Page 14 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

I shake my head, trying to track the thread. “What?”

Moving so fast it feels snake-like, he grabs my chin, his thumb pressing into the small dimple beneath the center of my bottom lip.

“I’m not gonna lie to you, Shae. I won’t ever lie to you. So, I’ll be honest and say I’ve had my share of sexual partners. More when I was younger and didn’t know other ways to channel my…” He seems to search for the word. “Aggression.”

There’s a second of silence.

“Right,” I say.

“I like to fuck, baby. I love the feeling of sliding into a woman who is ready for me, begging to buss it open for me.”

My emotions swirl like a hurricane, and I’m in the eye of the storm.

“But there’s something I want more than easy pussy. Wanna guess what it is?”

My mouth opens and closes several times, and he shifts his hand to rub his thumb along my bottom lip. And fuck if I can’t feel the sexual energy coming off him.

Storm is the definition of “virile man.”

“I-I don’t know,” I whisper.

“I want to find the woman who can match me. I want to be with a woman who can go toe to toe with me and hold her own. Who will stimulate me intellectually and physically; emotionally and spiritually. When I find that woman, she’ll have all of me, which is something that those in my past will never be able to say. ”

Well shit. Those words have me feeling like I’m flying and like I’m crashing.

Because this damning question spins in my brain: Could I be enough for Storm…or maybe I’ll be too much?

“Anyway,” Storm says completely removing himself from my personal space and sliding back into his chair on the opposite side of the table, “you wanna create an initiative on the South Side. I’m down.

And also, please remember I’m gon’ be a nigga for life.

So don’t play with me about no anti-Blackness bullshit. ”

Why do I want to snap to attention and tell him, “ Yes, sir !” while blasting the Sisqó and DMX song?

“Well, I’m glad we can come to an agreement because this is what I think we should work on,” I continue.

“Let’s focus on sourcing talent in underrepresented fields: tech, financial services, and MedTech.

It’s exactly the kind of program we need to show how real change can happen.

And if we do it right, it could actually make a difference. ”

He looks at me, tracing all my features as I deliver my spiel and bring us back to the real topic at hand. The one that doesn’t involve me completely destroying my panties.

“You…down to follow this plan?” I ask.

Storm blinks after a few ticks of the second hand and says, “I’m yours to command.”

And with those words, I’m paralyzed for the briefest of moments, thinking about Storm commanding me, or possibly him letting up control and me ruling him.

How I breathe while those images course through my brain is a mystery.

Still, I manage to inhale and remember why we are here. Forcing my attention away from his lips, I pick up my pen and get to work.

We go back and forth on some ideas, sketching out a loose plan that tries to satisfy both our angles. By the time we’ve filled a few pages in my notebook, and we’ve checked out a few texts from the library, we have the foundation for a real idea, something to get excited about.

Even though Storm pushed back on a number of my proposals, he at least offered up his own solutions.

I have to admit, they were good solutions.

“Ready to head out?” I ask, flipping the flap to close my bag.

He nods, and we gather our things. The tension is still there, like a lingering spark. Neither of us is fully convinced by the other’s perspective, but maybe that’s what makes this partnership intriguing.

“Since we’ve got more stuff, let’s take the elevator down,” Storm says, and I follow him without even questioning how two additional books necessitate taking the elevator over the stairs we used when we arrived.

But to be completely honest? I don’t actually care what his reasoning is.

I’m in way too damn deep.

As the elevator doors close and we begin our descent, I glance over at him, wondering if this version of Storm will last…and if I can trust everything he said before we started working.

Because who is he if he isn’t what the world has shown him as?

I’m lost in my thoughts when a loud clunk resonates through the small space, and the floor beneath us jolts.

“What the fuck!” Storm barks as we’re plunged into sudden darkness. My heartbeat is a bass drum in my chest, and our breaths are loud in the space.

“Storm?” I call out, reaching in front of me blindly. My palm strikes solid flesh, and I grip the fabric of what I’m assuming is his shirt. It almost feels like a reflex when his arms band around my back, pulling me into his chest.

An edge of anxiety starts to crop up, but my senses return just as the emergency lights click on, providing a glow in the small car.

“Okay,” I say, orienting myself. The first thing I recognize is the button on his polo.

The next thing I sense is his smell—the dark, woody scent from his undoubtedly expensive cologne is the strongest here, with my face so close to his neck.

I feel his heart hammering beneath my clenched fist, and his hands at the small of my back have the finest tremor.

A close look at his face confirms my suspicions—his wide-eyed stare pairs with a sickly pallor that is visible despite the low lighting.

“Storm?” I keep my voice low, loosening my fingers to place my palm right over his heart. “Are you okay?”

I realize as soon as the words are out of my mouth that of course, he’s not okay. That’s clear. So I want to side-eye him hard at his act when he shakes his head and tries to shrug. He opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

“Okay,” I reply. “I’m going to hit the emergency button and see if I can get through to an operator.”

His hands drop from my back, and I move slowly and deliberately, trying not to amp him up any more.

But when I press the signal, the intercom crackles faintly, then goes dead.

“Well, shit,” I mutter. I go quiet as I try to settle on what to do next when a faint murmur comes from behind me.

“Water,” Storm says. I turn back to him, noting he looks even worse in the dimness. “Do you have?—”

I hear him swallow.

“Do you have any water?” Before he finishes the sentence, I grab my tote and fish out the Nalgene bottle tucked in the inside pocket. I hand it to him, and the tremor in his hand makes it difficult for him to uncap it.

“Here, let me.” I put my hand on his to help him unscrew the top, and I keep my palm close by as he brings the bottle to his lips. I’m grateful it’s a thirty-two-ounce bottle and it’s full of fresh water. He takes several big gulps before stopping himself and bringing the bottle to his chest.

“Th-thanks,” he says, dropping his voice low.

He doesn’t say anything further, and I don’t fill the silence. Instead, I head to the panel once more and press the button.

More static.

Sighing, I slide down the wall near the controls.

It’s not my place to get all up in his business. And I especially shouldn’t be feeling him up when he’s clearly having an anxiety attack.

Just do what you need to get out of here and move on.

The quiet isn’t uncomfortable exactly—more like suspended, hovering in the air between us.

When he moves, the friction of his clothes rubbing together is loud in the confined space.

He slides down the wall opposite me. It’s close enough quarters that our knees are side by side as we sit; my feet almost touch the wall near his hip.

“It probably was a power surge,” he offers. His voice sounds raw, as if he’s been screaming for hours.

I nod, “Probably. Plus, this building is old. All this money we pay for tuition, you’d think they’d update the infrastructure here.”

His teeth flash under the emergency lights when he smiles. “Well, that’s bureaucracy for you.”

He lets the statement linger for a moment, and I give a brief chuckle, remembering our first conversation.

Argument? Debate.

“Touché,” I offer back.

There’s more silence between us, and I take in a slow, centering breath. I don’t want to be stuck in an elevator any more than he does, but I can still be rational…ish.

Just keep breathing, Shae. It’s the middle of the day, and you know help is on the way.

I press the button again and receive more static, so I pull out my cell phone from the front pocket of my tote, hoping to get a signal.

No such luck.

This is probably your ancestors getting back at you for not following through on your promise earlier.

Movement from the other side of the car breaks me out of my self-beratement, and I watch as Storm takes a small sip from my bottle as if he’s trying to conserve the resource. But he suddenly straightens when our gazes meet and looks away.

Finally, I say softly, “It’s okay to be…rattled. Getting trapped in here is no one’s idea of a good time.” I try to smile, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. “I’d probably be freaking out too if?—”

“I’m not freaking the fuck out,” he rasps, and I’m sure he can read my side eye even under the limited lights.

“I, ah—” He takes another sip, then lowers the bottle to his lap.

When he opens his mouth again, he pauses, gripping the container like a lifeline.

“I don’t usually…get like this,” he mutters, looking anywhere but at me.

His voice sounds strained, and I feel his discomfort as clearly as I feel my own.

“It’s nothing to apologize for,” I practically whisper, and the sound seems to loud in the small space. I want to say more—to add something to our conversation to help him relax or damn, even laugh. But nothing comes to mind.

I don’t have any words, only feelings.

“Look,” he finally says, his voice a rasp. “This is…it’s just, closed spaces like this—” He cuts himself off and blows out a large breath as if he’s already said too much.