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True.
She shifted her gaze away from his.
“You only know my mother was sick at all because you asked me why I wanted to get into the business,” Denzin said. “Hell, I don’t even know your real name.”
She leveled her eyes with his. “None of that means I don’t care about any of you and what you’re going through,” she said, reaching over to lightly grip his hand. “Are you okay?”
He nodded and turned his attention back to his book.
His mother had suffered from a rare disease, and he insisted on being her caregiver—physically and financially. He needed both the free time and fast money that work as a courtesan afforded him. It wasn’t just his dedication to his mother and his beauty and physique that led Desdemona to hire him. She trusted him. There was no one she trusted more.
Desdemona used her pinky finger to flick her glasses back down on her nose before turning her attention back to the file before her. Once she was done with it, she reached for the all-black cross-cut paper shredder at her feet to set it atop the island. She shredded everything.
The silence was broken up only by the steadybzzzof the motor of the shredder and the occasional flip of the pages of Denzin’s book.Fahrenheit 451.
“Wasn’t there a movie with Michael B. Jordan’s fineness with the same name?” she asked, remembering watching the film on Netflix last year. “Is it good?” she asked, removing her glasses and folding them before placing them in the red alligator case.
Denzin glanced up at her. “Yeah, it’s pretty dope,” he said. “You can get it when I’m done.”
She pushed aside the nervousness she immediately felt. “No thanks. I prefer TV to books,” she said, removing three green envelopes and a stack of cash from her Louis Vuitton tote. “I get bored quick.”
“Cool,” he said from behind the book before turning another page.
Desdemona placed two thousand dollars in each envelope. Her task complete, she drummed her stiletto nails against the top of the island as she looked about the chef’s kitchen. She sighed, crossed and uncrossed her legs, and shifted in her seat.
“You’re bored.”
She eyed him.
He folded the top corner of the page and closed his book.
“I am,” she admitted, looking down at her diamond butterfly bracelet and stroking the wings of one that seemed to be in mid-flight.
“You’ve been feeling that for a while now,” he said assuredly.
“I have.”
“What’s the end game, Mademoiselle?” Denzin asked.
“Who says there is one?” she countered.
He nodded.
“The same could be said for you . . . especially with the passing of your mother,” she said.
His eyes flashed for a moment with pain that was haunting.
She knew the loss of a parent all too well.
“I’m not done yet. I’m not bored yet,” he said. “ButI have an end game.”
She leaned forward, crossing her arms atop the cool stone. “Care to share?”
“Not yet.”
Desdemona looked at her watch.
“And your exit plan?” he asked.
