Page 19 of Faded Rhythm
I hear her beforeI see her…the quiet pad of socked feet across the floor, the faint clink of silverware on ceramic.
She appears in the doorway of the study, holding a plate with steam rising off of it. “I had a little extra,” she says as if she needs to explain being hospitable to me.
I sit up straighter in the worn leather chair. She walks the plate over and sets it down in front of me on the desk. Steak, mashed potatoes, roasted asparagus.
“Thank you,” I mutter, genuinely taken aback.
“I wasn’t sure what you like, but…well, like I said, I had extra, so…”
I pick up the fork. “This smells amazing.”
She lingers for a second like she wants to say something else, but she turns around and walks out, closing the door behind her.
I cut into the steak. Take a bite. My brows lift before I can help it.
Damn.
It’s perfect. Juicy, seasoned. Potatoes are buttery. Asparagus has the perfect bite to it, and a slight taste of lemon and garlic.
A beautiful woman who’s sweet, smart, and can cook like this?
Brett is a goddamn fool.
I clean my plate, chewing while staring at my laptop screen. There’s still work to be done.
I’m looking into Bobby “Dime” Graves when an article catches my eye.Atlanta Journal Constitution. 2009.
“Top Rap Artist Redd Clay Killed in Atlanta Shooting.”
Damn. I remember that. I’d just turned 18 and joined the military.
His mama named him Clayton Wilson, but he’d named his artist persona after Georgia red clay. And he was something. Black Lace Records’ crown jewel. Five number one albums. Multiple Grammy wins. The city worshiped him. When he was killed—drive-by, they said—people considered it a national tragedy. Started calling him the Tupac of the south.
The unofficial rumor was that his rap rivalry with The Texican was to blame, but nobody was ever charged. The Texican never set foot in Atlanta again, though.
I sit back in the chair, staring at the grainy black and white photo of the crime scene tape.
I wonder how it connects.Ifit connects. The Texican was a loudmouth, for sure, but he wasn’t sloppy like that from what I remember. Too much heat for not enough reward.
Maybe it was somebody else.
I open another tab and start pulling what I can on Black Lace’s finances.
But before I can get anywhere, the door bursts open and two little bodies charge in, tiny feet pounding, high-pitched squeals of laughter cutting through my focus.
“They begged me,” Sable says. “They said they can’t go to sleep without saying goodnight to their cousin.”
She air-quotes cousin, making me smile.
Then I sit back, a little stunned. The older one hugs me first, then the smaller one. I don’t know what to do with my hands at first, but I gently return the hugs, my eyes on Sable.
She’s watching intently. As she should.
Their little arms around my neck are warm and eager. Their affection is unconditional.
I don’t know why that hits me as hard as it does.
Maybe because I’ve never been touched without their being a motive behind it.
