The Lycan King's $7.99 Contract

I was wiping table seven when he walked in. It was 4:47 PM Tuesday. Cafe near Queens College was dead. AC leaked in same corner, drip drip. I had been on shift since 6am. My feet hurt in a way that had become normal. I wore $7.99 jeans from Goodwill on Roosevelt. Black jeans, faded. Hole in left knee I sewed with blue thread because I didn't have black thread. In my apron pocket: $14 in tips and phone with two messages from home I didn't open. $400 rent due Friday. $3,000 Mama Grace bill due tomorrow 9am in Kisumu. I had $14. He didn't belong here. Black suit tailored, no tie, white shirt. Tall, broad shoulders. Jaw sharp. Hair black, cut expensive. But his eyes — gray. Cold elegant gray like Nairobi sky before heavy rain. Like Lake Victoria at 5am before fishermen go. Old money. Alpha money. Money that never checks price. He sat at table seven. My table. The one I was wiping. "We close this section at five," I said, tired. He didn't answer. He placed black leather folder on chipped laminate. Real leather. My fingers with chipped red polish left sweat mark just looking. "Emma Amara Jones?" He didn't look up. Voice low, elegant, American with slight British edge. Voice of man who never shouts to be obeyed. "Sit." It wasn't request. I sat. Across from him in my $7.99 jeans with wrong thread, smelling like cheap coffee. He smelled like sandalwood and cold winter and something wild under that made my neck throb. He slid paper. CONTRACT MARRIAGE AGREEMENT. Thick paper, expensive. I read because when you have $14 you read everything. Duration: 12 months. Payment: $50,000 upon completion. Clause 4: Public appearances as wife, three family dinners, one gala. Clause 7: Residence penthouse, separate bedrooms. Clause 9: No intimacy. No love. No children. Strictly business. Breach: Full repayment plus damages. Clause 11: Disappear elegant when contract ends. No drama. I laughed, broken laugh because if I didn't laugh I would cry. "You want to pay me fifty thousand to be fake wife? Sir is this trafficking? I watch Netflix." For first time he looked at me. Really looked. And his gray eyes flashed — gray to molten gold for half second. Air in cafe got heavy like before lightning. Hairs on my neck stood. Cheap blue-bead bracelet Mama Grace gave me felt hot. Same feeling I get in Kisumu when storm comes over lake, electric before thunder. Then gray again. Cold. "My grandfather is dying," he said calmly, like his eyes didn't change. "He is Lycan. Old generation. 92. He wants to see me married before dies. Wants heir. Traditional. I don't do love, Miss Jones. I do contracts." "Lycan? Like family name?" He opened second folder. Inside printed sheet with my face. My student ID photo. My cafe schedule. My debt. "You need money. Your mother Grace Jones, Aga Khan Hospital Kisumu, private ward. Bill $3,000 due tomorrow 9am or discharge to public waiting list. You have cafe debt $1,200 broken espresso machine. Student visa expires April 12th. Rent $400 shared room Flushing. You sent $200 home last month, nothing this month." My blood went cold. "How you know about my mother?" "I know everything about my contracts." My phone buzzed on table, loud. I knew what it was. Ignoring two hours. Hospital Kisumu: "Emma, Mama Grace bill due tomorrow 9am. $3,000 or we discharge. Please send via M-Pesa. Doctor says heart. Please hurry. - Sister Akoth" Below that landlord: "$400 Friday or out." I had $14. Hands started shake. $3,000 is not money in Kenya. $3,000 is house. Is year of life. Is my mother. Mother raised me alone after father died fishing lake 2012 boat capsized. She sold mandazi at bus stage 4am every morning rain to send me America. Never bought new shoes six years. Now dying in private ward I told her go because "America will pay Mama I will send" and I could not send $3,000. I looked at man, at contract, at Clause 9: No children. "No love. No children. I understand," I whispered. Voice small Queens small not elegant. "I can do elegant. I can wear dress. Smile for your grandfather." He studied me. Face gave nothing. But eyes dropped to my jeans. Hole. Blue thread. Shaking hands. "You will live in my penthouse Upper East Side. Three family dinners, one gala December. Stylist. Driver. No one touches you. Especially not me." Way he said "especially not me" felt like insult and promise same time. "Why me? You could have model. Real elegant girl. Why $7.99 jeans girl Kisumu?" "Because you have no family here. No boyfriend cause problems. No social media. No one will miss you if disappear for year. And because—" pause, gold flicker, "—you smell like you won't lie." I didn't know what meant. I smelled like coffee sweat. I picked cheap blue biro pen from apron. Same pen I use write cafe orders. Hand shaking so hard pen slipped. "Fifty thousand?" I asked one more time. "Fifty thousand upon completion. Three thousand advance tonight wired to Aga Khan directly. Plus $1,200 cafe debt cleared tomorrow. Health insurance under my family plan from tonight." He said like listing grocery. I signed. Emma Amara Jones. Cheap blue ink bled little on expensive paper because palm sweating. Signature looked childish next to his. He already signed — Damon Black — black ink sharp elegant no hesitation. He took contract folded once elegant precise and stood. Taller than thought. Cafe suddenly small. "Car outside apartment 8pm. Flushing 41st Avenue Apartment 3B. Pack one bag. One. And Miss Jones—" paused at cafe door gray eyes on my $7.99 jeans hole I tried hide, "—buy better jeans. On my card. Driver will have it." Door closed. Little bell jingled like always. Cafe smelled like his cologne — sandalwood expensive cold wild — and my cheap coffee. My phone buzzed again louder. M-Pesa: You have received $3,000 from BLACK ENTERPRISES LLC. Reference: Grace Jones Aga Khan Hospital. Balance: $3,014. I stared at $14 tip jar, at holey jeans, at table seven where my contract husband had been. At wet ring his coffee cup never drank left on contract copy. What did I just do? At 8pm black car was outside Flushing 41st Avenue as promised. Driver not look at my $7.99 jeans hole. He opened door like I was real elegant. Black Tower Penthouse A was not apartment. Was sky. White marble floor I scared to step with shoes that had hole. Windows floor to ceiling Manhattan lights poured like stars on floor. White couch cost my rent for year. Damon Black was there. Black sweater black pants still elegant. Gray eyes. On phone speaking low in another language not English something older rough. When saw me stopped. Eyes flashed gold second bracelet burned hot again. "You came," he said. "You said one bag," I said small. I had Goodwill tote with broken zip. One dress inside. He looked at tote then at me. "You will have stylist tomorrow. Tonight you sleep in guest room. Second door left. Don't enter my wing." "Where is your wing?" "You will know because it will smell like me and you will not like it." He walked to bar poured water. He didn't drink coffee he never drank at cafe. "Clause 11," he said. "Disappear elegant. That means when I say contract is done for night, you disappear. No questions." It was 9pm. I didn't understand. At 2am I understood. He came to guest room door, knocked once elegant. "You need to leave now." "Now? Subway closed?" "Driver downstairs. But he will not take you to Queens. He will take you to lobby. You will walk." "Walk? Flushing is one hour train—" "Disappear elegant, Miss Jones. That is what agreement said. Elegant means no one sees you leave my bed— my penthouse. Service elevator. Then walk." It was cold. Manhattan February cold that bites through $7.99 jeans. I had only t-shirt. He looked at my arms goosebumps and sighed like annoyed but then took his black jacket from chair — black wool that I never touched before, not real wool, in Kisumu wool is for rich mzungu, black like night in Manhattan but soft like something alive — and put on my shoulders. "Don't lose it," he said. "It costs $3,000. Return tomorrow." Elevator closed and his gray eyes were last thing I saw before doors shut. Gold flash again in dark elevator mirror. I walked home from Manhattan at 2am in my $7.99 jeans with hole, his $3,000 jacket on my shoulders because night was cold, telling myself I would throw it away behind cafe when I reach Queens, that I would never see gray eyes again. But I didn't throw it away.