Second Time Around by Darrin Lowery Page A

eased into the tub and reflected on his day. His last client told him he thought it would be a good idea if Darren learned how to play golf. It was one of the things that the man hadn’t done in years and it was Darren’s suggestion that the client go back to an activity that he used to love doing.
    The client was pushing hard for Darren to learn how to play. Apparently, golf was not only a place where high-profile men made business deals. It was also a place where men shared their deepest, darkest secrets. It was kind of like the barbershop.
    Darren’s last client told him that he could make a killing financially if he secured clients from some of Chicago’s more elite golf clubs. The client even offered to buy Darren a membership and introduce him to some of Chicago’s upper-echelon businessmen.
    Darren asked his client to give him some time to think about it. The prospect of making more money was becoming more and more appealing, and already he was leaning toward giving in and telling his client yes.
    Darren made a little over 100,000 dollars a year after taxes. If he met up with friends of his client, that figure could easily jump up to a million in a year or two. He was making money hand over fist and was making more and more contacts each week. At the rate he was going he might be able to one day afford escorts like his client did. Not that he was thinking about doing such a thing, but the concept was interesting. There was just one thing: Black men don’t pay for sex, right?

Chapter Six
    Korie, pulled up in front of her first client’s home—a five-bedroom, five-bathroom, and three-car garage home. She was impressed; it looked magnificent. Korie often got excited when she saw a house that she really wanted to decorate. For her, sometimes seeing a home and all the possibilities that it offered made her as giddy as a schoolgirl.
    Her heart sank in her chest when she saw the ’88 Chevy Impala out front with the chrome rims on the car. Her heart sank even deeper when she saw the beat-up minivan that was on the side with chrome spinners on its wheels. The rims had to be worth more than the van itself. As she chirped the alarm on her car, she let out a heavy sigh as she thought one thing; Niggas.
    This couple was recommended to her by a friend of a friend of Jayna. That was why Korie agreed to see the house. She explained that her fee was 2000 dollars. The couple on the phone stated that money was no object. That being the case, Korie scheduled the appointment for 1:00 P.M.
    She hoped in her heart of hearts that her gut feeling was wrong. She hoped that she wouldn’t ring the bell and some country or ghetto-ass black person answered the door. She hoped that the car that was in the front belonged to the couple’s son and the van perhaps belonged to a friend of the couple’s son.
    She rang the bell. From the inside she heard, “Shaniqua, get the door!”
    Damn, she thought.
    Whoever it was that yelled was right there in the living room. Whoever it was obviously decided that it was not his job to get the front door. Seconds later, a heavyset black woman with bronze-colored skin and blond highlights answered the door—in a house robe.
    Yep . . . country or ghetto . . . or both, Korie thought.
    â€œUh, hi. My name is Korie. Are you Mrs. Underwood?”
    â€œYes, I am. You must be the interior decorator lady.”
    â€œUh, yes, that would be me,” Korie said with a half smile.
    â€œWell, come on in, girl!” Her tone was inviting; loud, but inviting. Quite country, Korie thought.
    The woman hugged Korie as if they were age-old friends. Korie reluctantly hugged back. At first she was apprehensive about working with the couple. As she saw the house, she wanted more and more to have the responsibility of decorating it.
    On the couch was an overweight black man who resembled the eighties rapper Biz Markie. He was playing PlayStation 3 on a plasma-screen