Can't Get Enough (Skyland, #3)(40)
This is not that. I know it’s not.
Maverick: You may see this message later. I know you’re busy. It’s not hard information to find, but sometimes when we have a lot going on, we just don’t occur to ourselves. And a friend sending you something you could have easily found on your own prompts you to act.
A line of bubbles starts and stops on the screen, and it’s hard to envision this powerful man unsure of the next thing to say, but I sense that in this, whatever bond we’ve formed in just a few conversations and text messages, he’s as uncertain how to safely govern this as I am.
Maverick: I know friends is a stretch since we’ve only been face-to-face twice, but I’m familiar with what you’re navigating and am here if you need anything.
I caress the screen, moved by his sincerity, but firm my lips and straighten my shoulders.
Me: Thank you so much for this. I’m going into a meeting, but wanted to let you know how much I appreciate your thoughtfulness. Have a good one.
That have a good one is how I shut shit down. That’s my exit line and signals I’m done with this for now. I have to be done with this… with him for now. Maybe for good.
The way he made me feel Saturday night is dangerous. Not just the way his eyes flowed over my body, or the way I could feel him watching me throughout the event. There has been something inordinately intimate about every conversation we’ve had, even though there haven’t been many. He has managed to peel a layer back each time, exposing what only a few people ever get to see.
I have goals. One of them is to EP my first show, Chapel’s show. Moving into television and film is the next phase of my career, and I’m not squandering this opportunity, ruining it for a man who makes my heart race. I’ve seen too many women prioritize other people and sacrifice their own dreams. I see mothers do it all the time, further solidifying it couldn’t be me. I’ve seen wives do it. I saw Soledad do it for years with her gutter-rat husband, Edward. Hell, I saw Mama do it with my father, neglecting many of the things she wanted to do for her small business to help him with his. I won’t be led around by my heart and my pussy with some man holding the leash.
I take the screen dark, putting the phone away without waiting for his reply. My goals are the priority.
Nothing will make me lose sight of that.
My desk phone buzzing breaks the quiet of my resolve.
“Yeah, Skipper?”
“Got the network on the line,” she says over speaker.
Sons of bitches trying to get over on my client.
“The hell you say,” I mutter under my breath and press the button to pick up the call. “Gentlemen, let’s discuss this contract.”
By the end of the call, my blood pressure is probably through the roof, but I’ve gotten most of what I want. Some things they won’t budge on and I can’t blame them. Imani thinks that her on-screen diva persona works everywhere, but I got a wake-up call for her. It doesn’t always work in the boardroom.
“So did you shove it all the way up their ass?” Imani asks when I call after the network conversation. “That ridiculous offer?”
“It got pretty far up the ass,” I answer breezily. “Not far up enough to feel good.”
“Oooh, I like that analogy. My last boyfriend taught me everything I know about prostate orgasms. Most men are really missing out. The gays know. If you tap that button, he going off, honey. We used a dildo because I couldn’t imagine my finger in his booty hole. I mean, that’s where he shits. I could have used a latex glove, but he—”
“Can we, um, stop this line of… of talk?” I practically beg.
I thought I had no filter, but Imani is the gold medalist of mouth diarrhea, which is why she shines on reality television.
“But I was just sharing—”
“Too much,” I tell her, allowing a bit of humor into my tone to remove the sting. “I promise you I don’t want to hear about you sticking your finger up nobody’s ass unless you’re sitting on Andy Cohen’s couch telling a million other people and we’re both getting paid for it.”
“Whew, chile,” Imani cackles. “That’s why I love you, Hennessy. You don’t pull no punches.”
I’ve gotten used to the nickname. Considering how much money this woman stands to make if we steer her career properly, I’ll tolerate a corny moniker if it means a hefty commission.
“We got most of what we wanted,” I tell her. “But there were a few sticking points they won’t yield on.”
“Like what?” Her gum chewing on the other line escalates, which is always my gauge for how close we are to a meltdown. “It better not be the wardrobe allowance. I’m on TV and have an image to maintain. If they think I’m—”
“They are fine with a modest wardrobe allowance, but the thing they can’t really budge on is you not being filmed with half the cast members.”
“But I hate them.” The gum smacking increases, popping like bullets at a shooting range. “That’s not just for the cameras. I legit can’t stand them two-faced bitches.”
“They’re aware. That’s kind of the point of the show.” I explain what should already be self-evident. “That’s why they put you guys in these situations where you’re bound to attack each other. It’s good television. If you don’t give them that, you may as well leave the show.”