Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
IMANIO “GATEZ”
I sat at the long glass conference table in my downtown office, dressed in a sharp black suit that suddenly felt too tight around the collar.
The overhead lights were too bright. The air was too cold. And I was already over it—and the damn interviews hadn’t even started yet.
That day was supposed to be about hiring a new publicist; something long overdue. But truth be told? I really didn’t feel like sitting through a bunch of over-rehearsed answers and fake smiles.
Not that day… not when my mind was still halfway back at the estate.
The real kicker was when Naji said, "Just please keep your heart and I’ll keep mine.”
That shit… hit different. It didn’t just sound like a boundary; it sounded like a wall—like she saw no goodness in me, and no hope, future or even a flicker in us.
And I don’t know why, but that shit stuck with me.
Maybe it’s because I wasn’t used to that.
I was used to women clinging, chasing and folding themselves into whatever shape they thought I wanted.
I was used to being wanted—loudly. But Naji? She didn’t ask me for anything.
Not my attention. Not my protection. Not my heart.
She told me to keep it. So yeah… that’s why my response came out cold and harsh, like I didn’t care.
But I did.
Even when Naji was talking that shit about not giving me no pussy. I didn’t expect it… not that soon, but it was the principle, I guess. But if I’m being real with myself, I’m not even sure I meant any of that shit; not to her at least.
I exhaled hard through my nose and tapped the table twice—impatient.
Chi was supposed to be helping out with the interviews—acting as my second set of eyes, which was a gamble in itself. Half the time, he was brilliant; the other half, he was running on sarcasm and espresso.
Moments later, he strutted in wearing a poorly-fitted navy blue suit like it was trying to run away from his body. His sneakers still peeked out from the bottom like they refused to be tamed.
“Nigga, I told you to wear dress shoes, not Jordans in disguise," I fussed, eyeing his fake professionalism from the ankles down.
"I wore the suit, didn’t I?” Chi countered, holding out his arms like he deserved a medal. “And… I showed up on time. That’s two miracles in one morning. Baby steps. Give a nigga some credit.”
I shook my head, already tired.
Chi took a sip of his smoothie like this was brunch.
“But I meant to ask you,” he said, leaning in a little. “Did Naji give you an answer?”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “She’s gonna do it.”
Chi smirked. “As if she truly had another option. But damn. So we’re really going through with the kidnap-a-wife plan, huh? Bold strategy, boss.”
I gave him a look, but he kept talking.
“You know, if this was anybody else, I’d say they were crazy as hell. But it’s you. This is exactly your brand. Silent. Cold. And now... you’re about to casually marry someone like it’s a tax move.”
I didn’t respond. I just adjusted my cufflinks and stared at the interview list like I was actually about to focus. But Chi, of course, wasn’t done.
“Oh, and before I forget—what we doing for the bachelor party?” he asked, completely serious. “I got some ideas. I’m thinking… classy, but disrespectful.”
I shot him a warning look.
He raised his hands. “Relax. I’ll make sure nobody gets shot.”
“There won’t be a bachelor party, Chi.”
“Man, you don’ stole somebody’s whole future wife and won’t even celebrate with wings and bad decisions? That’s selfish, bro!”
I gave him a look, half-grimace, half-warning.
“Chi, you got three jobs today—sit there, look useful, and go get the applicants; don’t mess up the easy one. You keep talking, I’ma start docking your imaginary salary and interviewing replacements for you. Now go on; bring the first one in.”
Chi stood, smoothing his jacket with a grin.
“Damn, you really woke up CEO-ish today, huh? Alright, alright. I’m going. But let the record show I came dressed, caffeinated, and cooperative. That’s growth.”
Chi headed for the door, tossing one last line over his shoulder.
“Just do me a favor. If you choose a female, pick an ugly one so you don’t accidentally fall in love again. I’m seeing that you turn soft for the right face."
I gave him a cold stare.
The first candidate walked in alongside Chi—a Black short guy in a tailored blazer that looked custom-made and expensive enough to flex without saying a word.
His smile was bright, charismatic, and just a touch too perfect. His skin? Smoother than Chi’s jokes on a good day.
He stepped forward confidently.
“Hi, I’m Terrence! Big fan of your work, Mr. Kors! I admire a man who knows how to command a room!”
Chi side-eyed him like he smelled something out of place. I sensed it too, but kept it professional.
“Morning. Have a seat,” I instructed coolly, nodding to the chair across from me.
Terrence sat down, his legs crossed as if he were born in a boardroom.
I picked up his resume.
“Let me go over this before we start.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Terrence’s eyes flickering between me and the paper in my hand. It was like he was reading more than just my résumé stack.
Not in a disrespectful way… more so in a lustful one.
I didn’t acknowledge it… at least not right at that moment.
Terrence was qualified—on paper and in person.
“So,” I started, “what drew you to this position?”
Terrence gave a sly smile, leaning in just enough to make it noticeable.
“Honestly? I needed a new challenge. A new… aesthetic to represent. Someone I could be passionate about. Which brings me to my next question—does the PR department get direct access to you? Like… how involved are you day to day?”
Is this nigga really trying to flirt with me? The thought slid across my mind.
I knew Chi, so I knew it wouldn’t be long before he spoke up. “Man, if you don’t sit yo?—”
I shot him a look that said, “ chill” , let me handle it.
With my leg bouncing and jaw tight, I gave a polite nod and leaned back just slightly—controlled, composed, but I was seconds from cracking. My patience wasn’t just thinning; it was bleeding out slow. I felt that part of me—the darker part—stirring awake.
Gatez.
“Depends on the project,” I finally answered.
“Got it.” His smile widened.
“What’s your availability?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m very flexible,” he responded, his voice low, and his smile suggestive.
Chi’s eyes were screaming, but he said nothing that time—barely.
One more unprofessional comment.
One more slick tone dipped in sugar.
One more sly-ass smirk or attempt to blur a line that ain't never been drawn… and he’s was gonna find out real quick this ain’t that kind of job, and I’m not that kind of nigga.
“But seriously, I’m available all hours.... whatever you need. You’re a brand, Mr. Kors. Some of us in PR are very… hands-on . And just so I know ahead of time… is there a dress code? Or can I wear something fitted—as long as it's tasteful?”
I tried to give the nigga the benefit of the doubt… chalk it up to him being overly friendly or just clueless, but that did it. I couldn’t keep sitting there like I was cool with his subliminal gay passes; like he wasn’t lowkey testing me or checking the temperature to see how far he could go.
Nah. That was it. Curtain call.
I sat still, smoothing out my shirt like I was weighing how hard to snap.
I locked eyes with Terrence—cold, unreadable, and lethal.
“I’ma say this one time. I don’t play that gay shit, I don’t flirt with men, I don’t send mixed signals and I damn sure don’t entertain confusion.”
Terrence’s smirk faltered.
“I’m not one of these soft-spoken, boundary-blurred types who’ll let you play in their face, testing waters.
You shoot your shot at me again, I’ll shut that shit down with more than words.
And for the record, I love pussy—not like, not enjoy, love.
I’m talkin’ wake-up-face-down, skip-breakfast, risk-my-sanity type love. I crave it. Study it. Respect it.
I love women —their curves, their scent, the way they tremble when they trust you, how they fall apart when you stroke ‘em like a prayer. That’s art. That’s soul. That’s God’s favorite invention . That’s something you can’t replicate or mimic with eye contact and slick-ass compliments.”
I let that settle—let the silence cook.
Truth be told , I didn’t even go that hard for pussy or women in general. But I said it so that the clown would get the message loud and permanent: I had no fuckin’ interest in him or any nigga period.
Chi sat next to me, shaking his head like, “I don’t know why y’all choose to test this crazy ass nigga”.
I adjusted my blazer, slow and smooth, then leaned back in my chair.
“You applied to work for me, not flirt with me,” I continued. “So market this brand, respect this space, or take your little résumé and go find an HR department that'll accept fantasies as qualifications.”
I leaned in just enough, voice like a blade pressed to skin.
“’Cause over here? Ain’t no room for confused energy or boundary issues. And if that’s what you came with… this interview’s over.”
Terrence’s eyes widened—offended, embarrassed, and completely caught off guard. His lips twitched like they wanted to form a sentence, but he couldn’t seem to push the lie out.
“As a matter of fact…” I added, snapping his folder shut with finality, voice dry and dismissive. “I heard some club in Hell’s Kitchen is hiring towel boys for the steam room. That might be more up your alley.”
“I… I didn’t mean it like that, sir! I respect your space, your work—your reputation! I just thought?—”
I lifted my hand, shutting that weak apology down before it ever stood a chance.
“Nah. Don’t try to clean your act up and start getting all straight and professional now. That rainbow slipped… it’s too late to bleach it,” Chi butted in with his two cents.
That nigga had pissed me off so bad I didn’t even crack a smile.