BWWM Romance: Crossing The Line: Interracial Romance / Wealthy Love Interest Read online

  Virgil ran his tongue over his teeth and stuffed his hands in his pockets. His mother’s victorious smile made him want to punch something. “When?”

  “Whatever night she has free.”

  * * *

  The man who picked Shawna up from her apartment wore no makeup. His dirty-blond hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail and he wore a sober dark blue tie. There was no spiked anything to be seen. The black nail polish was absent from his nails and he wore a tailored suit.

  "Who are you and where is my boyfriend?"

  Virgil laughed bitterly. He opened the door and helped her climb into the truck. Virgil had hoped that Shawna would be too busy to have dinner with his parents so soon, but she was available that weekend. Melinda insisted on doing it right away before something came up. She had offered to let Virgil off the hook and just have Shawna over, but there was no way Virgil was going to leave Shawna alone with his mother.

  He gripped the steering wheel and Shawna saw the muscles clench in his jaw. She reached over and touched his arm and he gave her a weak smile. The truck cut through the rain-soaked streets and he gunned it through the yellow lights. Cars quickly got out of the way of the monster on wheels, as his engine could be heard from a block away. Shawna clenched the seat and seatbelt as they raced toward the mansion.

  "Is everything okay?"

  "Sure, babe." Virgil eased off the gas and started stopping at red lights. Shawna frowned. His cold silence made her wonder if she had done something wrong. He glanced over at her and squeezed her hand. "I . . . am so sorry for whatever happens the rest of the night."

  "That's quite possibly the worst thing anyone has ever said to me. What's wrong?"

  "I couldn't explain it if I tried. My family . . . my parents . . . my mother is difficult. I'm sure she's going to say something obscene and if we're lucky, she's already through half a bottle of gin."

  "Oh . . . Well, I know how to behave myself."

  "Trust me. You're not the one I'm worried about."

  Virgil had talked about the house after Shawna agreed to go to dinner. He talked about the size of the property and the little guest house that he currently lived in. As she watched Virgil fidget and tighten all of his muscles, she figured that his family was the reason he preferred to stay in her tiny apartment. He never asked her over and when she had brought it up previously, he’d made an excuse and quickly changed the subject.

  The property was in a part of town that Shawna didn't even know existed. The trees lining the streets were starting to lose their bloom, leaving thick, dark leaves to shade the road. Old mansions sat far back from the curbs in their own private worlds, each separate from its neighbors.

  Shawna wasn't a stranger to stressful parents. Her father could very easily get on any normal person's nerves. His Bible thumping and loud declarations of how everyone (in the room, in the world) was a sinner was enough to drive anyone nuts. She had never liked bringing friends home. He'd grill them on their church-going habits and ask intimate questions about their parents. Shawna spent a good portion of her childhood embarrassed and lonely. Mikki was the only friend subjected to her father’s interrogation who didn't mind, who wasn’t even fazed. She rolled out every answer he wanted to hear and presented herself as a living saint (humble, too). It was a style of deceit Shawna was not comfortable with and even if she were, there was no way she could pull it off. Her parents had taught her to tell the truth even when it hurt.

  She wished Virgil had told her sooner that he was uncomfortable with his family. She would have postponed until he was ready― or indefinitely, whichever worked best for him. Yet the curiosity ate at her. Through the last few weeks she had wondered who he really was. Deep down inside she knew he hid things from her, parts of himself that she would have to hunt and drag out of him. The night they were attacked at the concert still played in her mind. She couldn't shake the feeling that those guys knew him as more than a local musician. That anger was personal.

  Shawna smoothed the skirt of her white, floral sundress and Virgil glanced over.

  "You look great in everything," he said. "It never ceases to amaze me."

  "I would say the same, but . . . you look like you're going to vomit."

  "The evening is young."

  Virgil took a sharp turn and they pulled up to a large, black, wrought iron gate. He punched in the security code and the gate squeaked open at a snail's pace. Shawna saw the roof of the main house, but Virgil steered the truck into the opposite direction. "I'd like to show you something."

  The guest house was a tiny version of the main house. It had only three bedrooms, compared to the seven bedrooms of the main house. His patio furniture was well used. He typically sat on the porch on Sunday mornings with a cup of coffee and a notebook to write new songs. When his band mates dropped by, they liked hanging out on the porch and around the pool.

  Shawna stiffened and didn't answer Virgil when he spoke to her. Opening her door, Virgil offered his hand, but she hesitated to take it. The opulence of the whole thing overwhelmed her. She felt self-conscious about her little apartment with its chipped, used plates, dented, department store pots and mismatched silverware.

  "Shawna," he said, stepping up on the passenger side, leaning into the cab. "We can turn around now and never look back."

  "Virgil--"

  "I'll grab my guitar and whatever cash I have and we can just go."

  Shawna shook her head. "No. Something about this is important to you."

  Virgil licked his lips and looked out at the guest house and then back behind them, where the main house loomed like a large predator waiting in the shadows with teeth and claws gleaming.

  "If I ever asked you to run away with me . . . would you? If I promised to take care of you?"

  "That's something children say," Shawna said. "Children run away."

  "Maybe adults just lack the imagination."

  Virgil hopped down off the truck and helped Shawna out of the cab. She looked around and tried not to let the shame of her lower-middle class upbringing overtake her. Even lawyers didn't have real estate of this magnitude. This was old money. Her mother had warned her about old money, especially white people with old money.

  He didn't let go of her hand as they walked through the halls of the house. He gave her a tour of the first and second floor. The basement was used for storage. Shawna ran her hands across the casual, lived-in, modern furniture. Now that she was inside the house, Shawn realized just how cozy it was with the overstuffed chairs and fold out sofas.

  It was obvious that Virgil didn't cook. The house smelled like a ritzy hotel lobby, without any lingering food smells. She looked at all of the enlarged photographs. They were mostly artsy black and white shots of random objects. The wide perspective on some of them took Shawna's breath away.

  "These are awesome."

  "A . . . friend took them."

  "A friend?"

  Virgil shrugged. "Would you like something to drink or a pre-dinner snack?"

  "No, I'm good."

  Virgil led Shawna into his studio and had her sit on the sofa. He swung his guitar off the wall and slid the strap over his shoulder. After flipping several switches, Virgil tapped the microphone in front of him, testing to see if it was on. As he began to play, Shawna's heart quickened. His fingers glided over the strings effortlessly, and the more he got into it, the more the guitar sang to her. He played a few blues riffs to warm up before breaking into an original composition.

  He had clearly written the song about her, but not necessarily for her. The haunting sound filled the room like a billowing hot air balloon. Shawna rocked to the beat for a while, and then Virgil began to sing. Nothing she had listened to previously could have ever prepared Shawna for the rich sound of Virgil's voice. It shook her to her core and made her quiver. His lyrics sent chills down her spine and it wasn't long before she understood the crying girl from the restaurant. Shawna could only imagine what Virgil sounded like with a full band.

&n
bsp; When he finished and opened his eyes, Virgil swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, the look on his face making it clear that he expected any look except one of absolute admiration. Putting his guitar down, he joined Shawna on the couch.

  "That was incredible," she said, wiping away a stray tear, careful not to smudge her makeup.

  "It was for you."

  "I don't know what to say." Shawna crushed her skirt in her hands and stared down at the floor. Heat rushed to her cheeks and a warm sensation crept through her body. The sensation of Virgil’s gaze raced on electrical currents through her veins. He was still the same man who swept her away from the charity event, and yet different in some way that she had a hard time nailing down. Either way, the intimate moment took Shawna by surprise. She touched her stomach where the butterflies were going wild.

  Virgil pulled Shawna by her chin to meet his lips and kissed her. "I need you to promise me something,” he said, pulling away from the soft touch of her mouth.

  "Sure."

  "Whatever happens tonight, you'll give me a chance to explain."

  Shawna shook her head and pulled away. This wasn't the first cryptic request Virgil had made. He wanted a blind devotion from her that she wasn't sure she could give. She didn’t want to give it. He had more secrets than anyone she had ever known, and even though he seemed like he wanted them to stay together, he was incredibly unwilling to share. She knew he was afraid 0f something but it hurt that he didn’t trust her. It scared her that he might have reason not to trust anyone.

  "You could explain everything now and avoid all of this mystery. I don't really think I'll appreciate this particular surprise."

  "I know I'm asking a lot of you, but I am so fucked up, and I don’t want you to judge me when I’m not even done putting myself together.”

  “I can try to help you,” Shawna said, standing. “But you’re going to have to let me in, Virgil. This wall you have up is so hard to deal with. I feel like I don’t know who you are or what you’re about. You’re a nice guy, but I’m not sure how much of that is even real and how much is an act. What do you want from me?”

  Virgil rested his chin on his clasped hands and bit his bottom lip. He could only look up at her and shake his head.

  “I wish that I was every inch the man you want me to be. I wish I knew how to transform into the man you need.”

  “I don’t need anything,” she said in exasperation. “I can take care of myself. What I want is for you to be okay. I want you to be honest with me.”

  “I know.”

  Shawna sighed, and stood in front of Virgil. Rubbing his shoulders, she allowed him to rest his head against her stomach. She smoothed his hair with one hand and squeezed his hand with the other.

  “I’d never hurt you,” Virgil said. “Know that much.”

  “I know,” Shawna said. “I don’t know how, but I know.”

  * * *

  Shawna shook her head, dreading what could possibly happen at dinner, especially after Virgil's cryptic warnings. The worst that she could imagine was that Virgil's parents' were horrible, old racists, but they had already failed at that since they invited her over to their house to eat dinner, not to come cook it. Being able to use the front door was a plus. In her heart of hearts, she hoped that Virgil had more sense than to expose her to some bigoted nonsense.

  Virgil didn’t bother to give her a tour of the main property. He moved swiftly through the wide halls with her in tow. Shawna barely got a glimpse into the family room with its old school fireplace and a painting of some ancient family member surrounded by all of his valuable possessions. She spotted a stuffed bird of some sort in another room, and the family library was located close by as well. Virgil had to double back to drag her from the library with its ceiling-height shelves, packed with every conceivable volume from centuries past.

  “What’s in the books?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea.”

  The dining room was something out of a movie. The long table was covered with an ironed and starched white tablecloth. The aroma of the red and orange floral centerpiece could be detected from out in the hallway and its colors matched those of the oriental rug. Tall white candles filled the empty spaces on the table. An elaborate gold chandelier hung from the high ceiling. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be found. Shawna smirked at the little silver domes over the plates. She had seen them in movies, but didn’t think they really existed.

  No one else was in the dining room. Virgil mumbled something under his breath and headed for a different door. He was cut off by an older black woman in a maid’s uniform. She carried a large serving dish, which she shifted to the side to avoid running into Virgil.

  “Where’s the fire, young man?”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Hargrove. Have you seen my parents?”

  “They’re in the sitting room waiting for you.”

  Virgil looked over his shoulder at Shawna and back to Mrs. Hargrove. “Mrs. Hargrove, Miss Shawna Mills.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, dear.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” Shawna said.

  “She’s cute,” Mrs. Hargrove told Virgil. “Keep her away from your mama.”

  Shawna’s mouth fell open and she quickly closed it. Virgil and Mrs. Hargrove exchanged a look.

  “Wait here,” Virgil told Shawna.

  Shawna watched Mrs. Hargrove set down the serving dish and wipe a smudge from one of the silver domes. Shawna’s grandmother used to work in people’s houses. There was no shame in it, even though there were plenty of people who would say otherwise. It was an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay. Mrs. Hargrove didn’t seem too distraught over it. She hadn’t given Shawna one of those looks that unhappy folks exchange among themselves. The unspoken, unwritten language of facial expressions was common in black households. But the only vibe Shawna received from Mrs. Hargrove was one of mild concern.

  “I don’t know how you got here, honey,” Mrs. Hargrove said, finally. “But you should get out while you can.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Who knows, but a pretty young thing like you can do better. Do it for your health. I love that knucklehead. He’s a sweet boy, but the rest of them are nuts. Like I said, I love the boy, but he ain’t worth it, honey.”

  “I think Virgil is hiding something from me.”

  “He sure is,” she said. “That ain’t even the child’s name. That’s his stage name.”

  The door swung open again and Virgil re-entered the dining room. He stood behind a chair and beckoned Shawna to stand next to him. Mrs. Hargrove gave Virgil a look. “Be good to her, Alex, or you might regret it.”

  “Alex?” Shawna asked when Mrs. Hargrove disappeared through the door.

  “It’s my middle name . . . Virgil Alexander Dixon.”

  She blew out a puff of air, glad that there was a logical explanation. The secrets she already had on her radar were bad enough.

  “Don’t believe whatever Mrs. Hargrove told you.”

  “Why?”

  “She hates her job and, by extension, us.”

  Shawna shook out her nerves. She had been absorbing Virgil's nervous energy and it made her antsy. Glancing over at him, she decided not to make anything out of his comment about Mrs. Hargrove. He could've said worse, and he probably didn't even mean it that way.

  Melinda burst through the door first, followed by her husband. Virgil looked so much like his mother that there could be no doubt that he was related to these people. But Melinda had a wiry tautness―as if her skin had been ironed― that Shawna hoped never to see in her boyfriend. The older woman smiled at Shawna, showing perfect white teeth, and walked around Virgil to kiss Shawna on the cheek and get a good look at her.

  "My, my, my. Aren't you darling?"

  "Thank you," Shawna said.

  “This is my mother, Melinda Dixon, and my father, Elliot Dixon. Mom and Dad, Shawna…” Virgil’s father was a tall, friendly looking man with graying dark hair and
narrow, rectangular glasses.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Shawna.

  "I'm sorry my son is such a mess. Whatever do you see in him?"

  Shawna blinked. She had thought that they would at least be seated before the drama started. Virgil didn't even flinch. A film of tiredness lowered over his face like a veil and he looked as if he switched off everything but the essentials in his brain. Shawna took a step back from Melinda.

  Melinda joined her husband at the other side of the table and Virgil pulled Shawna's chair out for her. She made the effort to squeeze his arm before lowering herself in the seat to let him know that she was still there and completely on his side. An older man came out of the kitchen and removed the lids from their plates.

  "I hope you're not a vegetarian. I hate vegetarians," Melinda said. "They're such a whiny bunch."

  "No, this looks delicious," Shawna said, trying to inject some positivity into the conversation.

  "Don't tell me about it. I didn't cook it."

  "Melinda," Virgil's father said. "Tone it down. What do you do, Shawna?"

  "I'm a grad student. I'm studying to be a pharmacist."

  Elliot raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Smart girl. Why not a doctor?"

  Shawna tightened her lips. She hated this question. "I'm squeamish."

  "Not as squeamish as Alex." Elliot broke into an embarrassing tale of the time Virgil refused to get into the bathtub at the age of six after his nanny told him that the little black things floating in the water were dead skin. "He's probably the only person I know who started showering at that age. I don't think we were able to get him into a swimming pool until he was 14 or something like that."

  "Awww," Shawna said. She glanced over at Virgil and he smirked. Something about his father taking over the conversation had relaxed him.

  "What does your father do?" Melinda asked.

  "He's a pastor."

  "Oh! They still make those?"