Nicki
After that, we sit in silence for a while.
My eyes sweep Bey's room and come to rest on a couple of posters on the opposite wall.
One is an enlarged black-and-white photo of a young man with wavy, dark hair that falls to his shoulders. He's perched on a stool, holding a guitar, and he's dressed in classic seventies: bell bottoms and a tight, flowery button-down.
A couple of feet away is another poster. This one is in color; it shows an older man with thick white hair, also worn long. He is also holding a guitar, also sitting on a stool. But he's dressed in contemporary clothes.
I don't have to read the print on the bottom of each poster to know who it is: Frasier Bryson, of course. The same man I saw at tonight's party, watching Bey play.
Bey's hero.
Munchie rolls over on the bed, splaying his legs and exposing his belly to me. When I don't respond right away, the dog yelps to make his demands clear.
Bey and I both laugh.
"Obnoxious animal," she mutters in a fond tone. "I've clearly spoiled him rotten."
I obligingly begin to rub Munchie's belly, and Bey stretches out on the blanket, propping her head on his elbow. She's staring at me.
"Are you sure you're comfortable like that?" I ask, my skin prickling from the heat of her glance. "I feel bad making you sit on the floor in your own room."
"It's fine, Nicki. I really don't mind."
There it is again. That husky, caressing tone that enters my ears and then seems to travel right down to where it leaves me throbbing with desire.
Again, totally inappropriate, considering we've just been talking about our dead parents. But I can't help it.
I cross my legs and slide my palms over my thighs, feeling the breath catch in my throat.
A slow smile quirks up one side of Bey's face, and I notice that her eyes—those amazing, hazel brown eyes—are gleaming with amusement.
Does she know what I'm feeling? Is it written all over my face?
I start petting Munchie as if my life depends on it.
"So, Nicki," Bey quips after a moment, "how'd you convince the editor to hire you?"
"Um..." I'm thrown off by having to quickly shift to thinking about the Daily. "Well..."
I nibble my lower lip, wondering if I should tell her the truth. The whole truth.
Since we've been baring our souls to each other tonight, maybe I should. Maybe I'll feel better when I do.
"I used my family connections," I finally respond, taking a breath. "I told him who my grandmother is. I...she..."
I'm fumbling around; I sound like an idiot.
"I knew he would know who she is," I go on in a rush, "and I figured it would make him want me as a reporter, even though all the slots are already taken."
One of Bey's sleek eyebrows shoots up. "Okay," she says slowly. "So, who's your grandmother?"
"Virginia Cooke, President Pro Tempore of the Oklahoma State Senate. You know, Cooke Ranch and all that?"
"Oh." Bey nods, her face blank. Then a look of realization dawns. "Oh. Yeah, I've heard of the Cooke Ranch."
She pushes her fingers through her hair and then rests both hands on the dusty wood floor.
"One of the biggest ranches in the state," she goes on, "owned by a very powerful family." Her head is tilted, and her eyes narrowed. She's studying me.
"Huh," she adds. "I did not expect that."
"Really? Why not?"
"Well, you don't act like some spoiled rich kid."
"Gee," I chortle, "thanks."
But then it occurs to me that Bey is wrong. A spoiled rich kid is exactly how I acted to get the reporter job.
My gaze shifts away from his.
"The truth is," I explain after a moment, "I used my family to pressure the editor into hiring me, even though he made it pretty clear on the phone he didn't want to. I did act like some privileged brat. I assumed all I had to do was drop my grandmother's name to get what I wanted."
Munchie, dreaming again, yelps and runs his legs across the bed like he's chasing something. We watch him for a few seconds without speaking.
Then Bey clears his throat.
"Sounds to me like you did what everybody does," she says. "Everybody who gets anywhere, anyway. You used what you had. You didn't break any laws or do anything immoral. You told him who you are. He made the choice to give you the job."
I stare up at the stained ceiling, uneasy with Bey's easy absolution, even if it does make me feel better to hear it.
Not everybody can do what I did, and I don't think everybody would even if they could.
But after suffering a few qualms, I went right ahead and did what I intended to do all along. Just like Virginia Cooke would have done. Just like she's done her whole life.
Oh, get the fuck over yourself, NicNac. I'm hearing TT in my head, but it's like she is standing right next to me, shaking a mocking finger in my face. Stop overthinking this, you brat, and get on the floor with that hot AF man. Right. Fucking. Now.
Bey sits up straight, interrupting TT's mental ass-kicking. "I'm pretty sure my dad knew your grandma," she says with a yawn, stretching her arms over his head.
That gets my attention. "Wait, what?"
She smirks. "They had a lot of battles over the years. He used to complain about her all the time."
I probably look puzzled because I am.
"My dad," Bey goes on, "he is. . .he was the founder and CEO of Bootstrap Enterprises. Have you heard of it?"
"Uh, yeah." Everybody in the state knows about Bootstrap and the larger-than-life character who founded it.
Holy shit. Matthew Knowles is Bey's father. Of course. I run my hands down my face and then push them through my hair. It's what I always do when I'm processing mind-blowing information.
"So...your dad. . .," I go on, slowly, "Yeah, I remember reading about his plane crash. It was all over the news."
I'm finally putting the pieces together.
According to my grandma, Matthew Knowles was corrupt, had quite a few politicians in his pocket. She spent years trying to prove he belonged in jail.
Until his sudden death put an end to her quest.
I'd read in the news how Bootstrap was broken up after Knowles' death and sold off in pieces. There was some kind of financial scandal that made headlines for days. But I can't remember the details.
"Wow." It's all I can think to say. But after a moment, I can't help teasing Bey a little.
"So...about this spoiled rich kid thing...right back at ya, daughter of a gazillionaire."
Bey chuckles. But then she shakes her head decisively.
"None of that money is mine," she insists. "My dad cut me off when I enlisted. And I'm glad he did. I didn't want anything to do with Bootstrap."
She glances toward the picture on the desk. "Most of the money is gone anyway," she adds with a scowl. "My dad..." She shakes her head again more vehemently as her face darkens."Never mind. Another long, stupid story."
I nod, sighing. One thing's for sure: Bey and I both come from a bunch of family dysfunction.
Munchie rolls to the other side of the bed, and I slide my hands back on Bey's bedspread, bringing my legs up to sit cross-legged. I can't help yawning. It must be so late. For me, anyway. I've always been an early riser.
Then I notice Bey is looking at me. Her bottom lip is slightly open, and the raw desire on her face almost has me leaping off the bed and throwing myself at her.
But I'm not quite that bold. I'm not like TT.
Maybe, though, I should try to be.
My eyes slide over to the guitar, placed in the red chair. "Hey, Bey," I ask with a seductive smile, "would you sing to me?"
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