The journey to my car was short. I was two rows away from the building’s entrance. I stretched my arm to open my door, but my effort fell short.
Ishmael’s presence was announced by his aroma. He confirmed it with the swatting of my hand. I turned to face him, pressing my back against my car.
Steady, Royce.
He was unearthing. I hadn’t met a flaw of his yet.
“Yes, Mr. Grayson?”
His nostrils widened.
“Ishmael. My fucking name is Ishmael,” he grunted.
“Can I help you?”
Unbothered by his discomfort, I waited for a response to my question.
“Are you insane?”
“I’m not following you here.”
“Release the images? You want him to release the image? Your face will be planted all over the news. Every station from here to Clarke.”
There.
My spine curled toward him. The root of his dilemma was revealed. It wasn’t his race he was most interested in saving. It was me.
From the scrutiny.
The embarrassment.
The shame.
The lies.
I peered into the darkness that surrounded him.
My God he’s gorgeous.
His skin was black like tar and smooth like a newborn’s backside.
And troubled.
His hair was perfectly lined. His teeth were perfectly aligned.
“Never let someone feel like they can dangle something over your head that’s absolutely nothing at all.”
It was a double entendre.
“Royce…” He sighed.
“I would’ve made sure you didn’t get in that car in your condition regardless. You don’t owe me anything but the $2.5 million dollars I’ve requested as my retainer. I can handle a little press and being called a whore. I’ve been called worse…I’ve been called a man.”
For years, the agents working our case considered us a syndicate full of men. The thought was repulsive.
“I’ve said I’ll handle it. Let me do my job.”
“Right. Right.”
