The elevator invited us to the thirty-fourth floor. I released Mercer. His chest deflated as his limbs loosened.
I was the first to step off. Mercer followed close behind. My spine straightened, extending my length. Mercer took the lead. Though I was conquering the distance between me and my destination, I didn’t know where the hell it was.
Click. Clack.
A glass door pushed open, allowing Mercer and I to bypass the keypad that required a code.
“Good morning, ma’am. Welcome back, sir.”
No words were shared. I followed Mercer through the office.
Grayson for Mayor.
Vote Ishmael Grayson.
Grayson for Greater.
Ishmael Grayson for Berkeley.
“Good morning.”
“Morning!”
“Hello, sir. Ma’am.”
“Morning.”
As the greetings poured in, I took note of the variations of messages on the sign. It was clear that Ishmael Grayson was campaigning for the mayoral chair. And, my assistance was needed in his efforts to secure the spot.
It’s as good as yours, I thought as excitement crept up my spine.
Consider it handled.
It was best he began packing up his current office in preparation to relocate. If he had Mercer’s vote, then he had mine. The seat was already his. I knew it and so did the man in front of me.
We stalled at the door of the office closest to the end of the large suite. Eventually, both of our bodies halted. My nostrils widened with suspicion. A familiar scent pushed them apart.
Mercer’s frame obstructed my vision, forcing me to step around him. As I collected myself, standing mere inches away from the brother I’d inherited through Chemistry, I searched for the source of my curiosity.
“Royce, Indie. Indie, Royce.”
“Nice to meet you, Royce. I’ve heard good shit about you.”
Immediately, I understood the man in denim with at least two hundred thousand dollars worth of jewelry on at nine o’clock in the morning was not running for mayor.
No.
Still, I accepted the hand he extended. He was easy on the eyes. There wasn’t a visible flaw. He had skin most women paid thousands for. Though seemingly mature, youth was evident in his eyes.
“A pleasure, Indie.”
“Indigo. You can call me Indigo.”
Though I was speaking to the man in front of me, it was the one with his hands shoved into his pockets staring out the floor to ceiling window that my eyes were trained on.
“This is my brother–” Indigo revealed, “Ishmael. Ishmael Grayson, the next mayor of Berkeley.”
At the sound of his name, Ishmael turned on the heels of his loafers. The breath I didn’t know I was holding tumbled frommy body as the remainder in my lungs dissolved. My mouth dried completely. A fire began in my throat, consuming me within seconds. My fingertips became lava, melting the briefcase Mercer managed to return upon our entry.
