“Royce,” I called out as we reached the doors that led to the parking lot.
“Yes, Ishmael?” She asked, stepping outside.
Flashing cameras met us. Indifference gripped my heart, squeezing until it was near explosion.
“Smile, your annoyance is showing,honey.” Royce chuckled with her back toward the cameras.
“You knew?”
“I always know,” she assured me.
I pulled her inside.
“Royce, your face will be all–”
“It’s already all over Berkeley, Ishmael.”
Protecting her image was the main source of my indifference. Exposing her to the public at the current capacity was unsettling.
“I’ll be fine. I promise. I just– well…”
She slid a hand across my shirt, clearing meaningless dust particles.
“Well what, Royce?”
She was mesmerizing. Naturally and utterly spectacular. A piece of hair hung in her face, next to bangs that covered her forehead. Her identity was partially concealed with black Prada shades. Her lips were shiny and she smelled like something in a summer catalog.
“I was wondering if I could catch a ride,” she asked, gnawing on her bottom lip.
In the next breath, Royce pushed the door open, forcing me to grab ahold of it. She had planned this spa visit down to a science. No stone was left unturned.
Flashing cameras sealed my lips. I took Royce’s hand into mine, shielding her from the group of reporters with microphones pointed in our direction. She leaned into me.
More things inside of me shifted. Moving to make space for her.
Because for the first time since I’d encountered her, I didn’t feel like I was chasing the intangible. Something I wanted was at the tip of my fingers. In my hands.
Victories had been few and far apart since that night in Clarke. However, Royce’s head on my shoulder as I covered her face from the cameras deemed me victorious. Her submission was far more invigorating than any part of my mayoral campaign or the idea of heading an entire city.
Truthfully, leading Royce had become my ultimate goal. But, I had a feeling Berkeley would be much easier. Simpler. Less entertaining. Still, I wanted both seats. I deserved both seats.
SIX
The damsel in distress.
The role was well-rehearsed, well-played, and would bring about pleasing results. With the visor down and a suit jacket from his passenger seat, Ishmael obstructed the cameras views of me.
Slowly, he reversed the Aston Martin. It wasn’t the same as the one from that night. They resembled, but weren’t the same vehicle.
The interior was different. So was the motor of the SUV. Red accented the tires by way of the brake pads. Black coated nearly every surface beyond his wheels. Wherever black ended, gun metal gray began.
Speed mounted me against the seat. Every possible path was etched in my memory. I’d taken the route six times before confirming the location was perfect. I wasn’t wrong. We were on the expressway within seconds, leaving the crowd of hungry reporters behind us.
Sunlight greeted me. Ishmael’s anguished eyes condemned me. Worry twinkled in his irises. He altered his line of vision.
Me.
The road.
