by Camryn King
Securing the clutch purse strap over her shoulder, Mallory stepped away from the bar and entered the throng of rich or well-connected people milling about, choosing the shortest path to the exit doors, even though it meant navigating through the crowd. A jazz trio played light and airy music from their spot in a far corner; tinkling ivory floating over the steady drum bottom was the perfect accompaniment to the low din of voices. Mallory imagined Leigh here and felt a pang in her gut. She would have loved this atmosphere, would have given Christian competition for commanding the room.
“Mallory?”
She reached the exit nearest the hall leading to the press area, and although she heard her name, kept walking. Maybe it was her imagination, and one of the rats Manhattan was known for hadn’t snuck into a party well above his pay grade.
There was movement in her peripheral vision. Again, she ignored it.
“Hey, Mallory. That is you!”
A glance and then, “Oh, hi, Rob” She could hardly stand to be civil to someone who’d caused her so much pain and maligned her friend’s name. But the journalism world was a small one, and burned bridges were hard to cross.
“Almost didn’t recognize you.” Five-eight on a good day, like when wind tousled his hair to add an inch and there were lifts in his shoes, Mallory’s former boss worked to keep pace with her long strides. “The heels, spiffy outfit. All that hair. What do you women call it, a weave?”
Mallory offered up as much of a smile as she could muster. “Take care.”
Sometimes there was no fixing ignorant or asshole, and when someone fit both descriptions, hope was truly lost. Fortunately for her, they reached the room set up for the press conference. It was small, with a rectangular table in front of the room with three chairs behind it and microphones positioned in front of each seat. Extra lighting had been set up, along with a couple rows of folding chairs, twenty in total, already taken by reporters who hadn’t received invitations to enter the ballroom-turned-wonderland from which she’d come. She maneuvered through the standing-room-only area in back, partly to get away from Rob and partly to make it to a wall that she could lean against for relief. She was by no means a big girl, but you couldn’t tell that to her right toe, the one that had either gone to sleep or straight-up died. She reached the wall and, while pulling a mini recorder from her beaded clutch, shifted her weight and tilted her foot to place the weight on the heel and give her toe a fighting chance at survival. All that did was give room for the sleeping digit to awaken and shoot throbbing pain to the other toes, the ball of her foot, and partway up the shin. She bit back a grimace and opened up notes on her cell phone just as a rush of activity and raised voices signaled that the king had arrived.
Christian entered, and Mallory had to admit it really was as though sunshine had walked into the room. His smile was wide and genuine. He waved, nodded, or spoke to a few of the reporters on his way to the table. The blonde Mallory had seen him with earlier was by his side. Christian sat in the middle, the blonde to his right. The man who’d come from behind her to talk with Christian sat on the other side.
Seconds after they were seated, the blonde pulled the microphone toward her. “Hello, everyone. Thanks for coming. I’m Zoey Girard, publicist for Christian and PR manager for Christian’s Kids, among other business ventures. As you all know, and have reported, this has been a hectic and trying week. But Christian’s foundation means a lot to him, the kids, and to all of us working with him. Your coverage of this event helps get the word out about what we’re doing and what’s needed to help Christian’s kids have a better life. Even though our time is very limited, we want to answer as many questions as possible.”
A barrage of them started immediately.
Christian held up his hands, his smile as relaxed and easy as when he entered the room, the way it had been every time Mallory looked at him, now that she thought of it.
“Maybe I can start by updating you all with what’s already been reported. The shoulder. It’s a little irritated, a little painful, but I don’t have a chip on it.”
Laughter rippled through the room. Mallory smiled. The guy had charisma, she’d give him that.
“It was dislocated, but thankfully nothing was torn or pulled. The specialists, my personal physician, and the team doctor have all examined it, and thankfully it’s just a bruise, well, not just a bruise, anytime a six-six, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound troglodyte falls on you, it isn’t ‘just’ anything.” He paused, while some laughed, others scribbled down the comment, cameras flashed around the room. “But there’s bruising on my AC joint and my rotator cuff that if I continued playing without rest and therapy could worsen. So, I will be sitting out the next few games.”
“That’s a time frame of . . .” a reporter in the front row asked.
“About a week, Chuck. Hopefully no longer than that.”
Another barrage of questions ensued. One rang out over the others. “How is Brandon? The kid you visited in the hospital?”
“Thanks for asking. I’m told he’s doing a lot better. Back at home and getting stronger every day.”
“What kind of allergic reaction was it, exactly?”
Zoey cut in. “A press release was issued that included all of those details and provided the name of the doctor who treated him. He’s the best one for questions involving Brandon’s illness.”
“Anything to that rumor about attempted suicide?” This from a young reporter at the back of the room, his jeans, black turtleneck, and Navigator knit cap a jarring contrast to the dressy attire worn by most other reporters.
“Anything other than what we’ve reported is just what you called it, a rumor.”
Attempted suicide? Could that be why her boss was given an incentive to publish articles that humanized Graham, because of the potential for bad press?
“And you are?” Mallory asked, directing her question to the man who spoke.
Several turned in her direction, including Christian. Zoey, too. Mallory could feel both sets of eyes on her, along with others, but she kept hers trained on where her question had been directed.
“Pete Graham, executive director of Christian’s Kids.”
“Who are you?” Christian asked.
Mallory looked up from typing Pete’s name into her phone, met his gaze and felt something shift inside her. “Mallory Knight.”
“ ‘Knightly News’?” Pete asked.
Mallory nodded.
“Didn’t you win the Prober’s Pen?” The guy who’d turned to ask her was only two feet away but coming in a lull between questions, he caught everyone’s ear. More eyes turned toward her. Mallory felt warmth creeping up from her chest, crossing her shoulders and reaching her neck. She’d never liked the spotlight and blamed that for the rush of adrenaline that had her blushing. The heat had traveled downward as well, and had started with Christian’s question and intent gaze.
“Time for just one or two more questions, guys,” Zoey said. “Questions for Christian, not other reporters in the room.”
She said it with a playful chuckle and tilt of her head. But her eyes weren’t smiling. Mallory saw through the feigned lightheartedness as easy as one could see through glass. She looked at Pete, the executive director. His expression was serious, but his body language was relaxed.
“What are you hoping to get from tonight’s gala?”
“A lot of money.” Christian’s quick, honest answer brought the laughter it intended.
“Why not just use your own?” Mallory didn’t realize she had spoken her thought aloud until Christian’s eyes found her once again.
“I have, and quite a bit of it,” he answered, unbothered, searing her once again with his deliberate gaze. Mallory forced herself to meet his stare. Their eyes locked and held. A challenge of sorts. She read sincerity and confidence in his coffee-colored orbs. And something undefinable that felt dangerous, mysterious, and quickened her pulse.
“A wise one once said it takes a village to raise a child,
” he continued, his eyes finally shifting from Mallory to take in others in the room. “One child,” he emphasized with a long forefinger. “Over a hundred kids come through the foundation’s doors on a regular basis. That number doubles during the summer months. Kids who come from unsafe neighborhoods, broken homes, communities where drugs, violence, gangs, you name it, are an everyday thing. The goal of Christian’s Kids is to provide a safe haven for these kids, an atmosphere conducive to learning, to growing, heck, sometimes to just being able to be a kid without having to worry about getting a bullet in the back. I know some of y’all paint me as larger than life, but I can’t do this alone. I need help.” Once again, his eyes drifted to Mallory. “And with your continued support, helping me spread the word, and the generous hearts of my fellow New Yorkers, we’ll get it done.”
Zoey stood abruptly. “That’s all the time we have, guys. Enjoy the rest of the evening.”
The trio stood and, led by the small entourage who’d accompanied their entrance, led the way out of the room. Mallory ignored her toe’s protest against walking and maneuvered around the other reporters just as Christian and company reached the door.
“Christian.”
She said it clearly and quite audibly, but if he heard her, it didn’t show. She reached inside her bag for a card and increased her pace. “Christian!”
One of his team turned to block her approach. “No more questions.”
“I’m doing a series on the kids,” she all but yelled to Christian’s back. She executed a pivot and turn to lose her guard that would have made any coach proud, kept her eye on the prize and tried to keep up. “Looking for something besides the canned quotes from your PR team.”
Zoey twirled on stilettos with the finesse of a ballerina. “That PR team has another quote for you: The press conference is over. Back off.”
In another city that bark may have been enough to intimidate a reporter. Not in New York.
“Zoey, Mallory. I didn’t mean to offend you. Just wanting to put the center in a light that New Yorkers haven’t already seen. Would love some original material. Here’s my card.”
It was snatched from her hand. “Got it.” Zoey was gone in a flash, but Christian was faster. When Mallory looked up he was nowhere in sight.
Dammit.
She hadn’t intended to, but Mallory ended up staying longer than she’d planned. Once seated and able to slide off her heels, she actually enjoyed herself, which she hadn’t intended, either. She now had several angles from which to approach Christian Graham and his foundation as the “Knightly News” topic for the next four weeks. What she didn’t have was another chance at Christian, surrounded by his entourage and protectors for the rest of the night. Nor did she have a plan B. But on the ride home one began forming, based on the reporter question that Zoey had blocked. The kid. Plan Brandon. Mallory didn’t know why, but her gut told her he was the next right move.
10
Christian sat at the head table with one of the richest men in America and tried to appear interested in what he said. Truth was, his mind was on more pressing matters: a dialed-up dick needing to make a call. With the injury and rehab, he hadn’t gotten any in over a week. It was time. He was due. A roomful of possibilities awaited. Vivica Khan had certainly caused a stir when she and her party arrived and took a table at the front of the room. She’d gotten his attention the same as all the other men, and half of the women. It had been more than a year since he’d seen her in person, more than three since their well-publicized and slightly exaggerated summer fling. The Bahraini’s sultry beauty was as intoxicating as when they’d first been introduced, so much so that he’d actually considered the offer she’d discreetly whispered in his ear while posing for the cameras. But she’d effectively ended any possibilities of further dalliances by mentioning the B-word while vacationing in Turks and Caicos that year. Babies. She thought one created by the two of them would be beautiful. That the thought was anywhere near her mind was enough to shrink his erection. They’d had sex a few more times while there, but even with a condom Christian didn’t come inside her. And when he said, “See you later” at the airport, she’d had no idea that later would be three years from then in a room with five hundred witnesses.
Hers wasn’t the only offer. Christian had been given several business cards, some with clear messages that booty calls, not business meetings, were what they had in mind. He wondered about the reporter, Mallory Knight. What was on her mind? He found it hard to believe her claim of knowing nothing about him. How could any New Yorker not know about him, a man always in the press, especially a reporter? He remembered how she’d chased him down after the press conference. Was it really to find out more about the foundation? Or was she like the others, using any excuse to get next to him? Christian decided that it didn’t matter. Zoey had warned him to avoid her, and considering the drama swirling around him, she might be right. The last thing he needed was someone who’d earned a degree in how to get in other’s business snooping around. Just as he returned his attention to the businessman beside him, a vision of loveliness walked through the ballroom doors. Twins Morgan and Meagan had approached him months ago, with a package deal he couldn’t refuse. He had a commitment once the program ended, but after that . . . He reached for his phone and sent a text.
“I think it’s great work you’re doing here, Christian,” the business owner was saying as Christian tuned fully back in. “Have Pete or whomever contact my secretary. We’ll send over a check.”
Christian held out his hand. “I appreciate that, brother.”
The program started shortly after and went off without a hitch. Christian knew that wasn’t Pete’s doing. His uncle mainly handled financial and legal matters. He was the money man with connections that kept the nonprofit’s coffers healthy, the face of the organization after Christian, the star. Carla Whitehead, the assistant director of planning and marketing, and Emma Davis, the assistant director under Pete who handled the day-to-day affairs, were the ones who made everything happen in real time, handling both the day-to-day operation and coordinating tonight’s event. As the last person to speak right before the MC—a popular dancer-turned-actor who attributed afterschool programs like those offered at Christian’s Kids with keeping her out of trouble and basically saving her life—he made sure they received the public recognition they were due.
Then it was over.
Christian shook a few hands, went around with Zoey for obligatory photos with socialites, philanthropists, moguls, and fans who, between an online auction and tonight’s event, had donated more than seven million dollars, twice the annual cost for running Christian’s Kids. Yet people like Mallory Knight thought Christian should just write a blank check. He wasn’t surprised and only mildly offended. Most people thought professional athletes had pots of gold with no bottom, especially family and friends, which after signing a healthy contract turns out to be almost everyone who knows you. It’s why so many professional athletes ended up broke or bankrupt. Christian wouldn’t be one of them.
An hour later Christian had returned home, changed clothes, and had a limo pick him up for a night out with the fellas. He loved his uncle, but he’d had enough suit and tie for one night. Now, almost midnight, he wore black jeans, a black-and-white long-sleeved Navigator t-shirt beneath a thick leather jacket and a pair of silver high-tops from his signature sneaker line set for a summer unveiling. He was ready to enjoy a rare Saturday out during the season. Having so many responsibilities for so many years, it was sometimes easy to forget the man wasn’t yet thirty. Tonight, he’d help one of his best friends celebrate his birthday. He might even text Vivica on the way home, and party on.
After stopping to pick up DeVaughn, the driver pulled up to a nondescript building in East Harlem, across town from his foundation’s building, also located in Harlem near Riverside Drive. A red velvet rope in front of a black metal door was the only hint to the luxuriousness that awaited inside Risqué, a private nightclub repor
tedly owned by a wealthy ultraconservative’s wayward son. It was where the rich and famous, the well connected, the notorious and notable, and beautiful women always gained entry. Where they could party without worrying whether or not a picture would end up in the tabloids. Christian and DeVaughn exited the limo. Christian pulled a keycard from his wallet and slid it into the illuminated lock. The men stepped into a hallway, long and dark, with bodyguards on each side. The pulsating bass of a hip-hop beat seeped through the walls, subdued yet magnetic, inviting them to go farther inside.
“What’s up, fellas.” Devaughn acknowledged the greeting with a head nod, responding to a text on his phone. Christian turned to the one on his left for a brother’s handshake and shoulder bump—the uninjured one, of course—then greeted the man on his right.
“You’re the man!”
“What up, C? Sorry ’bout that shoulder, man.”
“I appreciate that.”
The two continued down the hallway. “That was Big Easy, just now. Wanting to know where we’re at.”
The automatic door to the main room opened, instantly enveloping them in sound, color, and the subtle smell of weed. Christian gave a nod here and a wave there, acknowledging greetings as he walked along the room’s periphery toward the VIP spot on the second floor. There, in one of two circular booths that faced the crowd below, he met the men besides his family that meant the most in his life. The birthday boy, Ethan, better known as Big Easy, sat front and center wearing a black suit, red shirt, bowler hat, and shades. His massive arms were spread across the velvet booth back, a Cuban cigar wedged between pudgy fingers. Upon seeing Christian he broke into a grin.
