Page 18 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

My brain spins and spins, and I put my hand on my stomach to breathe deeply when heat surges to the part of me that seems to always wake up anytime Storm Sandoval is in the mix. I can’t stop thinking about him. I want to, but I can’t.

Maybe he can’t stop thinking about me, either.

I count down from five, breathing with great intention, and click open the email.

And my stomach drops.

Thanks for sending over your draft. I’ve edited and submitted it to Hansen.

S

I feel stupid. I feel so damn stupid. What was I expecting? A declaration of love from a man I’ve spoken to only five times?

…even if one of those times included soul-stealing kisses?

“Pull yourself together, Shae,” I say aloud, keeping my voice low. I ball my hands into fists. It’s better this way. If he has me this tied up just from a meaningless kiss, what would he do to me if we went further?

I’d completely lose myself.

Pushing away from the desk, I lower the laptop lid and decide to leave the rest of the messages for tomorrow.

I stride to my room, already deciding to pull out the most daring dress I own—the one Yenn picked up in Italy that I’ve never had the courage or occasion to wear.

Tonight is about fun. Not Storm Sandoval.

It’ll never be about Storm Sandoval.

“What are you trying to get into after this?” Another drink lands in my hand as the man—an investment banker who works in the Loop—leans against the bar. Yenn and I arrived at Velour ready for us both to get some action since, as predicted, her situationship with Alicia is done and dusted.

But then Yenn caught sight of one of her exes, and the night’s gone downhill ever since. Well, for her. She still insisted we stay, despite my protests, because “she won’t let me end the night without adding some new dick to my roster.”

She put an apple martini in my hand and commanded me to drink.

Somewhere between glasses two and three, the investment banker showed up and guided us back to the bartender to put the next round on his tab.

I think his name is Jared. Maybe Jason?

“This is delicious!” The top-shelf rum warms my stomach as the cocktails flow, and I’m convinced in my tipsy state that Velour may be the best club in all of Chicagoland.

Yenn looks at me strangely. “Yeah,” she says, grinning. Or is she grimacing?

The dress I chose is entirely too daring for someone who used to be a preacher’s daughter. Yenn’s the only reason why I haven’t sold it. It cost almost five thousand dollars, and I have to admit, it’s exquisite.

The dress hugs my curves, a deep, glistening gold that looks scandalous under the dim lights.

The fabric shimmers with hand-beaded crystals, catching the light in tiny flashes with even a slight movement, like stars trapped in the material.

Its neckline dips dangerously low, drawing attention to my collarbone and just enough cleavage to tease without giving away too much.

However, the skirt is short with a slit that exposes my thigh, revealing flesh up to my hip.

No one could wear panties with this one, and goddamn I’ve never felt so free.

The sleeves are long, balancing out the boldness of the hemline, and the fabric clings to my arms, adding a touch of sophistication.

A sash ties at my hip, accentuating my waist and adding a playful edge to the outfit.

It’s sexy but powerful—a dress that says, Look at me, but also, You’ll never touch me.

Tonight, in this dress, I feel unstoppable.

The DJ stopped playing Deep House music about an hour ago, shifting into sexy R the night already cool.

“I’ll get you into bed and—” she stops a few feet from the entrance, frowning at her phone.

“What’s wrong?” I slur, still swaying.

“King?” Yenn’s voice is serious, her answer sharp as a whip. My eyebrows lower. King is Yenn’s older brother, and, if I’m honest, he’s never around. I’ve known Yenn almost all my life, and I’ve only seen him three times since he left Illinois to go to college.

Yenn gasps, her eyes going wide.

“When?” she rasps, and the alcohol-induced euphoria quickly starts to dissipate.

“What’s wrong?” I repeat again, stepping closer to her. But she moves away.

“Oh, god. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” she says, hanging up the phone. Her heels click-clack at a rapid speed as she powers toward the cab stand.

“What’s wrong!” I practically screech, and I run into Yenn’s back when she stops abruptly.

“My dad had a heart attack,” she says. I gasp, willing myself to sober up immediately.

It’s hard.

“Shit, Yenn!” She rushes to the front of the empty cab line and pulls on the back door of one car.

“Let’s go. Which hospital?” I say. Or, I try to say. Why did I get so drunk? And why did this have to happen tonight of all nights?

“No!” Yenn’s sharp declaration stops me as much as her hand on my chest. “I don’t have time to deal with your drunk ass right now, Shae. Go home.”

I’m hurt, but I nod, immediately understanding.

“I’ll go home,” I say, but I stumble over the last word, and Yenn releases a loud groan.

“Take this one,” she says, already moving away from the cab, but not before shouting our address at the driver. She pushes me into the vehicle, and right before she closes the door, she says, “I’m sorry, I love you,” in one breath, and slams the door shut.

The relative silence inside the car is jarring, and my ears ring from the sound of nothingness.

“Gold Coast?” The cab driver looks at me from the rearview mirror, and I stare at the side of his face from behind the plexiglass divider.

“Yes,” I say, drawing out the last word. I’m worried and I’m drunk and I should be okay enough to be there for my best friend.

Shame sits heavy on my chest like an elephant.

We idle at the curb, and I turn in the seat to watch Yenn’s head disappear into the cab behind mine. She’ll be okay for now. I bet King’s there, and once I’m good, I’ll go.

I’ll go be there for her.

Wetness plops into my lap and trails down the line where my thighs press together.

Crying. I’m crying.

And hallucinating my crushes.

And letting my best friend down.

Another tear joins in on the race.

“You gonna puke in my cab?” the driver asks. I catch his gaze again and shiver. It’s late. A glance at the dash says it’s just after three a.m. Velour would have been closing soon, anyway.

The cabbie still stares at me, not making a move to pull away from the curb.

“No, I’m not gonna puke,” I say. “But I will close my eyes.”

I catch his gaze one final time before sliding my eyes shut.