“We never really discussed it. He was being prepped to go into the ministry. We’d talked about getting married once I graduated from high school, but then I got pregnant, and his parents and my parents came down on me like a sledgehammer. The way they explained it, I would be responsible for ruining three lives.” Grace held up her thin fingers and counted off. “His, mine, and the baby’s. I didn’t want that.”
“What do you want now?”
“A drink.” Just as Grace made her declaration, the waiter arrived with her drink. Grace stirred the ice in the glass. “I mean, you know the rest of that story. I went from the clinic to being on my own, and that wasn’t the wisest choice. I was a sheep available for any wolf to devour.”
Grace’s statement was incorrect. Junell didn’t know everything. She didn’t know the things that happened on a set to young girls with no chaperone. Mama June had always been there for her.
“So, what’s next? You usually follow up a drink with a man. You know, you can’t keep running around with every Tom, Rick, and Larry and expect to have a family.”
“Wait a minute. Who the heck is Rick? It’s Tom—”
“Sssh . . .” Junell put her fingers up to Grace’s lips like she was a five-year-old. “These lips are holy, and I’m not about to fix them to say some nonsense. You do know that the Bible says we’re going to have to give an account for every idle word we speak, right?”
Grace twisted her mouth up to the side and sipped her Down in the Delta through a skinny red straw. There was no way a God who was supposed to be so complex would waste time counting her words.
“Listen, Grace, it says it right in Matthew twelve, thirty-six. Furthermore, He knows what you’re thinking anyhow. So, you better just get it together, girl. How are things going at the church?”
Reclining farther in the square-backed chair, Grace took a long sip of her drink and let out an exaggerated sigh.
“Who is he? That sigh is most often followed by a ‘Girl, you just don’t know’ story.”
Horace’s eyes and sly grin penetrated Grace’s mind. The church was no longer just synonymous with pain in her head; it was now synonymous with a feeling that she could not yet name. Her attraction to Horace felt more magnetic than just a sexual response, and that was unusual.
“There’s no ‘Girl, you just don’t know’ to go with this story. His name is Horace, and if I had to guess what the name Horace means, I’d say it means hot, handsome, and flirtatious.”
“Horace means timekeeper.”
“How do you know that?”
Junell pointed at her tummy. “I’ve already begun the hunt for a great baby name. I’m not doing any of the out-of-this-world celebrity baby names, and I’m not doing the ghetto throw together of any combination of letters to make up a unique-sounding name, like Junell. Enough about me. We’ll have plenty of time to talk about the baby. We have another six months to discuss all that, God mommy. What I want to know is, why am I just now hearing about him?”
Trying to drag this out for as long as she possibly could, Grace took a heaping bite of her po’boy and stuffed into her mouth a little shrimp that had fallen onto her plate. She had not mentioned meeting Horace, because she didn’t feel like there was anything to tell about the six-four hulk of a man whom she’d met on a food pantry line. She would not have mentioned his name if she hadn’t bumped into him during her walk over here. Or would she?
“Stop holding out.” Junell tapped the tabletop, demanding more info. “You already know how simple Michael likes to keep things, not to mention he’s away on business again. In the beginning it seemed like a wise choice to get married to an international real-estate magnate, but now . . .” She tsk-tsked, shaking her head from side to side. “Now I have to live vicariously through you. Spill the beans on this brother. Is he a minister? A deacon? Be careful. Those deacons are a little shady sometimes.”
“Thanks for the info, but I don’t have to worry, and you shouldn’t get too worked up about Horace. It’s a dead-end relationship.”
“What happened?”
“First of all, he’s no minister. I met him at the food ministry program.”
“Oh, my gosh, that’s so sweet,” Junell said between bites of her sandwich. “He likes to help out.”
“No. He was there for the help. I served him dinner the night we met. I must be getting desperate.” Grace shook her head in disbelief at her own words. She was attracted to a man who could not afford to feed himself.
“So, what’s the problem?” Junell asked, smiling innocently.
“What’s the problem? Those hormones must be in flux already and messing with your good sense. He came on to me while I was serving him food. He can’t afford to feed himself. Where would our first date be? The pantry?”
Junell gasped and covered her mouth. “Oh . . . this is so cool. It’s a role reversal. You absolutely have to go out with him. You two are like Ruth and Boaz. Only you’re Boaz. You have the ability to provide for him. To take care of him, encourage him, make sure he gets what he needs.”
“Are you telling me to be a sugar mama?”
“No, just go home and read the Book of Ruth. And you’ll see. Maybe God will work this thing out for you sooner than you think.”
“Why can’t I just get a man who has it together already and is established? A man like . . .”
“Like Ethan,” Junell said, finishing Grace’s sentence. “Honey, I think that ship may have sailed already. Why don’t you give Horace a chance to dock his boat? You’ve been with worse.”
Chapter 10
The bobbing treetops and wind-driven leaves helped Grace relax into her stance. Yoga was her first line of defense when she felt like things were getting out of control. Unfortunately, this time it had taken her too long to recognize that things were out of control. After lunch with Junell, Grace had opted for a yoga session, instead of the Bible study Junell had recommended.
“I shall not be moved. I shall not be moved,” she repeated, standing in a warrior pose in front of her floor-to-ceiling living-room windows.
Grace shook her head. No thee, thou, or shall. It had taken only two days at Mount Carmel Community Church for her to revert to what she knew—the Bible. When she was a young girl, her mother would wake her up by singing “Bless the Lord, O My Soul.” She placed her in every religious class, from vacation Bible school to the various youth ministries that convened at her church. Honour thy mother and thy father . . . that it may go well with thee, was how her mother had chastised her. It seemed as though the only words ever spoken in the King household were from the Bible, until Grace found herself two months pregnant. The blessings stopped, and the cursing began.
Braking the warrior pose to clutch her belly, where her baby once lived, Grace sighed. Filling the emptiness of her womb had once been her only goal in life, but as the pool of men who were not neurotic or narcissistic and were not on narcotics had grown slimmer than Kate Moss in her heyday, Grace had given up on finding Mr. Right. That longing had been replaced with the need for retribution, which burned in her like a wildfire.
“I’ve heard you’re not in the getting business, so you probably won’t ever answer this prayer, but I want those a—” Grace paused, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t have to tell you what they are, because you know what they are and where they are, and I pray that the same emptiness that haunts my life consumes them. I pray that they come to know loss and suffering the same way I know them—like the back of my hand. Amen.” Having concluded her prayer, Grace returned to the warrior pose. With her arms outstretched toward the ceiling, she chanted, “I am a warrior. I am a warrior.”
Her new therapist, Dr. Sternberg, had said that she internalized everything, especially the things that were negative about her, and then reproduced them in the form of rage-driven outbursts. Today Grace tried to internalize the warrior chant. “If I put in positivity, then positivity will flow right out of me.” She elongated her arms and stiffened her neck, taking
deep breaths between each chant and awaiting her metamorphosis.
Ethan stood in front of the cranberry-tinged metal door to Grace’s unit. He fished through his pocket for the spare keys the firm had coerced Grace into giving him after her third arrest, in case of an emergency. Initially, he had resisted the idea as much as she had, since an emergency to the firm consisted of hiding any drug paraphernalia and pills before the cops came and fetching her makeup bag so that she could paint on remorse during her arraignment and sentencing. She had never gone to trial, thanks to Ethan. He was an expert when it came to poking holes in the defense’s argument, and he was cunning enough to get witnesses to recant or incriminate themselves before even taking the stand.
A smile swept across his face once he finally discovered her keys. This visit was set to be a more cordial and delightful one. He was beyond elated to finally add some sunshine to what seemed like a case of torrential rainstorms in Grace’s life.
Grace’s plumb, arched backside greeted him. His eyes took on a life of their own and traced her silhouette, from the big toe that her left leg rested on, up her muscular calf, and to her meaty thigh. Blinking hard to fight back his former desires, Ethan tried to conjure up the image of Candace’s round face. He swallowed hard and loosened the knot on his navy blue–and white-striped tie.
“Grace,” he called out, his voice cracking under the pressure of desire.
He got no response.
“Grace,” he called out again, noticeably breaking her concentration the second time around.
She lowered her arms to her sides and peered over her shoulder to see who it was that had breached every level of security she trusted in. The voice sounded like it had the distinct baroque quality that Ethan’s voice contained. Since she’d seen so little of him in the past week, she really didn’t believe that it was him.
Her eyes lit up upon making contact with his smooth brown eyes. It seemed as if she floated across the eighty square feet that stood between them.
“What did I do to have this honor bestowed on me?” Grace asked, placing her hand on her chest to add a bit of dramatic flair to her question.
“I came to check on you and—”
“Check on me? What happened? Is Candace busy today?”
“What does Candace have to do with this?” Ethan asked, slightly perturbed by Grace’s line of questioning. “Do you think that I’d allow my relationship with Candace to interfere with my relationship with you?”
Grace took one more step, completely demolishing the imaginary line that existed between them. Her chest grazed Ethan’s, arousing a feeling that he thought he’d laid to rest after the last bar fight Grace had gotten into.
“My hope is that nothing could come between us, Ethan.” The tips of her fingers grazed the buttons on his indigo plaid J.Crew button-down. “But the reality of the situation is that I can’t reach you when I need you, and I know it’s because this woman has been monopolizing your time.”
Ethan knew what she was fishing for and wishing for—the days when his entire life revolved around her, the days when he didn’t offer just legal advice, the days when he assumed a more personal role in her unpredictable life.
Ethan took a step back, trying to ignore the pleading look in her eyes and her near nakedness, which would make this an opportune moment for him to get what every man in America fantasized about.
“Here.” He dangled her spare set of keys in her direction. “We’ve both crossed boundaries we shouldn’t have, and I apologize for that. I will not apologize for having a girlfriend or not being at your bedside the moment you wake up. You’ve been living for a long time, Grace, and now it’s time for me to do my thing. I’d like to see my career grow, and I’d definitely like to have a friend of the opposite sex.”
Instead of extending her hand to retrieve her keys, Grace stood there, her mouth agape, in shock. Ethan flung her keys to the right, aiming for the island in her kitchen. The keys skidded off the granite surface and hit the floor at the same time as her wounded heart.
“Ethan.” She grabbed at his arm, preventing a quick departure. “You never told me why you really came here.”
In silence Ethan flipped the flap of his leather, satchel and withdrew a script. “This came for you by courier today.” He tossed it onto the kitchen counter to avoid having any physical contact with her. As much as he valued the companionship, comfort, and solace Candace offered him, his flesh was still weak when it came to Grace King.
Chapter 11
Grace picked up the script Ethan had precariously thrown onto the counter and hugged it to her chest. She ran her fingers along the edges of the paper and rejoiced over her second chance to do a film. She might not have the guy, but at least she got a gig.
Grace read the title page out loud, using her fingers to trace the letters. “Pressure, a screenplay by . . .” She gasped for breath. She could not read the screenwriters name out loud. The script tumbled out of her hand as she choked on the name.
Javier Roberts.
The last time she saw him, she had hoped that would in fact be the last time that she saw him. Apparently, God had something else in mind. Her legs buckled at the mere sight of his name. Somehow he’d managed with this script to breach the fortress she had created around herself.
Nope. I refuse to get sucked in again. I refuse to give up my sanity for a movie.
Taking small strides, she walked to the steps that led to the second floor of her duplex apartment, then swiftly backed up and picked up the script from the floor. A peek into Javier’s mind couldn’t possibly be that bad.
She took in shallow breaths and turned the pages, studying the character description. Ria, an ingenue, was the female lead. Grace’s name was scribbled next to it. Grace flipped the pages. The story seemed simple enough. Ria moved to the Big Apple to make it big, landed a huge role in a Broadway show, and found herself alone in the theater with the show’s producer, Derek, the night before the show was set to open.
Grace flipped back to the cast list to see who would be playing the role of Derek. The name she couldn’t utter met her again.
Javier Roberts.
She let the script fall to the floor again and stomped on it repeatedly. The sick bum was trying to force her to relive the lowest point in her life. Grace had had to take Zoloft and attend some therapeutic hypnosis sessions to get over what had happened between them, and her nightmare was being brought to life again now.
“I am a warrior,” Grace chanted, trying to reach for something higher than the valley she felt herself being sucked into as one of the worst days of her life played out in her memory. The chanting didn’t work; she couldn’t master her stance and crumbled into a ball on the floor. In her mind she found herself on the set of her first photo shoot with the award-winning Javier Roberts, getting her hair and makeup touched up.
When I stepped from behind the bright lights of the hair and makeup chair and onto the set of the photo shoot, I noticed it was eerily quiet. My eyes roved the set as I searched for a face I recognized, but even the lighting guy was off the set. I twisted my feet into an about-face and headed back to hair and makeup.
“Ahem . . . Where do you think you’re going?” Javier called out to me from behind his tripod. “Get your tail back on this set. I don’t have any time or memory to waste.”
I shuffled back to the set and stood before him in a long-sleeve button-down men’s shirt in orange. My dark skin glowed against the fabric.
“Where is everyone else?” I asked.
Javier stepped from behind his camera and slowly walked closer to me. He raised his spindly fingers and stuck them into my jet-black hair, which stopped midshoulder. I flinched.
“Relax. I want to get that ‘morning-after tousled hair’ look. Hmm . . . no tracks,” Javier noted between scalp rubs.
“Javier, every black girl in the industry does not wear a weave,” I replied, smiling at his ignorance and his willingness to demonstrate it. “Where is everyone?”
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br /> “After I looked at your proofs, I recognized that you have some real talent.... Just look at this bone structure,” he said while stroking my high cheekbones with the back of his hands. “The way I see it, you are the next superstar, and when I work with supermodels, I only shoot on a closed set. Thus I dismissed everyone,” he casually explained over his shoulder on his way back to his tripod.
I felt uneasy being on a closed set with Javier. The last time I was alone with a man, I wound up pregnant, and that was the last thing I wanted right now. I shook myself. Buck up. Be professional. Javier is a world-renowned international photographer with a wife, and the last thing he wants is an inexperienced model, I told myself. I coached myself into trusting him.
“Lie down on the sofa,” he instructed, pointing to a modern, minimalist gray sofa in the middle of the set.
“How would you like me?”
“Sexy. Sex sells. Tell the story of that shirt.”
I shifted into different positions, curving my foot and playing coy with the collar of the shirt. Javier complimented me and demanded more. He removed his camera from the tripod and came closer to me, calling out poses. “Arch your back. Now cross your legs. Now open them.”
When he said, “Now open them,” I closed my legs.
“Come on. Open your legs, Grace.” Javier placed his camera back on the tripod. “These photos are going to be great,” he assured me. “Let me help you.”
Javier walked over to the sofa, where I sat with my legs stuck together. He grabbed me by the ankles and placed my legs on top of the sofa. There was something in his eyes I had never seen before. It wasn’t lust. It was something more salacious. His well-defined widow’s peak made him look even more treacherous. No photographer had ever looked at me like that. His hands roved up my legs to my kneecaps.
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