Page 9 of Faded Rhythm

King

I hear her before I see her…the quiet pad of socked feet across the floor, the faint clink of silverware on ceramic.

She appears in the doorway of the study, holding a plate with steam rising off of it. “I had a little extra,” she says as if she needs to explain being hospitable to me.

I sit up straighter in the worn leather chair. She walks the plate over and sets it down in front of me on the desk. Steak, mashed potatoes, roasted asparagus.

“Thank you,” I mutter, genuinely taken aback.

“I wasn’t sure what you like, but…well, like I said, I had extra, so…”

I pick up the fork. “This smells amazing.”

She lingers for a second like she wants to say something else, but she turns around and walks out, closing the door behind her.

I cut into the steak. Take a bite. My brows lift before I can help it.

Damn.

It’s perfect. Juicy, seasoned. Potatoes are buttery. Asparagus has the perfect bite to it, and a slight taste of lemon and garlic.

A beautiful woman who’s sweet, smart, and can cook like this?

Brett is a goddamn fool.

I clean my plate, chewing while staring at my laptop screen. There’s still work to be done.

I’m looking into Bobby “Dime” Graves when an article catches my eye. Atlanta Journal Constitution . 2009.

“Top Rap Artist Redd Clay Killed in Atlanta Shooting.”

Damn. I remember that. I’d just turned 18 and joined the military.

His mama named him Clayton Wilson, but he’d named his artist persona after Georgia red clay.

And he was something. Black Lace Records’ crown jewel.

Five number one albums. Multiple Grammy wins.

The city worshiped him. When he was killed—drive-by, they said—people considered it a national tragedy.

Started calling him the Tupac of the south.

The unofficial rumor was that his rap rivalry with The Texican was to blame, but nobody was ever charged. The Texican never set foot in Atlanta again, though.

I sit back in the chair, staring at the grainy black and white photo of the crime scene tape.

I wonder how it connects. If it connects. The Texican was a loudmouth, for sure, but he wasn’t sloppy like that from what I remember. Too much heat for not enough reward.

Maybe it was somebody else.

I open another tab and start pulling what I can on Black Lace’s finances.

But before I can get anywhere, the door bursts open and two little bodies charge in, tiny feet pounding, high-pitched squeals of laughter cutting through my focus.

“They begged me,” Sable says. “They said they can’t go to sleep without saying goodnight to their cousin.”

She air-quotes cousin, making me smile.

Then I sit back, a little stunned. The older one hugs me first, then the smaller one. I don’t know what to do with my hands at first, but I gently return the hugs, my eyes on Sable.

She’s watching intently. As she should.

Their little arms around my neck are warm and eager. Their affection is unconditional.

I don’t know why that hits me as hard as it does.

Maybe because I’ve never been touched without their being a motive behind it.

When they let go and skip off to the door, I find myself smiling like an idiot.

Once they’re gone, I grab my empty plate and head to the kitchen. Habit, but also a little guilt. I terrorized this woman earlier today. I can take care of the fucking dishes.

I fill the sink and start washing.

She appears a few minutes later, leaning against the counter, wine glass in hand, frowning at the sight of me elbow-deep in suds.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

I glance at her. “It’s the least I can do.”

She lifts her glass. “Want some?”

I shake my head. “I don’t drink on missions.”

She chuckles, clearly amused by that. “You say that like this is a military op.”

I look at her, my expression neutral. “Maybe it is.”

The smile fades a little. She studies me over the rim of her glass as she takes another sip. I can see the wine start to loosen her. Her posture relaxes. Her shoulders drop. Her voice softens, which hardly seems possible given the sweet, melodic softness it already had.

“What do you do for fun, King?”

I hesitate, scrubbing the plate a little harder. “I don’t talk about my life.”

She pulls back, her tone shifting. “Of course not. Everything about you is classified.”

“It’s not personal,” I say. “It’s safer this way.”

She stands there watching as I finish the dishes. I turn to her as I’m drying my hands.

“We need to stage a photo for Brett. I’ll send it to him to convince him I did the job.”

She blinks. “A photo?”

I nod. “Nothing gory.”

“I would hope not. I don’t happen to have any fake blood lying around.”

“We don’t need it,” I say. “He won’t be thinking straight enough to question it or run a forensic analysis. He just needs to believe it long enough for us to get you out of here.”

She bites her lip, and I look elsewhere.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Lie down. Wherever you want. But you need to be wearing whatever you normally sleep in,” I say, eyeing her dress.

She giggles softly. “I…I usually sleep naked.”

My body reacts before my brain does. I clench my jaw, eyes locked on a spot just to the left of her head.

“Obviously, you’ll be dressed,” I say. “I’ll just tell him you were still awake when I broke in.”

“Why obviously?”

I bring my eyes back to hers, wondering if she’s serious. “Because I know you don’t wanna be naked in front of me.”

There’s a pause. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “I mean…if it makes it more believable, I will.” Her voice is steady, and I know she’s serious. “It needs to believable, right?”

I swallow hard. “Right.”

She stares up at me through her eyelashes.

“You’re in charge,” I say. “Whenever you’re ready.”

She nods before turning to walk away.

I stay put, staring at the wall, listening to her footsteps as they disappear up the stairs.

I’m lowkey shocked by this development, but maybe I shouldn’t be.

I saw how she operated at the bank earlier.

Damn, that feels like a lifetime ago. But it’s clear Ms. Sable has some fire in her.

She’s a fighter. The way her face changed and fear disappeared when she found out her husband is perfectly okay with her daughters finding her body…

it let me know she’s willing to do whatever she has to do to punish him.

So maybe what’s about to happen isn’t about me at all.

“Done.”

I don’t look. Instead, I inhale sharply as I make my way toward the hallway, following the sound of her voice. She’s lying on the floor near the door to the garage. Without looking directly at her, I reach into my pocket and pull out the burner phone. I raise it.

Through the lens, I finally see her.

Fuck .

I feel like somebody punched me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me.

Her body is art. Curves. Dimples. Tiger stripes. Soft and luscious, but still graceful, even in stillness. Every instinct I’ve buried comes roaring back, feral and hot.

A body like that should be touched. Caressed. Squeezed. It deserves the weight of a real man on top of it. It deserves pleasure, so much pleasure, its owner begs for it to stop.

“Did you take it?”

I come back to reality with the press of a button.

“Got it,” I say.

But she doesn’t move.

“Are you okay?” I ask, voice rough as I stare at something down the hall.

“Can you help me up?”

My hand twitches at my side, itching to do it, to touch her, to get it out of the way so I can focus.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to touch you right now,” I mutter.

She blows out a slow breath, gets up without another word, and storms off down the hallway.

I stay frozen.

I reach into my pants to adjust myself.

Then I blow out a sigh.

She’s pushing it. Knowingly or unknowingly, she’s nudging me to the edge.

And I’m dangerously close to slipping.