Authors: Brandon Massey

Within the Shadows (8 page)

BOOK: Within the Shadows

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“Why aren’t you at work? Do they pay you six figures to sit at home and bug your friends?”

“Took the day off. I got it like that. Wanna stop by later and play ball?”

A young black woman entered the coffee shop. About to answer Eric, Andrew found himself unable to speak. He did something he hardly ever did: he gaped at the woman.

She was absolutely gorgeous.

Wearing a yellow sundress and sandals, the woman strolled to the counter. The dress, swishing with her confident steps, outlined an exquisitely proportioned body. All of the men in the café, gawking at her, seemed to be holding their breaths, as if breathing too hard would blow her through the doors and out of their lives.

The woman wore a gentle smile, clearly accustomed to making men pause whenever she entered the vicinity.

“Still there, bro?” Eric said.

Andrew swallowed. “Man, you won’t believe this woman who walked in here.”

“Run it down for me.” Excitement crackled in Eric’s voice. He was deeply committed to his wife, Andrew knew, but he loved to savor the single life vicariously through Andrew. “What’s she look like?”

Andrew watched the woman place her order. She moved her weight from one foot to the other, and her shapely hips shifted, teasingly.

“Not a ten,” he said.

“What?”

“Off the damn charts.”

“Get out,” Eric said. Then quickly: “You for real?”

“Most def. You know I don’t say that too often.”

“Married?”

The woman adjusted the strap of her purse. He spotted her ring finger.

“No ring,” he said.

“All right. You know what that means, player.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You know what, fool! Time to spit some game.”

The woman received her drink, glided to the side counter. She added sugar and milk to her beverage, stirred it. She moved with fluid grace, like a dancer.

“I don’t know about that,” Andrew said. “I came here to write, not mack women.”

“Man, if you don’t talk to that girl, I’ma come through this phone and drag you to her myself.”

The woman threaded between tables, found a vacant one in the corner opposite Andrew. Judging from the elegant way she carried herself, she might have been sitting down for a dinner at Spago’s.

“What about Carmen?” Andrew said.

“What about her? You were the one who said Carmen might not be the one. You’re only friends. Remember?”

“Yeah, but—”

“But what?”

The woman daintily sipped her coffee. She reached inside her purse and withdrew a paperback book.

Andrew could not believe his luck.

“Gotta go,” he said. “I’m gonna talk to her. Later.”

While Eric shouted player strategies at him, Andrew clicked off the phone.

Sweat oiled his palms. He rubbed them dry on the lap of his jeans. Although every man in the café continued to admire the woman, none of them approached her. He understood why. She was so beautiful that the idea of stepping to her was intimidating. It was easy to imagine that she heard and rejected dozens of proposals every day. Few men possessed the nerve to possibly add their names to the Shot Down list.

He rarely initiated conversation with women he saw in public places. He’d been introduced to most of his past girlfriends by mutual friends, or had met them at work, church, or house parties. He en-vied men who could suavely approach any women who caught their eye. He just didn’t have the nerve to hang himself on the line like that.

But this time, he had an edge: a legitimate reason to talk to her.

He drew in a deep breath. He sucked on a Certs for a minute.

Then he rose, and walked in her direction.

A few feet away from her, Andrew paused.

This close, she was even more breathtaking. Dark hair flowed to her slim shoulders in luxuriant waves. Her smooth, reddish-brown skin shone with a healthy glow.

Reading, she didn’t sense his approach.

“Excuse me, miss?”

She looked up. She had large, striking hazel eyes. Sculpted cheek-bones. Full lips.

He guessed that she was biracial. Probably had African American and Caucasian blended in her genes. He wasn’t one of those brothers who dated only light-skinned women. He’d dated sisters from all ranges of the color spectrum. To him, beauty was beauty.

And this woman possessed it, in abundance.

Her gaze met his. But caution framed her fine features.

“Yes?” she asked, in a flat, heard-it-all-before tone. But he caught the hint of a musical voice, with a soft Southern accent.

“Is that a good book?” he said.

She measured him with a cool gaze. As if she were trying to figure out where this line was going, and if she cared to listen.

Feeling his opportunity slipping away, he pressed on: “If it’s not a good book, I’d feel bad.”

Curiosity flickered in her eyes.

“Why would you feel bad?” she asked.

Time for the money shot.

“Because I wrote it.”

She blinked. “Pardon me?”

“Check out the inside of the back cover.”

She flipped to the back. It was his second novel,
One Night,
which had been originally published in hardcover, and had been issued in paperback four months ago. He’d supplied his publisher with a recent picture for the mass-market edition.

She examined the photo, looked at him.

She smiled, hesitantly. “You’re Mark Justice?”

“I don’t normally go around putting myself out like this,” he said. “But when I see a beautiful woman reading my work . . . well, I had to stop by to introduce myself.”

She favored him with a smile that displayed a flawless set of pearly whites.

He wanted to pump his fist in the air, like a football player who’d scored a game-winning touchdown.

“Mark Justice is my pen name,” he said. “My real name is Andrew Wilson. And you are?”

“Lalamika,” she said. “Most people simply call me Mika.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mika.” He offered his hand, and she shook it. She had soft skin, slender fingers, manicured nails. The sensation of her skin against his made him tingle. He gave her hand a firm squeeze before he released it.

“Mind if I have a seat?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

He slid into the chair across from her. Her perfume reached him—a jasmine scent—and filled his head with sweet fantasies.

She tapped the book. “To answer your first question, this is an excellent novel. I’m thoroughly enjoying it.”

“Thanks. Want me to sign it for you?”

“Would you, please? I’d love that.”

He unclipped the pen from his shirt pocket and inscribed,
To Mika, the loveliest woman ever to grace a Starbucks,
on the title page. He signed “Mark Justice” with a bold, looping signature.

“Thanks so much. I’ll treasure this.”

Her eyes, radiating warmth and interest, took him in. Being the focus of her attention gave him a temporary brain freeze. She was so beautiful that he could scarcely believe he was sitting in front of her.

Get it together, man, or she’s gonna boot you from the table.

Thankfully, she spoke first.

“I’ve never met a published author before,” she said.

His mind kicked back into gear. “Not surprising. Writers are generally an introverted bunch. We spend most of our time locked alone in cubbyholes, scribbling away.”

“What brought you out of solitude this morning?”

“A little birdie told me that if I did go out, I’d meet a lovely woman who enjoys my books.”

Her laughter was like celestial music.

“Actually, I come here every Tuesday morning to write,” he said. “What brings you here?”

“I stopped in for a coffee break.” She raised her cup to her lips, sipped. “Do you find it distracting to write in public? It can get rather noisy in here.”

“Doesn’t bother me. I need the social element sometimes, breaks up the monotony of sitting at home.”

“Hmm.” She ran her fingers through her hair. He wanted to lose his hands in those silky black strands. “Do you write for a living, Andrew?”

“Been doing it for nine months now. I’ve been blessed to be able to make a good living doing what I love.”

“It’s certainly a blessing. But I wonder, why do you use a pseudonym? Do you have something to hide?” Mirth gleamed in her eyes.

“You want the truth?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t know where the pen name came from,” he said. “Really. It just popped into my head one day.”

“Is that so?”

“I was trying to write stuff under my real name, for a while, and not getting anywhere—and then this idea for a thriller came to me, along with the idea that I should write it under the name of Mark Justice. That book turned out to be
The Comeback
, the first novel I published.”

“Fascinating.” She smiled. “I love that name Mark Justice. It makes me think of strength, bravery.”

He grinned. “He’s my heroic alter ego.”

He wanted to transition the conversation to more personal matters. She didn’t wear a wedding band, but that didn’t mean she was single. And if she was single, she still could be involved in a serious relationship.

“So, Mika. What do you do when you aren’t making Starbucks runs?”

“Whatever strikes my fancy. I have a broad variety of interests. Music, art, literature, films. I love to dance.”

“You move like a dancer, I noticed. Graceful.”

“I took lessons as a child. I suppose they’ve stayed with me over the years.”

“That’s cool. I like to dance, too.”

“I love to salsa. Can you do that?”

“Matter of fact, I can. I learned a couple of years ago.”

“You’re an interesting man.” She leaned closer. “So, can I ask you a question, Andrew?”

“Shoot.”

“Why do men avoid asking the questions that are obviously on their minds?”

He sat back. She’d caught him off guard.

She laughed.

“Of course, you’d like to know if we have common interests,” she said. “It’s a perfectly appropriate question. But there are other topics that need to be discussed first.”

“Such as?”

“Are you married?” she asked.

“You get right down to it,” he said. He tried to avoid showing how surprised he was that she was interested in him. Only in his wildest fantasies had he ever imagined that he’d have a shot with a woman like her. But here she was, coming on to
him
. He half-mused that someone had hired her to play an elaborate joke on him, like in that crazy MTV show,
Punk’d
.

“I’ve been accused of being direct more than once,” she said, in an utterly serious tone. “I stand guilty as charged.”

“Well, see this?” He waved his unadorned ring finger.

“Don’t take this as an insult, but that doesn’t mean anything. Far too many married men walk around without wearing their rings.”

“I’m flying solo,” he said. “You?”

Smiling, she wriggled her bare ring finger.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he said. They laughed.

“No, I’m not married,” she said.

“Boyfriend?”

She shrugged. “Nothing serious at the moment. How about you?” “Same story.” He thought of Carmen, then switched off the thought. Carmen was just a friend.

“Are you gay? Are you a supposedly straight man on the down low, as they call it?” She smiled. “Don’t laugh, a woman has to ask these questions these days.”

“I’m strictly for the ladies. You?”

“Now that’s a funny question. But I suppose it goes both ways.”

“Do you?” He grinned.

“Absolutely not.”

“Any kids?”

“None. Do you have any children, Andrew?”

“I’ve got three, and a fourth on the way.”

Her smile froze.

“Relax, I was talking about my novels. They’re like children to me.”

She laughed lightly. “Funny man. You got me with that one.”

She sipped her coffee, her gaze never leaving his face.

Stunning looks, sophisticated, down-to-earth, and intelligent. He wanted to pinch himself. It was too good to be true.