50 Shades of Drake 1 and 2

Chapter Twenty-Eight

TEXT TO: Destiny Richards

MESSAGE: Tomorrow? Dinner?

TEXT FROM: Destiny Richards

MESSAGE: I'm available tomorrow.

TEXT TO: Destiny Richards

MESSAGE: Bring your tape recorder.

    Aubrey leaned back in his chair. He was seated at a conference table listening to a Rush Limbaugh lookalike prattle on about how expensive an arts program like this would cost. It was the same drivel Aubrey had listened to for the past two weeks. He presented the facts and numbers for the program, and represented them to different politicians. Different suits, different faces, same old, washed up, money-grubbing mentality. All Aubrey needed was one person, one person who had a brain and was capable of thought to believe in this project.

    Funny how everyone was on board until the numbers were presented, he thought. Everyone had been ecstatic at the concept of the program. "Save music and art programs? Help benefit underprivileged children? Yes, of course! Wait how much is it going to cost? Well, we may need to go back to the drawing board, here."

    He tapped the end of his pen on top of the three-page meeting agenda. He prided himself on being a man that held his composure, but these meetings were an amazing test of his patience. More than a hundred hours of meetings over the past year, and to what end? They were still running around in the same circles, talking about the same topics, raising the same concerns, and getting absolutely nowhere.

    The Rush Limbaugh lookalike finally sat down and mopped his sweaty forehead with the handkerchief in his suit pocket.

    Everyone at the table turned to face Aubrey.

    "Oh, am I allowed to speak now?" he asked, setting down his pen. He rose from his chair and smoothed down his blue silk tie. He approached the front of the room and went to stand near the canvas screen used to display projections, such as the bar graph chart being shown now. He looked at the different faces in the room, noting the lack of diversity seated at the table. The one African-American politician seated was either afraid to voice his opinion and single himself out as the minority, or was too far removed from poverty to understand the true potential for trouble that young children faced when they didn't have healthy, educational programs to dedicate their time to.

    "I understand how dear to you this program is," the Rush Limbaugh-impostor said, still dragging a handkerchief across his forehead.

    "Do you?" Aubrey asked him with a tilt of his head. "Do you understand?"

    The room was quiet.

    "The truth is, you don't understand. None of you do." Aubrey ran a hand over his head and extended a hand towards the displayed bar graph. "I brought this program concept to you because I felt that if I had the government on my side, I would have the power to reach more schools. By reaching more schools, the program would stand to benefit a lot more children than if I executed the program on my own. But all of the time we have wasted in meeting after meeting, and the time we've spent on conference call after conference call...we've been at this now for more than a year. I took time out of my schedule to come here and try to get the program finalized. And essentially what is happening, is I'm being given the runaround. Now...while you were giving your brilliant speech on how worthless these children's lives are to you, I had an epiphany."

    The room was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.

    "It occurred to me that I don't need any of you to proceed with this program." He looked each and every one of them in the eyes as he said this. "I can get the program started on my own. I can get things going. I can oversee its campaign. I can enlist a few of my good friends in this industry. And once the program gains popularity, none of you will have your names associated with it. Because you didn't lift a finger to try to get it off the ground." He spoke calmly, but there was a hard, cold edge to his voice when he spoke. "If no one has anything else to say, I say we call an end to this meeting so we can get on with our day and actually do something productive."

    There were a lot of low murmurs as he turned and exited the large conference room with floor-to-ceiling glass windows. He strode down the hall of the government office building, trying to keep his anger in check. He turned into the Men's bathroom and closed the door at his back. The bathroom had marble counters, sleek, glossy stall doors, and a beautifully tiled floor with a pattern that matched the marbled counters. He set a hand on the countertop while looking at his reflection in the mirror. The counter's surface was cold to the touch. The counters were made of real, genuine marble, none of that Formica shit. "This is what they would rather spend their money on," he said to his reflection. "They would rather make sure the decorations in their bathrooms are up to par than help greenlight a program that would help potentially tens of thousands of elementary, junior high school, and high school kids across the country."

    Anger welled up within him, a blinding anger that he could feel himself losing control of. He screamed and sent his fist flying into the nearest wall, cracking the expensive tile. The pain didn't even register to him. It had felt good to punch the wall. He was tempted to do it again, but didn't want to cause a scene. It was quite possible someone outside of the bathroom had heard the cracking of the tile.

    Trying to get his anger under control, he proceeded to wash the blood from his knuckles, his movements precise. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. An image of Destiny flashed in his mind, and the mental image had an immediate calming effect on him. He dried off his knuckles with a paper towel and discarded the paper towel in the waste bin embedded in the wall. He gave his reflection in the mirror one final look and adjusted the knot in his tie, the muscles in his jaw tense. He left the bathroom and headed towards the elevator, where he withdrew his cell phone from his pocket.

TEXT TO: Destiny Richards

MESSAGE: I can't wait until tomorrow. I need to see you tonight. Now, if possible.

    He tapped the end of his cell phone on his chin as he awaited for her response. The elevator doors slid open and he strode out of the elevator. His phone buzzed in his hand. He looked at the screen.

TEXT FROM: Destiny Richards

MESSAGE: I can ask if I can leave work early. What's wrong?

    As a part of caring about her welfare, he shouldn't ask her to leave work early for him. But his anger and frustration was eating away at him. He had to see her.

TEXT TO: Destiny Richards

MESSAGE: Please ask. And I'll explain when I see you.

    He accessed his call log and selected his driver's phone number, initiating a phone call. "The meeting is over. Pick me up out front." He disconnected the call and crossed the large lobby, headed towards the revolving doors.