Royce: The Handler (The Grey List #6)

Prologue

Never give a man a second time to waste yours.

The thought rolled through my head as I rubbed the mascara wand across my lashes.

The instant lift and visible thickening forced my hand down as I gazed at my reflection.

A smile creased the corners of my lips. I shifted my weight from my right side to the left. Instinctively, my head lifted and fell.

“Oh, she’s good.”

There was hardly anything Roulette managed to screw up, but beauty finds were her specialty. Suggesting the new stick of mascara wasn’t enough for the newlywed damsel. She’d contributed to our ever-growing vanity collections by purchasing one for every woman in her circle.

Bzzzzt.

Bzzzzt.

My cell vibrated on the vintage wood. I was brought back to my initial thoughts. Men. A mundane subject that didn’t quite deserve the few minutes of recognition it managed to acquire from me daily.

Bzzzzt.

Bzzzzt.

My thumb pressed into the side of the phone, forcing silence. The unknown caller was no secret, nor were the digits that combined to form his cell number. They were blocked.

Second chance.

Second wind.

Second attempt.

Second nothing.

The music resumed. I swayed my body slowly.

Because it’s incredibly likely they didn’t deserve the first. Red flags will still be red no matter how many times they are forgiven.

I leaned toward the mirror of my antique vanity, applying a second coat of mascara to the same lashes I was head over heels for. Once satisfied, I began brushing the wand across the lashes of my left eye, promising to return once the second coat of the left eye was semi-dry.

Men will beg you to disappoint you again.

I kissed the skin of my teeth at the thought.

Righting their wrongs is hardly ever their objective.

Not for most men.

Victory is.

They can’t stand to lose.

It hardly has anything to do with you and everything to do with their fragile egos.

They inherit a sense of urgency to be in the good graces of women that should be grounds for insanity. Mainly because it is improbable they’ve changed anything within hours or days of their exile.

Chuckling, I considered the facts.

They feel like the heroes of their lousy friend group when they’re expressing the dirty things they’ve done to their partners. Cheating. Lying. Manipulating. Gaslighting. Harming. Hurting. The list goes on.

Yet, when the gift of that woman stops giving, those loose lips are sealed. There’s silence amongst that circle. And, the mission is to retrieve what they’ve lost before the realization hits those around them.

Explaining they’ve lost the person they joked about cheating on, lying to, manipulating, gaslighting, harming, and hurting feels incriminating, embarrassing, and impossible.

With a shake of my head, I inched the wand from my lashes.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

I went in for a second coat.

Bzzzt.

Bzzzt.

Giveon was silenced on the Bluetooth speaker once more.

“Fuck.”

Inhaling slowly, I shoved the mascara wand into the tube and set it on the vanity.

I replaced it with my cell, swiping the screen to connect the call.

Until I answered, he’d continue calling.

Interrupting my music again would send me to a place I wouldn’t be able to return from before the night’s end.

In an attempt to remain level-headed, I decided to give the caller the attention he craved.

“Leland, let’s make this the last time you dial my number. I’d hate to turn those talented fingers to nubs to make sure you never press another digit on that cell of yours again and think three times about telling Siri.”

“Royc–”

“Your unforgettable, curved dick and your knowledge of use are the only reasons I’m giving you the courtesy of a warning. This will not happen again. Should it… Then, I will not be on your line, Leland. I’ll be in your home, turning every warning into your reality.”

“Please. Just hear me out,” he begged.

“Your excuses are trash. Your explanations are trash. Your head is trash. Your frame is trash. Your choice in clothes is trash. Your chains are trash. Your watch is trash. Your vocabulary is trash. Your lack of awareness is trash.

“Your choice of guns is trash. Your outlook on life is trash. Your resources are trash. Your connections are trash. Your conversation is trash. Your circle of friends is trash. The thread count of your sheets is trash. And, your apology method is trash.

“Had it been a direct deposit of six figures for all the trash I’ve endured since encountering you, maybe this call would be going a lot smoother. But, since it was a measly twenty-thousand-dollar Rolex, product of more trash, here we are.

“Leland, you don’t represent my standards. I’m doing us both a favor by ending what should never have begun. It was fun while it lasted, but your time is up.”

My cell slammed against my vanity as anxiety crept up my throat.

“Ugh.”

A shake of the head led my eyes upward with a roll. I instantly regretted the number of words I’d shared with Leland. He wasn’t worth even the first four, let alone the rest.

It’s the curve. I reasoned, recalling the way it touched the corners that no one before him had discovered.

I closed my eyes, sure not to smear the damp mascara on the rest of my perfectly polished face.

That fucking curve.

It was lethal, giving Leland a chance he likely didn’t deserve. Our first encounter in the gym was my downfall. There was hardly anything he could do to conceal the weapon between his thighs. It kept my lips bumping much longer than usual as he struck up a conversation at the water fountain.

His dick was as long as his money. However, his qualities ended there. They rewarded him with six weeks of my time. That was too much in my opinion.

Bosses only.

The words of my brother toyed with my thoughts. I didn’t take any of his advice lightly, but this advice I took to heart.

Not all of them deserve the time of day, Teddy.

Leland fit the mold, but things ended there for him.

I coated my lashes a final time and stood back to admire my handiwork. Satisfied, I grabbed the custom fan and waved it in front of my face.

Enough about that nigga.

There are a hundred more waiting.

I placed the fan in its rightful place and turned on the tips of my toes after a final look in the mirror. The naked makeup routine was becoming my favorite. While there were hints of the enhancements coating my skin, the thin layers created the illusion of its nonexistence.

Plush carpet crept between my toes as I strolled across my bedroom. I pressed my hands against the wall as I slid into the fluffy slippers near the threshold that led me to the full-sized closet.

The moisturizer had melted into my damp skin and dried beautifully. Slippers were prohibited during the process. They’d only soak up the oils and lotion on my feet and ankles.

Brent Faiyaz’s voice replaced Giveon’s. A chuckle fell from my lips.

Seriously?

My cell had become a traitor. I was convinced. I wasn’t opposed to hearing the voices of men at the moment, but as unpleasant thoughts of them circulated, I would’ve rather listened to the voices of fellow women. Instead, the men confirmed my accusations with each word they spewed.

Still, I couldn’t deny the hit. Instead of trying or changing the song, I entered my closet and began the hunt for perfection in a gown. Preferably thin. Easily removed. Brown in color. And, flowed like lava with each move I made.

An assortment of fabric grazed my skin. It wasn’t until I reached the silkiest that I halted. The coolness raised fine bumps on my arms. I closed my eyes briefly, savoring the buttery softness.

The array of colors was exciting, but I was only after one. This one. My fingers landed on a chocolate one with black trimming. Or, maybe this one. A beige dress caught my eye.

Or– I thought, looking at the fawn-colored dress.

Shaking my head, I returned to the original choice. This is the one.

The lace trim elevated the piece a few notches, placing it on a completely different level than the others. It was out of their league but right on point for the occasion.

Occasions. I corrected, taking the velvet hanger and heading for the dressing stand.

Pebbled nipples stared back at me in the oversized mirror that surrounded me.

With my gown for the evening hanging next to me, my hands were free to roam.

The light sheen of my skin was a compliment of The Sevyn Summers Duo, a combination I’d fallen in love with over time.

It was the sweetest treat for my dark skin.

I ran my hands down the length of my upper body, ending at my expanded hips. The expansion was subtle and petite and perfect for my frame. My chocolate nipples that had turned to stones resembled the color of my dress. I tilted my head, attempting to get a closer look at my hairless mound.

The space between my legs allowed the observation, making it slightly easier. Admiration sped my heart rate. I gnawed on my bottom lip as a thought occurred to me.

I know she’s good. I summed. Damn good.

The repeated unknown calls this evening wasn’t evidence.

Because, again, men are just egotistical assholes.

“I’m Royce. Royce Childers,” I announced softly. “Everything about the Childers is good.”

I shrugged, ending the daily session of self-validation that boosted my confidence every day on God’s green earth. It displaced my need for validation from those around me, especially men.

My body jerked forward and my jaws fluffed.

Men. Validation. Urgh.

I gagged at the thought. My fingertips touched my lips. I was fearful that something might actually breach them and spill over onto my floor. When the feeling subsided, I grabbed the dress of choice and unzipped the side.

With ease, it slid down my well-glazed skin, ending near my ankles. It was such a pleasure when the clothes I acquired were tall-girl-friendly. I rejoiced inside, tilting my head rightward as I pulled the zipper up. My hands smoothed the invisible wrinkles.

“Perfect.”