by Nia Arthurs
“B-Brett, hey, man!” Hank’s voice turns to a high-pitched shriek. He scrambles back in the chair, face flushing red. From his previous excitement? From the suddenness of my intrusion on his fun night?
Scrawny arms clamp the end of the sofa. “How was the funeral. I'm sorry I didn’t show. I—“
“John showed,” I say evenly.
Hank coughs. “What? Shar’s grimy ex?”
That’s a bit of the pot calling the kettle black.
“He left limping,” I say calmly.
Hank's watery gaze falls over my shirt. He takes in the blood stains, the mud and the wrinkles. Then his gaze returns to my face and understanding slowly winds through his expression.
He gulps. “You’re going to beat me up too?”
“I was thinking we could have a nice conversation.” I drape myself into the chair across from him. “Man-to-man.”
“What do you want?”
I scoot to the edge of my chair. “Her thoughts.”
“What?”
“I need to know what she was thinking because none of this makes sense. And I can’t ask her.” My emotions threaten to take over. I shove them away. Slam them into a dark hole. Bury them deep in my soul. “I can’t ask my sister, so you need to tell me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are there any more surprises? Anything else she didn’t have the guts to say to my face before…”
I wince. It shouldn’t hurt this much. Talking about Shar being gone.
She prepared me for the end.
Or at least, she tried her best to.
I inhale. Let the breath out. Focus on the matter at hand and not on the gaping hole of grief that wants to swallow me up. “Shar never kept any secrets from you.”
Hank rubs his hands together. “She had an idea and I executed it. Especially towards the end when she couldn’t….” He stops. Swallows. “I was her hands and feet.”
“You knew about this?” I point at Tierra.
“It was her last instruction.” He clears his throat. “I was to send the email to Make It Marriage when her death was announced.”
My eyes squeeze shut.
Shar, what the hell were you thinking?
“Anything else?” I grind out.
Hank goes quiet.
“Anything else, Hank!” I yell.
I rarely raise my voice. Too many bad memories. Losing my cool scares the hell out of me. I come from a family where passion often turns deadly.
But I can’t help myself.
My sister just died and she’s still trying to communicate from the grave.
Still trying to meddle in my life.
I need to know what else she was up to.
Need it like I need to breathe.
Not because I’m angry.
If there’s more, if she left more of herself on this earth, I’ll spend my life finding it. I won’t stop until I’ve torn this city apart searching for every last word, every last gesture, every last hint of her heart.
“No,” Hank admits softly. “There’s nothing else.” Bony shoulders covered in a cheap tuxedo lift and then deflate. “Shar wanted you to meet her.” Hank juts his chin in Tierra’s direction. “That was it. That was everything.”
An ache starts at the base of my skull.
Pounding.
Pounding.
I reach for the nearest liquor. Unscrew the top. Knock it back.
It’s bitter.
Goes down smooth.
Pools like a fire in my belly.
Hank scrambles to his feet while I’m drinking and tears out of the door.
I could chase him. If I had a freaking desire to.
All I want right now is to forget.
Forget that my sister is dead.
Forget that she tried to set me up from the grave.
Forget my empty life.
I hear vinyl screech. Soft clothes rustle against leather. Tierra is sitting down in the chair. She’s staring straight ahead, carefully avoiding the view of the dancers in cages just outside the window. Her fingers tighten over her purse strap.
Liquor sloshes in the bottle as I tilt it toward her. “Want some?”
“No thank you.”
So polite. So put-together. What would it be like to unravel her? To see her loosen up? To ignore all consequences?
She strikes me as the stick-up-her-butt type.
Always follows the rules. Always has to be in control.
I tip the bottle to my lips. Take a long sip. Watch her squirm.
What were you thinking, Shar?
My voice booms loudly in the room. “What exactly did my sister ask you to do?”
“Match you.”
“Match me?” I chuckle bitterly. “With who?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I meet her brown eyes. Still so warm. Still so full of life. Despite how uncomfortable she must feel.
I take another drink.
Did they mix this with water? I'm chasing a buzz, but it’s running away from me.
I’m too focused on this conversation.
“How long ago?” I ask.
“Three days.”
“And you just sought me out today? At my sister’s funeral?”
Tierra lifts a shoulder in a dainty shrug. “I figured it was the best opportunity.”
“How manipulative.”
“I prefer the term opportunistic.” She frowns. “Something told me you wouldn’t let me waltz into your office just because your sister hired me to fix your love life.”
“My love life doesn’t need fixing.” Another sip.
“Sorry. That came out wrong.” She arches an eyebrow. “I was hired to find the one person you were always meant to be with. It’s an upgrade. Not a repair.”
My lips twitch.
What did Sharon see in her? What is it?
“Your sister already paid for the service,” Tierra adds. “Now, all I need is some information about what you’re looking for—”
“I never said I’d do this.”
Thick lashes make a slow journey down. Then up. “Excuse me?”
“Shar hired you.” I kick my legs up on the coffee table. “I didn’t.”
She takes a moment. Behind those big brown eyes, her brain is whirring.
I study her intently. Shar might have hired Tierra to match me with someone else, but I didn’t get that memo.
All I got was a picture.
A picture of Tierra.
It didn’t feel like a ‘hey, Brett. I’m hiring a matchmaker so you can stop sleeping with women who’s faces all blend together’.
It was more like a ‘hey, Brett. I found this girl who’d be perfect for you'.
I grip the bottle’s neck. Give Tierra another slow sweep.
She trembles. Glances away. But not before I see the flare of interest in her eyes.
I’m used to that. Women being attracted to me. Seeking me out. Saving me the time and effort of trying to woo them.
I don’t do relationships.
Shar knew that well.
This matchmaker is about to find out the same.
“So how does this work?” I lean forward. Turn on the charm. Focus all my attention on her. “I tell you what I like and you go out and find me the perfect woman?”
“There’s no such thing as a perfect woman or a perfect relationship.”
“So what do you offer?”
“Everything else.” She tips her chin up. “We set up dates, coach you through them, find people you’ll be most compatible with and talk about why you clicked or why you didn’t. We don’t stop until you’ve found the person who fits you best.” She inhales deeply, settling into her ‘matchmaker’ skin. It’s like a cloak. A coat she’s comfortable in.
Confidence rises in her brown eyes.
Rings from her voice.
Echoes in her countenance.
Her fingers finally relax on the purse strap that she was squeezing to death.
&
nbsp; She’s a woman walking in her purpose.
Beautiful.
I like it much more than the shy, bumbling school-teacher-on-the-prairie vibe she gave off when we first entered the club.
Tierra pushes on. “Since we’re on the same page, how about we set an appointment to discuss in more detail—”
“Let’s do it now.” I rise. Walk around the room. Join her on the couch.
“Mr. McQueen…”
“My ideal woman…” I press into her space, “is blonde.”
Irritation flares in her eyes but, to her credit, she doesn’t flinch or back away.
“A nice body. Big tits.” I motion to my chest and flare my hands out, indicating a melon-sized space. Liquor sloshes over my hand as I gesture. “Pamela in Baywatch type.”
Disgust etches lines around her mouth.
Simmers in her eyes.
Draws her eyebrows down to a dangerous V.
Her warmth is gone, replaced by annoyance.
Victory flashes inside me, but it’s hollow.
I expect her to run but, to my surprise, Tierra drags out a notebook and starts jotting things down. “Personality?”
“Good in bed.”
Her eyes whip up. “That's not a personality.”
“It is to me.”
She grits her teeth. “Mr. McQueen, we set up dates with the intention of marriage. We’re not an escort service. If you have needs,” she gestures to the club downstairs, “there are other ways to have them met.”
I inch closer to her. “What if I want you to meet them?”
Brett, you’re going too far.
It’s Shar’s voice in my head.
I ignore it.
My heart thumps.
She’s not my type, but I want to unravel her and that’s close enough.
That’s everything.
Because right now, staring into Tierra’s brown eyes that are flaring with equal parts fury and desire, I’m finding the perfect distraction. She’s filling that dark place inside me with warmth. And even if I know that it won’t last, I want it. Want her.
My eyes fix on her lips.
Brown at the top.
Maroon at the bottom.
So unique.
So unfamiliar.
I’m used to pink lips. Thin. Glossy.
Surrounded by pale flesh.
Hers are plump. Generous.
Surrounded by beautiful brown skin.
Too much to handle?
Only one way to find out.
I set the bottle aside. Ease closer to Tierra. And lean down to kiss her.
Five
Tierra
Brett’s tan fingers clamp on the vinyl couch. He’s got huge arms. Solid muscle. Biceps flex with every movement.
Is it getting hot in here?
Silver eyes, hot and intense, barrel into me. Once again, I get the feeling that he’s searching my soul. Picking me apart until I’m laid bare, all the raw, ugly edges of me opened up and exposed for his viewing pleasure.
And that’s all it is.
Viewing pleasure.
Entertainment.
Jerk that he is. He’s trying to distract me with his hotness.
My heart flutters.
It’s working.
His gaze fastens on my lips.
My heart thunders as he leans in.
Is he going to kiss me? What the hell?
My brain tears in half—shooting ‘kiss him back’ signals at the same time as ‘slap him silly’ signals.
I panic.
Snap my book closed.
Heft it between us.
Brett’s face narrowly misses slamming against the hardcover.
Safe, behind the notebook, I catch my breath. He can’t tell that I was moved by him. He can’t tell that, even though he acted like a first-grade jerk, I still had to slap my thighs together when he leaned in close a minute ago.
I can do this.
I can keep my thoughts in check.
I can get this bastard a woman he’ll fall head over heels for.
Not for his sake.
But for Sharon’s.
“Thirty days,” I blurt.
Brett leans back. Tilts his head. Cool as a cucumber.
The way he switched out of instant flirt to cold businessman gives me whiplash.
But that’s good.
My proposal is crazy enough for him to consider. To calm down. To slow his roll. And he can’t tell that my heart is still hammering in my chest like a tambourine in a hurricane.
Win-win.
“Give me three months and I’ll make you fall in love,” I add, sweetening the deal to even more outrageous heights.
It’s a ridiculous premise.
I have no idea if I can pull it off.
But if I don’t get Brett into the Make It Marriage system, there’s a one hundred percent chance I’ll never have the opportunity to try. First, I’ll slip a foot in the door and then I’ll worry about the rest.
He laughs, a deep, dark, rumbling sound that sends goosebumps of delight shivering over my skin.
He should do that more.
Laugh.
It’s so sexy.
Not for me, of course.
For his potential girlfriend.
“You really believe that, don’t you?” Brett folds his massive arms over his chest. Despite the long-sleeved T-shirt, I can tell there’s nothing but muscles under there.
I hate myself for noticing. That ‘big tits’ comment almost convinced me to give it all up and get the hell out of there.
But I’ve never been one to back away from a challenge.
Or a sister in need.
“I don’t fail.” My eyes focus on him. Show no fear. I tuck my fingers around my purse to keep them from shaking. “But if you turn out to be this jerk version all the time and not the heartbroken brother who’s understandably seeking an outlet for his grief, I’ll deliver an immediate refund.”
He eases back. Studies me.
What is he seeing?
A black woman with beautiful 4c hair in a bun.
Bony shoulders sticking out of a black dress.
Brown eyes narrowed.
Gaze focused.
Unintimidated.
Unshakeable.
I lean into that facade.
Something tells me that this man is like a shark. The moment he senses a weakness, he’ll jump on it and tear me limb from limb.
I know how to handle myself. Even if this is the first time I’ve felt a slight, teeny-weeny attraction for a client.
I’m pretty sure he’s not into black girls.
That attempt at a kiss was an intimidation tactic, not a true signal of his interest.
Pretty sure Brett’s not blind. I’m not a blonde and my chest is not the size of a watermelon.
If that’s what he’s into, fine. Everyone has their preferences. But even if he wasn’t a client, I wouldn’t chase a man who didn’t see the value in me.
I love being black.
I love my 4c hair.
I… I’m working on loving my body.
Brett eases back. Picks up his drink. Takes a sip.
I wait impatiently. “Well?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“If, after three months, you haven’t made any connections, I’ll disappear. You’ll never hear from me again.”
He chuckles low in his throat. “Come now, Tierra. That’s it?”
“What do you want?” I ask innocently.
He gives me a wicked once-over. Lifting a finger, he drapes it over his bottom lip. “I’ll think about it.”
“I need an answer now.”
His eyes sharpen. “Even if the answer I give now is no?”
Damn. The shark jumped out of him.
I cave. “Fine.”
“Thirty days.”
“What?” I balk.
“You have thirty days to find me a match. And I’ll decide what I get if you fail.” He takes my hand. “Deal?
”
Do I have a choice?
I grip his hand.
Our fingers brush softly.
Electricity buzzes through me.
I pull back. Gather my purse. Jump to my feet.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“Home.”
“I drink with my business partners after closing a deal.” He spreads both arms against the back of the chair. Legs open wide. A position of power. Pure arrogance.
“I’m leaving for your sake.”
He arches an eyebrow how so.
Fluttering my fingers at the girls in the club, I say, “Tonight’s your last opportunity to find the woman you want.” I tug my purse over my shoulder. “Because tomorrow, you’ll be too busy finding the woman you need.”
He chuckles.
I smile back. “Goodnight, Mr. McQueen.”
He remains seated, just… watching me. Feeling exposed for some reason, I hurry out of the room and run down the stairs.
The moment I hit the ground floor, the music overwhelms me.
It’s all heavy bass and synths.
Bright lights. Neon pink. Puke green.
The crowd doubled in size.
Now it feels like I’m pushing through a human sea.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, trying to break through the dancers.
My fingers brush a sweaty shoulder.
A damp back.
A moist… I don’t even want to know what that was.
The crowd swallows me up, a monster unwilling to release its victim.
I’m pulsed back. Pushed into the arms of some guy dancing on his own.
“Hey, there,” the stranger yells in my ear.
I stiffen from shock as he wraps his arms around my waist and thrusts his groin at me. He rocks his hips to some rhythm that doesn’t exist and makes a weird monkey-type sound in my ear.
I don’t know if he’s drunk or a pervert.
I do know I need his grimy hands off me.
“Let go!” I push at his arms.
But the more I struggle, the more excited he gets. Doesn’t help that the DJ just urged everyone to grab a partner and ‘go wild’.
“Hey!” I try to elbow my captor. “I said—”
“Get your hands off my woman,” a deep, dangerous voice crawls beneath the noise in the club.
I look up.
Gasp.
Brett.
He’s staring the handsy dancer down, fists pulled at his sides and eyes hard as silver marbles.
The guy releases me immediately. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean no disrespect.”