by Alyssa Cole
“I didn’t make her think anything. I told her that our arrangement was temporary, while I was here hammering out the details of our environmental treaty.”
“And then you turned on your charm,” Likotsi said, keeping her gaze fixed on the cars passing by. “Just like you’re doing with Naledi.”
“Charm? Aren’t you the same Likotsi who tuts at my supposed rudeness every chance she gets?”
Likotsi made a sound of impatience. “You’re rude and demanding, but that has nothing to do with charm. I don’t know what happened last night to make your betrothed smile at you like that today, but I’m quite certain it wasn’t a confession of your true identity. Or hers.”
Thabiso’s anger flared. “Hectoring me about my interactions with women doesn’t fall under the auspices of your assistantship. What happened last night was . . .” Wonderful? Frightening? “Nunya business.”
Likotsi snorted, but her smile was sincere when she looked at him.
“Your honor, and your sanity, are both under my purview. If you hurt this woman the way you’ve hurt others, you will not brush it off and be the same Prince Thabiso. What started as a search for a shirking betrothed has turned into something entirely different.” Likotsi shook her head. “She doesn’t even know who she is, sire. Is it fair to her to continue on this path? Remember what they say. Sometimes it’s best to bind the finger before it is cut.”
The suggestion made sense; if he ended things now, Ledi would escape unscathed. She would continue living her life, unburdened by the news of who she truly was. He immediately rejected the idea, though. Likotsi might think he was engaging in a strange form of nostalgia, but being around Ledi made him happy. Happiness hadn’t been something he thought was within his reach. Infatuation or not, he wasn’t ready to give up the possibility of . . . Of what he couldn’t rightly say.
He refused to discuss the matter further. “Is the limo coming to take me to the meeting?”
“Given your ongoing deception, I did not think that would be wise. You can live as the humble Jamal would, just in case Naledi sees you in transit.”
She glanced at her phone just as a beat-up sedan pulled up.
“Are you from SuperLifts?” she asked the driver.
The man behind the wheel wore a Yankees cap and a hoodie instead of the chauffer uniform Thabiso was used to. He nodded.
“Yeah. Gonna be around thirty bucks with the surge right now, I think.”
“Twenty.” Likotsi was haggling like an auntie at the marketplace with the person who would be keeping him safe during his ride. Unbelievable.
“You booked the ride in the app. You know I don’t control the price,” the man said.
Likotsi gave a harried sigh. “I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try. It seems I’m a bit old-fashioned.” She turned to Thabiso while pulling the back door open. “Get in.”
“You’d send me off in a stranger’s car?” Thabiso asked horrified.
“It’s a taxi, sire.”
“Taxis are yellow. This car has no bumper, a ripped seat, and a strange fluid smeared on the windows.”
“You getting in or what?” the driver asked. He was looking at his phone, probably searching for the next fare.
Likotsi pulled the door open a bit wider. “Have a pleasant day, Jamal. I’ll text to update you of any changes to your schedule and I’ll meet you at the consulate at five.”
Thabiso grimaced and slipped into the car. Likotsi waved happily from the curb as it pulled away.
“She’s lucky she’s the best assistant in Thesolo,” he muttered as he inhaled the scent of fake pine and leather.
And because she was, he knew her advice about Naledi should be heeded. But when he’d watched Naledi walk off arm in arm with her friend, his only concern had been how many hours would pass before he saw her again. He rarely disagreed with Likotsi when she presented him with the facts, but just this once, he hoped she was mistaken.
Chapter 11
Ledi couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a relaxing day. The cheese bread and mountain of meat at the Brazilian restaurant had left her and Portia in a stupor, so they’d people watched in Central Park before checking out the museum exhibit. Portia had filled Ledi in on her latest hookups and her newest obsession—she was taking a course on social engineering. Portia generally stuck to arts-related fields, but she changed interests more often than some people changed shoes—she could afford to deep dive into whatever captured her interest. It was occasionally frustrating, but it was one of the things Ledi appreciated most about her friend. She always had something new and fascinating to discuss, and she was always genuinely excited about whatever Ledi wanted to discuss with her.
She’d forgotten how good it felt to just sit in the sun and talk without worriedly counting off how many drinks Portia was having. She’d missed that.
After getting their second wind, they’d gone to the museum—one of the many places around the city Portia had interned. Ledi had gotten to talk about the history of epidemics in Manhattan with the exhibit’s curator, and Portia had casually introduced the idea of a future event and Ledi and the curator had exchanged information so they could discuss it more formally.
Afterward, Ledi had met up with Trishna for a study date. Hours of force-feeding each other the information they needed not only to pass but to ace their exams had left Ledi feeling surer of herself. She was confident about the following week’s exams, but Dr. Kreillig was still MIA, and even a great day couldn’t negate that.
Everyone else had received instructions about travel expenses and where to meet and what to bring for their practicums. Ledi hadn’t. After hearing Trishna gush about her plans for a summer spent at a rural public health office in Maine, Ledi had finally accepted she needed to take action. Drafting an email to Dean Bell, her advisor’s superior, with Trishna’s help had sapped the last of her energy.
She knew it had to be done, but the moment she’d hit Send had brought a horrible flashback—sitting in the child welfare office scared and confused, talking to the older boy who’d sat down next to her. She couldn’t remember his face or what his voice sounded like, but she remembered his words.
“If you tell on an adult, even if they do something really bad, they always make you pay for it.”
Then his caseworker had called him into her office, brows drawn, her mouth a thin slash of red. The boy had walked toward the office slowly, like every frightening creature a child’s imagination could muster waited behind the smoked glass, and then the door had shut behind him.
Ledi had taken that advice to heart, and old habits were hard to break.
She’d thought of Jamal when her finger had hovered over the Send button on her screen, trying to find an excuse not to involve her dean.
“Doing everything yourself isn’t really sustainable, is it?”
Of course Jamal had been talking about chopping vegetables and not her career, but it wasn’t as if she was great at delegating in any sphere of her life. She’d taken a deep breath and hit Send. What was done was done. She wasn’t a child, she wasn’t in the wrong, and she wouldn’t feel guilty about asking for help.
She was almost at her apartment building’s door when she noticed the man standing out front. She repositioned her key for best eyeball jab-ability, just in case, but when he turned at the sound of her footsteps she recognized the delivery guy from the night before. He held another Yellow Spatula box.
“A little late for dinner, huh?” She loosened her grip on her keys, but only a little.
“Traffic was a bitch tonight. Someone rear-ended my van, then jumped out of their car and booked it. The police showed up, and getting information to them took forever. Now I’ve got angry customers blowing up my phone and no one will buzz me in.”
“Is this going to 7 N?” she asked. He nodded, the hope of a man who doesn’t want to walk up seven flights of stairs flashing in his eyes.
“I’ll take it,” she said. “It’d be the neighborly thi
ng to do.”
“Thanks, miss.” He handed over the box. “You’re a lifesaver.”
She was a little excited at the possibility of seeing Jamal, but by the time she reached his door, she was rethinking things. Plus, although she’d looked cute that morning, after a day spent shuttling from subways to museums to park benches to coffee shops, she felt like a wrinkled, smudged facsimile of the woman who’d left her apartment with a jaunty step.
She’d have to do this smoothly. She looked down the hall—no other neighbors were around to see her acting like a weirdo.
She placed the box in front of Jamal’s door, turned and unlocked her door, then crept back to his and pressed the doorbell. A sound that Ledi imagined was similar to a gnome crying out in pain echoed in the hall, and she whirled and ran toward her door. It was cowardly, but her sense of self-preservation was strong—just not quite fast enough.
“Naledi?”
She stopped in her tracks and turned guiltily at the sound of Jamal’s voice. “Hey! I ran into the delivery guy again. You know how this city is . . . millions of people, but once you meet a person it’s as if you swap some kind of chemical attractant that draws you together. Like you. And me. Not that I’m saying you’re attracted to me.”
Oh come ON. Ledi remembered the research she’d read for class that’d concluded that fatigue had more serious side effects than alcohol consumption.
Jamal grinned and picked up the box.
“Have you already eaten dinner?” He didn’t acknowledge her gaffe, and she was grateful for it. “Perhaps you dined out with a friend. Or had a date?”
“I was out studying with a classmate, and I haven’t eaten.” She’d splurged on a fancy latte while out with Trishna, but had still been full from her huge lunch with Portia.
Jamal sighed and relaxed a little. In relief? No, that would be bizarre.
“Well, bon appetit,” she said, turning back to her front door. Her shower was calling her name; perhaps she would explore the high-intensity setting on the handheld showerhead instead of rambling to her hot neighbor.
“You’re not curious about what the meal is for tonight?” he asked. He held the box toward her enticingly, as if what was inside could possibly be more appetizing than the man holding it.
“I don’t feel like cooking,” she said reflexively, and Jamal frowned.
Smooth.
“Sorry. It’s just—I’m tired.”
For some reason her voice wobbled on the word tired, making her feel even sillier. Sure she had studied, but she hadn’t even worked either of her jobs! She should have been able to take on the world. Instead, she just wanted to curl up on the couch and veg out. This was what happened when you slowed down; it was one of the reasons she rarely did.
“You are tired. And you were last night. I shouldn’t have let you take over for me—it was thoughtless. I’ll prepare the meal on my own, as long as you’re willing to take a risk and eat it.”
She inhaled deeply. He didn’t understand just how much of a risk she’d already taken just by talking to him. Just by not running away as soon as she realized his effect on her. She had exams and a possibly fucked-up practicum to worry about. There was no time for a handsome, bearded foreign man who wanted to cook for her.
Wait, when you put it like that . . .
His back went straight and he suddenly didn’t meet her eye. “I don’t have much cooking experience, as you know, but I watched some instructional videos between appointments today. I think I have the basics down, but I need a test subject.”
“I know what happens to test subjects,” she said softly. Now she was the one avoiding eye contact. She told herself he hadn’t watched the videos because of her, then she remembered how expectantly he’d looked at her after setting the table. Right before she’d left him to sit at that table alone.
“There was only one thing that could have made it better.”
“I have wine, too,” Jamal added, sensing her indecision. “It was a gift from a meeting I had today. A door prize, if you will.”
“What kind?” The offer of dinner alone was already tempting, but she wasn’t going to give up precious sleep over some two-buck chuck.
“Malbec. 1997.”
Ledi wasn’t a wine snob, but she knew from years of waitressing that it was a good vintage.
“Fine,” she said. “You’ve convinced me. I have to check in with the Grams first, though.”
“Grams?” He startled and fumbled the box. “How—I thought you didn’t know your family?”
“Well, I guess you could say they’re my family, in a way. Want to meet them?”
She nodded her head toward her apartment, then stepped in and turned on the light. His eyes widened.
“That’s a very small space for more than one person,” he said diplomatically. Then he heard the squeaking and his eyes darted toward the window.
“Vermin. I’ll take care of this.”
He pushed past her, and she quickly replicated his motion, pushing him behind her as she moved toward the mouse cage.
“Not vermin. Well, not unknown vermin. These are my Grams, Gram Negative and Positive. One is evil, but they look exactly the same, so I’m never sure which one.” The two mice ran joyously around the cage as she approached and dropped some food pellets in.
When she turned, Jamal was regarding her with wide eyes.
“You . . . allow them to reside in your home? And provide them sustenance?”
She laughed at the horror lacing his tone.
“This is my penance. I’ve killed a lot of rodents in my day, you know.”
His face scrunched in horror.
“For science! It’s part of the lab work,” she explained. “The part no one likes to talk about. I didn’t want mice. But these guys escaped from their cages and no one could tell which experiment they’d been a part of. Sacrificing a rodent for an experiment is one thing, but I couldn’t just let them die, or worse, find a glue trap.”
“You’re remarkable, you know that?” he asked. The tone of his voice sounded like he was talking to someone working for an NGO, not a woman with questionable taste in pets.
She looked up at him, the heat in her cheeks moving faster than the speed of light so that she was already blushing before he came into her line of sight.
“They’re just mice. I mean, likely genetically engineered mutant mice, so I guess they’re more remarkable than I am.”
He shook his head. “Come to dinner. But wash your hands first. The Grams are cute, in a way, but I’d rather you not contract the bubonic plague. Or share it with me.”
“You’re thinking of rats, not mice, and that’s actually a smear campaign against them. I’ll wash my hands because I touched a subway pole on my way home. You really don’t want to know what kind of disgusting bacteria use the subway as a means of transportation.”
Jamal shuddered.
“Yes. I’ve heard the subways are covered in filth and that beggars accost you at every turn.”
Ledi laughed. “It’s not quite that bad, Jamal. Only people who’ve never taken the train say things like that.”
He focused his attention on the box in his hands and Ledi was dumbstruck.
No. There was no way . . .
“Have you never taken the subway before?”
He shook his head back and forth stiffly, as if he were unsure whether to express embarrassment or pride over the fact. Ledi had figured he was a rich kid slumming it, but even the richest people she knew had taken the train at some point in their lives. What was Jamal’s deal?
“How is that possible?” she asked, not caring if the question was invasive. He’d dug into her most painful memories—he could stand a query about his transportation methods.
“It’s not that strange,” he said after a long pause. “Have you personally tried every means of travel? I’ve traveled by blimp, have you?”
“Well, no,” she said. Who the hell had been on a blimp but not a train?
&
nbsp; “Hot air balloon?” he asked.
“No.”
“Helicopter?”
“What? No.”
“Plane?” He asked that the same way she would have said city bus.
“No. I’ve never flown anywhere before,” she said. She met his gaze in challenge. “But a flight is way more expensive than a train fare. Well, slightly more expensive with all of these MTA fare hikes, but not the same thing at all. And all of this just raises more questions instead of answering mine.”
“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked.
“There aren’t any trains where you’re from?” she pressed. She could sense that he was holding something back. “And where exactly is that since you dodged the question earlier?”
“My country has an aboveground light rail system in the main city, not a subway. I’m from Africa,” he said. Ledi’s stomach jerked as she remembered the strange emails she’d been receiving. The emails that had mysteriously stopped when Jamal arrived.
“Africa isn’t a country,” she said as dread tingled in her fingertips. It didn’t seem possible, but could the scammers have found her somehow? Was this some long con? Worm their way into her life, and then rob her of what little she had? That would be crazy, but she enjoyed putting on true crime podcasts as background noise while she worked. Stranger things had happened.
“I’m from the south of Africa,” he said.
The vibrating of her phone distracted her, and she pulled it out hoping it was an email from Dr. Kreillig.
Today was so much fun! If you hang with Jamal again, make sure you do some vetting. He might not be a serial killer, but the fuckboy pandemic is too real.
She wondered if Portia’s bestie sense had been tingling.
Interrogating him now.
Yasss. Interrogate him like you’re peer reviewing dat ass.
Naledi laughed, then glimpsed the notification for a new email. She felt a surge of hope, but when she navigated to her inbox and saw the subject line, she groaned.
The People of Thesolo Welcome You: Our History
It seemed Likotsi the Scammer hadn’t given up and moved on to greener bank accounts. Frustrating, but her suspicions about Jamal eased. Africa was a huge continent; it was like someone assuming she knew their cousin in Toronto just because she lived in North America.