Page 15 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

I reach out without thinking and put my hand on his knee. It’s the closest place I could reach without moving my entire body, but even with that small gesture…it feels like the right thing to do.

Everybody needs help sometimes. Even folks like Storm Sandoval.

“It’s okay. We’re in this together, all right?” I let the statement hang in the air long enough for the feeling of overstepping his boundaries to creep in.

I look down at my hand on his knee and quickly go to remove it. But instead of allowing me to return to my side of the cabin, he grabs my wrist, halting my progress.

“No,” he grinds out. Applying a fraction of tension, he pulls me toward him, and I shift my body across the floor to get closer. “Stay. Please.”

Less than a foot separates our bodies when I settle next to him, and his expressions—his anxieties—are clearer from this position. The look on his face telegraphs the real panic he’s valiantly trying to stifle.

And knowing that? Storm Sandoval feels deeply, vulnerably human.

“Okay,” I reply, not knowing what else to say.

There’s another beat of silence before he says, “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Anything,” he throws back quickly. “Tell me about your family.”

I feel my eyebrows head in the direction of my hairline. “Wow, going deep, are we?” I say softly. His lips curve in the barest hint of a smile, and for the first time, he looks less guarded, less cocky.

He looks curious.

Curious about me.

“Humor me, Shae.” His voice sounds stronger, yet still soft.

Intimate.

Girl, you are completely delusional.

I pull out a pack of gum and unwrap a stick. Handing the Wintermint over to Storm, he snags a piece and pops it into his mouth at the same time as I do. I’m glad it can offer him a distraction.

“Well,” I begin, “I grew up as a PK, a Preacher’s Kid.”

“Really? You don’t seem overly religious.” He nods as if he’s taking in everything I’m telling him and committing it to memory.

“I’m not. I mean, when I was a kid, of course. But once I started learning things on my own and realized Christianity is a control tool of the oppressor, I got more into spiritualism instead.”

“I see,” he says. “How do your parents feel about that? Is your dad or mom the preacher?”

“Neither,” I say. “Well, my dad was the preacher, but he was…asked to step down.”

The story there is nothing I want to get into, so I leave it at that.

“My mom and dad live in Bronzeville, it’s where I grew up.”

Storm’s attention doesn’t waver from me, and he allows the subject change. Tilting his head to the side, he asks, “Do you like it there?”

I smile softly. “Like it? I love it. A lot of people think of the South Side and have a picture of drugs and gangs and something akin to Fallujah. Sure, we have our issues, but places like Bronzeville have value.” I feel a slight edge creeping into my tone, and I force myself to pull back so I don’t fall into attack mode.

It’s hard to do when I know people like him are the problem. They come into minority communities, exploit their weaknesses, and erase all cultural and historical significance so they can gentrify the community and build a goddamn Whole Foods.

People like Storm Sandoval’s family often are the definition of “Not all skinfolk are kinfolk.”

At least, I’ve made this assumption about them. But now that I’m getting to know Storm? I can tell that is far from the truth.

“Bronzeville was called the Black Metropolis and the Harlem of the Midwest. Did you know that?” He shakes his head, still not drawing his attention away from me. “Not only was money circulated to a point where Black people amassed great wealth, it was a lesson in community economics.”

He nods some more as silence descends between us, but this time the tension there is thick with emotion.

…Emotions I’m desperately trying to ignore.

“People want to exploit places like Bronzeville. Rich folks swoop in for the proverbial pat on the back, but they rarely care that they often do more harm than good. That’s why I want to get into this work.

I want to offer cultural literacy to economic growth in areas like Bronzeville and others across the United States.

I want to see those who look like me succeed, to build businesses that support the community. A global For Us, By Us movement.”

When I finish speaking, my chest feels tight as it often does when I discuss things I’m passionate about.

I didn’t mean to spill all that to Storm—one, because I’m not too sure he’d understand what I’m saying, but also because I am so tired of explaining to people why they should care about those who don’t live or speak or run in the same circles as they do.

But Storm surprises me when he grabs my hand instead, giving my fingers a light squeeze. “You really care, and that will lead to your success more than anything else.”

His eyes lock on mine, and I feel his gaze down to my toes.

“Yes, I do care,” I say. I breathe.

Storm looks down at our clasped hands, and reading into the motion, I pull my hand from his grasp, clutching them between my crossed legs.

You’re from two different worlds, Shae, so stay on your side of the street.

I clear my throat and shift the subject.

“I started volunteering at this non-profit called mPOWER a few years ago. My dad has always been involved, and I’ve volunteered at food pantries and at other awareness events since I was little.

So I guess you could say community-building is in my blood.

” I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around my legs.

“The director for mPOWER came to a job and internship fair hosted by the Future Women Business Leaders club. For some reason, no one stopped by her table. I guess the idea of volunteering downtown wasn’t as attractive as interning at Bank of America or something.”

Storm nods, looking at me with such intensity that I have to avert my gaze.

“We got to talking and I learned about what mPOWER does—helping minority women launch businesses—and I knew I had to help. I had a speed meeting scheduled with JPMorgan Chase, but I cancelled it and started at mPOWER the next day.”

“Wow,” Storm says, “So you just knew, huh?”

I grin.

“Yeah. I mean, DeAndria is a great boss. Pushy sometimes, but she’s great.

But the best part is all the women I work with.

It’s like I get to see them grow their babies and give birth to a miracle.

Many of these women wouldn’t have achieved their goals without the support mPOWER provides.

I’m just so glad to be part of their story. ”

The hum of the elevator fills the space between us, an ambient noise that only amplifies the charge in the air.

“You love it, don’t you,” Storm says, his voice just a hair over the electrical buzz.

“Working at mPOWER?” I ask. He shakes his head.

“No. Working with your clients.”

My chest warms, and he’s absolutely right. I love working with people like Dani and Shakira or Mari, because when one of us wins, we all win.

“So how does a Harvard MBA fit into all of this?” Storm asks, and the question kills the lift I get talking about my work.

“Um,” I say, thinking through responses. I’m sure working for a non-profit like mPOWER would be fulfilling, but doing so won’t get me to the goal.

And the goal is everything.

I bring my hands up near my chest, and I catch myself shaking my fingers out and clenching them into fists.

“You do that often,” he says, his voice cutting through the quiet.

I glance at him, confused. “Do what?”

“That.” He nods toward my hands. “You flick your hands when you’re uncomfortable.”

The observation hits me harder than it should. I straighten my shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of his attention.

“You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not,” he says softly. “You’re a fascinating person to observe.”

I realize how close we are when his arm brushes against me.

“I notice things about you, Shae. Like how you tilt your head when you’re trying to decide if someone’s worth your time or how you click your pen three times before you raise your hand in class.”

My pulse stutters.

“Wow, stal- ker, ” I say, trying to inject some humor into the situation.

Storm shrugs. “Eh, not really. You’re just easy to read,” he says, leaning just a fraction closer, his green eyes sharp and unyielding. “Or maybe I just see things most people don’t.”

I don’t know whether it’s his words or his proximity that’s making it hard to breathe. “You don’t see me, Storm. Not really.”

He smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “I see more than you want me to.”

I hate how my body reacts to his words, how my pulse thunders in my ears, and my skin feels too tight. I refuse to let him see how deeply his presence unnerves me, so I bite my lower lip while I assess him.

“What about you?” I ask, my voice sharper than intended. “What do people see when they look at you?”

He leans back slightly, his smirk fading. “Depends on who’s looking.”

I narrow my eyes. “And what would I see?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His attention flits to the floor, then back to me, and something unreadable grows in his expression.

“I guess that’s the question, isn’t it?”

There’s an honesty in his tone that catches me off guard, making my throat tighten. The hum of the elevator seems louder now, the air between us too still, too charged.

He shifts slightly, and I feel the heat of him as his bent knee brushes against my thigh. It’s a small, fleeting contact, but it sends a jolt through me, making my breath hitch.

“I think…” His voice is softer now, more hesitant. “I think you’d see the parts I keep hidden. The ones I don’t show to anyone.”

I bite my lip again but quickly release it. “And why is that?”

More heavy silence.

“I think it’s because you’re not impressed by any of the bullshit. You’re real. You’re opinionated, smart, analytical, grounded. Your worldview allows you to see the stripped-down parts of me…even if I’d rather you not see them at all.”

The heavy words hang in the air. My chest tightens, and I look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“You speak as if you know me, but you don’t,” I say quietly, more to myself than to him.

“No,” he says, his voice firm. “But I want to.”

I clear my throat and, deciding to add some space between us, I roll over to all fours and reach for the emergency call button.

I pause a centimeter from the button, contemplating if I really want to end this moment between Storm and me.

Because right now? Seeing this new side to Storm Sandoval has me hungry to know more about him.

I want to see those hidden sides he swears will turn me off. But there’s a large part of me that knows that while he may not want anyone to see the real him, I think I’ll only like that part of him more.

Who is he beyond all of this?

You can’t afford to like him, Shae.

No. I really can’t.

My finger connects with the emergency call button, and this time it clicks through within a few seconds.

The operator confirms with me that we don’t need medical care and, after apologizing, tells us maintenance will be here in “just fifteen short minutes.”

The call disconnects, and I drop my head, blowing out a breath.

Fifteen minutes. I can do fifteen more minutes.

At least Storm seems calmer.

I inhale a shot of air when it dawns on me: I’m waving my ass right in Storm Sandoval’s face.

“Oh my god,” I shout with a choked sound. The odd noise seems too loud in the cabin. The most damning development, however, is that my muscles appear frozen in place, making it impossible for me to move from my position.

He is going to think I’m the thirstiest girl on the planet.

At that thought, I spin on my knees to face him, my ass safely pointing at the opposite wall. The look on his face is serious, and I realize this could be considered sexual harassment.

“I’m sorry,” I say, starting to feel dizzy as a level of embarrassment I haven’t experienced in a long time washes over me. “I’m not trying to seduce you or make you uncomfortable.”

He’s silent, and the longer he’s quiet, the worse I feel. I position myself to sit cross-legged on the floor.

“Ugh,” I say, dropping my head in my hands. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a heartbeat of stillness before he breaks the mortifying moment.

“I’m not.”

I lift my head from my palms, staring hard at them for a moment before looking at him as his words land. “I’m…sorry?”

He smirks, and?—

No! No, Shae. Down girl.

“Stop saying that. Don’t be sorry because I’m not.” It takes a second for his words to compute, and when they do, I’m certain I’m misunderstanding them.

Because there’s no way on earth Storm Sandoval is saying what I think he’s saying.

“In fact, I think you just cured my anxiety,” he adds, his smirk growing wider.

I’m stunned, so all I can say is, “Oh.”

He breathes in deeply and I do the same, as if my body were tied to his.

“I don’t think you have any idea what I think of you, Shae.” And that’s it. He says my name, and the way he rolls the vowels feels as intimate as if he’d touched me.

“You…think of me?” I say, and I’m grateful I deliver the words without a crack in my voice.

He chuckles. “Oh, yes. I think about you.” He moves then and places the capped Nalgene on the floor. With a sort of grace that reminds me he definitely plays some kind of sport, he closes the gap between us.

“I like you, Shae Rivers. I like you a lot. So yes, I think about you. A lot.”

The words hang between us, and the emergency lights slash across half of his face. The Wintermint scent from the gum cools my cheeks, but still, it does nothing for the way my panties are getting damp.

“Oh?” I say again and lick my lips.

“Don’t do that, Sweetness,” he grinds out, and holy hell—with him that close to me and the way the words rumble from his mouth….

“Don’t do what?” I ask meekly. My head drops back against the wall as he comes closer. Even closer.

“Don’t lick those delectable lips. Not unless you want me to lick them for you next.”

Oh.

The hot spot between my legs Kegels involuntarily as I assess my options, but everything spins in my brain. I’m a smart woman, but everything in this moment boils down to the space between Storm Sandoval and me.

And how I want to eliminate the gap.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, then I whimper, because this close, I get a true glimpse of his panty-melting smile. When I lick my lips again, Storm’s face transforms. Gone is his teasing, sensual grin, and in its place is…darkness.

Oh, holy hell. What have I gotten myself into?

“What did I say about you saying ‘sorry?’”