He chuckles and offers his arm out to me. I glance down at it, then back up at him, my face balled up. Again, he laughs and lowers his arm to his side. Like I thought.
“Understood.” He waves his hand in front of him. “After you.” I move forward, and he falls in step beside me. “If you don’t mind, I’ll accompany you to dinner and sit beside you at the table.”
I stop mid-step and turn to face him, frowning.
“Why? What’s with the sudden concern?”
He holds up his hands, palms out, shaking his head.
“No ulterior motive, honest. You might not believe this—or you may, I don’t know—but I’m just as much of an outsider here as you are.” When I arch my eyebrow at that, he gives a low laugh. “Okay, maybe notas much. But I’m a runner-up.” He smiles. When I don’t return it, he sighs and rubs a hand over his neat, short, tapered beard. “There’s no need for me to stand here and lie to you. We both know who’s the favored son. Who’s the respected one. When we walk in there”—he jerks his head in the direction of the dining room—“it will be like a king holding court, and his subjects paying tribute. And I’m one of those subjects. Not a brother. Not family. Not in that room.”
He falls silent, and he slides his hands in the front pockets of his suit pants. There’s no anger in his voice, nor in his eyes. Just a faraway look of… acceptance, resignation. And maybe a hint of loneliness.
That, I can relate to. A little too well.
In this moment, memories of times in the past when Michelle was preoccupied with running after Marcus, plotting how to position Asad, or shopping, and when Asad was busy being mentored by my father, waver in my head. That left me and Kareem alone in my childhood home. And in those times, we got along. We actually had… fun. Watching reruns ofSupernaturaltogether. Him trying to teach me how to play his video games. Me teaching him how to make explosive stink bombs with my chemistry sets. Yeah… I forgot about that. They were few and far between, especially as we grew older. But Kareem had been my rare ports of warm kindness in a protracted, bleak, and cruel storm.
Funny how I didn’t remember that until just now.
“Sometimes being invisible is better than being seen. Less of a target on your back that way,” I say. “Also, in a room full of people who love to hear themselves talk, silence can’t be repeated or misquoted.”
That distant glaze dissipates, and his full lips curl into a slight smile. Without the blinding intensity of Asad’s magnetism and innate, burning sexuality casting its long, deep shadow, Kareem’s handsomeness is in full bloom. The lovely, dark eyes he inherited from his mother, the strong facial features, and wide, sensual mouth combine to form an attractiveness that undoubtedly draw him his fair share of attention. Even though just a few inches shorter than Asad and with the leaner build of a swimmer, he still exudes a quiet strength, albeit less intense… overwhelming.
It’s… pleasant.
“I don’t think I’ve ever thought of it that way. Can’t say I’ve ever considered being ignored a benefit.”
“I don’t have a problem with being invisible to people. I could give a fuck about that. The issue is when I begin to feel unseen. There’s a big difference.”
He nods. Then smiles, and it reaches his eyes, the dark brown gleaming. “I love my mother and brother, but sometimes them muthafuckas gotta be the most obtuse muthafuckas breathing.”
I frown, a little taken aback. “What do you mean by that?”
“Just what I said,” he says, still wearing that smile before walking forward again. “You’re the best of us and neither one of them see or value that.”
“And you do?” I snort.
“I do.” He cups my elbow and guides me into the room where almost all the guests sit on either side of the long, beautifully laid table. Kareem pulls a chair out for me nearest the door and waits for me to sit before leaning down and murmuring close to my ear, “And I’m learning to more and more.”
Not a little puzzled and surprised, I follow his tall, wiry form as he rounds the end of the table and sinks into the chair across from me. A server offers him another beer, and okay, it suddenly makes sense.
Hell, I might join him on whatever bullshit he’s on since I’m about to be on my third drink. When I hold up my nearly emptytumbler, another waiter appears as if out of thin air with a refilled whiskey.
I set the glass on the table and shift my gaze—and find myself ensnared in Asad’s. That unblinking, hard stare reflects nothing, his expression as blank as the sheet of glass in the window behind him. And yet, his rage reaches me from the length of the table, seeking me out from among the other guests, skimming my cheek with blunt, ghostly fingernails. It’s in the almost indolent manner he holds his tumbler of whiskey. To the untrained eye, the grasp is relaxed, casual. But the tight skin across his knuckles, the tendon running along his wrist betrays the emotion no one but me most likely sees. Feels.
Asad sits at the far head of the table, with Aryn one side of him and Michelle on the other—places of honor for his woman and his mother. My chest tightens, a titanium band of pressure squeezing tight around my chest. Prickles of heat sting my scalp and race down the nape of my neck to streak along my spine. It’s ridiculous. I don’t want to sit at his side, don’t want to be claimed by him. To be acknowledged by him. Yet…
Yet, I can easily imagine my salad fork buried in his neck for playing with me.
This shit right here is why I’ve stayed single and preferred my hand and toys over dealing with a man. Men like Asad—like my grandfather, like Marcus—they’re good for nothing but games and felonies.
Tearing my attention from him, I focus on the first course of velouté, with a choice of seafood or vegetables. Lively banter flows around me as I consume the savory, creamy soup. Amir Brookson, a Cross street boss, who sits on my left and Akira Sato, on my right, attempt to draw me into conversation. But I politely but firmly shut that down when I realize they’re just attempting to figure out who I am and my purpose in being there.
Is it pathetic that my own father’s soldiers aren’t aware of my identity? That they don’t know I’m the reason they eat? Yeah, it’s sad and misogynistic as fuck. So is the fact that the womengathered at this table are only here for decoration for the men. But hell, if Marcus, and now Asad, refuses to enlighten them about who I am and what I mean to this organization, then I won’t either.
But this display of sexism is why I’ve kept my activities separate from Cross secret. One day, I’ll be the plug, and all of the men sitting here will need me. Will come begging me.
I smile.
