Chapter 11 Naomi
You know what I’m not about to do? Rush. My stroll downstairs is overly leisurely—really, I couldn’t care less about the visitor downstairs, it's probably one of my brother’s friends, one that Max is keen on impressing for some business deal or another.
I stop by my office to send two emails along the way, if only to piss my brothers off. All three of them think they can boss me around—I think the fuck not, I’m damn near thirty.
Opting for a more scenic route, I use the back staircase so I can get my head on straight before meeting our mystery guest. I have a feeling that there’s a long night ahead of me.
Cutting through the kitchen, I stop in to check on my grandmother—who, as usual, is putting together what she perceives is a light snack to put out for my brothers and their guest. A large wooden charcuterie board overflows with enough meats, cheeses and fruit to feed a small army.
“Hey, Nan!” I smile, gliding by her to get to the fridge. I miss her by an inch, almost bumping into the charcuterie board she has in hand.
“Hi, my sweet Fleur,” she says affectionately, her beautiful Caribbean accent washing over me with a sense of calm. “Your brothers have a special guest, so I’m just making up some snacks for them. You know those boys don’t stop eating.”
“Mm.” I hum, absentmindedly sliding the teardrop diamond around my neck from side to side along its delicate silver chain.
“Ma fleur, are you listening to me?” She wipes her hands on a dishcloth and pulls me into a hug; I wrap my arm around her back when she gives me a gentle squeeze.
Since I was a kid, she always smelt of chamomile, and it always seems to calm me. “Play nice,” she pulls back to wag a finger at me. She’s been telling me that since I was little. I never listened then, either.
“Yes, Nan,” I smile sweetly, snagging a piece of pepperoni off the tray behind her. She goes to swat my hand, but I get away just in time, grinning at her as I pop it in my mouth, moon walking backward.
“You’ll ruin your dinner, and I’m making your favorite,” she says, laughing. I run back up to her and peck her cheek. There is nothing better than Nan’s stew beef.
She laughs, swatting me away again. “Go!”
Filling my tumbler with water, I take a long sip and drag my feet to the foyer. When I walk in, my brothers are huddled together, backs to me, in the middle of a heated conversation with the mystery visitor.
That mystery takes a turn as I get a quick glance at the firm ass in front of me. I recognize that butt….Fuuuuuu— “Heyyy,” I chirp, confused about why Buns of Steel is standing in my house. I quickly school my face into something other than a gawk as they all turn to look at me.
“Your room is literally right there,” Tré says, pointing toward the top of the grand staircase. “What took so long?”
“I was thirsty,” I shrug, giving my cup a little shake. “So, I took the back way.” Tris walks over and snatches the cup out of my hand, taking several big gulps. “Hey!” I yelp.
“Always water, petite fleur,” he rolls his eyes mockingly. He hands it back, an onion-scented burp rolling out of his throat.
“Ew, you pig!” I groan, holding the cup as if it has a disease. “Now I have to burn this.”
“It’s not like I have cooties,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“Your partners would say otherwise,” I grumble under my breath.
“That was one time in college. Thirteen years ago. Let it die,” he says, glaring at me.
I glare back in response, quickly sticking out my tongue at him.
“You can’t even act civilized when we have company?” Max cracks, glaring at both of us. “At least try to act your age.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Tris says, pouting, though I’m sure he feels no remorse.
I turn my eyes to our guest, who has now moved to lean next to the doorway of Max’s office, watching our dynamic all too intently. Both the smirk that plays on his lips and his stare are unnerving. It’s like being trapped in the eye of a storm.
But given his all-black attire and calculated stance, I think that’s the goal. Everything about him radiates control and domination; it’s maddening.
“Everyone in the office,” Max says, and I feel like I’m back in school, about to be reprimanded. All three of my brothers walk by our guest, but he doesn’t move, still observing us, still observing me.
“Après vous, Monsieur,” I say, giving him a dazzling smile as I glide up to the door
“Les dames d’abord,” he retorts. Ladies first. The smile he gives me in return is just as bright.
The base of his voice strokes something dangerous inside me, but I roll my eyes and stalk past him, sensing his hot gaze scorching a hole into the back of me. He finally walks into the room, sliding the door shut behind him.
Max is sitting at the massive executive desk in the center of the room, hands folded over a manila folder. He looks so much like our father. Tris is perched on the desk on his right side, and Tré sits in a brown leather chair closest to the door.
Our guest walks across the room and leans on the edge of the deep-set windowsill on Max’s left. His presence seems to suck the air out of the room. Everyone is stock-still, and suddenly I’m reminded of an intervention, making my heartbeat race at a million miles an hour.
“Have a seat, Naomi,” Max says, waving his arm to the vacant chair between Tré and our guest.
“I think I’d rather stand,” I say, leaning against the door casually, my fight or flight on high alert.
“Sit,” Max says again, coolly.
Sighing, I make my way across the room, sitting gingerly in the vacant leather chair as if it might go up in flames any second.
Even though the room is massive, holding two leather-bound couches, an oak center table, wall-to-wall bookcases, and a fireplace, it feels so small with everyone scrunched in here.
This office was custom-designed for my father by Momma and me, and then Daddy left it to Max.
Max pauses dramatically, then begins. “Good, now that we are all comfortable. Ni, I am not sure if you remember Mr. Knox. We went to university together.”
My eyes dart to the man who has been trying to melt me with his stare since the first time I saw him at the coffee shop. Admittedly, even as familiar as he feels, I just can’t remember him.
“Just Jaxon is fine,” he says, and I get caught in his eyes, a-fucking-gain.
He hasn’t taken them off me. A part of me never wants him to; the other part wants to walk right up to him and smack him, ask him what the fuck he’s looking at. But alas, that wouldn’t be hospitable.
Nan would most likely reprimand me like a child and tell Momma, and then I would never hear the end of it. She would turn feral, like any Caribbean mother would. Her airy southern voice would morph into patois, and I would catch the wrath of a thousand Jamaican suns.
Yeah, definitely not worth it.
As if he can sense my thoughts, his lips curl into a sly grin, a hint of something unreadable flashes across his gaze. It’s maddening.
Max clears his throat, mercifully shifting my attention back to him. “Mr. Knox is CEO of Knox Enterprises. He and his team are in the security business. Cyber and…bodily.”
I blink, genuinely confused. What the fuck does his accomplishments or life story have to do with me?
“We think it might be nice if Mr. Knox and his team started accompanying you in your…day-to-day.”
My eyes go wide, the news finally hitting me like a bucket of cold water. I look over at Jaxon, and his face is still unreadable.
These bozos think I need a babysitter.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Surely this is a joke,” I chuckle, even though the idea is far from funny.
“No, Ni, it’s not a joke,” Max retorts.
I snap my head toward Tris. “You too? Tré, maybe.” I wave an arm in my stoic brother’s direction, snapping out of my seat. “But not you.”
Tré scoffs. “That’s because I’m the smart twin.”
“It’s because you’re the dull twin,” Tris says, looking bored.
“All right, you two, don’t start. We are here for our sister,” Max snipes at my brothers.
I slump back in my chair, rage building within me, but I mold my countenance into a slate of casual grace, smiling as everyone watches me.
“Fine. May I be excused now?” I say, my voice high and airy, adopting a sugary-sweet tone.
“Not yet.” He turns to Mr. Knox. “Here is a complete list of her schedules, Monday through Saturday. Sundays are optional because we spend the day as a family.”
My blood is on fire, and I struggle to rein in my composure as Max hands the folder over to Jaxon.
“If she has clients or activities, you will accompany and wait for her, at a distance if she is with someone.”
“So you expect me to let him follow me around like a lost puppy? Do I not have a say in this?”
“He is expected to go everywhere with you,” Max says pointedly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
My brothers know Christian is not fond of having other men around me. He damn near lost his mind a couple of years ago when Motley Blaze, a long-time R&B singer, serenaded me at one of his shows.
The event had made the news: “Electric Chemistry—R&B sensation Motley Blaze serenades Tech Heiress Naomi Blaine during his show, Leaving Fans wondering–Are these sparks just for the stage?”
Dozens of news outlets had covered it, and of course, Motley fanned the flame. In every interview he had in the following months, he would stare into the camera, asking me to call him.
“Every angel needs a demon in her, and Motley looks more than up for the task.”
That was the final line of an article that had ignited a fury in Christian. He had a thirst for vengeance that I had never seen before. It was the first and only time his rage manifested physically, leaving a canvas of black and blue bruises staining my skin from ribs to hips.
And the reporter found herself jobless the very next day.