"All mothers say that when their kids are ugly and they want them to feel good about themselves!" Drake snaps, and that’s when we all lose it.
"Besides," I chime in, "All Black people have good hair!"
Eli nods, smiling. "That's what's up."
Eventually, he checks his watch and looks at me. “We’ve got about thirty minutes before we get to my house,” he says, which is clearly the cue for us to head out.
Drake smirks and wiggles his brows at Eli. “About time you got down to business, bro.”
“It’s not like that,” Eli shoots back.
My smile dips for a second. I’m absolutelynotinsulted that he shut the idea down so fast. Not insulted at all.
Which is ridiculous, because what am I even thinking about? This man is a complete stranger who could very well be drivingme to my death, and somehow I’m imagining him going all vigilante on my vagina instead of updating Timantha with my location every five minutes.
This is exactly what happens when you read too many romance novels and start accidentally romanticizing your own kidnapping.
As we’re walking out of the VIP area of the club, the air shifts. A subtle chill snakes its way through the room just before we stop near the door. That’s when I see a strikingly beautiful woman.
She’s tall. Dark-skinned. Hair slicked back into a flawless ponytail. Beautiful in a way that makes the whole room fade around her. She’s giving Tika Sumpter meets Naomi Campbell meets French seduction. Because of course she has a sexy French accent, too.
“Funny running into you here, Eli,” she says smoothly, her eyes locking onto him like a hawk.
She turns to Drake, her voice syrupy. “Monsieur Drake.”
“Vanessa,” Drake replies, dry and uninterested.
Oh…okay.He doesn’t like her.
Then she looks at me.
Correction—shebarelylooks at me. Like I’m something sticky on her shoe.
And suddenly I decide, I don’t like this bitch either.
I’ve dealt with women like her my entire life. Arrogant. Polished. Dripping with entitlement. Even in my professional life, I’ve learned how to navigate their condescension, their passive-aggressive jabs wrapped in fake smiles. I’ve gotten very good at handling them.
Vanessa should tread carefully. I can fight, too. Thanks to Anastasia’s self-defense classes she gave to all of us at a book club meeting last year.
I extend my hand, my smile tight but polite. “Maxine Palmer.”
The way she addresses me, you’d think I was background noise. “Friend of yours?” she asks Eli, eyes still locked on me, never acknowledging my hand.
This skank.
I withdraw my hand and place it on my hip. “I’m Eli’s girlfriend,” I say, clear and loud, holding her gaze without blinking.
Eli clears his throat. “Max,” he warns, but he doesn’t say a damn thing to contradict me.
She scoffs, her eyes scanning my look—disheveled-chic—before she finally says, “Okay. Sure.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “I beg your pardon?”
“Begging,” she says with a smug smirk, “is the only thing I could see you doing for this man.”
I take a step forward, every petty cell in my body activated. “Vanessa—was it? You’d be surprised what I can doforthis man. Andtohim.”
“Vanessa!” Eli snaps, and her head whips toward him, eyes sharp and wide.
