by Zena Wynn
Except Shayla had given him a fake name that first night. It had taken him months to find her after they’d left his hotel suite Monday morning. He had, but, fast forward three years of their “relationship”, and history had him repeating the process. She’d been his escape. Now… he inhaled through his nose, stopping the negative thought before it formed. The decision to purchase the plane ticket had sealed his fate. This time around when he found her, he planned to hold on—forever.
Wiping the slush from his shoes onto the entry mat, Graham walked into the Department of Social Work, sighing when a gush of warmth hit his front and swiftly enveloped him. He enjoyed these bi-annual trips to the city, but he preferred the year-round Florida sunshine. His Oxfords, custom cut with the all-leather soles, echoed in the foyer much like the beat of his heart—hard and deafening. His plane had landed ninety minutes earlier. After grabbing his rental car, he’d driven straight to the campus without checking into his hotel.
He ignored the squeal of ringing phones, the rhythmic drone of copy machines, and the staccato drip of the multi-cup coffee machine. His mission—to locate the woman he’d been sleeping with for the past three years.
Why hadn’t she returned any of his calls?
Anxiety had him cracking his stiff neck. Had she decided to end things between them without so much as a damn text?
When he reached the graduate student office, he flashed his staff badge, identifying himself as an adjunct professor. A small waiting area with a beige fabric couch and two wing-backed chairs, separated the larger, brightly-lit room from the receptionist’s desk. Side-by-side portraits of two famous African-Americans men: maybe W.E.B Dubois and Booker T. Washington, hung on the wall behind the desk. The brown-skinned woman flashed a warm smile showcasing white teeth and full lips. Her round, expressive eyes roved over him from top to bottom, her smile subtle, but appreciative. Graham dropped his gaze to the desk. Perched front and center, sat a dark oak placard with the name, Tammy. He stood there, unmoving, waiting for Tammy to finish her one-look. Her hair bounced as she leaned forward to study his credentials. Pretty, interested, and not too innocent, he thought. Once upon a time, Graham would have offered his business card to a woman like Tammy. But that was BS: Before Shayla.
“Good Morning, Professor Hamilton. Can I help you?”
Nope. He needed Shayla. Nine months had passed since his last visit. It was the longest amount of time they’d been apart. Her calls had slowed in the past six months, and then the text messages stopped two months ago. Their relationship, though less than official, still had ground rules. The first, answer the damn phone. The second, respond to his sappy ass: “Call me.” or “Where are you?” texts.
A voice in the back of his head registered the male whine, but he ignored it, he wanted answers. Graham had three pleasures in his well-constructed life: his ob/gyn practice, long-distance running, and getting lost in Shayla. And he was stunned and uncustomarily wounded that the most enjoyable of his escapes was avoiding him.
When they had hooked up three years ago, he had no idea the woman would be so good for him. Being with Shayla had always been easy. He liked easy. Because of her, he’d added Hampton University to his annual rotation, knowing he’d spend his after-classroom time in between Shayla’s thighs. They’d had an agreement, of sorts. He came to town. She made herself available.
Simple. Neat. Tidy.
If he had to track her beyond this campus, shit would get messy. He wanted them back. So, he needed ‘her’, to be considered a ‘them’.
“Is Shayla Walters in her office?”
Graham held his breath; not sure he’d be okay if the receptionist told him no. In a stupid assed “hook-up” move, he didn’t even have her home address. When she’d mentioned moving out of the city into a smaller place it never occurred to him, he might have to track her down.
“Well,” he prompted with impatience.
The woman either didn’t care or overlooked his rudeness. With a flurry of movements across a keyboard, she looked up at him.
“You’re in luck,” her voice chipper. “She and Malcolm logged in about an hour ago.”
The hairs on the back of Graham’s neck prickled. Who the hell was Malcolm? Why would he be with his woman at the butt crack of sunshine? Most of the Monday morning classes started at nine, but Shayla had always been an early riser, choosing to arrive at the office before most of the administrative staff. Why would this woman pair Shayla and Malcolm’s name together? Graham tightened his hold on the textbook in his right hand. Had Shayla stopped answering his calls because of another man?Malcolm: the trespasser.
“Buzz me through,” Graham growled. He tried not to think about his damaged ego. That a woman who consumed his thoughts and satisfied every wicked craving of his body, could walk away from him. Lately, he’d questioned just what he brought to the relationship. Obviously, not enough. His plan once he stood face-to-face with Shayla was demand she come back to his bed. If that failed, he wasn’t above manipulation, mixed with a healthy dose of old school, Keith Sweat-style begging.
“I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.”
“No,” he interrupted. He wanted to roar for this woman to just open the damn security door. He glared at the lock keeping him away from Shayla. With the increase in school shootings, more campuses had increased their physical security measures to ensure student safety. He got that, but it was inconvenient for his purposes.
“Well,” she stammered. “She might not be ready for you.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Graham reassured. If Shayla thought she could walk away from him without a word, she’d learn differently today.
The door release chimed, and Graham was turning the knob before he heard, “You have a nice day.”
He intended to do just that, starting with Shayla bouncing on his-.
Graham froze. The abrupt stop happened before his brain could fully comprehend what he saw.
Shayla stood in the far end of the hall outside her office. The long, chocolate tresses he’d tangled around his fingers while he buried himself inside her, were gone. He noticed more changes. She wore a white collared shirt that hid her breasts, slim-leg steel gray slacks, and hot pink heels with a pointy toe. The Shayla who enjoyed showcasing every contour of her body, his Shayla, had morphed into an unknown creature. Graham compared the new with old. She looked studious, professional, and sexy as hell. He got an instant hard-on. The pants said: “come and get me,” but the top said: “there’s more than meets the eye.” However, what she wasn’t saying to the guy with his hands on her was: Step off, I’m taken.
Her smooth, tan-skin was devoid of makeup, her body thinner than at his last visit, but still curvy in all the places that drew a male’s attention. Especially the one currently caressing her arms. Another man had his hands on Shayla. Had she altered her appearance for the hot dog of the hour? Not aware Graham looked on, Shayla lifted her face as if to kiss Malcolm: the trespasser.
Graham was too far away to stop what he knew would happen next. Shayla had replaced him. Had she propositioned “MTT” at a club, too? Had she invited him to taste her sweet cream on the first night, too? Had she screamed his name at the height of her climax, too?
What. The. Hell?
Graham saw red. His vision blurred with flashing orbs. He swore he heard sirens in the background because he was ready to kill. What happened next probably saved two lives. His, and this interloping, trespassing, squatter there. The textbook he held went sailing through the air.
There was a thud.
The hands, belonging to another, came away from Shayla in a sudden jerk.
A crashing sound cut through the space.
A one-hundred-and-sixty-pound lightweight hit the floor.
Competing sounds of chair legs—screeching on tile floors—and squeaky hinges—thrown wide—joined the chorus.
“Ouch,” the man bellowed from his fetal position on the floor.
Malcolm was a whiner. Wait till Graham
put his head through a wall for touching his woman.
“Malcolm.” Shayla exclaimed, her voice shrill, and full of concern.
She dropped to her knees, cradling “MTT’s” big-ass-head in her lap. “What happened?” She asked no one and everyone.
Graham strode forward, but several doors had opened along the hallway. Young men and women piled into the space, eager to see who caused all the commotion.
He pushed through the crowd, to find Shayla still on her knees. Reaching down he snatched Malcolm to his feet. The man’s thick black brows drew tight together in bewilderment. Graham was sure the interloper wondered who he was to be dragging his theatrical-ass to his feet. Malcolm would have to wait. Shayla was his priority.
“Who’s that?” Graham heard someone inquire. During his previous visits, he hadn’t bothered with introductions to Shayla’s friends or colleagues. That would change.
He delivered a firm clap to Malcolm’s back. “You’re fine. Shake it off.”
Having exhausted his medical advice, he turned his attention back to the woman staring at her empty lap.
“Shayla.”
At the sound of her name, she looked up and everything in him stilled. Her lips parted, and her skin paled. Eyes, round and wide, registered shock at his being here. Desire flashed behind her brown eyes, but then she masked it. Her lips thinned in an emotion he couldn’t pinpoint.
“Graham, what-what are you doing here?”
She had to know he would come for her. He may not have put a label on what they had, but she had to know he would come back... to her.
He pulled her to stand, their eyes locked. “You know why,” he growled. The instinctive pull he’d felt at the first sight of her, intensified when they touched.
“But, I stopped calling. And where the hell have you been for nine months?” Equal parts anger and suspicion laced her words.
Shit, he winced.
He felt like he’d gotten hit with a textbook. The tick in his jaw started to ache. She must have noticed it too because, she tried to pull free of his grip.
“Don’t,” he snapped. “You haven’t seen crazy, yet. And, I can explain… everything.” At least, he hoped he could. In the past nine months, his whole life had been tossed in the wash and spin—on the extended cycle. It hadn’t been his plan to vanish for almost a year, but he had no idea how to explain how much he had messed up. Knowing that his confession could cost him what they had, he chose to stay away until he could gain some semblance of normal. The shock came when Shayla had done the same to him.
Just then she stiffened. “The book,” she accused. “You hit Malcolm? He could’ve been hurt.”
He entered an office, holding onto her hand, and slammed the door. In an instant he had her back pressed against it, caging her in.
“Don’t say his name to me,” he growled. Before she could respond his lips was on hers. The sweet taste of caramel and mint burst on his tongue, fueling his hunger. He ate at her mouth, using his tongue to stroke her lips further apart for his impeding feast. He groaned when he felt the nip of her teeth on his lower lip. Have mercy, this woman knew how to kiss a man. What he’d planned as a chaste kiss boiled over into a steamy prelude of unbridled lust. Everything inside him roared to take her, here and now. Behind his zipper, his erection throbbed in anticipation.
Damn, he’d missed her. Missed her taste, her warmed-brown sugar scent, the way she made him weak as a newborn colt. Holding her in place, he cupped one breast in his hand, and squeezed.
“Graham, no.” She pushed at his chest. “What’s wrong with you?”
Seriously? Like she didn’t know he was going insane for her.
“You,” he blurted; his response harsher than intended.
“Me?” She panted, her breathing labored from his kiss.
“Did you let him between your thighs, Shayla?” he pushed out. “Did you give Malcolm what belongs to me? Is he the reason you stopped returning my calls?”
Silence reigned between them at Graham’s question. He realized she might tell him to piss off; or that she was done with him, but that kiss? That instant connection that popped and sizzled between them still existed. It said she was his. But, something in her stare made him uneasy. His gut said Shayla was the type of woman who remained faithful to her man, but he felt the telltale sign of a woman who’d slipped away from him.
“Graham, I don’t belong to you.”
Well, he sure as hell belonged to her. What he shared with Shayla felt solid. The reality that what they shared had a sand foundation being washed from under his feet chafed.
“You screwing that pansy-ass nerd rolling around on the damn floor?”
He wanted to shield her, protect her. He damn sure wouldn’t be curled in fetal ball from a paperback book to the arm.
“Says the pretty boy doctor wearing designer loafers.”
There was that.
Pounding on the frosted-glass pane in the door rattled the frame, causing Shayla’s back to vibrate. In a protective gesture, Graham pulled her into his embrace.
“This room is taken,” he barked.
He could hear more than one voice respond, none of them the receptionist, or Malcolm.
“That you white boy?” A male voice asked in a low tone, the underlying threat obvious. “Bring your ass out here, and I dare you to throw another book.”
Graham and his best friend, Logan Masters, had attended medical school at Johns Hopkins University in downtown Baltimore. Residency in the inner city had taught him a few things in the self-defense department. At six-foot-four inches and two-hundred-five pounds, Graham could double for Nick Bateman on screen. He would take a hit for Shayla and remain on his feet. The thought of a gang of male social workers ready to rumble failed to raise his internal alarm. Knowing that he might have lost her, however, had all of his warning bells going on high alert.
Shayla curled closer to his chest. “Shit, Graham.” Her brow creased with genuine concern. “Look what you’ve started.”
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