Mr. Wright & Mr. Wrong: A BWWM Romance (13 page)

“
G
ood evening
, Mr. Wright.”

“Good evening, James,” Michael greeted the long-time butler for the Wright household.

“Mr. Wright is in the living room.”

Michael nodded and thanked him again. He made his way through the gaudy, ornate decor of the foyer, to the even more gaudy and more ornate living room.

Richard Wright left domestic affairs, which included not only naming his sons, but choosing the decor, up to his wife of the moment. Svetlana was particularly fond of gold…and pretentious names.

He turned the corner into the living room area and was immediately accosted by a pint-sized blur that came to a halt right in front of him. He had only a moment to register the fact that it was dressed in nothing but a pair of Superman pajama bottoms and a towel knotted around its neck.

Chauncey Wright.

The powerful water gun in his hands went into action as Chauncey sprayed his older half-brother right in the crotch.

“What the fu-!” Michael caught himself as he looked down with surprised horror at the large wet stain that was spreading across the front of his pants.

“Ha, ha!” the little brat yelled. “Michael wet his
pa-ants
! Michael wet his
pa
-
ants
!” Then he ran off screaming down the hall.

Michael stormed into the living room, where his father was standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park.

“Jesus, Dad!” he exclaimed by way of greeting. “Are you ever gonna control that kid? Six is a bit too old to be pulling this shit. Look at me!”

Richard swung around in mild surprise and grinned at the state his oldest son was in. “Looks like he got you pretty good,” he chuckled. “It’s just a little water,” he said dismissively.

“This is a $2000 suit!”

“Don’t you have a trust fund? From what I recall, it should be more than enough to cover a $2000 suit,” he said sarcastically. “Of course, if you came to work for me you wouldn’t have to worry about—”

“Don’t start this again,” Michael sighed. “I enjoy what I do at the firm.”

Richard just gave his son the usual look of disapproval at his choice in profession.

“What is this about anyway?” Michael asked. “I have things I need—”

They both snapped their heads in the direction of the hallway, where a loud burst of expletives was currently being rattled off. It was followed by a continual stream of wailing and shouting that became progressively louder as it neared the living room.

Their curiosity was finally satisfied as Alex walked in carrying one very irate, kicking and screaming Chauncey under one arm like a sack of potatoes and the large water gun in the other.

“Do you know what this little brat just tried—?”

He stopped short as he took in Michael’s ruined suit, which made it very clear that yes, they did know what that little brat tried to do.

“Alright, Chauncey,” Alex said, over the screaming of his younger half-brother. “Apologize to your big bro.” He swung the boy around to face Michael.

“No!”

“Do it.”

“Nooooo!”

“Do it, or I soak you.” He brought the gun around and pointed it right at Chauncey’s head.

“You can’t make m—!” The last word was garbled as a stream of water flowed over his head and covered his face.

“Do it.”

“I’m tellin—!”
Another shot of water hit him.

“Do it.”

“No!
I hate yo—!” Another shot of water.

“Alright, Alex,” Richard interrupted. “I think he gets it.”

“I don’t think he does. Frankly, I could do this all day,” he looked up at his dad accusingly. “We wouldn’t have this problem if you didn’t let him run around without any consequences.”

“I don’t recall you being a perfect little angel growing up,” Richard responded. “
You
somehow managed to turn it into a career.”

“As much as I love our little family gatherings,” Michael chimed in. “I do have things to do today. So maybe you could get to the point, dad?”

Alex sighed and dropped Chauncey on the sofa with a thud. The boy kicked out at his older half-sibling and made a grab for the gun. Alex easily held it out of his reach.

“Give it back to me!” the boy yelled.

Alex pointed it right at him in response.

Watching the internal struggle between getting his way, and getting soaked again was probably the most enjoyment Michael had ever gotten out of his youngest half-brother. Eventually common sense won out and the kid took off running down the hall for his mother.

“Well, I hope you’re happy now,” Richard said. “I’m gonna have to deal with Svetlana tonight.”

“That’s what you get for letting her name him in the first place. There’s the problem right there. It’s no wonder he acts up. Where the heck did a name like Chauncey come from anyway?” Alex asked, inspecting the water gun in his hands.

“She read it in a book somewhere. Thought it sounded ‘regal,’” Richard made quotes in the air.

“How is the lovely Svetlana these days?” Michael asked sarcastically.

As if on cue, the current Mrs. Wright walked in on them. The three men went silent, taking in her appearance. The skin-tight, leopard-print top with a neckline so deep in front, no one had to wonder if her assets were surgically enhanced. The, very obvious, lack of bra and gravity defying globes answered that question. The red skirt was just as tight, and just as informative regarding the issue of underwear.

“Vat ees vong veet Chauncey?” She stopped in surprise when she saw her two step-sons. “Oh, louk, my due favreet meen,” she said, teetering over in platform high heels to greet them.

The two Wright brothers just stared in bewilderment as she hugged both of them—a bit too long—and kissed each on the cheek—a bit too enthusiastically. At 30, she fell right between the two older Wrights in age, which made such intimate greetings awkward.

When she got to Michael she pulled back in surprise. “Oh! Zou ad zee leetle assident, no?” she wagged her finger at him with a teasing smile.

Michael tightened his lips in response. He could sense part of the problem with his half-sibling right here.

“Sveltana,” Richard spoke up. “We’re trying to have a family meeting here. Men only. Can you do me a favor and collect River?”

She pouted her full lips at him, then gave a kittenish smile as she walked over to peck him on the cheek.

“Ok, I leeve zou meen to zour meeting,” she gave another sexy smile to each of them in turn and sashayed out of the room, leaving all three staring after the attention-grabbing ass as it disappeared around the corner.

When the trance was broken, Michael spoke up.

“How can you be married to someone you can’t even understand?” he asked.

“I didn’t marry her to have in depth conversations, son,” Richard pointed out.

“Is that her normal hanging-around-the-house attire?” Alex asked.

“The only one complaining is you, Alex.” Richard said with disdain.

Michael wasn’t quite sure how he felt about his father’s blanket acceptance that his sons might be checking out his latest wife.

A sudden intrusion of what could only be described as noise, came from somewhere in the residence. Michael saw his father close his eyes with frustration.

“Welcome to my latest hell, boys,” he said.

Before Michael could ask for clarification, their younger half-brother walked into the room. Or at least he thought that was him.

All three men spoke up at once, in reverse order of age.

“Is that a safety pin in your eyebrow?”

“Are you wearing black lipstick?”

“Jesus H. Christ.”

River was 16 years old and the product of Richard’s third, and briefest, marriage. Emma had never really gotten over a certain actor’s overdose in a Los Angeles nightclub and decided to name her son in tribute. The last Michael had heard, she was “cleansing” in Guatemala, whatever the hell that meant.

River’s only loyalty seemed to be to the color black. The trademark Wright hair, which was already dark, was dyed to a color that would have made James Reaves envious. The nails, lips, and the area circling his eyes were a matching shade. The clothes were also black, and looked as though someone had taken a razor blade to them.

“River—”

“It’s
Riot
, dad! How many times do I have to tell you?”

“River, Riot, I don’t care. Can you please go back and either turn that racket off or at least close the door?”

“Ugh!” he grunted before storming off.

“Never a dull moment,” laughed Alex.

The dull throbbing of the music ceased and moments later River—or rather, Riot—trounced back in.

The three of them waited while Richard ceremoniously turned to face out the window, arms held behind his back.

“I’m glad I finally have all three of you here,” he made a point to give Alex a look, before turning back to the window. “You know I love this city.”

Michael was getting impatient. “Dad, can you just—”

“Don’t interrupt, son. This is important.”

“This city has been good to me. As you all know, I started from almost nothing, just a small loan from my father.”

Michael coughed.

Alex snickered.

Riot just gave a grunt of disgust.

It was well known that the loan from the elder, long dead, Wright had been anything but small.

Richard ignored them as he continued on. “Now I feel the need to give back. I owe it to this city, to its residents.”

Michael didn’t like the sound of that at all.

Richard turned around to face them, and looked at each of his sons in turn.

“I’ve decided to run for Mayor,” he announced.

Michael: “Good god.”

Alex: “That’s just…a terrible idea.”

Riot: “Why do you continue to ruin my life?!”

This was obviously not the enthusiastic reaction he had predicted. “Well I would have expected a bit more support from my own heirs,” he frowned. “After all, where would each of you be without me?”

He looked at Michael. “How do you think you got into Harvard? And that job of yours? Do you think they would have hired you without the Wright name?”

“Um, I’m pretty sure managed top 10 percent of my class at Harvard Law all on my own, dad.”

Richard went on without acknowledging his statement.

“And you Alex. Where do I begin? Partying day and night. How many people do you think can grow up like that, not even go to college, and still manage to make a living? I’m sure that trust fund comes in handy.”

“I haven’t even
touched—!”

Richard was already on to his third son.

“And this one? Christ, I don’t even need to say it. You ‘rage against the machine’” he mocked, “but have no problem using my money to buy those rags you wear, which I know for a fact cost $1000.”

Michael shot a look at “Riot’s” clothes. He had to give it to his dad on that one.

“I guess I was wrong to expect a little appreciation for all that I’ve sacrificed for you three.”

The three sons scoffed. Michael had a definite appreciation for the life that being a Wright afforded him, but he was under no illusions that his father had “sacrificed” anything. If anything, he had bulldozed his way through life, leaving sacrificial lambs in his wake. Three of whom were standing in his living room right now.

With this latest announcement, it was only a matter of time before the hits just kept on coming. It was going to be brutal.

T
he next day
, London was sitting in her dad’s office for their regular Monday morning “Strategy Session,” during which the three Jeffersons of
Jefferson, Jefferson, Jefferson & Associates
reviewed and prioritized any ongoing or upcoming cases for the firm. These days there was only one priority: Dion Davis’ run for mayor of New York.

Cleveland was running late, as usual. He’d no doubt show up, three coffees in his hands and a
mea culpa
on his lips. He always laid the blame on having small children. London was in no position to counter him, currently being as far away from having a family as Pluto was from the Sun.

She really did love Mondays.

In the meantime, London, also as usual, only half listened to her father’s ramblings about whatever the thorn in his side was these days.

“Can you believe this?” he announced.

London’s eyes shifted from the impressive view of the city through the window behind him to the book he was holding up in his hands. She rolled her eyes when she saw the title.

“Dad, you know I don’t read Jake Steele novels.”

Frank gave an audible humph and slid the book across the desk as he continued on. “I thought this
Naomi
character was just a fluke. Now it looks like she’s here to stay for good,” he gave a heavy sigh. “Here it is, the third novel—
third!
—and now they’re off to some tiny island in Italy I’ve never even heard of: Panarea. What is that? Have you heard of it?”

Before London could answer he continued on.

“First it was the Maldives in the last book
.
The Maldives!
”
He repeated the word as if the author had sent the characters to the moon. “Now I ask you, what the hell kind of terrorists are there in the Maldives?” He gave another heavy sigh. “I’m beginning to think the author just wants an excuse to visit these places for ‘research,’” he hooked his fingers into air quotes.

“Must be nice for
some
,” he muttered.

“Why don’t you just find another author to read,” she suggested.

He gave her a look as though she had asked him to jump out of the window behind him. “I didn’t say he wasn’t still my favorite author, London,” he explained patiently.

London rolled her eyes again and went back to half-listening as she picked up the book. She was used to her father being melodramatic about everything, especially these first world problems of his, though she wouldn’t dare say that to his face. She idly opened the cover and flipped through to the back, where she saw the author’s picture.

Not too shabby.

She immediately shook the thought from her mind. One kiss—one incredibly
hot
kiss—with Richard Wright and now every white man she saw was good looking. She took another look before closing the cover. Okay, perhaps this one really was,
objectively
, not too shabby. She laughed to herself. Two weeks ago she wouldn’t have looked twice at him…probably.

“Still, it’s anathema…a
travesty
!” her father continued to rant. “My favorite author and now he’s become
romantic
. I don’t care if she
is
black—”

“She’s black?” London asked, taking a sudden interest in her father’s tirade.

He gave her an irritated look, which transformed into suspicion. “Don’t
you
go getting any ideas, London. Everyone wants to jump on the
Olivia Pope
bandwagon these days, like
white
is the new
black
.”

London sighed and put the book back on his desk. She went back to staring out of the window.

When the heck was Cleve getting here?

“I read these books to escape. I don’t need real life infiltrating my
me
-time. It’s bad enough I have a daughter
involved
with a Wright—”

“What?”
London was brought out of her daze by the name. Dear god, did he know?

Her father gave her another irritated look. “London,” he said with exaggerated patience, “Have you not been paying attention the past week? I thought you talked to her.”

London stared at him, confusion and guilt still on her face.

“Brooklyn?”
he finally explained. “With that Wright boy? I honestly don’t know where I went wrong with the girl, that she would choose a
Wright
of all people.”

Perhaps it was the—completely unnecessary—guilt. Perhaps it was the dismissive attitude he had toward his daughters’ choice in men. Either way, London had had enough of it.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Daddy!’ she yelled. Frank was shocked into silence, completely unused to his eldest daughter ever getting a word in.

“Perhaps if you paid the slightest attention to her, beyond always,
always
, wondering ‘where you went wrong’ she’d be less of a
disappointment
. Who cares if she’s dating a white man? Who cares if she’s dating a
Wright
? It doesn’t mean he’s anything like his father—
you
of all people should understand that. Just—just give her a damn
break
for once!”

She jumped out of her seat and stormed toward the door, just as Cleveland opened it, a tray of three coffees in hand.

“Hey, sorry I’m late!” he sang out, “I come bearing—”

“Gee, Cleve,” London said, “It’s so nice of you to
finally
make an appearance. I see you’ve brought coffee as usual. I just hope you didn’t put any cream in them.” She turned back to glare at her father. “Apparently
that’s
not acceptable in the Jefferson offices.”

She pushed passed him, ignoring his completely startled expression, and strode off. It didn’t prevent her from catching the last few words between the two of them.

“What was that all about?” Cleveland asked, bewildered.

“I have no idea, son. I think both my daughters have gone off the deep end.”