by Nia Arthurs
John’s past-time of choice is stock research and screwing women behind his girlfriend’s back. Neither of those hobbies lend themselves to upper-arm strength.
I reach out. Grab him by the back of the neck. Tear him down.
He lands square in the mud. Like the pig he is.
“Brett, man… don’t kill me.” John flaps his arms. Tries to push himself up. Rain turns the grass slick. He slides down again. Bangs his head on the earth. Groans in pain.
“Why not?” I tower over him. Lower my voice to a threatening whisper. “We have a preacher right there. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sticking around to officiate your funeral.”
“Please!” John murmurs. The word echoes throughout the cemetery.
It’s quiet out here.
Only the hiss of the rain dares to shatter the stillness.
The steady drip, drip, drip.
The droplets pounding against a zinc roof.
Everyone stares.
The preacher.
The crowd.
The guys digging Shar’s grave.
I should reel my fury back. Too many witnesses here. I won’t be able to get away with murder, even if I’m in the perfect place for it.
Damn.
I’m too unhinged. I need to stop before I make a scene.
Before my name gets plastered all over the tabloids.
Before I end up next to Mom in a prison cell.
I can’t lose everything because of this punk. The empire Shar and I built needs to stay mine. Not torn away by a man who couldn’t respect my sister enough to keep it in his pants.
I inhale a deep breath and back away from John.
He looks up from the ground. That I’m the real victim frown so many bastards like him have mastered.
John squeaks, “She told me to go.”
My body stiffens.
Darkness crawls over my shoulders.
Tension.
Fury.
I turn slightly around, my heart slowing to a dangerous beat.
John pushes himself up. “She knew I had needs. You can’t expect a man to survive if he can’t touch his girlfriend.”
“She was sick, you bastard.”
“And I wasn’t.”
“Stop. Talking.”
I guess nobody explained to John what that means. Or maybe he’s trying to take us both down. Maybe he has a death wish. Maybe he wants to commit suicide by galvanizing me to murder him.
And it’s working.
“She loved me. She wanted us to be together, so she made some sacrifices—“
The rest of his words shatter beneath my fist.
John drops like a rock. I’m on top of him in a flash, grabbing his collar in my grip and slamming my knuckles into his face over and over again.
John’s head pounds the earth.
Once.
Twice.
Thunder cracks. Splits the sky in two.
Hands haul my shoulders. Yank me up. Drag me back.
I fight and scramble like a man possessed.
My fingers itch to squeeze around his throat.
Watch the life seep out of his eyes.
The way I watched the life seep out of Shar’s.
But John sits up, breathing heavily. He gets to live another day while my sister rots in a casket.
“Brett!” Hansley covers me with the umbrella.
I brush him off. Let my eyes roam to John.
Blood stains his pale skin. Sharp red against snow white.
Busted lip. Black and blue eyes.
It’s not enough.
Not enough to sate my anger.
Not enough to bring Shar back.
Someone helps John up and carts him away from me. The fact that he’s limping brings little satisfaction.
Hansley hauls the umbrella over my head.
I try to push him away. “I’m already drenched.”
“Which is why you need this more than I do.”
My head lifts. Tracks on John again. He’s a blip in the distance.
“He’s going to be a problem,” Hansley says.
“Pay his medical fees.”
Hansley clenches his jaw. “I’d rather ruin his life for what he did to Shar.”
“Let me join you.”
“So you can finish what you started today?” Hansley scoffs. “Not a chance in hell.”
I push up to my feet. Notice everyone staring at us.
Wiping my hands against my black slacks, I motion to the preacher. “Why’d you stop?”
He blinks rapidly. Ends the funeral in a shaky voice.
Just like that, it’s over.
The burial, at least.
Not the pain of losing my sister.
That won't ever end.
Instead of flocking me to offer condolences, everyone leaves, drifting away like fish in a current. They hurry to their lux SUVs. To their quiet lives. To their families.
Hansley sighs as the clearing goes quiet. “You certainly know how to make a mess.”
“It’s my only talent.”
“Here.” Hansley presses an envelope into my hand.
“What is this?”
“I was instructed to give this to you after the funeral.”
“Shar?”
Hansley slaps my back and walks away.
I tear the envelope open immediately.
Inside, there’s a photograph of an African-American woman. Dark skin. Black eyes. Voluminous black hair.
My eyebrows knit in confusion.
Turning to Shar’s grave, I mumble, “What the hell is this?”
“That’s me,” a voice says. A woman holding a yellow umbrella darts around the mud. She’s tall. Willowy. Graceful.
Given the suddenness of her appearance and my current location, I’d say she was a ghost.
But no.
I lift the photograph.
Compare.
Same dark skin.
Same black eyes.
Her hair is pulled back into a bun and she’s wearing a simple black dress, but that’s her.
She’s real.
“Hello, Mr. McQueen,” the woman says, her voice a sultry rasp.
Something hard knocks into my gut.
Premonition. Good or bad?
Either way, I’m sure I’m not going to like it.
“My sister sent you?” I ask.
She dips her chin once. “I’m a matchmaker.”
At her words, I turn to Shar’s grave and whisper, “What the hell did you do?”
“Your sister hired Make It Marriage to—”
I lift a hand stop.
She clamps her mouth shut.
I stride toward her, eyeing her in the pouring rain.
The woman leans back, blinking rapidly.
I jut my chin at my car waiting outside and bark, “Come with me.”
Three
Tierra
The conversation Mr. McQueen and I need to have should not happen in a club.
Especially not in this one.
Like many of the other particular establishments on the strip, Forbidden Fruit (yes, that’s the actual name of the club) has a gimmick.
Women dancing in cages.
High up.
Suspended from thick wire.
I can see right up their skirts to their—
I jerk my eyes away. Note to self: don’t look up.
Clubs really aren’t my scene. Going out in general isn’t my thing. I’m happiest in my couch, belly-up, getting lost in a good book. Or a particularly thrilling true-crime show. Or working to match a new client.
But when Brett flexed his jaw and growled ‘come with me’, I obediently got into his car and sat tight while he drove us here.
To this… hell hole.
Loud, pulsing music assaults my ears.
Neon lights flash against bright red walls.
Everything in here is red.
Heavy velvet.
Shimmering.
No attempts at subtl
ety.
There’s no way this place should be so busy. It’s Friday afternoon.
It’s still daylight outside.
Not that you’d be able to tell.
Everything in here is dark. Dim. Pulsing shadows. People losing their minds to indulgence.
I bounce into a man’s shoulder as I hurry after Brett.
The crowd thickens the further we go.
“Excuse me,” I huff, squeezing myself around a couple grinding against each other.
Is that supposed to be dancing? I’m no prude, but it’s high time they move whatever they call that particular routine to a hotel room.
A shudder racks my skin as I bump into yet another rowdy partier.
I’m going to need a bath after this.
I look ahead and notice that Brett isn’t suffering the same dilemma. He charges ahead, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea.
Everyone stops.
Steps aside.
Takes notice.
Of course. Brett is a handsome man. Between the screaming silver eyes and the I don’t skip leg days physique, he looks like a ripped Disney Prince. A billionaire Prince Charming in a blood-spattered shirt and muddy slacks.
Even with the rumpled attire and questionable stains, women still smile flirtatiously. Men still shoot him curious looks. The world still scrambles to accommodate him.
The rich and famous have it too easy.
Brett strides ahead, ignoring everything. Chin high. Scowl dark.
He exudes power.
The kind that sucks up all the air in a room.
He moves like he owns the place.
I wonder if he does?
According to my research, Brett and Sharon made their fortune selling their online company for half-a-billion dollars. They went on to invest that money into other software companies until their net worth jumped several billion.
But who’s to say Brett didn’t diversify his portfolio?
My eyes fix on his broad shoulders and I shake my head. I don’t get that vibe from him. Which isn’t to say that he wouldn’t own or even frequent places like this. Just that he doesn’t strike me as the type.
He’s all class. Elegance. Posh.
Thirty-something. Designer suit. Italian shoes that cost a fortune.
No unhinged desire. No ounce of desperation. Just a beautifully sculpted, tightly molded mountain of sex appeal.
Or maybe you’re just projecting.
True. It’ll make my job infinitely harder if Brett still enjoys this scene. Partying every weekend is a definite sign that one isn’t ready to settle down yet.
Brett sidles up to the bar and flashes his cell phone at the woman tending the drinks. The beautiful bartender glances up with a practiced smile. She’s wearing a plunging top and a short skirt that I wish I had the curves to pull off.
The big-booty genes skipped this black woman entirely. I’ve been shaking my medium-sized bumper to a rhythm of my own since ninth grade.
While I stare at the bartender in envy, Brett slides something over the counter. She tucks the money into her bra. Jutting her chin to the left, she indicates the upper floor.
There are several rooms on the second story, built at perfect eye-level with the cages. Transparent glass reveals the VIPs who splurged thousands for the privilege of watching caged women shake their bodies at an elevated level.
Brett gazes at the upper story. Eyes narrow. Predator to prey.
I lurch forward and grab his arm. “Whoa, hey.”
He turns. Arches an eyebrow.
“You want to explain what you’re doing?” I yell to be heard over the music.
His voice is firm. "Wait here.”
Mine gets louder. “I’d rather you answer my question.”
It’s weird. This entire time, I was down with the broody billionaire act. When he told me to get in his car. When he ignored me all the way here. When we plunged into a club at five in the afternoon on a Friday evening, I swallowed it all.
But now I’m getting annoyed.
I think I’ve been patient enough.
His eyes snap on me. All that silver liquid intensity hits me square in my chest.
Brett eases closer. I try to inch back, but I’m flanked on every side by the other people sitting at the bar. He hovers over me, not touching but close enough to intimidate me from his sheer size.
He leans in.
The air thickens.
Tension.
A sharp pull.
The scent of fresh rain lingers on his skin, in his clothes.
His breath fans my cheek.
Heat flashes over my spine.
Curls around my fingertips.
Makes my heart crash against my ribs.
“Stay. Here,” he orders. Then he flings hundred dollar bills on the counter in front of me. “Take a load off. You look like you could use it.”
Anger flashes in my chest. Excuse me?
Brett doesn’t give me a second to collect my bearings and shoot him back with my own personal brand of snark. As if he expects me to cave by simple virtue of his command, he whirls around and takes off toward the stairs.
I glance over my shoulder.
The bartender lifts both eyebrows girl!
Right? I arch mine in response.
With a huff, I push away from the bar and scramble after Brett. If he thinks he can park me at the bar like a toddler hanging out in the jungle gym while his mom goes off to do errands, he has another thing coming.
Now that he’s disrespected me, I feel no compulsion to listen to him.
Screw the fact that he’s grieving.
Screw the fact the he just buried his beloved sister.
He threw money at me like I’m a dancer in one of those cages.
He crossed a line.
And now I’m going to cross one right back.
Quickening my pace, I slide in front of him before he can escape to the upper floor.
His eyes cut into me like a sharp sword.
I lift my chin. Meet his gaze square on. “Tell me what’s going on.”
He smirks. Shakes his head in barely repressed amusement.
“I’m waiting.” I tap my foot.
Brett gives me a slow once-over.
My throat tightens at his unwavering scan.
Devilish charm.
Knowing smile.
Eyes that scream I could have you gasping my name.
He’s flirting with me, but in the darkest, most dangerous way. Like a flame dancing on top of a stove. Calling. Calling. Calling. Only to burn whatever sensitive flesh it touches.
And then he shifts closer and his appraisal deepens.
Changes.
Just a little.
Like he’s searching my soul for an answer to a question he can’t voice.
Like he’s reeling from a pain that I can’t touch.
It’s just a flash.
Just a moment.
But it’s enough to steal my breath. Knock me off balance.
I jerk my eyes away from him.
What am I doing here? Chasing this man I don’t know because of an email I got from his sister three days ago?
Why am I risking my sanity?
Why am I pushing when he clearly doesn’t want me here?
My second-guessing takes over, leaving me oddly shaken.
Vulnerable.
Unsteady.
“Forget it.” I start to turn so I can leave when his fingers clamp over my wrist.
My entire body buzzes.
I glance up, my vision of him crackling into focus. His piercing silver eyes ringed by thick lashes. His dark lips pressing into a determined line. His broad shoulders straining against his shirt. The curiosity in his expression is gone. Replaced by frustration.
I try to wiggle out of his grip. It’s my cautious side jumping out to play. I wish she’d shown up at the cemetery. Or when I got into Brett’s car.
But, I guess, better late than
never.
His eyes flit to where his big hand swallows mine. His voice remains a low, almost taunting rumble when he says, “If you leave now, I’d be very disappointed.”
“What?”
He yanks me forward.
Two beefy security guards step out of the way, admitting us up the stairs.
I follow him.
Up.
Down a hallway.
Turn right.
Into a private room.
There are two women lounging on opposite sides of a man. Buckets of champagne. Fruit platters. Muted giggles. Even more girls dancing in front of him.
Brett releases my hand and grabs a champagne bottle by the neck. He turns it around. Flicks his finger against the cork.
I wonder if he’ll drink it.
He doesn’t.
Brett hefts the champagne bottle high and smashes it against a table.
Glass shatters.
Shards fly everywhere.
Foam hisses out of the broken pieces.
Party’s over.
The sleazy guy snaps his legs closed and jolts up.
“Everybody out!” Brett snaps. Then his eyes zero in on the man. “Except you.”
Four
Brett
Ice seeps through my veins. Taints all of my senses. Makes everything move in slow motion.
Hank.
My sister’s assistant.
His past-time of choice before meeting Shar was getting lap dances in seedy bars. Now that he’s fallen into my sister’s generous pocketbook, he’s upgraded to a swankier bar. Same pig, new clothes.
I fold my arms over my chest. Wait for the half-dressed girls who’d been flirting with Hank for the bulge in his pocket—his wallet—to flee.
They do.
One after another.
Then it’s just me.
Hank.
And her.
But I’m trying not to think about Tierra.
In fact, I’m doing my best to pretend she doesn’t exist. Which is difficult because every fiber of my being is aware of her.
The soft brown skin.
The bright brown eyes.
The sweet smile.
She’s not my type. Definitely not.
So why did Shar send her to me?
It’s a question I want answered.
And Hank has every stick of the truth that I seek.
