Chapter 3 #4
“Give me one second.” Emily raised her index finger and answered her phone on her trek to one of the bedrooms.
The hairstylist zipped up her rolling bag, then waved at us on her way out of the massive suite.
“Alright D3, I’m gone. See you next time,” she shouted before exiting the suite.
I walked over to the couch and draped the garment bags across the back to prevent the clothes from wrinkling.
D3’s team seemed to be under the impression that I was on their time, and that wasn’t the case at all.
I got the clothes there. If they were too busy to gather and store them properly, that was on them.
The massive space seemed to shrink when I turned to leave and spun around to D3 in my space.
He was dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers and a Cuban link chain.
His locs were pulled up into a fresh style, giving you a full view of his face, which was rare.
Most images of D3 floating around the internet always had his locs covering his face, making it difficult to know what he looked like.
I’d suggested he get his locs retwisted and styled to showcase his face for the press tour.
Now that I got a good look at his eyes, they were insidious and instantly sent a shiver down my spine.
“Shit, you’re fucking beautiful,” D3 exhaled, placing his right hand on my waist. This was that fight-flight-freeze stress response kicking in, and my body decided to freeze.
Every inch of my body stiffened to the point that D3 noticed, and a devious smile spread across his face.
“My bad. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
‘Preciate you for coming through in the clutch.”
“Yeah, no problem.” I took a step back, pulling myself out of his grasp.
“Oh shit, I recognize you. You’re the one who keeps that nigga Q in some fly shit. I know you got me right. That also means you’re James’ daughter.”
“That’s correct,” I nodded, uncomfortable with the close proximity and the way he was staring at me.
“Well, shit, relax. Ion bite. Unless you wanna let me,” he licked his bottom lip.
“Uhhh yeah, no. I have to go. My father will also need to get someone else to style you because Amill and I are no longer available to take on any new clients,” I sassed, brushing past D3 and his unwanted touches.
D3’s hands roughly grabbed my waist with more force than the first time, and he spun me back around to face him. I slapped the shit out of him and watched the smile fall off his face.
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
“Damn, my bad,” he raised both hands in surrender.
I turned on my heels and sprinted out of the hotel room.
The hairs on the back of my neck were raised, and I was on pins and needles until I made it to the elevator.
I had no idea where his assistant disappeared off to, but I needed to get the hell on.
When I reached the elevator, I finally felt at ease, letting out a long, deep breath.
I’d never had anything like that happen with a client before.
The fact that it was my father’s own artist and I was doing this as a family favor made me feel more comfortable than the average new client.
He sure showed me that didn’t mean shit.
The sound of movement behind me instantly increased my heart rate, and had me spinning around while silently praying that it was anyone but D3.
To my dismay, it was that touchy bastard, and the uncouth ass hole couldn’t even be bothered to throw on a robe or pair of pants.
Rolling my eyes, I fumbled around in my purse for my keys with the mace attached and lifted it in his direction.
“If you take one more step, I’m going to mace you!” I threatened.
“Relax, I just have to use my keycard to grant you access to leave this floor,” he smirked, lifting his keycard.
I offered a forced smile, keeping the small canister pointed at him as I stepped to the side.
The elevator dinged, and the doors slowly slid open.
D3 stepped on and tapped his keycard against the reader, then pressed the button for the lobby.
Once D3 stepped back out of the elevator, I darted inside.
He placed his hand between the doors to prevent them from closing and stared at me.
“I’ll see you around. Make sure that nigga know to hold you tight.
It’s plenty of other niggas that will treat you right. ”
“Can you please just let me go about my day?”
He chuckled, removing his hand, and I repeatedly tapped the button to close the elevator doors.
The elevator door chiming when we reached the first floor mimicked the crack of a starting pistol at a track meet.
My feet didn’t stop moving until I was behind the wheel of my Benz.
I didn’t let the top down as I planned, and the lychee martini I could practically taste earlier was a distant memory.
I sped out of the parking lot and went straight home.
On the elevator ride up to my apartment, I shot Amill a text message.
Me: I’m dropping D3.
Bestie: Good. I wasn’t trying to work for free anyway. I only did it for you.