It’s actually relatively calm, but JP hates tranquility. He once told me he couldn’t concentrate in the quiet. I’m sure there’s a medication for that, but those aren’t the pills JP pops.
Chase looks up from the camera he’s setting, and walks over to us. He accepts JP’s continental air kisses, and then pulls me close by my hips.
“I miss you,” he whispers in my ear. “Come to my place tonight and I’ll eat your pussy for you.”
I press my hands to his chest and create space between us. “I already told you no,” I say for his ears only. “Friends or nothing, and the next time you grab me, I’m snapping that hand off.”
“Don’t be a bitch,” Chase says with a pleasant smile. “You don’t want to cross me.”
That dark thing I’ve learned to tame as I’ve matured rises and rears inside me. I once asked MiMi if voodoo was bad, if we were bad. She said we weren’t bad. We’re just.
“You don’t even understand the power you’ve been given,” she’d say. “Don’t abuse it in anger. Gentleness is power under control.”
“No, Chase,” I answer after a beat to compose myself, to check my lowest impulses. “I’m the one you don’t want to cross.”
“You gonna put a hex on me, Lo?” he asks snidely.
Once at my apartment, Chase stumbled upon some of the herbs and potions MiMi sent with me when I left for college. I don’t practice voodoo like MiMi did. She devoted her life to the people who needed her help. No, I don’t practice, but I’ve never forgotten the things MiMi taught me about magic, about life. That may not be my path, but I descend from a long line of women who walked that path well. I know my own strength. My own power, and it takes all my restraint not to unleash it on Chase when he’s being a jackass.
“You’d do well not to joke about things you don’t understand, Chase,” I reply, a warning, quiet but clear, in my voice.
Fear crosses Chase’s handsome face.
Good.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a deep swallow. “You weren’t just an easy fuck to me.”
“Whatever we were,” I say, gentling my tone a little, hoping to get us back on even ground, “we’re just friends now.”
He tightens his man bun, his usual cocky grin a little shaky, but still there. “You must admit, the sex was incredible.”
He’s feeling himself a little too much because I’ve had better, but things have been tense enough between us.
“It was good,” I concede with an easy smile. “But our friendship is even better, so let’s stay friends.”
“If you change your mind . . .” He cups my face and traces my cheek with his thumb.
“I won’t.” I step away from his touch. “Let’s go make sure JP doesn’t ruin your shoot.”
Chase watches me for a few extra seconds before yielding a fond smile, the smile of the laid-back boy I met when I first started at JPL, before sex made things complicated. He comes from wealth, from a family who indulged his every whim. That he actually applied himself long enough to become an excellent photographer is a miracle in itself. He’s not a bad guy. Just spoiled. And entitled.
And getting on my last damn nerve.
“You’ve got a point,” he finally says. “Letting JP loose on a shoot can be dangerous.”
JP’s on the phone, yelling and gesticulating, his thickly accented English booming through the industrial space with its rafters, floor-to-ceiling windows, and polished concrete floors.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper to him.
“The silk shipment,” he snaps, irritation jerking his thin eyebrows together. “It’s been misplaced.”
I purse my lips against an I told you so, but he knows me too well.
“Don’t you dare say it.” His plump fingers rifle through his hair. “I’ll handle this. You find him.”
I don’t have to ask who him is. I know my role here. I’m the carrot JP wants to dangle in front of a giant rabbit with the forearms to launch a thousand watches. I turn to go check on Kenan, JP’s French screeching still ringing in my ears. My heart trips over itself at the thought of seeing him again.
When I round the corner, his back is to me. He’s towering over Amanda, surrounded by three racks of men’s clothes. Amanda’s looking up at him like he’s an ice cream cone she wants to lick until he drips down her hand. I watch from a distance for a moment, curious to see how he interacts with her.
“We could try this one,” Amanda says, handing him a belt from a nearby rack. While he’s threading the belt through the loops of his slacks, her hand disappears in front of him.
“Hey.” One of his big hands is still on the belt, but the other reaches between them. “Don’t do that.”
The quiet that falls in the space is tense, filled with the censure of his deep voice. Though I can’t see his face, his wide shoulders have tightened and his posture is stiff.
“If I touched you like that,” he says, the words sharp and stern, “it would be a lawsuit, right?”
“I thought—”
“It’s obvious what you thought, and I get it. I’m just saying no.”
“Am I not . . . are you . . .” Amanda looks at a loss, her pretty face pinched and confused.
“I’m not interested. Touch my dick again, and I won’t be this nice about it.”
I slip around the corner out of sight, pressing my back to the wall and fighting a smile. Not many men in his position would turn down a chance with Amanda. He said she looked like his ex-wife. Maybe that’s why he passed. I don’t know, but I do know if I had walked up on him accepting Amanda’s offer, I wouldn’t be smiling.
I start whistling Bruno Mars’s “Finesse” to signal that I’m coming. Hopefully it’ll give Amanda some time to pick her face up off the floor.
When I round the corner again, her back is to me and she’s flicking through a rack of shirts. Kenan glances over his shoulder.
A smile breaks the scowl on his face. It steals my breath, not just the gorgeous contrast of white teeth against his skin, but the way he looks at me. It’s unreservedly pleased, like maybe he was looking forward to seeing me as much as I found myself looking forward to seeing him.
“Hey,” he says. “I was hoping you’d be here.”
Beyond Kenan’s shoulder, Amanda watches us with tight lips and resentful eyes. Her pride is hurt, but I don’t give a damn. What she did was highly inappropriate, despite the fact I know other men in Kenan’s position have been receptive in the past.
“JP dragged me away from the studio.” I slide my hands into the shallow pockets of my denim cut-offs, suddenly self-conscious of my dingy appearance under his scrutiny.
“I’m glad.” He steps closer, and I have to tip my head back to maintain eye contact.
“Ahem,” Amanda interjects pointedly. “We’re finishing the first look, Lotus. What do you think?”
I examine the grey silk shirt and dark slacks that mold the muscled length of his legs. He’s so beautifully made and on such a large scale, he’d be impressive in just about anything, but this shirt isn’t my favorite.
“I’m not sure about the shirt.” I study the racks to see if there’s anything I like better.
“I hate this shirt,” Kenan offers.
I glance up and roll my eyes, but can’t suppress a smirk. I walk over to one of the racks and flip through several pieces.
“I’m the stylist on set, Lotus,” Amanda says. “I know what will look best under those lights and how it will translate to print.”
“Okay.” I don’t look away from the rack in front of me. “You go tell JP you refused my help.”
Everyone knows JP respects my opinion. If he were a teacher, I’d be his pet.
Amanda huffs and walks past me. “Well good luck,” she says sharply. “I’ll meet you out there. See how well you do on your own.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I answer absently, taking a mint green shirt from the rack. “What do you think of this one?”
I direct the question to Kenan since Amada has apparently run and left her toys behind.
He steps into the space beside me and leans against a nearby wall, staring at my profile. “I think it’s beautiful,” he says, laughing when I send him a wry look. “The shirt, I mean, of course.”
“Panda” by Desiigner starts thumping through the room’s sound system.
“Is that for the shoot?” Kenan asks.
“Yeah, the photographer puts on music to make the model more comfortable,” I reply, setting the shirt aside. “To feel more relaxed so we get better shots.”
“This is not the music to make me feel more relaxed,” he says. “And I doubt it’ll get you better shots since I’ll be rolling my eyes the whole time.”
“You don’t like this song?”
“You’re using ‘song’ loosely to describe what this is.” Disdain scrunches his handsome face. “I mean, what’s he even saying?”
“Panda,” I reply immediately.
“What else?” Kenan asks. “Mumble, mumble, mumble.”
“Oh, my God.” I laugh. “You sound like somebody’s granddaddy.”
He stills and lifts one imperious brow. “And you sound like a millennial.”
“I am a millennial,” I fire back, thoroughly enjoying myself. “Aren’t you?”
“Uh . . . barely. Technically, yes, but my mom calls me an old soul. I identify older, I think.” He tilts his head, considering me through a veil of long, thick lashes. “How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? A little older than August?”