Chapter Seven. Ember #3
“Hold that thought, bruh.” Kareem holds up his beer bottle like a church finger and shoots a pointed look over Asad’s shoulder. “Incoming.”
Again, Asad doesn’t bother glancing behind him, but I do. And inside, I cringe and smother a huge sigh. Michelle and Aryn are walking our way.
God, this evening is like fucking Groundhog Day.
Endless.
“Prince, your mother said dinner is ready. We should be heading in.” She loops an arm through his and offers me a polite if bland smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t think we’ve met before.”
I don’t return the ingenuine gesture. I’m too busy staring at first, that hand on his body, and then Asad.
Too busy waiting to see if he’s going to push this bitch away or let her lay claim to him in front of me.
When he does nothing—doesn’t admonish her, step away from her—I loose a low, dry chuckle.
And shift backward, my shoulder brushing Kareem’s chest.
“She’s no one of importance,” Michelle butts in with a flicker of her hand.
She shifts in front of Asad and Aryn, giving me and Kareem her back, dismissing me.
“Asad, as the host, you should lead the guests into the dining area. You and Aryn shouldn’t keep everyone waiting.
I’m sure our guests are ready to finally eat. ”
The shit Michelle just pulled is childish and expected, and yet … it stings. It shouldn’t, but it does.
Maybe because, although Asad’s gaze is still fixed on me, he doesn’t disagree with her.
Doesn’t defend me.
Doesn’t protect me.
I disgust myself for the hurt trickling through me. What did I expect? This is him; this is his MO. Who he is. Who he has shown me he is since we were young. Why should I expect anything different now?
No man has ever shielded me. Not my grandfather. Not my father. And for damn sure not Asad, my childhood bully and would-be husband.
The only person I’ve ever been able to count on is Ember Cross.
The sooner I remember that—the quicker I stop believing that maybe, just maybe people can change and exhibit just a little humanity—the less disappointed I’ll be.
“Kareem.” Michelle turns to her youngest son. “I have you escorting Demarcus’s daughter—”
“I’m sure D will be fine taking his own daughter to the table. I’ll go in with Em.” Kareem shuts his mother down with a finality in his voice that brooks no argument.
I blink, stiffening, and Michelle gawks at him, lips parted. I don’t know who’s more shocked—me or her.
The Kareem I’m used to usually bows to his mother’s every order with little resistance. For him to buck a demand now? And for my sake? What number beer is he on?
Michelle’s smile freezes in place, the corners strained, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
No, they flash with promises of retribution, and for a second, I almost feel sorry for Kareem.
Almost. This isn’t Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
, and I didn’t ask for a lifeline or phone a friend.
And if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be from him or anyone in his family.
“Fine,” she grits out between clenched teeth, that phony smile still in place. After several seconds, she spins around and faces Asad and his girlfriend again. “Asad, baby, you—”
“Michelle.”
Just that one word. In that voice. And she shuts right the fuck up.
Even Aryn looks uneasy, slightly fidgeting beside him.
They can sense in the air what we all can—the impatience of the predator in our midst. Even Michelle knows she can push her son only so far.
That unblinking stare moves from his mother to me, and I meet it without flinching.
I want him to glimpse the loathing in my eyes. Hope he chokes on it.
But who am I kidding? Not only does he dine on my hate, he gorges on it with relish.
’Cause that’s what monsters do.
I should know.
Just before our visual battle becomes awkward for those around us, he pivots and stalks away, leaving Aryn, who still clings to his arm, to keep up with him. Michelle follows them.
Clapping her hands once, she stops in the middle of the drawing room. “If you’ll follow my son, dinner is ready and waiting to be served. Thank you,” she announces, face wreathed in a wide smile.
Some of the men and women set their glasses down on the smaller tables littering the room, and they break into couples, filing behind Michelle to the adjacent room, appearing like a macabre bridal party.
“Something you want to tell the class, Ember?” Kareem asks, arching an eyebrow at me.
“Nope.”
He chuckles and offers his arm out to me. I glance down at it, then back up at him, my face balled up. Again, he laughs and lowers his arm to his side. Like I thought.
“Understood.” He waves his hand in front of him. “After you.” I move forward, and he falls in step beside me. “If you don’t mind, I’ll accompany you to dinner and sit beside you at the table.”
I stop mid-step and turn to face him, frowning.
“Why? What’s with the sudden concern?”
He holds up his hands, palms out, shaking his head.
“No ulterior motive, honest. You might not believe this—or you may, I don’t know—but I’m just as much of an outsider here as you are.
” When I arch my eyebrow at that, he gives a low laugh.
“Okay, maybe not as much. But I’m a runner-up.
” He smiles. When I don’t return it, he sighs and rubs a hand over his neat, short, tapered beard.
“There’s no need for me to stand here and lie to you.
We both know who’s the favored son. Who’s the respected one.
When we walk in there”—he jerks his head in the direction of the dining room—“it will be like a king holding court, and his subjects paying tribute. And I’m one of those subjects.
Not a brother. Not family. Not in that room. ”
He falls silent, and he slides his hands in the front pockets of his suit pants. There’s no anger in his voice, nor in his eyes. Just a faraway look of … acceptance, resignation. And maybe a hint of loneliness.
That, I can relate to. A little too well.
In this moment, memories of times in the past when Michelle was preoccupied with running after Marcus, plotting how to position Asad, or shopping, and when Asad was busy being mentored by my father, waver in my head.
That left me and Kareem alone in my childhood home.
And in those times, we got along. We actually had …
fun. Watching reruns of Supernatural together.
Him trying to teach me how to play his video games.
Me teaching him how to make explosive stink bombs with my chemistry sets.
Yeah … I forgot about that. They were few and far between, especially as we grew older.
But Kareem had been my rare ports of warm kindness in a protracted, bleak, and cruel storm.
Funny how I didn’t remember that until just now.
“Sometimes being invisible is better than being seen. Less of a target on your back that way,” I say. “Also, in a room full of people who love to hear themselves talk, silence can’t be repeated or misquoted.”
That distant glaze dissipates, and his full lips curl into a slight smile.
Without the blinding intensity of Asad’s magnetism and innate, burning sexuality casting its long, deep shadow, Kareem’s handsomeness is in full bloom.
The lovely, dark eyes he inherited from his mother, the strong facial features, and wide, sensual mouth combine to form an attractiveness that undoubtedly draw him his fair share of attention.
Even though just a few inches shorter than Asad and with the leaner build of a swimmer, he still exudes a quiet strength, albeit less intense … overwhelming.
It’s … pleasant.
“I don’t think I’ve ever thought of it that way. Can’t say I’ve ever considered being ignored a benefit.”
“I don’t have a problem with being invisible to people. I could give a fuck about that. The issue is when I begin to feel unseen. There’s a big difference.”
He nods. Then smiles, and it reaches his eyes, the dark brown gleaming. “I love my mother and brother, but sometimes them muthafuckas gotta be the most obtuse muthafuckas breathing.”
I frown, a little taken aback. “What do you mean by that?”
“Just what I said,” he says, still wearing that smile before walking forward again. “You’re the best of us and neither one of them see or value that.”
“And you do?” I snort.
“I do.” He cups my elbow and guides me into the room where almost all the guests sit on either side of the long, beautifully laid table. Kareem pulls a chair out for me nearest the door and waits for me to sit before leaning down and murmuring close to my ear, “And I’m learning to more and more.”
Not a little puzzled and surprised, I follow his tall, wiry form as he rounds the end of the table and sinks into the chair across from me. A server offers him another beer, and okay, it suddenly makes sense.
Hell, I might join him on whatever bullshit he’s on since I’m about to be on my third drink. When I hold up my nearly empty tumbler, another waiter appears as if out of thin air with a refilled whiskey.
I set the glass on the table and shift my gaze—and find myself ensnared in Asad’s.
That unblinking, hard stare reflects nothing, his expression as blank as the sheet of glass in the window behind him.
And yet, his rage reaches me from the length of the table, seeking me out from among the other guests, skimming my cheek with blunt, ghostly fingernails.
It’s in the almost indolent manner he holds his tumbler of whiskey.
To the untrained eye, the grasp is relaxed, casual.
But the tight skin across his knuckles, the tendon running along his wrist betrays the emotion no one but me most likely sees. Feels.