by Nia Arthurs
“I can’t keep telling them no.” Anthony stares imploringly at me. It’s a natural rhythm. A habit. I was always good at listening to him and he was always good at finding me whenever he had a problem. “I’m afraid I’ll lose my job if I don’t kiss up. And then I won’t be able to pay rent.” He turns his dark, soulful eyes to my sister. “Or take care of you.”
The pain in my heart sharpens like a million little pins are getting shoved into me all at once. Did Anthony ever worry about me that much? Was I ever his priority like this?
They’re questions I try not to think about. I normally fold them away in a dusty box, lock them up, and toss them into the farthest corners of my memory.
But tonight, for some reason, I feel… oddly vulnerable.
Like someone took out the box.
Found the key.
Upturned all the contents on the dusty floor.
I feel like I’m unravelling.
Falling apart.
Desperate for something to hold on to.
For someone to hold on to.
Even if it’s just physical.
Maybe it’s because of Brett.
The connection I felt when I was with him—
The connection I shouldn’t have—
It shot me off-kilter.
Call him.
If I didn’t love my job so much, I’d probably give in to that voice.
I’d ask if he wanted to meet tonight.
Not to talk.
Not to laugh.
Not so he could care for my hand or tease me about my taste in music.
I’d call him so he could unleash the wicked promises his silver eyes had hinted at every time he pulled me close. I would lay myself bare for him and lose myself in every pleasure I could find in his arms until the pain in my heart turned to dust.
Because he’s officially my client tomorrow.
Not today.
He’s still just a handsome man with a sexy body today.
But I don’t call Brett.
I don’t call anybody.
I don’t move.
Or breathe.
Or blink.
I stand there and watch as my sister sticks her tongue down Anthony’s throat. His hands are everywhere, grabbing her behind, flickering over her hips, her chest.
He’s crooning sweet words in her ear and she’s thrusting her hips against his and scrambling to climb him. They’re devouring each other. Practically exploding with passion.
Tears sting my eyes and I still can’t turn away.
I still can’t hate them.
Or be jealous.
Or be hurt.
Because they’re in love.
And that’s kind of my purpose for existing. That’s what wakes me up in the morning.
Helping two people find each other.
Helping them fall in love.
Even if I have to break my heart in the process.
Kenesha pushes her boyfriend away, breathing hard and fast. With one slender hand, she curls a lock of her hair around her finger and winks at Anthony. “Should we take this inside?”
“Inside?” I screech. Turning, I glance at my bungalow.
It’s not the prettiest or the largest house in the world, but it’s mine. The one place where I feel at ease.
The frameless mirror, the Christmas string lights, the black arm chair, the country album posters.
It’s all cheap stuff—Goodwill scores and flea markets—but it’s my place. Every single inch of it.
When I fall on the cheap silk sheets and turn the fan on high, I can pretend that everything in my life is the way it’s supposed to be.
And, for a moment, it is.
I don’t want to fall on those silk sheets and think about my sister and my ex.
Anthony squirms. “Nah, I’ll take you home, Kens.”
“But I wanna hang with T, after.” My sister pouts.
After.
After?
My heart pounds. There’s no way I’m letting them sleep together inside my own damn house just because my sister wants the convenience of talking about him with me afterwards.
I love love.
But I don’t love it that much.
Anthony seems equally uncomfortable with the idea. “Hear what, babe,” he caresses her cheek, “you hang with T for as long as you want.” A grin spreads on his dark face. “Then you text me. I’ll come pick you up so I can take you home and break your back later.”
She giggles.
I cringe.
Anthony nods at me. “Later, T.”
I bob my head, unable to talk for fear that vomit will come pouring out of my throat if I open my mouth.
Kenesha thrusts herself against Anthony and lays one more, passionate kiss on him ‘to remember her by’, before she turns to me and hooks her arm in mine. “You have any food, girl? I’m starving.”
Swallowing my emotions, I smile. “I made brownies.”
“Brownies. Yes!” Kenny pumps her arm. “I’ve been trying this new diet and it’s been killing me. I can’t deal, girl. I’m going back to eating whatever I want.”
“You look perfect, Kens,” I say in a tired, but genuine voice.
“Thanks, girl.” She eyes me. “And you look…” Her voice falters. ”Have you been doing any of those bigger butt exercises I’ve been sending you?”
I sigh and let my sister into my house. While she gushes about Anthony and eats out all my brownies, I think about Sharon McQueen.
She was close to her brother—close enough to hire me after her death.
She saw something in me.
Maybe she knew about Anthony and Kenesha.
Maybe she didn’t.
All I know is, she trusted me with her most precious and valuable item.
And suddenly, I’m glad I didn’t call Brett.
I'm glad I didn’t let a temporary, insane thought ruin everything.
I’m going to help him find the love of his life.
I’m going to do it for Sharon McQueen.
And I’m going to do it for me.
Because I don’t deserve to find love, but I feel a little bit closer to it when I help other people find theirs.
And hopefully, when I’m done with Brett’s case, I’ll feel a little more whole and a little more at peace.
Eight
Brett
I buried my sister today.
I watched the waxy body exposed from the half open casket. Listened to the preacher drone on at the church and again at the burial ground.
I busted open her sleazy ex’s face.
It’s been a long freaking day.
And, still, all I can think about is Tierra.
Her sweet smile. Her dark glares.
Her sparkling eyes.
Her sharp frown when she saw her sister and her ex fighting on the lawn.
The hell is that complicated story?
Energy builds in me.
After an hour on the treadmill, one in the gym lifting weights, and a long shower, I remain unsteady.
Then I check my phone.
Grab her business card.
Her name’s right there. Embossed in gold.
Tierra White.
Sounds like a princess.
I punch in her number.
Pull up a text box.
Lose my nerve.
Tossing the phone on my bed, I pace the room.
No woman’s made me this indecisive before.
No woman’s been this complicated before.
Some of my colleagues mix business and pleasure, but I’ve never subscribed to that view. I’m ruthless in the boardroom and the bedroom and when one threatens the success and enjoyment of the other is where I draw the line.
I’ve met many beautiful women in my line of work.
Many willing women eager to partner with me in and out of their power suits.
But I’m never tempted to cross that line.
Women are a dime-a-dozen.
All t
he same.
Different flavors, but I make them all scream.
Make them all groan.
Leave them all satisfied so they can skip off on their merry way the next day.
It’s one big blur of pleasure and nameless faces. There’s never been a woman that’s etched herself into my brain and wiggled under my skin like this. And that’s before I’ve seen her naked.
Because, hell yeah, I want to see Tierra naked.
Almost as much as I want to hear her laugh again.
Watch her nose crinkle when she’s annoyed with me.
See that glint of challenge in her eyes when she argues.
Damn.
I pick up my phone again.
My veins churn with excitement. Adrenaline. Nerves.
I text her.
Press send.
Watch as the little checkmarks appear under the message.
Brett: Remember to put cream on that hand before you go to bed. I can come over if you need help with that. This is Brett, by the way.
It’s a stupid excuse.
She can put the medicine on her own damn self.
I toss the phone.
Pace some more.
I haven’t been strung this tight since I asked a girl out for the first time in middle school.
My phone chirps.
I lose my cool.
Surge to the bed.
Tierra: Thanks for the reminder. I’ve got it.
Raw craving hits me. A desire I don’t recognize. A desire that’s both physical and mental.
I reply immediately.
Brett: Nothing wrong with accepting help.
Tierra: It’s not that complicated.
Brett: You could lose a limb.
Tierra: Putting on medicine?
Brett: I don’t make the rules.
Tierra: You don’t follow them either. This number is only for setting up dates.
Brett: How about dinner?
Tierra: Very funny. Dates with other people.
I want her too much. It’s messing with me. Clouding my head.
Brett: You’re a woman.
Tierra: Last I checked, yes.
She’s being sarcastic.
I’m even more turned on.
Brett: So?
Tierra: So I’m off-limits.
Brett: Matchmakers can’t date clients?
Tierra: Your intelligence astounds me.
Is she laughing? Is she smirking? Damn. I wish I could see her face.
Tierra: We’re breaking the rules right now.
Brett: Mixing business and pleasure?
Tierra: Talking after hours.
Brett: But that’s when the best conversations happen.
Tierra: That’s when the booty calls happen.
Damn, is she always this cute?
Brett: I only offered to rub your hand, but if you need rubbing elsewhere…
Tierra: Jerk.
Brett: You’re the one who brought up booty calls.
Tierra: You’re the one who texted after eleven o’clock. I’m in bed.
A beautiful vision fills my head. Tierra, fingers tangled in white sheets, her hair splaying around her, her back arched, plump lips gasping in a cry that’s half pleasure, half desperate need.
Brett: I’m working tonight. I stay up late.
Tierra: No rest for the wicked?
I chuckle.
Brett: Might I remind you that you’re up too?
Tierra: My sister just left.
Brett: With your ex?
Tierra: Yup.
Brett: Should I make a call.
Tierra: To?
Brett: Some guys who could quietly put your ex out of his misery.
She doesn’t respond right away.
Damn. She’s laughing. I know she is.
I wish I could hear it.
Tierra: Always so violent.
Brett: Says the woman who likes Carrie Underwood’s ‘Before He Cheats’.
Tierra: It's a banger.
Brett: Nobody says that anymore.
Tierra: Are you always this rude?
Brett: Only when I’m making booty calls.
Tierra: One o’clock.
Brett: You’re coming over tonight?
Tierra: Tomorrow. My office. We might as well set up a date to discuss your first match since we’re talking.
Brett: I’m afraid booty calls don’t work in the daylight, T.
Tierra: Bring that A-class humor too.
Brett: Better idea. Meet me for dinner.
Tierra: You’re busy?
Brett: Always. I’ll send a car.
Tierra: Just give me the address.
Brett: And my guy who cleans up messes?
Tierra: If it comes to that, I’ll take care of Anthony myself.
She signs off.
I move to the kitchen but stop when I spy a slim envelope sitting on my desk. It’s poking out from the junk mail I’d brought into the house earlier, cleverly hidden beneath the magazines I still subscribe to.
Sharon was always on my back about ‘going digital’ and ‘saving the planet’, but I’m a creature of habit. I started my career devouring the information in those magazines and turning it into an empire.
My eyes fix on the letter.
I recognize that stamp on the front of the envelope.
It's the kind they give out in prison.
And that cursive font.
It’s my mother’s.
My heart stops beating for a second.
And then it jumps to my throat.
I charge over to the stack of mail and swipe the tiny envelope from the desk.
“How the hell did she get my address?” I whisper.
How do you think?
I grit my teeth as I crumple the thin paper beneath my clenched fists.
Sharon.
My sister kept herself quite busy up until the day she passed.
Hank assured me there were no other surprises. Should’ve known I couldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. My fault. When it comes to Mom, I can’t put anything past Sharon. She’s been gunning for me to talk to her for over ten years.
Got close once too.
It was a few years ago. Shar just learned she was sick. Instead of resting or plotting out her bucket list, my sister used her condition to guilt me into standing there while she made a phone call.
A phone call to our mother.
It was the closest I’d gotten to hearing Mom’s voice and the sound of it still made me flash back to those police sirens, to the gun, to the blood.
I thought I could handle it. Turns out, there’s a lot more trauma left in me that the state-assigned child therapist failed to dig out.
After she saw the way I reacted, Shar promised never to push me at Mom again.
I believed her.
With a huff, I grab the ends of the letter and move to tear it.
Something stops me.
I can’t bring myself to do it.
She’s still my mother, even if I wish things were different.
Even if I wish she hadn’t destroyed our family.
Or maybe I can’t rip up this letter because Sharon wanted reconciliation more than anything. It doesn’t feel right tearing this up on the day of her burial, knowing that she went to all this trouble. Deep in her heart, she thought she was helping me.
I can’t let her down.
Not today.
So I leave the letter on the desk.
Head to the bed instead of the bathroom or my gym or my office.
When I close my eyes, I’m transported back to that cramped room I shared with Sharon. A single bed. Peeling paint on the walls. Rats and roaches on the floor where I slept because there was no way in hell I was letting my baby sister sleep down there.
I hear the gunshot.
One.
Two.
My eyes burst open.
I gasp for air, but my lungs have closed up. Straightening slowly, I slam a hand to my ches
t and reach around until I can feel the lamp.
Flick.
Twist.
Light floods the room.
It chases the shadows of my past.
Tucks away my memories of the night when everything went to hell.
That night is why I don’t believe in love.
Why I keep my heart locked away.
Because love only leads to tragedy. To pain. To death.
And I will never be caught in that trap again.
Nine
Tierra
I step into Make It Marriage the next morning, keeping an eye out for Amina, Kayla or Venus.
So far, so good.
A couple more steps.
Take the right.
Then the left.
Straight ahead.
There.
My office.
I hurry inside, holding my breath until I close the door.
I’m safe.
My body collapses in relief.
Suddenly, the door pops open. I tumble forward, losing my balance and stumbling into the back of the sofa.
Venus pokes her head in. “Morning!”
“Morning!” Kayla adds, appearing behind her.
Amina jumps in too.
I groan.
So much for avoiding them.
Venus stops mid-stride and gives me a head-to-toe scan. “Girl, you look so nice! Is it your birthday?” She slides over to Kayla and mumbles, “Is it her birthday?”
“I don’t think so.” Kayla scrunches her nose.
Amina hands me a paper bag with Brew Drop’s logo on the front. “Happy Birthday!”
“It’s not my birthday.” I part the bag and light up when I see the pastries. “But thanks for this.”
“If it’s not your birthday, I want that back.” Amina holds out her hand. I laugh as I drop it into her dark palm.
The ladies follow me deeper into the office and fall into the sofas facing my desk.
I take the seat beside Kayla. “Is my office the official hang-out spot now?”
“I wanted to check in on you since I wasn’t here for your first day.” Kayla points at Venus and Amina. “I have no idea what they want.”
“World peace and Troy’s—”
“Venus!” Kayla shrieks.
Amina laughs. “I wanted to see how your meeting with Brett McQueen went.”
“I want that too.” Venus raises a hand. “Along with my fiancé’s… kisses.” She winks at Kayla who rolls her eyes.
“The meeting?” I squirm. “Oh, it went fine.”
“Are you having a consultation Brett today?” Mischief glimmers in Venus’s eyes. “Did you dress up for him?”
