“No, I’m talking about black men who would probably appreciate their own line of products. I know Nicky would definitely buy something like that.”
Before James could say anything, though, Paul came running over to us. “Why didn’t you call me? I would have come in to get this.”
Paul was funny like that. He actually seemed to get insulted when James did stuff for himself like regular folks. Usually James had to come up with practical excuses for carrying his own bags into the house or getting his own car washed, so that Paul’s feelings wouldn’t be hurt. It was a seriously strange dynamic. But today he didn’t answer Paul’s question. He just let Paul take the case from him, his mind obviously elsewhere.
“He wanted to stretch his legs some more before we sat down for the wine tasting,” I replied to Paul’s now worried look. “It’s been a lot of sitting today.”
Paul smiled. “Yes it has, now. You two should walk around the estate. It looks very nice here.”
I took James’s hand and led him away. “That sounds like a good idea.”
After twenty minutes of walking the grounds in a pensive silence, James said, “You know what? I think you have a point. I’m going to pitch a Farrell Men line to the product development department when I get back.”
“I think that’s a real good idea.”
I smiled up at him. And he smiled back down at me. “You know what else?” he asked, pulling me into his arms.
“You love me,” I guessed, laughing.
But his face was dead serious when he answered, “Yeah, I love you.” He tipped my chin up with his finger. “The first time I saw you, even though you were in that bunny suit, you had me thinking, Yeah, that’s a girl I could fall in love with. I just knew. Have you ever just known?”
“Once,” I confessed, now as serious as him. “When I first saw you.”
He scanned my face. “You’re not joking,” he said. “You really loved me. Even way back then?”
I nodded.
And he finally smiled. “Well, obviously you were smarter than I was in high school.”
I laughed. “Obviously.”
He started to kiss me, but I pulled away. “Wait, I have something for you.”
I reached into the pocket of my H&M trapeze jacket and handed him one of the red cocktail napkins from Nicky’s.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Your birthday present.”
I had written on the napkin:
Tonight, Davie Jones will do this to James Farrell:
1.
2.
3.
James eyes darkened with lust as he read the napkin. “This is my birthday present?”
I nodded. “You can fill in those three blanks with whatever freaky thing you want.”
His face went from amused to what I can only describe as full-on challenge. “Anything I want?” He pulled out his Montblanc pen and started writing on the napkin, against the wall.
I tried to read over his shoulder, but he shielded the napkin with his hand. “Un-uh. You’ll find out what’s on there tonight. Believe that.”
. . .
Nicky had a strict “no comp” policy at the club. It didn’t matter if you were Brad Pitt, he wasn’t giving you a table or anything on our menu for free, because he said once you started that mess, you’d be giving freebies to celebrities forever. He had explained this to me in the same tone of voice that most people reserved for talking about termite problems.
But apparently not everyone felt this way, because James got a lot of stuff for free that weekend. Not just the hotel room and the Firestone wine, but also massages at a local spa and a picnic lunch from some other old-money winery.
I had always known that James was kinda-sorta famous for being that token rich black guy whose picture often got taken at the hottest parties. But I realized that weekend that he was also very well liked in a certain circles. And I could see why.