We talked for a while after that. When Rhythm started telling me about her art, I got lost in how passionate she was about it. She said she’d been painting since she was a little girl, back when she didn’t have words for everything she felt. When most kids were outside playing, she was in the house with a pencil, crayons, whatever she could get her hands on, drawing, painting. She said it was how she expressed herself, like her diary. As she talked, her face lit up. Her hands started moving animatedly, and she got so excited.
I just watched her, enjoying the view because I was witnessing real passion. It was a turn on that she had something that she cared about so deeply.
I found myself grinning.
“What?” she asked, catching it.
“I said, still looking at her. “I just like hearing you talk about your work.”
The bartender slid another drink toward her, and she didn’t even notice at first. Her attention stayed on me and mine stayed on her.
I kept telling myself to keep it professional. I didn’t trust my judgment like that anymore. I didn’t want to make the wrong decision again, not at the expense of somebody else. Rhythm had too much to lose in this. This wasn’t just a little pop-up show, and Aria was genuinely excited about Rhythm’s work. The opportunities that could come from this were big, and I didn’t want to be the reason anything got complicated or messy.
So, I didn’t say what was on my mind.
But real chemistry didn’t need either of us to acknowledge it for it to take control.
We talked like we had known each other longer than we had. The conversation bounced from music to childhood stories. She made fun of my “work voice,” and I called her out for always doubting how dope her work is.
But no matter how hard I tried not to cross that line, I already knew I was in trouble. I didn’t know how the hell I was going to keep it professional, because I wanted her. And worse, I liked her enough that I wanted her to win more than I wanted to risk ruining the opportunities that were finally coming for her.
7
RHYTHM BROOKS
After my meeting with Sincere, I had been so motivated. Every day after work, I put my kids down and then I went right back to my canvases. I had been working on the most beautiful piece I had ever created.
A mother was at the center of it. Her skin was deep and rich. Her face was tired but unbreakable. One hand was pressed to her chest like she was holding her faith in place, and the other was wrapped around her baby’s back protectively. Behind her, I painted the block she lived on. There were porch steps, streetlights, corner store signage, cracked sidewalks that had raised whole generations behind her. I layered it with gold not to make it “pretty,” but to show the holiness in surviving. I put halos in the wrong places on purpose—around her hands, around her knees, around the tiredness under her eyes. In the background, I painted silhouettes of other mothers. They were blurred but there. And above it all, I wrote the title in small, almost-hidden letters inside the texture of the sky: Mothers of the Block, because to me it did not mean struggle. It meant power. It meant women who carried everything and still found a way to feed somebody else.
Since that night, I couldn’t think about anything except creating the best work of my life. My brain had clicked into a different setting, and I was focused. Every time I blinked, I saw brush strokes, colors, faces, and concepts for Mothers of the Block that were bigger than anything I’d ever done. Every night that I got off work, I was running on adrenaline and painted until three/four in the morning.
Though I couldn’t think of anything else, thoughts of Sincere would invade from time to time. Hanging out with him had made him more than a fine man with money who was helping make my dreams come true. It made him human. He was funny and so down to earth. But I couldn’t even see with binoculars anything more than a professional relationship with him. He was out of my league, so his flirtation made me feel like he just wanted to fuck. That would be a messy situation with a man that fine and rich, and I wasn’t about to make things weird. We had work to do. This opportunity mattered too much for me to let my hormones fuck it up.
A few days later, after work, I had paint cups, palettes, rags, and sketch papers spread across the dining room table. Canvases were leaning against the wall. Stretcher bars and staple guns were laid out on the floor. My kids were finally settled. Homework was done, and they were watching TV in the living room, waiting on Kodi to bring them dinner. I had my Air Pod in my ear as I talked to my mother.
“I have to tell you something, Mama,” I said as I pressed the stretcher bar down while I lined it up, stapling with one hand.
“What?”
I cringed as if she was sitting right in front of me. I had refrained from telling her this bit of information when I first called her after my meeting because I didn’t want it to taint her excitement for me. “The people sponsoring the event are the same ones behind the development being built on 83rd.”
There was silence on the line for a second. Then my mama whisper-screamed, “What?”
I laughed. “Yes. The man sponsoring me, Sincere Bellamy, is the owner of Bellamy Urban Development.”
Even the thought of him made my whole body tingle. Now that I had met Sincere in person, I could not stop replaying the way he looked, smelled, and carefully handled me when I was a blubbering mess. I definitely couldn’t forget how big that print was when he stood up to get that tequila.
My gawd tuhday!
On top of being a beautiful man, he was sexy in a dominant, teacher kind of way. He made me want to listen and be guided because I could feel he knew exactly what he was doing. I loved that he was a man who could teach me something that could change my life. But I was not about to let lust ruin an opportunity this big, so I shoved the thoughts back where they belonged and reminded myself this was business, no matter what my body wanted to turn it into.
But I didn’t feel like I was a woman of Sincere’s caliber. He owned an investment firm and was building condos in the neighborhood, and I could barely afford to pay my rent. We were in two completely different lanes.
“Rhythm,” my mother warned.
“I know,” I rushed. “I know. But Ma… he wants me to do a big mural in the lobby and another one in the community center once it’s finished. And he introduced me to some of his associates who want my work in their businesses. And Ma… it already panned out.”
My mama’s tone shifted instantly. “It did?”
