Prowl (Nothing Else Matters But Survival Book 1)

by Stephanie Nicole Norris

  “Mmmm those are good, I might have one for lunch,” the eccentric waitress beamed.

  “Tell me about it,” he said setting his sights on Symone. “They have just the right amount of whip cream to share with someone special.”

  Symone tugged at her scarf. The material felt like a blanket of heat on her skin.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You really shouldn’t have.”

  His eyes traveled the length of her, landing on all of her curvaceous assets. “I don’t mind… really. Do you care to sit with me for a moment?”

  “I’d be remiss to say no, don’t you think?”

  A devilish smile crept across Mason’s face. “You have no duty to me. I’m not that kind of guy. However, I would hope you’d take pity and allow me a moment of your time.”

  Who was Symone kidding? Right about now she wanted to sit in his lap. She pursed her lips. “Sure, why not?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  They chuckled and found a seat next to the window. He produced two straws that she hadn’t noticed he’d taken before.

  “One for you, one for me.” Symone noticed that the straws had no protective covering.

  Symone shook her head adamantly, “I couldn’t.”

  “Of course you can, I don’t have cooties.”

  Symone threw her head back and laughed. Her laughter was music to his ears.

  “That’s a beautiful laugh you have there, Symone.”

  Her smile slowly fell at the mention of her name. She cleared her throat.

  “Thanks.”

  Mason sipped from his Cafe Mocha. “So, what is it that you do for a living?”

  Symone crossed her legs under the table and sat back.

  “I’m a martial arts instructor.”

  His brows lifted in surprise. “Now, you’re just getting more interesting by the second.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t already know it.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “You seem to be stalking me. First the bank, then at Starbucks, now here you are again, at Starbucks,” she decided to leave out the overseas trip. That little tidbit would be too much information, and she wasn’t certain that he’d known she was there. “I’ve been coming here for years, and I’ve never seen you until a few weeks ago.”

  It was Mason’s turn to sit back in his chair. When he first saw her at New York Bank and Trust, she was standing in line waiting for a teller. Mason wasn’t one to ogle a woman, but seeing her from the back tingled his spine. Unable to pull his eyes away from her, Mason got details of her side profile when she turned to look up, then swept a watchful eye around the establishment. Mason thought she’d missed him, but she did a double take and they were caught in one another’s gaze. Mason obviously made her uncomfortable because she fidgeted with her fingers before returning her attention in front of her. The bank was robbed behind the scenes that day. No rush of criminals with masks covering their faces, guns drawn, screaming at the top of their lungs. No. This robbery was committed by professionals who slipped behind the scenes without masks, speaking like billionaires with business to handle at the bank. It was only when the alarm sounded that Mason even had a clue something went down.

  Symone pretended to be a concerned spectator, and he went straight to her to protect her in the event things got crazy. But the thugs he waited to show their faces never did. After reviewing bank footage, he noticed women; a handful of them dressed impeccably, never lifted their faces high enough to be captured on camera. Except for Symone. She was exposed, and she was his only lead. Mason’s gut told him Symone was a part of the coup. But the flutter in his chest made Mason hope she was just an innocent bystander. The women entered but never exited, and that was what ultimately gave them away. Mason questioned Symone’s reasons for being there under the guise of polite conversation.

  “I’m going to stick around and see if I can help with anything, do you mind giving me your name and phone number should the authorities have more questions?”

  “Not at all,” Symone responded rambling off the information. When Mason asked for her address, she declined.

  “If they need anything else, tell them to contact me.”

  It would’ve sent up another red flag, so Mason pretended to be a bystander as well. Now sitting across from her, Mason wished he could shed the agent inside and let loose his inhibitions.

  “Well I don’t know,” Mason began. “You haven’t done anything worth being stalked, have you?”

  They were playing now. If this was her martial arts class, this would be the moment when they sized each other up.

  “I’m not sure what you mean by that, but if I’ve been a good girl or a bad girl you still shouldn’t be stalking me. What are you a detective,” Symone asked, feigning ignorance. She didn’t wait for his reply.

  “Just know, I’m not afraid of you. I can kick your ass.”

  Mason couldn’t help himself. It started with a smile, then a hearty laugh. His arm crossed his abdomen as his laughter picked up. Symone was smiling now. “Oh you find me funny?”

  “Damn girl,” he said putting his hands in the air. “I’m not a stalker, I promise.”

  “That’s what a stalker’s supposed to say.”

  His smile never wavered.

  “I’m not a stalker. If we keep running into each other, it’s for one or two reasons.”

  “Which are…” Symone started.

  “You’ve been a very bad girl and I’m here to take you in, or we’re destined to be together, and I’m here to take you in.” Mason let that last bit linger in the air as his words wrapped around her like a warm blanket.

  Symone sat up and reached across the table pulling his Cafe Mocha to her mouth. Mason watched her cherry blossom lips settle over the sweet treat as her tongue slid out to taste the whip cream topping. Her eyes never left him. A moan cruised through her vocals.

  His eyes darkened, and he bit back a curse. Symone was feeling spicy, and it had nothing to do with the coffee and everything to do with him. Mason’s phone rang cutting through their moment. He took it out without taking his eyes off Symone and answered.

  “Fuller.”

  “We need to talk.” Brittany’s voice was an annoyance he didn’t want to hear. It made Mason wish he’d checked his caller ID first.

  “Later,” he said.

  “No now, it’s important.”

  His sigh was disgruntled and dramatic. “Speak on it,” he barked, losing patience. Mason had no intention of leaving Symone at the moment, so it had better be good.

  “We’re still on the case. I talked to the Director. We can’t pursue the robbery in Austria, but we can continue the case we’ve built here in the states. I’m leaving the office now; do you want me to meet you at your place or mine?”

  “Your place, thirty minutes.” He disconnected the call.

  Symone arched her eyebrows. “Hot date?”

  “Not even close.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “I have no reason to lie to you, Miss Ellis.”

  “No, you wouldn’t would you. Mason, I’ve got to say, your memory is pristine. Especially seeing we’ve only had introductions once. After that fiasco at the bank.”

  “I’m an FBI Agent. It’s my job to remember.”

  “Wow,” Symone feigned surprise. “An FBI Agent.”

  Mason smirked. “It seems your memory isn’t so bad either. You remembered my name as well.”

  She tilted her head in response. “You’re not easy to forget,” Symone mumbled.

  He checked his watch. “I’d love to stay and chat, but something’s come up. Can I take you to dinner tonight, Symone?”

  An inner voice yelled at her, ‘say no, say no’. “Depends on where we’re going.”

  His smile was seductive and disarming. “It’s a surprise but if you say no, I can’t promise not to stalk you until you say yes.”

  Symone knew she had no business going out with Mason. Hell, she had no business
sitting with him now, but she couldn’t help herself. Wanting him had become second nature for Symone, and she needed to explore it.

  Reaching in her handbag, Symone pulled out an ink pen. She grabbed his hand turning it over to his palm and wrote her number across the middle. “Tomorrow night,” she said, thinking about their plans to get rid of the merchandise they’d recently acquired. The day was still young, and Drew had a man who was willing to be their go-to person for the black-market transaction.

  “Tomorrow night it is.” He wouldn’t remind her that he’d still had her number from the moment she gave it to him at the bank.

  Mason stood and took her hand planting a heated kiss to her skin.

  “Until we meet again.” He said. Mason didn’t wait for a response, leaving just as quickly as he’d manifested.

  Chapter Eight

  Drew tapped her nails on the bench as she waited for Symone to show. They were meeting to talk about Drew’s connect, but Drew’s mind was elsewhere. She had already checked the clock on her phone at least three times, and that seemed to just make the time go by even slower. It goes without saying, Drew was not long on patience. It was never her strong suit. But anytime Drew had downtime, a moment for her mind to wander, her thoughts always landed Drew in the same place, thinking about the same one.

  Unlike her sister Brooklyn, Drew didn’t have a magnanimous personality. She was much more of an introvert, and because of that, she had been shy in initiating conversation with the opposite sex. This man tempted Drew to break out of her proverbial shell and make the first move. Clearly, he wouldn’t. Drew smiled as she thought about her mystery man. She considered him a mystery because even after all this time, nearly a year since she first noticed him noticing her, they hadn’t had a single conversation.

  He was a frequent visitor to the museum. Every time there was a new exhibit, Drew knew he would be one of the first in for the viewing. As Drew continued to wait for Symone who seemed to always be running late, she thought about the last time, ‘he’ came in. Drew was especially excited for the new exhibit, featuring Jean-Michel Basquiat, renowned New York Neo-Expressionist painter most known for his collaborative work with Andy Warhol. Basquiat was first recognized because of his raw, primitive style that drew national attention because of the graffiti he created under the pseudonym SAMO in the 1970’s.

  Basquiat was one of Drew’s favorite painters. She worked hard to secure the exhibit and was ecstatic that she landed the deal. Although she was supposed to be working, Drew found herself standing in front of her favorite painting, “Red Leg King”, 1981. Basquiat captured racial conflict and religion in human form against a backdrop of brilliant colors with his signature graffiti-esque play with shadow and light. The painting in 2012 sold for an estimated $14.5 million dollars to a New York City resident willing to display the piece in Drew’s museum. Drew stood in front of the painting; totally encapsulated by its rawness and message. She didn’t even notice him standing next to her at first; each lost in their own appreciation of the piece. It was only when he took a step forward did she pick him up in her periphery. Then Drew’s focus changed. She was no longer enraptured by the art standing before her but the man standing close to her.

  He was taller than her by at least a foot. His caramel skin played nicely against the crisp white t-shirt he wore. His shoulder length dreadlocks were pulled back just enough for Drew to see his strong jawline and neatly groomed beard. Drew’s eyes dropped, and she noted how well his jeans fit; loose in all the right places, accentuating his slim waist against his broad chest. When she checked his footwear, he had on timbs. Nice, Drew thought to herself. A homeboy with an appreciation for art. She chuckled a little, and that’s when he turned to face her.

  Drew smiled as she remembered that pleasant moment of embarrassment. She had covered her mouth trying to stave off her smile, but he smiled in return. His eyes were soft, and his smile was brilliant. Drew caught sight of the deep dimples in his cheeks and smiled again.

  “Mmhmm,” Symone said, clearing her throat. “Who got you cheesing like that?”

  Drew was summoned back from her daydream to the present.

  “You’re late,” she quipped.

  “But I’m here now,” Symone replied, sitting down next to her on the bench.

  “Where’s mine,” Drew inquired, noticing the single iced drink in Symone’s hand.

  “Oh, um,” Symone sputtered. She knew she forgot something. She smiled, remembering the reason why. Drew noticed the change in Symone’s face.

  “Who got you smiling like that, while you checking for me,” she teased. “Tuh, I already know.”

  Busted, Symone leaned over and pushed Drew shoulder to shoulder.

  “Whateva,” Symone shot back. Where are we with the broker?”

  “I mean, he sounds alright, legit,” Drew began. “It’s hard to vet somebody like that without showing too much of your own hand, though.”

  “Yeah, that’s the problem when you have to deal with somebody new.”

  “I don’t like the fact that we don’t have a whole lot of choice. Trying to move the Saliera ourselves is out of the question.”

  “I know,” Symone agreed. “So what’s our move?”

  “Give me a few days to see if I can do a little investigating on this new cat, see if he checks out,” Drew answered.

  “Be careful with that,” Symone cautioned.

  “Always…”

  Mason finished off the last of his coffee before exiting the car at Brittany’s spot. The dread he felt walking up to the front door didn’t even require words. She must have spotted him getting out of the car because she opened the door before he had a chance to knock.

  Brittany was smiling. How inappropriate, Mason thought to himself as he crossed her threshold. He didn’t bother to greet her. They had already done that on the phone when she interrupted his most pleasant encounter of the day.

  “That’s great news, right,” Brittany beamed as she ushered Mason into her quaint living room. Mason flopped down on the pastel floral couch, barely paying attention to what she said.

  “I’m glad you think so,” he replied.

  Brittany could see he didn’t want to be there. After all the begging and prostrating she had done to get them back on the case, and this is the thanks she got?

  “You ungrateful man,” she grumbled, sitting down on the loveseat across from him.

  Now she had his attention.

  “Ungrateful? What?”

  Mason readjusted himself on the couch; scooting up, balancing himself on the edge. With his elbows on his knees and his hands folded in front of him, Mason addressed her. Mason did his best to keep it cool, but what she said pissed him off.

  “What the fuck do you mean?” Mason didn’t yell, but his words were heated.

  “Just what I said, Mason, damn,” Brittany snapped back.

  “You think me ungrateful because of what? You fucked up the case, now you cleaned your own shit up and I ain’t kissing your ass about it?”

  “I know I messed up, but I fixed it! The least you could be is thankful,” Brittany replied. Frustrated, Brittany sat further back on the couch and folded her arms across her chest. She couldn’t even look at him, she was so agitated.

  “…you’re delusional…” Mason scoffed.

  “I might be,” Brittany answered. Uncrossing her arms, she leaned forward leveling her eyes to meet his. “But at least I got my priorities straight.”

  Even though he knew the answer, Mason still raised the question.

  “And I don’t?”

  “Hell naw you don’t,” Brittany snapped. “If you focused on the job instead of her ass, you wouldn’t have lost her in Austria,” Brittany continued. “That sounds like fucked up priorities to me Agent Fuller.”

  “So is that what you called me over here for, to throw that shit up in my face or was there another reason?”

  Mason sat back on the sofa, spread both his arms to rest on the back of the sofa
and opened his legs. Just as expected, Brittany’s mouth closed and her eyes landed right on his crotch. He watched Brittany as her posture changed, and she leaned forward even more, damn near salivating. When she looked up, lips pursed, eyes sultry, Mason responded.

  “Right…”

  Mason got up from the couch and looked over his shoulder at Brittany before leaving. She watched him until the door slammed behind him. She only had one word to say.

  “Damn!”

  It was just before 6:00 p.m. She knew if she wasn’t back to the shelter in time, they wouldn’t let her in. Other women at the shelter already looked at her sideways because she was one of the only ones allowed in the shelter who didn’t have children. They thought she was receiving preferential treatment. How do you get special treatment in a homeless shelter?

  Nia covered her stomach with her fingerless-gloved hand as if that would stop the growling from being heard by others. Hunger was a friend she’d grown to know all too well since she left home. The line in front of her and behind her was long; longer than she remembered from the night before. She hoped they would still have room for her.

  “Hey watch it,” someone yelled from behind her. There was pushing and shoving, and Nia was momentarily caught in the chaos; being bumped by one person and then another. She didn’t fuss. Instead, she put up her hand to block the next person from falling into her. Nia couldn’t be mad at them. They were struggling like she was. They were all just looking for a safe place to lay their heads.

  Chapter Nine

  Brooklyn crossed her long legs, getting comfortable in her seat. Her arms rested leisurely on the wingback chair that sat adjacent from the large mahogany desk inside the office of Atlantic Bank of New York. Dressed in a black feminine pants suit and stylish white blouse, Brooklyn held her smile as she watched Brandon McGee speak to someone over the phone. Her leg bounced softly; her red fingernails tapping lightly against the chair. Today she was Jessica Daniels, a business consultant looking to secure a family keepsake in the bank.

  “If you need anything else, give me a callback or shoot me an email.” Mr. McGee shook his head up and down, “Yes, that will be fine. Thank you.”