Page 10 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

He nods, clearly earnest. “Think about it—local news, maybe even a feature in a national outlet. People respond to stories. If we can show what St.Clare’s is doing, put faces to the cause—anonymously, of course—it could make a huge difference.”

The room is dead silent now, all eyes on me. He continues.

“Listen, with a bake sale, you’re gonna net, what? $250 bucks? What Shae’s describing these women need is going to require a significant investment. Hundreds of thousands, to be honest.” He taps his knee as if calculating the EBITA for the initiative in his head.

“We’ll have to sell a lot of cupcakes if we want to make a dent in getting them what they actually need.”

He looks so eager, and I appreciate his effort, but this is one of the exact reasons why he needs to listen.

“I hear what you’re saying, but that won’t work.”

His brow furrows. “Why not?”

I clutch my notepad closer to my body. “Because these women are in hiding . They’ve left everything behind to escape their abusers. The last thing they want or need are cameras broadcasting their stories to the world.”

He tilts his head to the side, as if he’s having trouble comprehending my words. “But it doesn’t have to be like that,” he argues, his tone still calm but insistent. “We could focus on the shelter itself—the staff, the success stories—without putting anyone at risk.”

“And what happens when their abusers recognize the location from a photo or a video?” Yenn counters, her voice sharp as she picks up on the obvious issue. “What happens when one of those ‘success stories’ becomes a target again because we prioritized visibility over safety?”

Storm blinks, his mouth falling open before snapping shut. His eyes flick to mine before falling to the ground. He scratches his jaw, his expression serious.

“I know you mean well,” I say. “But these women didn’t come to St.Clare’s to be anyone’s headline. They came to survive.”

The words land between us and a heartbeat passes before he lifts his eyes to mine again.

Arresting me.

He leans back in his seat. “I see. I’m listening, Shae.”

I’m listening, Shae.

It’s a clear recall to our earlier conversation—the one when I invited him to this meeting. My edict was for him to see the world we’re in and listen to what’s really needed.

And now…I think he understands what I meant.

Another student raises their hand, suggesting a silent auction with donations from alumni. I jot down their idea and their name, Branson, when Kurt’s hand surges in the air. Taking a deep breath, I face him.

“Yes, Kurt?” I try to paste as genuine of a smile on my face as possible.

“I’ve got it!” he says, spreading his hands wide as if presenting his vision for the next skyscraper. “Wet T-shirt contest.”

Everyone in the room is silent, and I spend a solid ten seconds blinking and contemplating how to handle his suggestion.

“Um—”

“Look, sex sells, right? So let’s get sexy with it. A bake sale, an auction. That’s small potatoes. Wet T-shirt? A solid choice.” He slouches in his seat, slinging one arm over the back of the chair to his right as he reclines and spreads his legs so wide the people next to him shift away.

“I don’t think a wet T-shirt contest is right for this,” I offer diplomatically. Turning away from him, I don’t make it an inch before he leans forward and says, “Bikini mud wrestling, then.”

Yenn not-so-subtly shouts, “Boy!” which causes me to shoot my gaze toward her. I need ten sign-ups, and Kurt makes ten…but I want him gone.

“We could get on that now and secure the quad before the weather changes. Or we can use the basketball?—”

“Get out.”

We all turn to look in the direction of the interruption, and I’m the most stunned out of everyone to realize it’s Storm who’s speaking.

“C’mon, Sandoval, I’m just having a little fun?—”

“Get.” Storm rises from his chair. “Out.”

When he moves to the center of the circle with me, I’m grateful for his strong presence.

“What Shae is doing here is serious work. Important work. And you’re disrespecting her and everyone here with your attitude and clearly out-of-touch suggestions. So I am telling you to leave.”

The look on Storm’s face would be terrifying if it were anyone else—he looks like he’d gleefully snap Kurt’s neck with his bare hands. They have a stare-off; Storm towers over him.

All for offending me.

After a beat, Kurt relents, rising and heading toward the door.

“Have fun with the poors,” he says, and there’s a collective gasp from everyone as he slams out of the room.

The silence is heavy in the wake of his departure, and I’m grateful when Yenn breaks the tension.

“Shae. Don’t worry.” She smiles. “I got something for his ass.”

The others in the room—besides Storm and me—begin to chuckle, and the corner of my mouth lifts. The thing is, Yenn’s serious. I’m sure she does have something for Kurt—something he won’t like.

“Okay,” I say, trying to brighten the mood. “Let’s move on.” Storm returns to his seat, and I move over to the rolling whiteboard and grab an Expo marker.

“Let’s talk goals,” I begin, my voice steady as I write the word in bold black letters.

But my hands are trembling.

I take a deep breath and glance around the room as ideas start to roll in again. Bea nods enthusiastically, Branson scribbles something on his notepad, and Yenn sits back with a satisfied smirk, clearly already plotting Kurt’s demise.

And then, there’s Storm.

He’s back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight as if he’s still bristling from the exchange. His eyes meet mine, and there’s something in his expression—fierce and unyielding—that sends a jolt through me.

What the hell just happened?

“Okay,” I say, forcing myself to focus. “St.Clare’s needs three specific things from us: tangible resources like clothes and toiletries; career support like résumé workshops, financial planning sessions; and legal aid connections. Let’s start brainstorming how we can address those needs.”

Ezra raises his hand. “I know someone in the business department who runs a free résumé clinic. I can reach out and see if they’ll partner with us.”

“Great.” I nod, jotting it down. “What else?”

Bea speaks up next, her voice timid. “I could start a donation drive in the dorms—set up boxes on each floor for clothes and supplies.”

“Perfect. Let’s coordinate with Housing.”

The ideas start flowing faster, and I jot them down as quickly as I can. Every so often, I glance at Storm, half-expecting him to chime in, but he stays quiet, his expression thoughtful.

When the meeting wraps up an hour later, I set the marker down and turn to the group.

“Thank you all for your input tonight. This is how we make real change—together. I’ll send out an email with updates and action items, so keep an eye on your inboxes.”

Taking the signal the meeting is adjourned, everyone stands. Yenn, Alicia, and Ezra head to the snack table, where Bea leaves with the half-empty bag of Doritos.

As the meeting members file out, I try not to let disappointment settle over me. With Kurt leaving, that still leaves me one short of the number of registrants needed to submit to the board.

Sighing, I head to the clipboard on the small table near the exit. Everyone has signed up for the club…except for Kurt and Storm.

“Ah, is it too late to put my name down officially?” I look over my right shoulder and meet Storm’s hazel eyes. While his lips still hold that ever-present quirk that says I’m hot shit and I know it, his expression is otherwise subdued.

When I don’t hand over the clipboard, he lifts one of his eyebrows, more teasing casting across his features.

“Oh, yes. Here,” I mumble, pushing the clipboard and blue Bic pen toward him. When he lowers his head to fill in his name and contact information, I take the opportunity to look at him.

Okay, ogle him.

He’s so good-looking it’s unfair. He looks like he’s gotten a haircut recently, his soft curls groomed into a neat fade. I track his movements as he scribbles on the paper, and I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who had attractive hands.

Like, isn’t that a thing only said in movies?

“Do I need a manicure or something?”

My eyes snap up, heat rushing to my cheeks as he catches me staring.

There’s laughter in his gaze.

“No, your hands are fine. I guess.”

He chuckles at that—a slight bark of laughter. “Only fine? I’m wounded.”

Moving smoothly, he places the forms back on the table, and when he does so, he comes close to me.

So close, in fact, I get a solid whiff of his woodsy cologne.

“You’re a natural,” he says, snapping me out of my mental analysis of his scent. “In the meeting. You ran it very well, Shae.”

The heat gets even hotter.

“Well, Kurt, notwithstanding,” I reply.

He blows out a breath, his jaw tensing a bit in a way I’m instantly mesmerized by.

“Thanks, by the way. I really appreciate you standing up for me and what we’re trying to do here.”

He smiles. “Well…Kurt’s an ass.”

I can’t help it. I smile back at him, despite the heat in my cheeks. “So you keep telling me.”

There’s a moment of silence between us, but it’s not uncomfortable or strained. Even though Ezra, Yenn, and Alicia are still in the room, finishing up the takedown without me having to ask, it feels like there’s just the two of us here.

It feels…right.

But then his phone chirps, breaking the moment. Storm pulls it from his back pocket as it continues to ring, and he frowns when he looks down at the screen. We’re close enough I’m able to see the caller’s identity before he silences the call, turning the screen black.

A professional headshot of the delicate, dark-haired woman he was with yesterday flashes on the screen.

Girlfriend. He has a girlfriend. Storm Sandoval is not available.

“I guess you’d better be going,” I say, and my voice is colder than I anticipate. His frown deepens.

“I was hoping we could?—”

Just then, my phone alarm goes off, and I have never been more grateful for technology. I rush to the other side of the room to where I stowed my bag beneath the snack table. Pulling it out, I grimace as I silence the ringer.

“Gotta jet,” I say, looking at my phone as if it holds the answer to the meaning of life so I can avoid looking at Storm as he approaches. “Ez, Yenn, can you guys finish closing up?” I flick a glance at my best friends, and Yenn places a hand on her hip.

“It’s not like we aren’t damn near done, anyway,” she drawls. I look around the room, still avoiding Storm.

Oh. Right. They’ve reset the chairs and broken down all but one table.

“Thank you. Owe you bunches!” I rush to say, slinging my bag across my body and making a beeline for the door.

I clear the doorway and damn near sprint to the stairs before I hear Storm’s deep voice behind me.

“Shae,” he says, catching up to me easily. Damn him for not even being winded.

“I’ve really gotta go, Storm,” I say, holding on to my bag so hard my knuckles burn. Looking at him, I accept I’m out of my element. Storm is a force, scrambling my good sense and making me want things.

Want things I should not want— and things I don’t have time for.

“Get coffee with me,” he says, and dread fills my stomach because my inner Sasha Fierce is screaming Yes!

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, looking off in the vicinity of his right shoulder.

“Why not?” he murmurs, coming another step closer.

I inhale but stop myself, because his cologne skews my synapses.

“Storm—” I’m saved from trying to come up with another excuse when his phone rings again. He makes a short grunting sound as he pulls it out of his pocket.

This time, I see the brunette’s name over her picture.

Bambi.

What the fuck kind of name is Bambi?

Storm rejects the call, opening his mouth as if he’s ready to debate me about the merits of going out with him for coffee when the ringer starts up again.

This time, he looks at the screen and says, “Shit.”

Girlfriend. He has a girlfriend.

“Don’t move,” he says as he swipes his thumb over the screen.

Damn me for wanting to obey.

“What do you need?” he barks into his cell, turning to give me his profile. His tone takes me aback, and I take a literal step away from him. But then his voice changes, and he says, “Hey. Slow down and breathe, okay?”

He sounds…tender.

Aaaaand that’s where I leave.

“I’ll let you handle all that,” I say in a rush, keeping my voice low. Then I spin around and sprint toward the exit, not waiting to see if he even registers my words.

Or if he even cares I’m running.