Page 9 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

SHAE

I t’s probably overkill to have the fruit and snack plate, but if there’s one thing I know, getting college students to invest any time in anything requires food.

Build it, and they will come—but with Jarlsberg cheese, pepperoni, and Cool Ranch Doritos.

“You need anything else?” Yenn bounces up to me, flicking her long locs over her shoulder.

Yenn and her boo for the month, Alicia, have fixed the loose chairs into a circle, and one of them placed the printed agendas on each seat.

At least Alicia is more helpful than her last hookup, Darien, who sat in the corner for the last meeting, playing Candy Crush on his cellphone.

With the sound on high.

Unfortunately, I’m sure Yenn’s new relationship will last about as long as these strawberries will stay fresh.

“I think we’re good to go,” I say, smoothing my skirt and assessing the room.

We’re in the basement of Allerson Hall, which houses the Social Work department.

Ms.Alice, the department receptionist, opens this part of the hall up for us twice a month so we can host these meetings since Asheford hasn’t officially recognized the Community Action Committee as a school-approved organization—which is needed to access all the resources available to the other school orgs on campus.

“I’m gonna stand outside and usher people in,” I say, picking up a few flyers from the snack table to hold as a prop. If anyone looks hesitant, I’ll reel them in with my best you-don’t-want-to-miss-this smile.

“Recruiting mode activated,” Yenn teases, giving me a thumbs-up before heading to stand with Alicia.

I push open the heavy basement door and step into the hallway, my heels clicking faintly on the tiled floor. I stop at the top of the short set of stairs, clutching the papers in my arms.

Smile, Shae. Get people to spend thirty minutes in the meeting.

I’ll need a minimum of ten established members to get the organization approved by the school, and for the last few sessions, I’ve only been able to get six people to attend, including Ez, Yenn, and myself.

I pulled out all the stops for this meeting: I flyered the campus and asked a few of my professors to allow me to announce the upcoming meeting in my classes.

I put on my Sasha Fierce and went up to people in the cafeteria and on the quad to personally invite them to attend.

…and I asked Storm Sandoval to come.

Flutters bloom in my stomach at the memory of his eyes and how he stared at me, seeming to look into my soul. We were having a moment.

At least, I felt it.

But then his delicate-looking girlfriend showed up next to him, grabbing onto him as if she had every right to. And maybe she does.

It’s clear that Storm Sandoval is spoken for—or at least has a significant…situation with his dark-haired companion.

Which means that I’ve got no business fantasizing about him.

So I won’t. Again. Anymore.

“Is the Community Action Committee down this way?” A deep, unfamiliar voice startles me from my thoughts, and I whip to my right to see an unfortunately familiar face.

Eyes narrowing, I look him up and down. “Why do you want to know?”

Kurt—I don’t know his last name—smiles, and it’s a gross look on his face. He’s glossy, as if dipped in a glaze of wealth and pretentiousness.

Like a fancy doughnut.

“I’d like to help,” he says, “In the community.” His smile widens.

“You know the community in this case does not include Hyde Park, right?” I add, my voice sharp as it echoes off the worn linoleum.

He keeps smiling, nodding for too long.

Sucking in a stabilizing breath, I turn from him and say, “Down the stairs and to the left. Look for the open door.”

“Thanks, babe,” he says, and the look I shoot him would have sliced anyone else in two, but he just grins more.

The thought crosses my mind to kick him out, but I’m distracted when a group of students comes closer, and one holds up their flyer.

“Hey! Thanks for coming,” I say warmly, waving them down the stairs. They shuffle past me with polite nods, and Yenn shouts inside the room, already hyping up the meeting with her usual energy.

Kurt’s loud voice reverberates over the T-Pain Yenn or Ezra put on to loosen the mood.

The hallway empties, and I’m about to head back inside when I hear footsteps—steady, deliberate, and closer than I expect. Turning, I feel my chest tighten when I see him.

Storm.

He wears dark jeans and a plain white shirt, looking both out of place and perfectly at ease in the slightly dingy corridor. He draws closer, and the hallway shrinks, narrowing down to just the two of us.

“You actually came,” I say, my voice giving away more surprise than I intend.

He smirks, holding up the flyer I gave him yesterday. “You made a pretty compelling case.”

Wrinkles mar the paper along the crease, as if he’s folded and unfolded it several times since I handed it to him yesterday.

I straighten. “Well,” I say, “you’re here to listen and learn. Right, Richie Rich?”

His eyebrow goes up. “What makes you think I’m rich?”

A scoff bubbles up from my chest.

“You’re gonna sit here and tell me you aren’t?”

My eyes flick to the small Balenciaga emblem stitched over his left pec, then to the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist.

Tracking my movements, he grimaces and folds his arms across his chest, widening his stance and broadening his shoulders.

Holy hell.

I swallow, about to say something that’s likely going to embarrass me, when Yenn’s sharp, “It’s the top of the hour!” rings from the open door.

Storm tilts his head, pointing down the stairs. “Shall we?”

I nod sharply, spinning to flee down the stairs ahead of him.

I’m grateful for the thirty seconds it takes me to enter the meeting room, because it allows me time to assess the crowd.

There are more people here than I expected.

Ez and Yenn are playing host—Ezra has a group near the snack table laughing, and Yenn stands over Kurt with her hands on her hips, clearly giving him a lecture.

Storm steps in behind me, and it’s like the energy in the room shifts. Or maybe it’s just me. Either way, I’m hyperaware of him.

“Are you happy?” he purrs quietly, close to my ear, and his breath causes the curl that’s escaped my bun at the base of my neck to flutter.

And my heart.

“Happy? I’m always happy,” I reply, not looking at him.

He hums, and holy hell, it feels like he’s moving closer. He smells like woodsmoke, cardamom, and the air right after the rain stops.

“Why don’t I believe you?” His soft statement has me turning around finally, and when I face him, my stomach clenches. Because in his gaze, I can see he’s already figured me out.

“I’m mostly happy,” I whisper.

The movement in the room begins to fade; we focus on each other.

He smiles, but it lacks his usual cockiness. It feels almost…genuine? Like he’s dropped his mask and is showing me the real Storm beneath it all.

“I’m glad for it, Shae,” he replies. “And you should be happy with the turnout here.” He nods past me toward the group. The action shakes me out of my haze, and my conscience slaps me on both cheeks.

Pull it together, Shae!

I clear my throat and force a bright smile, stepping away from him as if putting physical distance between us will somehow quiet the storm inside me. “Okay, everyone! Let’s get started.”

The distance feels like a tangible thing, a tether stretched taut between us. But I shake it off, focusing instead on the group in front of me, most of their faces expectant and eager.

This is what matters, I remind myself. This is why I’m here.

I glance at Storm one last time, but he’s already found a seat across from me, his gaze steady and unreadable.

And I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am: That there is something happening between us, and whatever it is, it’s getting harder and harder to ignore. Plus, I’m not sure I want to.

Straightening, I begin. “First off, thank you all for coming. The Community Action Committee is all about identifying real, actionable ways to make a difference—not just talking about problems but solving them. And tonight, we’re focusing on a specific initiative: supporting the women at St.Clare’s Shelter. ”

A few murmurs ripple through the room, and I let the words sink in for a moment before continuing.

“St.Clare’s is a domestic violence shelter that provides housing, resources, and safety for women and children escaping abusive situations.

They’ve asked for our help with some specific needs, and we’re here to figure out how we can step up. ”

I glance around the room, meeting everyone’s eyes briefly. “This isn’t about optics or performative activism. It’s about making an impact—however we can.”

Storm shifts in his seat, and I know he’s about to say something before he even opens his mouth.

“What kind of support are they asking for?” he asks, his voice cutting through the quiet.

I nod, flipping to the list I jotted down earlier.

“They’re looking for things like donation drives—clothes, toiletries, baby supplies—but also career workshops, childcare, and legal aid.

Financial planning is a specific need, too.

Many of these women have suffered financial abuse as well.

They need support that helps them rebuild their lives. ”

“What about a bake sale?” one of the newcomers says, a waif-like girl with purple hair and a nose ring. “We can sell them on the quad. College students love food—especially sweets.”

I nod at her words, taking a moment to flick my eyes down to her nametag. “Thank you, Bea. That’s a solid idea. Anyone else?”

Storm leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “Have they considered media coverage? Getting their story out there could bring in more donations, more volunteers—maybe even corporate sponsors.”

I pause, my fingers tightening slightly around the edge of my notes. “Media coverage?” I echo, keeping my tone neutral.