Chapter 3 Hendrix
CHAPTER 3
HENDRIX
W hew!” I swipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and aim a grin at the bartender. “I need a drink.”
“You worked up a thirst out there.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the bar, his blue eyes raking appreciatively over me. “What’ll you have?”
I lean forward a little, too, letting him look his fill, cleavage on display in the fitted white top that doesn’t quite meet the waistband, baring a strip of my stomach. I know I look good tonight, but damn. This white boy is looking at me like I’m a Hershey’s Kiss. Drooling and shit.
“Your call,” I tell him, flashing a flirty smile that won’t go anywhere. He’s cute, but I need swagger . This guy wouldn’t know what to do with all this. “What’s your favorite drink tonight?”
His smile broadens. “Golden Cadillac.”
“Ahhhh. I like the sound of that.”
“You’ll love it. Galliano, white crème de cacao, and heavy cream.” He kisses his fingers to his lips. “Trust me on this one.”
I let a chuckle roll out, wiggling to settle on the barstool, and give a decisive nod. “Let’s do it.”
He slaps the bar. “Coming right up.”
While he prepares the drink, a few guests come by, laughing and fist-pounding me. Apparently I made some new friends on the dance floor. Cameo brings the people together.
“That was so much fun,” a blond girl I recognize from a Hulu sitcom says. “Been a long time since I danced like that.”
I smile, wave as she goes, and accept the drink the flirtatious bartender offers.
“Oooh, thank you,” I say, studying a glass of thick white liquid garnished with orange peel. “This looks fantastic.”
I take the first sip, meeting his expectant eyes with a moan. “Hmmm. So good.”
“Told you,” he says. A trio of girls fresh from the pool drip at the other end of the bar, summoning him over for their drink orders. “Lemme take care of them. Enjoy.”
I’m poised to pull out my phone and make sure I didn’t miss any calls, when I feel the weight of eyes on me. I turn my head and have to force myself not to whip right back around. There’s a man studying me intently, and he doesn’t look away or flinch when I catch him staring. I force myself to hold the intensity of the dark gaze flecked with curiosity.
The man is nothing so simple as handsome, an arrangement of features to please the eye. It’s the way he’s built that draws attention. He’s dark golden brown, skin the shades of sun and sienna. His hair is buzzed down close, brown, but glinting with gold above dark slashing brows, high cheekbones, and a luxuriant splay of lashes. His mouth is wide and his lips are full, framed by the bones of his face—hard, blunt, striking. Those eyes rest on me in an unwavering stare that might disconcert another woman. Me? I just stare right back, assessing him as much as he’s assessing me.
Tit, meet tat.
“Um, hello,” I say, lifting both brows. “Can I help you?”
He tilts his head, humor warming his gaze. “What makes you think I need help?”
“Not literal help.” I roll my eyes.
“I can be very literal,” he says with a chuckle.
“You were staring.”
“Was I?”
“You know you were.”
“I thought you had something right…” He gestures to his top lip.
“Oh, for real?” My hand flies to my mouth and I start wiping. “Did I get it?”
His lips twitch and he bends a little at the waist, laughter shaking the strong slope of shoulders beneath his white shirt. “Made ya look.”
I bite into my grin and feign indignation. “Wow. Real mature.”
“Says the woman who was standing on a table doing the electric slide.”
“It was not on a table, and nobody made you watch.”
His smile seems to waver a little, before locking back into place. “You were kind of hard to miss.”
I take a sip of my drink, clearing my throat and searching for a reply. “You should have come out there and danced with us.”
He swings around so that he’s facing my side and props his elbows on his knees, bringing him a little closer. His clean scent wafts between us. “I don’t dance.”
“Don’t or can’t?” I tease.
“Under the right circumstances, I can dance, but mostly… don’t.”
“And what constitutes the right circumstances?”
“Oh, I’ll know it when I see it.”
We’re not exactly flirting, but I feel completely focused on him right now. Like the whole party is a blur in my periphery and this man has come into sharp focus ever since he sat his fine ass down beside me. There is a current running through our light conversation. It buzzes beneath my skin and disrupts my composure. My belly flips every time he flashes that smile full of white teeth and charisma. I can’t physically feel the heat of his body, but my cheeks get warmer the longer our eyes hold. Melanin hides my blush, but there is no hiding from the feeling. The way my breath shallows when he slants a look over to me. The way my fingers tremble just the tiniest bit around the stem of the glass at the deep rumble of his voice.
This man… shit .
We’ve spent all of two minutes together and already… he could get it? A hard maybe. On vibes and looks alone, not that I select partners based on superficial things, but… those lips and eyes and the bones. The hard curve of his biceps and that bitable tendon stretching up his neck.
And the all-caps SWAGGER on this dude.
Damn. You don’t often meet men like this in real life. I might have to pinch myself to wake up from this wet dream sitting in front of me.
“What do you do?” I ask, not sure if I’m actually curious or just searching for something that will keep the two of us right here a little longer.
He narrows his eyes, studying me as if trying to gauge if that’s a serious question.
“Uh… business, investments,” he says after a small pause.
“Investments.” I take a sip of my drink. “I’m kind of in business and investments, too.”
“Really?” He quirks a brow. “How so?
“Well, I’m a talent manager. One of my clients is here tonight, but in addition to running my management firm, a few of my sorors and I started a venture capital fund focused on Black women–led businesses.”
“That’s fantastic.” His gaze sharpens with interest. “What’s the fund called?”
“It’s the Aspire Fund. We’re about six years into our first funding cycle and we’re raising our second fund now.”
“Going well?”
“Oh, very.”
“Impressive. What made you want to get involved with that?”
I circle the rim of my glass with one almond-shaped nail, following the motion instead of meeting his eyes.
“My mother. She’s a small business owner. She bakes cakes. Really, cupcakes, brownies, pastries—anything sweet and special, she does it.” I draw a sharp breath. “Well, she used to.”
Before he can dig into the past tense, I rush on.
“But it was always a struggle. It was never what it could have been. Maybe that was because she always put us before anything for herself—my dad and me. But it was also because there was never enough money to really do what she wanted to do. If she’d had a leg up like, resources and support, maybe we’d be buying her desserts at the grocery store today. She was that good.”
“That’s really cool.”
“Thank you. We also award grants to women starting businesses who may not be as far along in the process as our founders seeking larger investment. Not much, but it helps. We split our energy between the grants and the founders for venture capital.”
“You still need LPs?”
I blink, a little startled by the question. I’m often pitching and selling and persuading, but big investors don’t like to be schmoozed. I never do that at parties. I’m not used to someone just asking if we’re seeking limited partners.
“That wasn’t, like… a hint,” I tell him. “I wasn’t angling for you to get involved or anything.”
“I didn’t think you were.” He shrugs. “I get pitched a lot of stuff. Pretty much constantly, so I know when someone’s trying to get into my wallet, Hendrix.”
“I guess you…” My brain quickly computes a vital piece of information. “How do you know my name?”
“Chapel pointed you out to me.” He grins. “You were busy leading the electric slide.”
“Chapel, my client?” I stare at him as though the answer to a riddle might be printed on his face. “How do you know Chapel?”
“She and Zere worked together on Lewks .”
My brows snap in and then up. “So you’re—”
“Maverick.”
Ohhhh. Our billionaire host.
“And Zere is your—”
“Girlfriend.” He presses his lips together. “Yeah, my, uh, girlfriend.”
I’ve spent the last five minutes in a low-grade heat for the man practically engaged to my new producing partner.
Rewind.
“I didn’t realize.” I smooth my voice out to something even and more formal. “So this is your party.”
“That’s what they tell me.” He glances around the backyard packed with glitter and glamour and celebrities en masse.
“It’s great. Thanks for having me,” I say, replacing the borderline flirtatious tone from before with politeness. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr.—”
“Call me Maverick.” His dark brows dip into a frown. “You were telling me about the Aspire Fund. I’d still like to hear more about it.”
“Oh, that.” I lift the glass to my lips, dismayed to find the orange peel is all that’s left of my Golden Cadillac. I could really use another.
“How was that?” Flirty Bartender asks right on cue.
Look at God. He may not come when you want Him, but He always comes on time.
“It was great.” I raise the glass. “I’ll have another.”
“Coming right up.” He shifts his gaze to Maverick. “Mr. Bell? The usual? Maker’s Mark?”
“My man,” Maverick drawls. “You remembered.”
“Same drink every year,” Flirty says. “Already looking forward to the next party.”
Maverick’s expression clouds for an instant.
“I’m nothing if not predictable.” He accepts the drink Flirty Bartender slides to him.
Predictable my ass. I don’t believe that for a minute. If this is Maverick Bell, then this man just joined the tiny exclusive club of Black billionaires with the sale of his sports betting app. You don’t build a whole platform around risk and luck without absorbing some of it into who you are.
“So with your fund,” he says, turning back to me.
“Mav.” A tall man interrupts, taking the stool beside him. “Wondered where you’d gotten to.”
“Ralph,” Maverick says, his eyes and voice cooling a few degrees. “Glad you could make it.”
“Great party as usual,” Ralph replies. “While I have you here, I wanted to pick your brain about—”
“Call the office Monday and we can talk then.” Maverick knocks back some of his Maker’s, setting the glass down with a thud and not looking at Ralph, but studying the bar. “Enjoy the party. Yeah?”
The man opens his mouth like he has more to say, but Maverick lifts his eyes to meet Ralph’s and whatever he wanted to offer seems to dry up on his thin lips.
“Monday sounds great,” Ralph finally says, his smile a little stiff. “I’m gonna go… enjoy the party.”
“Great idea.” Maverick’s smile is a dismissal and the glance he flicks away from Ralph and back to his glass, a send-off.
“Looks like office hours are open,” Flirty Bartender says, glancing just beyond Maverick’s shoulder. “He pulled the rock from the dam. You’re gonna be flooded now.”
I follow the line of the bartender’s gaze. There are no fewer than five guests in some state of… hover. Like they’re gauging Maverick’s mood. Waiting for some unspoken signal that it’s okay to approach. But he’s not giving any indication that he wants to do anything besides drain his drink and sit here unbothered.
I sip the last of my second Golden Cadillac and stand, turning to him with a polite smile pasted on my face. “It was really nice meeting you, Mr.—”
“Maverick,” he cuts in with a frown. “You’re leaving? I wanted to hear more about the fund. It sounds like something I might want to be part of.”
When he said that earlier, I thought how nice . Now, knowing who he is, and how much money could potentially flow to the fund from a man this wealthy, this powerful, my heart treble beats. But he just turned away someone who wanted in his pocket, or into his mind, which based on how bright I’ve heard he is, amounts to the same thing. I don’t want to impose at a social event.
“It can hold,” I say, offering a quick smile. “I’ll call your office.”
Not only is he a potential LP and my host, but he is Zere’s man. I’m slightly mortified by the attraction I didn’t try to hide before I knew who he was. Not cool at all. But then… I may have gotten my signals mixed, but it felt like he wanted to keep talking—like we were vibing. Like the attraction was not one-way, and that would be even less cool. I hope Zere’s man is not a bitch-ass cheater.
“You’re based in LA?” he asks. “New York?”
“Atlanta.”
I flick a cursory glance his way, not lingering on the compelling features and the magnetic aura that, even though he is sidelined at the bar, somehow make him feel like the center of the party. Like just by moving, he’s shifted the axis of everything. Now that I understand it, I’m attuned to the eyes on us. To the sense of anticipation coming off the guests who have taken enough steps, gotten close enough, that as soon as I leave, they can pounce.
“Could I get your number so I can call?” he asks. “To discuss the fund, I mean.”
It makes perfect sense that I would give a prospective partner my information so we could follow up. Of course, I should, but somehow it feels like there is something else behind his request, even though his expression remains blank as a beige wall.
I’m still debating with myself, probably needlessly, when Zere and Chapel sidle up to the bar, sliding into the sliver of space between my stool and Maverick’s.
“Sorry about that, babe,” Zere says, plucking Maverick’s glass from his hand and taking a sip. “I wanted to catch Harry before he left. Make sure he met Chapel.”
“No problem,” Maverick says. “I mingled like you told me to and found your manager, Chapel.”
Zere’s gaze lands on me as if she’s only now realizing I’m here. “Oh, Hen. I see you met my Maverick.”
The “my” in that sentence is totally unnecessary if she’s subtly warning me off.
Girl, I don’t want your man.
I mean… he’s fine as hell, but I don’t mess with taken dudes, no matter how fine and successful and funny and… despite him being all of that, that’s never how I roll.
“Yup,” I say, smiling at her with a clear gaze and showing I have nothing to hide. “It was nice meeting you. Well, I’d better—”
The phone buzzing in my pocket cuts that thought off at the knees. I grab it, dread dropping inside me like an anchor when Aunt Geneva’s contact flashes on the screen.
“’Scuse me. I need to take this,” I tell them, turning slightly away. “Hey, Aunt G. What’s up?”
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” she says, strain apparent in her voice.
“You’re not bothering me.” I take another step away from the group. “What’s up?”
“You know I usually do my Bible study on Wednesdays.”
I hold back a sigh and check my exasperation. Aunt Geneva would choose the scenic route to her own closet. It takes her forever to get to the point.
“I know, Aunt G,” I say, struggling to hold on to my patience. “What’s going on?”
“Well, they had a prayer service tonight for Sister Marian. Her baby girl Candace is in the hospital and they—”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What exactly… Is Mama okay?”
“So I went to the prayer service tonight, and the nurse came to sit with her.”
“Okay.”
Teeth gritting. Pulse picking up. Fingers clenching.
“I just got back ’bout fifteen minutes ago and she was in a state,” Aunt Geneva continues.
“What kind of state?” My brows collapse into a deep frown.
“She’s dumped the potted plants and stripped the beds and is saying the house is bugged or something. You know how she gets sometimes.”
“Yeah. I… I know.”
“Well, the caregiver got her calmer, but she’s still just… agitated.” Aunt Geneva pauses and then presses ahead. “Maybe you could help?”
Help is the last thing I feel like I could do. I live with a perennial sense of helplessness these days.
“Sure,” I say with a confidence I’ve learned to fake. “What do you need? I can try to catch the next flight out—”
“No, no, you were just here. I know you’re busy and have a business to run. I don’t need you to come back so soon. I wondered, though, if you could do that thing you did last time.”
“What thing I…”
Oh. That thing.
I gulp past the hot knot crowding my throat, and nod even though my aunt can’t see. “Sure, Aunt G. Put her on.”
In the thirty or so seconds of silence while I wait for Aunt Geneva to put my mother on the phone, I brace myself for what the next few minutes will hold.
“Hello?” Mama asks when she comes on. Everything feels like a question these days, which underlines her uncertainty navigating a world that looks a little different to her every day she wakes.
“Hey, Bet,” I say, using the name my mother’s family always called her by.
“Ma?” my mother asks, her voice going breathless with hope and relief. “Is that you?”
I lick my lips and blink at the tears stinging the corners of my eyes. I had half hoped this wouldn’t work—that my mother wouldn’t be so lost in the dark corridor of her mind that she would immediately know I’m her daughter, but it’s the same as the last time she got this agitated. Over the phone, with only my voice for reference, she thinks I’m her mother, and it brings her peace.
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “It’s me. You okay?”
“I don’t… I don’t know.” Her voice thins, shedding years and leaving her sounding like a little girl. “Something ain’t right, and they aren’t telling me the truth. And I think someone was in my room going through my things. They always—”
“No one’s going through your things. Remember I told you last time. It’s just you and Geneva in the house. You know your sister loves you, right?”
“Y-yeah.” It’s a stilted affirmation, hesitant, but clinging to trust. “But I could’ve sworn…”
I give her a moment to sort through the debris of the memories crowding her mind, to make sense of everything her brain keeps rendering senseless.
“Could you sing to me, Mama?” she asks after a few seconds. “You know the one?”
I know the one.
I was maybe twelve years old when we first watched Sister Act 2 and listened to Lauryn Hill sing “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.”
Your grandmother used to sing this to me, Mama had said. It was her favorite hymn.
And this song, these worn lyrics, always manage to reach through time and space and darkness to light Mama’s way back. I take another step away from the bar, cognizant of the three people I abandoned to answer this call. It’s not that I’m ashamed, but this is private. It’s Mama at her most vulnerable, her most lost, and I want to cover her like she covered me so many times over the years.
“Why should I feel discouraged,” I sing softly, pressing a finger to my other ear as my voice runs headlong into the song the DJ is blasting. “Why should the shadows come? Why should my heart feel lonely and long for heaven and home?”
I draw a deep breath, the reverent words juxtaposed against Lil Jon screaming from the window to the wall at the top of his A-town lungs.
“When Jesus is my portion. A constant friend is He. His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me. I sing because I’m happy. I sing because I’m free. His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me.”
The final note melts into the little bit of silence Mama and I share, and my eyes prick with tears. Whether it’s the spiritual lyrics or the sadness of the moment, I’m not sure.
“Yes,” Mama sighs, finally sounding more like herself. “I love that one.”
“I know,” I choke out, blinking to keep the tears from falling in the middle of the party. “You feel better?”
“I do.”
“I think you should go lie down, yeah?”
I hold my breath, hoping against hope she doesn’t disagree.
“Okay,” she says after another beat. “I-I’ll go lie down.”
“Is your sister still there? Can you give the phone to Geneva?”
There’s a bit of a shuffle as Mama hands the phone back to my aunt.
“Night, Bet,” Aunt Geneva calls before turning her attention to me. “Thank you. I hate to bother you.”
“Please don’t hesitate, Aunt G. Nothing’s more important. I’m just glad that trick still works. One day it may not.”
“I’m glad, too.” Aunt Geneva chuckles. “You do sound like Ma.”
“I do?” I ask ruefully.
“Yeah, she had a deep voice like yours. I can see how it calms Bet. Thinking Ma’s back.”
“Well, I hope she stays calm for the rest of the night.”
“She should. I’ll give her some tea in a bit.”
“Thank you. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
We disconnect and I take a few seconds to compose myself. It always throws me, being mistaken for someone else in my mother’s past, usually my grandmother. It’s only happened a few times, but it makes me that much more desperate to spend as much time as I can with my mother while she still knows me.
“Everything okay?” Chapel asks, stepping close and laying a gentle hand on my arm. “Your mom?”
“Yeah.” I cover her hand with mine and offer a weary smile. “Got a little agitated.”
Zere and Maverick stand closer now, too, giving us space to breathe, but obviously in earshot. They probably heard everything.
“My mother,” I say, turning my head to catch their curious gazes. “She has Alzheimer’s.”
“Oh, Hen,” Zere gasps. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s fine.” I shrug. “I mean, it actually sucks, but it is what it is.”
“My grandfather had it,” Maverick adds softly, his brows bunched over the dark concern of his eyes.
“Had?” I ask, looking directly at him and bracing myself for the truth of the past tense that will find me eventually.
“He…” Maverick glances down for a second before looking back up to meet my eyes squarely. “He passed away.”
Of course. There is no reverse. No getting better. There is holding for a while and then there is getting worse. Those are the only two gears, and this disease eventually just runs your brain into a ditch, heedless of the lifelong memories plowed under its wheels.
“I think I’ll take a quick walk,” I manage, reaching to set my empty glass on the bar. I turn away, saying over my shoulder, “I’ll be back. Just need a sec.”
Without waiting for a response, I stride toward the nearly deserted dock. The bay looks serene as the sun sets. My feet speed up, taking me to the edge of the water in a few steps, in a matter of seconds. I stand there and let the slightest breeze caress my face. I fight back fresh tears and soothe myself by humming a hymn from better days.