Chapter 8 #2
He’d said everything I’d been thinking. He’d unrooted everything I’d been burying.
“Here we have stuffed shrimp, smothered in our seafood bisque sauce. We also have our lobster spinach dip with seasoned, freshly fried garlic chips, and cognac. Anything else I can get you right now?”
“No. Not at the moment,” I assured Grace.
“Alright. I’m going to get out of your way. Let me know when you’re ready to order.”
Suddenly, my appetite had vanished. So had my vocabulary. I had nothing to say. Just big, unprecedented feelings that I hardly knew what to do with.
Ishmael dug into the spinach dip.
“Eat your food,” he demanded.
My fingers moved faster than I would’ve liked had I had control of them. Still, everything was in slow motion. I used a fork to slice open the stuffed shrimp.
“You’re not allowed to date, Royce. Not unless that nigga’s name is Ishmael Grayson. Anybody else getting beat the fuck up or a bullet right where it ached at the realization that you didn’t take heed to my warning.”
“I’m a grown woman, Ishmael Grayson.”
“Grown and free are two very different terms. Please understand you’re not both.”
I filled my mouth with an array of flavors. They were all pleasing to my tastebuds, receiving a nod of approval.
“Are you going to stare at me the entire night?”
“I am.”
I chuckled, knowing Ishmael was no liar.
“I think you’re stunning, Royce. What better is there for me to sta–”
“Why were you at the hotel?” I blurted before stuffing my mouth again.
Discomfort covered him completely. His posture changed. His limbs loosened. He bit into another tortilla chip with dip on top. He was in no rush to respond. I was in no rush to hear his response either, because it would only mean I was next up to speak again. I wasn’t ready.
“I went to meet my father. He didn’t show.”
My chest rattled with despair. His words were riddled with pain. Unresolved pain that was likely the purpose of his visit to Clarke.
“Has he ever?”
“Ever?”
“Shown?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Nah.”
“Will you try again?”
“Fuck ‘em,” he tittered with a shrug.
“Understood.”
“Your father?”
“Dead.”
He nodded, accepting my indirect request to move on. My suffering since Richie’s passing would not be the subject of dinner. It hurt too much. It bruised too much. It shifted too much.
“Your mother?”
My smile lifted my cheeks.
“Rhea– her name is Rhea. She’s heaven on earth.”
“Yeah? Sounds like my old lady. Life would’ve been a shit show without her in my corner.”
I nodded.
“I feel the same about my father and my brother. Rhea has been the softest place to land since I can remember. But, I’ve never been a girl who wanted to land softly. I’ve always wanted to hit the ground running. For that, I had my brother and my father to count on.”
“Most girls– it’s their mothers wh–”
“I’m not most girls, Ishmael. Have you not taken note?”
“I have. My notepad is running out of space and my pen is running out of ink. I’ve been making notes since I met you.”
“Good notes or?”
“Notes. There’s not much that isn’t good about you, Royce. Aside from the fact that you don’t listen.”
I shrugged, sipping from the wine glass.
“I’m waiting to be given instructions worth listening to.”
Ishmael’s lips turned upward as his head lifted and then fell, numerous times.
“That won’t work for us.”
His index finger pointed from my chest to his.
“Us?”
“Don’t insult me, my baby. You heard what the fuck I said.”
Ever so gently, he released his next set of words. Never raising his voice. Never altering his position. He was fully in control of himself. Of me. Of this moment.
“When you open your mouth, I listen. When you give instructions, I listen. That’s how this shit is supposed to work,” he explained.
“You’re my client.”
“If you thought that was the reason, then you’re sadly mistaken.”
“Then, why is it?”
“The bottom line is you can fall in line or you can fall in line–voluntarily or involuntarily; makes me no fucking difference.”
“Is that your favorite word?”
“What?”
“Fuck? Fucking?”
“It’s my favorite action,” he clarified.
My pussy spat onto the seat of my underwear. My walls pulled together. My stomach muscles clenched. Saliva rushed into my mouth, pooling around my teeth and tongue.
“But, I’m a man of great discipline. I thought I was.” He chuckled, pulling his hand over his beard. “Until…”
“Until.”
“You.”
“Before deciding to be a changemaker, what were you doing in Berkeley?”
“You know the answer to that question. You have the blueprints to my homes. I’m sure my background is in whatever file you have on me, too.”
“I asked you a question.”
Slowly, Ishmael leaned forward. Hands on the table.
“A killer.”
A chill ran through my spine. My throbbing center salivated. I batted my lashes and squeezed my thighs closer to suppress the aching yearn that was becoming insufferable.
“You’re no stranger to that kind of crazy, are you?”
“I’m that level of unreasonable myself. But, you know that,” I breathed out, tilting my head with a smile.
“So is your family.”
“So is your brother.”
“And yours,” he replied, popping the end of a chip in his mouth.
I folded a hundred times inside. It didn’t matter what Ishmael was doing, he was unrealistic while doing it. Downright fine. Ridiculously sexy.
“Which is why this couldn’t–it shouldn’t work.”
I placed a hand on my chest and then pointed across the table.
“It will.”
This I knew. So, I didn’t disagree. I forked more shrimp and slid the fork across my tongue.
“You belong to me, Royce. Do whatever it is you need to get that through your pretty skull. Until then, I’ll be at every dinner date, every lunch date, and every coffee date. You won’t be able to escape me or whatever the fuck this is happening between us.”
“How’d you find me?”
“I’m a hunter, my baby. In case I haven’t made it clear, you are on the top of my hit list.”
“I’m flattered.”
Truthfully, I was. Ishmael was aware.
I unlocked my screen and found the last note I’d created. I slid the phone across the table and turned it in his direction.
“You have an Instagram account. Since the press conference, it has amassed over twelve thousand followers. Sign in. Make them believe what you’re trying to make me believe.”
“Which is–”
“This will work.”
As if he’d accepted my challenge, he unlocked his cell and downloaded the application. He didn’t attempt to mask his code. I watched carefully as he logged in with the credentials on my screen. Once in, he scrolled through the photos already on his profile. There were only three.
“This is your personal page. Careful what you share.”
“I’m not a fan of social media.”
“Your voters are. They want to know Ishmael Grayson. The campaign page has served its purpose. They want more.”
He nodded.
“Understood.”
“I was heading to Berkeley in the morning, yet here you are.”
“I plan to have you in Berkeley tonight.”
I swallowed the air pocket in my throat.
“Would you like to order, Royce, or have more wine?”
I shook my head.
“Neither,” I admitted.
It wasn’t anything on Georgio’s menu that I wanted in my mouth at the moment. It was Ishmael.
Ishmael Grayson.
“Well then.”
He stood from his seat. Four hundred dollar bills magically appeared, falling onto the table. Ishmael was behind me, pulling out my chair in a flash.
“You before me.”
I stood, feeling my slippery center become the source of discomfort. If I didn’t clean up, my juices would be running down my legs, ruining my clothes.
“I need to stop by the ladies’ room.”
He pointed his head toward the restroom sign. It was inside of the small area designated for private dining. Ishmael was on my heels as I made my way across the room.
He pushed the door open upon arrival. I stepped inside, happy to have freed myself from his trance. He was breathtaking. I breathed out, releasing the breath I’d been holding.
Click.
The sound of the door locking behind me stiffened my frame. Within a millisecond, I’d become immobile. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think.
Ishmael’s hands were on me at once. My back was against the door. And, my thong was a torn piece of drenched fabric.
His fingers touched my sensitivity. The sound of my arousal against his extremities was nauseating. His breath against my skin was intoxicating.
“Ridiculous,” he whispered under his breath.
Still, I heard every word. Every syllable.
“Please,” I begged, needing to feel parts of him I’d deemed off limits.
“I’m trying my hardest to respect you in public, but you’re making it impossible, my baby.”
Three fingers entered me. They turned toward him, and then pulled forward.
“Ish—uhhhhh.”
“I can’t keep letting you walk away from me with all this shit pent up inside of you. You need to clear your cache. So you can clear your head. And your ears. And get a better understanding of who the fuck is in charge here.”
He spoke to me calmly, yet firmly. His fingers hadn’t moved another centimeter. I desperately needed them to. He knew it as much as I did.
“Ishmael.”
“I like the way you call my name, but that ain’t gone work, my baby.”
“Pleas–”
“Are you ready to listen, Royce?”
I nodded, rubbing my walls against his fingers. He ejected his fingers, leaving me powerless. I was feeble, weak, and withering by the second.
I needed Ishmael. Not later. I needed him now. He’d turned on my facet and then folded the hose, causing build up at a rapid rate.
Desperate, I caught the tail end of my dress and shoved my fingers into my wetness. The pressure around my wrist forced me to reconsider.
“Uhhhh–”
Ishmael removed my fingers from my center. He lifted them up to his mouth and opened slightly. One finger at a time, he cleaned the traces of my intrusion from each extremity. His eyes were on mine, chastising me for my disobedience.
“Keep your hands,” he demanded, placing another finger in his warm mouth.
“Off shit that doesn’t belong to you.”
He placed another in his mouth.
“Ishmael, you’re killin–”
He pushed into me again.
“Yesssssss.”