Rhythm Brooks
I was sitting three rows from the back when the meeting turned into a movie.
A protester had his phone up in the faces of the men standing along the back wall. “Your rich asses are padding your pockets while our people are about to get pushed out. Answer me!”
These meetings were usually boring. I did not expect to be this entertained.
I also did not expect the men to be so fucking fine. They were tall, with builds that looked like they could throw a BBW around a room. They looked like trouble wrapped in sex appeal. They looked like potential danger, like a storm that is choosing to be polite.
My eyes landed on one of them and stayed there.
Though he was wearing glasses, he wasn’t awkward or the schoolboy type.
The frames made him look expensive and sophisticated, like he knew how to ruin somebody’s life with words and his dick.
The tattoos creeping from under his clothes gave him an edge that didn’t match the clean, composed way he carried himself.
The contrast was sexy as hell.
I tried to focus on the drama that was going down, but my eyes kept sliding back to the man with the glasses. He was keeping his composure while the camera hovered inches from him.
It made him even sexier.
Suddenly, my mama jumped to her feet. “And why are y’all even here?!” she shouted toward the back. “We’re tired of rich outsiders coming to destroy our community! We’re tired of gangsters bringing their violence in our community!”
A few people cheered her on, while my soul left my body.
“Mama,” I hissed, grabbing her arm. “Sit down!”
She tried to pull free, but I was stronger than I looked, especially when I was embarrassed.
“Rhythm, don’t you tell me to—”
I yanked her back into her chair. “If these men are really drug dealers, you do not need to be talking mess to them.”
Her nostrils flared. “That’s exactly why I’m speaking up. We can’t let them bring their dirty money over here and pretend they’re saviors.”
“Mama—”
“We have enough to deal with in this community. We don’t need some cartel bringing their bullshit with them.”
I pressed my lips together, frustrated. She was one of those overly involved community mothers who knew everybody, had everybody’s number, and acted like every meeting was a personal mission.
She had even joked about running for alderman like she wasn’t already exhausting enough as a regular citizen.
While she kept whisper-yelling at me, one of the men in the back—taller, heavier, with a colder face—suddenly stepped forward like he was about to step in the face of the protester that was recording them. The room felt it immediately. Conversations died mid-sentence.
I held my breath.
Then the man with the glasses reached out and caught the other man by the arm, pulling him back.
He leaned in and said something in his ear.
The effect was instant. The angry guy paused.
His jaw still worked like he wanted smoke, but he listened.
The man with the glasses kept talking, like he was calming the other guy down.
He wasn’t just fine. He was in charge of himself in a way most men weren’t. He was a different kind of leader. It was attractive in a way that made me mad at myself for never having experienced it before.
The protester kept his phone up. He was still loud and demanding answers. But the men in the back looked like they’d decided this was no longer worth their time.
They began to move quietly and together. The man with the glasses was the last one to turn, and I swear my eyes chased him like I was trying to memorize a painting before someone took it off the wall.
My mama leaned toward me again. “See? They know they’re wrong. That’s why they’re leaving.”
“Or they know how to avoid giving people a show,” I murmured before I could stop myself.
She glared at me like I had betrayed the revolution.
The men walked out the back doors, leaving behind a room full of noise, speculation, and adrenaline.
I sat there, oddly disappointed because the room felt a little less bright without Mr. Glasses in it.