by Nia Arthurs
Venus snorts. “Loosen up, Troy.” She rises on her tiptoes. Her arm reaches out as far as it can go. “And can you crouch a little? You’re too tall. I can’t get you into the shot.”
“Let me.” I cup the cell phone. Half of my body shelters hers in a sort of hug. “Better?”
Her voice is quiet. “Yeah.”
I try to ignore her and focus on making my smile more natural.
Snap.
Then I look down at her. She’s staring into my eyes with this strange, curious expression.
Snap.
I blink in surprise.
I hadn’t meant to take that picture.
That’s enough.
When I start to pull back, Venus stops me. “One more.”
I nod. Turn my face forward to position my thumb over the shutter button. Press.
The moment I do, Venus hauls on my shoulder and presses a kiss to my cheek.
It’s warm.
Firm.
Sensual.
Damn. Those sexy cheek kisses.
She gave me one the night of her eighteenth birthday too.
Turned me into a freaking wreck.
Her eyes meet mine. “I slipped.”
I nod.
It doesn’t make sense, but I’ll wrap my brain around that excuse somehow.
She’s beautiful and she’s wearing tiny shorts and a sports bra and how the hell can I scold her for slipping?
Venus clasps her hands. “Sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“And thank you.”
“For?”
“Letting me stay at your place. Even if you’re slightly over-reacting, I know you’re just looking out for me.”
Yes.
That’s exactly what I should be doing.
Looking out for her.
Like the family friend that I am.
Like the brother Evan is to me.
Venus tilts her head. Reddish-brown hair scrapes her small shoulders. “Race you home?”
I snort. “Like you could ever—”
“Go!” She flashes me a mischievous grin and takes off.
Little minx.
I lengthen my stride and catch up to her easily.
“Cheaters never win,” I taunt as I leave her in the dust.
Then I head back to her because she’s attracting way too much attention running alone.
We get home.
Separate to our own showers.
I finish first and make breakfast, but even with cold water still shivering my skin, I haven’t washed away the imprint of her touch.
Venus needs to match me with some other woman fast.
Because if she doesn’t… I might end up falling for her all over again.
Fourteen
Venus
Troy drives me to work. He’s not saying much, which is typical.
But neither am I.
Which is… not typical.
I shouldn’t have kissed him.
It was a mistake.
An impulsive one, yeah.
But one I should have caught and nipped in the bud instead of giving in.
Now, I head into Make It Marriage, aware that I need to find our agency’s best offer of a soul mate, but really wishing I didn’t have to match him with anyone but me.
Hoping to procrastinate, I stop in Kayla’s office.
“Knock, knock,” I grumble as I step inside.
She swings her chair around and pops out, greeting me with a smile. “Good morning.”
“Good?” I sneer.
“Someone’s in a bad mood.”
“I’m always in a bad mood,” I correct her, stomping inside and slouching in the armchair.
“Let me guess. You haven’t found someone for Troy Maddox?”
“No, but that’s my number one task this morning.”
“Well, I’ve got something that might cheer you up.”
I groan. “Kayla, unless it’s the picture of Brendon that we’ve been talking about—”
“That you’ve been talking about.”
“… I really don’t need your help.”
“It’s not what you’re thinking.” She hands me a small envelope.
I gasp. “Did Brendon propose?”
“No.” She laughs. “Not yet at least. That’s an invitation to a Humes Corp charity gala.”
I whistle.
Brendon and his dad are power players in the business sector and all of their galas are super exclusive.
“Once you match Troy up, give him this. The gala will have full media coverage. Once he and his match show up together, it’s game over.” She smiles. “Besides, I thought this would be more natural than arranging a magazine article.”
“Kayla, I love you. If Brendon doesn’t marry you, I will—”
“Thanks, V. But I like men.”
“I was going to say, ‘match you with another hunky billionaire who’s generous in bed’, but you know what? I take it back.”
Kayla laughs.
I whip the invitation through the air. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Now go find Mr. Maddox his dream woman.”
I slip out of Kayla’s office.
With every step, the wind drips out of my sails. This opportunity, with any other client, would be a dream come true. The culmination of everything I’ve worked for. A stepping stone to the top of the ladder.
But Troy…
Ugh.
This is so annoying.
I sigh. Make myself a pot of coffee. Check in with the receptionist. Fiddle around on social media for ‘research’.
When I can’t put it off any longer, I open Kayla’s stolen file.
My fingers reverently pull the flap aside.
Beautiful headshots look back at me. The company’s top tier clients.
We’ve got white women. Black women. Latino women. Asian women. Tall. Short. Thick. Thin.
All professional women who can hold their own in a business setting. Women with opinions and bank accounts and houses in their names who expect to be treated with respect. Women who could run the world if they had the time.
Many of the women who sign up to Make It Marriage have no flaw except that they’re looking for mature men who won’t play with their feelings or wring them for every cent they have.
Seems like low standards, but even that threshold keeps a lot of hot, substance-less guys out of the game.
People like Troy and my brother—who see women as equals but protect and provide both physically and emotionally—are vastly outnumbered by charlatans.
I should know.
I’ve dated charlatans exclusively.
Which suits me since I’ve never once fallen for the men I sleep with.
Ever.
They’re in my bed at night and out before I wake up in the morning.
The moment I sense anybody catching feelings, they’re off the list and out of the rotation.
I’ve been called ‘unfeeling’ before.
Maybe I am.
It’s certainly hard for me to build any lasting relationship with the opposite sex.
The only man who’s ever made me feel more than mild interest is Troy.
And we all know he’s off-limits.
“Come on, Venus. Get your head in the game,” I mumble.
Shuffling through the files, I try to take my personal hat off and wear my bonafide matchmaker Baptist church first lady bow and frill hat ensemble.
Pulling out Troy’s old file, I compare his answers to the questions on personality, preferences, faith and values and line them up with the replies of the women in the top tier.
There are a couple matches—some I’d expected based on what I know of Troy and others not so much.
I’ll narrow it down when I talk more in depth with him and the prospective girlfriends but, for now, I can work with this.
I stretch my hands to the ceiling and arch my back. My gaze falls on the neat row of portfolios lined up on my desk.
Troy’s
soul mate could be staring up at me from any one of these headshots.
I squeeze my fingers as a blast of complicated emotions run amok in my chest.
The smaller this list becomes, the closer I’ll be to losing him.
Not that I ever had him but still.
It’s bitter-sweet.
My phone chimes.
I have two messages. One from Evan and one from an unknown number.
I open my brother’s first.
EVAN: Dinner tonight. You in?
I run my thumb across the screen.
Corrine is delightful and she cooks like the celebrity chef that she is.
Hell yeah, I want to be at their apartment tonight.
I’m grinning as I type out my reply.
ME: I’ll be there.
ME: With embarrassing pictures of you, as promised.
EVAN: Traitor.
ME: Corrine needs to know the truth.
EVAN: What truth??
ME: Your child might come out looking like Steve Erkel.
EVAN: I think you meant Stefan.
I chuckle, recalling the classic Family Matters gag where the nerdy, glasses-wearing, high-suspenders-loving main character transformed into his hot and swagalicious alter ego, Stefan.
ME: Should I bring anything?
EVAN: Just that crazy appetite. Corri gets all weird and emotional when people don’t eat all her food.
I smirk.
That won’t be a problem with me.
My stomach’s already rumbling thinking of what Corrine will serve tonight.
Scrolling away from my conversation with Evan, I open the text from the unknown number.
Anticipation for the evening melts into shock.
My fingers tighten on the cell phone.
UNKNOWN: Say anything and you’re as good as dead.
My eyes pop open.
I re-read the statement.
What the hell?
My leg starts jumping underneath the table.
I fist my hands.
Who is this?
ME: Who are you?
UNKNOWN: You are a liar.
ME: And you’re a coward. Give me a name and let’s talk in person.
I probably shouldn’t taunt this idiot.
But damn.
A girl’s trying to navigate her complicated love life. I don’t need a lunatic on my tail.
That drama is for the white people in Lifetime movies.
“Come on, you jerk.” I shake my phone, pretending it’s the person on the other end of the line.
Silence.
I check again.
No more messages.
I don’t get it. I really don’t.
Who did I piss off so much that they’d threaten me like this?
I get up and pace my office.
Could it be one of my exes?
I rub my forehead. If it is, should I call them up one-by-one asking if they have a problem with me?
My phone buzzes.
I pounce on the desk and unlock it with my thumb.
There’s a new message on-screen.
UNKNOWN: Why’d you move out of your house?
Chills race over my skin.
How did he know that…?
Unless…
It’s him.
The guy who glued the note on the door.
The guy who’s been casing my apartment.
My heart is pounding wildly.
I’m scared.
Crapless.
Until now, all I had to fear was Ms. Shayla’s account and a yellow sticky note. Today, I’ve got physical proof that someone wants to kill me and it is… not a good feeling.
I’m not a perfect person.
I get that.
I’m a little crude. Maybe a teensy bit on the self-absorbed side. And I’ve broken a few hearts. But who hasn’t?
Seriously, every woman has that one guy.
The one that they’ve said ‘hell no, not in a million years’ to. The guy who would’ve loved them to death, but they didn’t make the cut.
Is my guy taking his revenge?
And what’s the truth I should confess in that scenario? That I’m a superficial woman who likes hot, broken painters that are eight years older than me and wear paint-speckled shoes? Sorry, not sorry?
I don’t want to die.
I’m too young to die.
And it’s crazy that I even have to consider the fact that someone is out there, right now, plotting my demise.
My phone rings.
I yelp.
Calming my racing heart, I inch over my desk and peer through narrowed eyes.
It’s Troy.
I pick up in relief. “Thank God. It’s you.”
“Are you that happy to hear from me?” he asks, laughter in his tone.
I don’t reply.
“Venus?”
“Troy…”
His voice grows serious. “Venus, what happened?”
“I…” Tears flush my eyes as I push the words into the air. “I just got a text.” I pause a beat. “Someone wants me dead.”
Fifteen
Troy
I clasp Venus’s elbow as we leave the police station. She shifts closer to me. Her shoulder brushes my chest. Her hair flutters against the front of my T-shirt.
She’s so fragile, even when trying to be strong.
My grip on her tightens.
Damn. This is no good.
I just want to cradle her forever.
Wipe every tear.
Kiss the strain off her gorgeous face.
Promise her that nothing and no one will ever touch her. Not while I’m standing.
But I can’t.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because I can’t make those promises.
Because the terror running through my veins, the outrage, the fury, it’s beyond that of a concerned family friend.
I grind my teeth.
Family friend or no, when I get my hands on the bastard who’s threatening her…
“Thanks for coming with me,” Venus says, lifting her chin and meeting my eyes.
“It didn’t do much good.” My voice is rough.
Our police visit was a complete bust. After showing the frazzled officer the texts and the note that Venus conveniently kept hidden until now, he dismissed us with a few patronizing lines about pranks and pissed off ex-boyfriends. Didn’t even ask any serious questions. He just told Venus to ‘be careful’.
That’s it.
Apparently, texting someone they’re ‘as good as dead’ no longer warrants an investigation.
So we wrote a report.
They filed it.
The end.
A shabby piece of paper is the most they can do to protect her.
Oh, how could I forget?
We were also advised to return if there were more threatening messages or an ‘escalated event’.
These guys want Venus to be attacked before it’s worth their time.
I should head back in and overturn some desks. Show them an escalated event.
“Troy.”
I blink. Return my attention to her.
Venus grips the hem of my T-shirt. Brown fingers curl into the fabric. The very tip of her nail grazes my stomach. “Are we going to Evan’s now?”
“Now?” My frown deepens.
“Yeah.”
“We should head home.”
“But Corrine is cooking.” She pushes out her bottom lip.
I stare at Venus in shock.
Someone’s trying to kill her and she’s worried about food?
I shake my head. “You know what? You’re right. We should go to Evan’s.”
Her jaw drops.
I take her hand. Start down the step.
She remains in place. “Why are you suddenly agreeing with me?”
“Isn’t that what you want?”
“No, it’s freaky.”
“I have a hidden agenda.”
S
he smirks. “Not very hidden if you blurt it out like that.”
“We need to tell Evan. Everything. It bothers me that we’ve kept him out of the loop this long.”
Her expression tightens. “No.”
“Yes.”
“It won’t do him any good.”
“Someone’s threatening his sister. It’s past the point of good or bad.”
“He’d go crazy. Try to lock me in a tower or something.”
“A decision I’d support one hundred percent.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No I’m not.”
She huffs. “No wonder you two are best friends. You’re both bossy and annoying.”
“You just realizing that?”
“I’m not going to tell Evan and I’m not going to stay home all day.”
“Venus—”
“I refuse to let this crazy person”—she lifts her phone—“determine my life when they can’t even make up their mind. One minute I’m supposed to tell the truth. The next I’m supposed to keep quiet?” She rolls her eyes. “I won’t stop living because they’re off their meds.”
Yeah, but crazy stalkers are the most dangerous.
I sigh. Glance around. The shadows all look eerie.
We’re standing in front of the police station, but I don’t feel at ease. I won’t until Venus’s stalker is behind bars.
Giving her hand another tug, I nod to the car. “Let’s get off the street first.”
“Fine.”
We head to my truck.
I open the door for her. Close it. Check over the hood for suspicious activity. There are none. Hustling around the hood, I climb into the driver’s side and lock the door.
Venus chuckles. “Did you train for the Secret Service while you were away?”
“Ha ha.” I grab the steering wheel tight.
“You don’t need to be so paranoid.”
“That prick knows you’re not at your apartment anymore, Venus. How the hell do you think he figured it out?”
“Lucky guess?”
Anger bubbles in me.
All my frustration, all my fear, it bursts out in a rough, “This isn’t a freaking joke.”
My voice is louder than it needs to be.
I see Venus flinch. And then her lips tighten. A little wrinkle appears between her eyebrows.
Letting out a breath, I rub my scruff with the heel of my hand. “Please. Please, V. You need to take this more seriously. I don’t know what I’d do if anything”—I stop. It’s too close to the truth. To a truth that she’s not ready to handle. That would destroy everything. “You need to be safe.”
