Candlelight & Confessions
Chapter two
Grant
One month ago in Las Vegas
This woman is out of my league.
She walks in like she owns the air around her. All poise and edges, like the room bends just slightly to watch her move.
Her skin catches the low light—rich, smooth, the kind of beauty that isn’t fair, not in a place like this. Not for a man like me. Thick, long, dread locs tumble down her back. And those eyes—sharp, knowing, framed by lashes that could cut a lesser man down with a single look.
She’s dressed in a soft and elegant halter dress, wrapped high at the neck and bare at the shoulders, the fabric hugging curves that don’t need an introduction. No loud colors, no flashy jewelry. She doesn’t need it. This woman turns heads because she’s her.
And I’ve got no business wanting her. Hell, I’ve got no business looking at her.
But I can’t stop.
I don’t bother wasting time waving the bartender down—just settle the tab with a flick of my card. Then I glance at Eslin. “Ready?”
She nods, a little too eagerly, and damn if that doesn’t hit somewhere deep. The way she looks at me—open, curious, like I’m something worth discovering.
Historic artifacts usually are.
I’m hit with it fast and hard—this woman is exactly the type I’ve been drawn to lately. Young. Gorgeous. All that effortless energy, the kind that burns hot and never stays. Just temporary enough to make an old bastard like me forget every promise I’ve made to behave.
But then again...I’ve heard the saying plenty—Black don’t crack. So as I fall into step beside Eslin, I’m sending up a silent prayer to whoever’s listening that she’s older than she looks.
Because deep down, I already know this woman’s about to turn my entire damn world on its head.
As we weave through the crowd toward the exit, I glance back and catch her falling a step behind—her petite frame no match for my longer strides. So I slow, reach my arm back without thinking.
She takes my hand—no hesitation. And like that, I lead us out of the club, her hand steady in mine. When we hit the sidewalk, lights flashing, The Strip alive around us...I don’t let go.
And we walk. No plan. No destination. Just her hand in mine, the two of us moving through the night like we’ve got nowhere else we’d rather be.
“You mentioned your friends ditched you in there?” I ask, breaking the quiet between us—not awkward. Just easy.
She jumps a little, like I pulled her from some thought. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Sorry. My friends are here for a girls’ weekend, but I’m not the type to spend all day doing touristy crap just to get dressed up and do more of it at night. So...they left without me.”
I smile. “Forgive me for saying so, but I’m kind of glad they did.”
She squeezes my hand—just a little tighter. “Yeah... I’m kinda starting to feel the same.”
“You know, being from New York, I’d normally punch you in the face for being so presumptuous about holding my hand.”
I chuckle, giving her fingers a playful squeeze. “And why haven’t you punched me yet?”
She flicks those gorgeous brown eyes at me, then turns her gaze back to the path ahead. “I don’t know, Mister. Something about you...feels good.”
“I bet a lot of things about you feel good,” I shoot back. Way too fast, before my brain catches up to my mouth.
Her lips twitch. “Easy there. You’ll have me believing you’ve got ill intentions.”
I lean in just a little closer, voice dropping. “Trust me...if I did, you’d know it.”
“Well, if you do,” she says, all smooth. “I certainly hope you let me in on those intentions before the night is over. Lots of things I could do with you.”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Please. Don’t say things like that.”
“Like what?”
“Things that make me want to discover what lots could entail. I’m actually trying to behave.” This woman has no idea the danger she could be in.
She throws her head back, laughing. A rich, warm sound hitting me straight in the chest.
“Pity,” she teases, shaking her head, eyes sparkling with nothing but trouble.
We walk a few more blocks, her hand still tucked in mine, when she suddenly lets out the loudest squeal.
“O.M.G. Shut up!” she shouts, yanking me by the hand toward...
Jesus Christ. A van. And not the sleek, professional kind either.
There are likely no nice watches in there, no knock off Gucci bags or even Nike’s spelled with an M—no, this thing looks one broken taillight away from being featured on Dateline.
Across the side, some half-faded letters read: Psychic Readings.
“You cannot be serious,” I say, staring at it like it might bite.
“I am absolutely serious,” she beams.
“I don’t believe in psychics.”
“Neither do I!” she fires back. “That’s why it’ll be fun! Come on, let’s just do it for the fun of it.”
I just told her I was enjoying getting to know her, but this is taking things in a direction I didn’t intend.
I pictured us finding a quiet restaurant, slipping into a booth, spending the night wrapped in candlelight and confessions—soft smiles, shared stories, slow, dangerous chemistry building with every glance.
Not this.
I glance around, then back at the van, then at her—who’s practically vibrating with excitement. “You do realize there are entire documentaries about women disappearing after getting into vans exactly like this, don’t you?”
She throws her head back, laughing. “Well. I can give you three reasons why that’s not happening tonight.”
“Oh yeah?” I smirk. “Let’s hear ‘em.”
She lifts her hand, ticking them off with her fingers. “One: Black women don’t go missing in these situations. Kidnappers know we talk too damn much. They’d throw us back within ten minutes.”
I bark out a laugh. “Valid. And two?”
“Two: I’m not one of those sweet, bubbly types who lights up a room and offers strangers the shirt off her back. I’m selfish as hell and I’ve had a resting bitch face since I was four.”
“Duly noted.” I nod, grinning. “Three?”
“And three…” She flashes a wicked smile. “I’ve got this devilishly handsome older gentleman with me to protect me.”
That does it—I’m laughing again. Hell, I’ve lost count how many times this woman’s made me laugh tonight.
“Fine,” I say, shaking my head. “Let’s go get our palms read or whatever ridiculous thing this is.”
“Yay!” she squeals, tugging me toward the van like we’re about to waltz into a five-star spa.
And damn if I’m not following her willingly—like I’m the unsuspecting woman who’s just been lured in with promises of tacos and a nap out the back of a van.
Eslin knocks on the van door. No answer.
“Welp! We tried. Want to grab some food?” I say, but she doesn’t back down.
“Don’t be scared, Grant! They probably just have music blaring or something. The strip is loud!”
I watch in pure disbelief as she jiggles the back door handle of the van like she’s unlocking her own damn apartment.
“Why are you so committed to being murdered tonight?” I whisper-yell.
She laughs again, bright and reckless. “Oh hush!” she calls, just as the door pops open with a groan.
“Esl—” I bark, reaching for her back to pull her the hell out of there. But my hand meets nothing but warm, bare skin—smooth, flawless, kissed by the God’s hand—and fuck me, that’s a dangerous distraction. I should be walking in the opposite direction right now. I’d ruin her.
But instead...I follow her.
Inside, the van has been converted into some kind of makeshift psychic den.
Heavy velvet drapes hang along the walls, trying—and failing—to hide the rusted metal underneath.
A low table sits in the center, draped with a deep purple cloth, a cracked crystal ball perched on top.
String lights run around the ceiling, their soft yellow glow flickering just enough to make everything look vaguely mystical.
A beat-up velvet sofa—probably stolen from an old casino lounge—sits against the far wall, its cushions mismatched and sagging. The air smells like incense and cheap wine.
There’s a woman—or what might be a woman—curled up on the ragged sofa, out cold. Eslin clears her throat.
How polite she is as we break and enter.
I swear to God, my pulse kicks up like we’re about to wake a sleeping bear. The longer I look, the less sure I am if this is a man or a woman.
Suddenly, the figure startles and jerks upright. “Welcome to SheSeesThings Incorporated.”
Original.
“How can I—” She coughs, loud and gravelly—like she smokes six packs of cigarettes and a handful of Swisher Sweets a day. Definitely a woman. “—help you?” she finishes.
“We would like—” Eslin starts sweetly.
“To leave you to your rest, miss,” I cut in fast, trying to redirect this trainwreck before it really gets rolling.
Eslin swats my shoulder—playful, but it actually hurts.
“Oh! My boyfriend is so silly!” she chirps. “We’d like a reading!”
The blow is softened with her calling me her boyfriend. I can get into character for this.
“You’re in the right place!” the woman beams. “Only, I no longer do readings on the account I gave my life to Christ last week. So, I’ll just be giving you prophetic insights.” She says.
“Oh really?” Eslin says, raising a brow.
“Yes. My life coach says I will be more marketable that way.”
“How insightful. Our psychic has a life coach to help her see things.”
“I’m Shavonne,” the prophetic seer continues, “But you can call me Linda!”
I lean down, close to Eslin’s ear. “This is already shaping up to be very enlightening.”
She giggles—and hell, I’d pay a million dollars just to hear that sound again and again.
“Have a seat!” Shavonne—Linda—instructs, waving toward the saggy sofa.
We sit. I’m already regretting this.
Linda lumbers over to a battered cash box. “Alright. It’s five hundred for your prophetic insights tonight.”
“Five hundred?” I damn near yell. “So you’re robbing people out of this van too, huh?”
Before I can so much as stand, Eslin slides her hand into mine, tugging gently. I glance over—and there it is. That face. Eyes wide, lashes fluttering, pure damn trouble wrapped in silk and curves.
I groan, scrubbing a hand down my face. “You should win an award for that level of trickery.”
She just grins, victorious.