“When I came back you were like that,” he says, crossing the room to stand in front of me. “I had to, Lo. You see how beautiful that shot is? How beautiful you are? How could I not take it?”

“You violated my privacy,” I reply. Quiet. Vehement. “Not only did you have no right to take it, but to show it? Without a release from me?”

“But I—”

“Stop.” I hold up a hand. “I didn’t come to hear your side of it, or how you’ve rationalized this to be okay. It’s not. I could ruin not just your show, but your career. You know that, right?”

“Wow.” He shakes his head, and a malicious smile contorts his lips. “You have a very high opinion of yourself, huh? To think you have that much power. That anyone would pay attention to a glorified fashion flunky.”

“I could remind you that this ‘fashion flunky’ is, for all intents and purposes, the right hand of one of the most powerful voices in fashion,” I say, barely controlling my anger. “Or I could remind you of, you know, the law, and how a lawsuit at this stage in your career would be devastating.”

I step so close our bodies almost touch. His breath comes heavy, and he swallows. I tip up on my toes to whisper.

“We both know what this is really about, Chase,” I say, making sure my lips graze his ear. He groans. “Pussy. Mine. And you being a spoiled little boy because you can’t have it anymore.”

I glance down to see his fingers twitching at his sides.

“You can barely breathe and are trembling to touch me,” I tell him. “You tell me who has the power here.”

“Lo, I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says hoarsely. “Maybe it started casual, convenient, but at some point it became more.”

“Not for me.” I step back. “I’m not trying to be cruel or heartless, but you crossed a line. Was this supposed to get my attention?”

“You wouldn’t take me seriously,” he says, sulky, petulant. “I want you, Lo.”

“Where do men like you get off thinking you can have anything you want? I want the photo down, or this becomes a legal issue. Also, I want any digital copies and the print hanging out there. I’ll leave delivery instructions.”

I’m done and ready for my night out. I head for the door, but Chase stops me, not turning me around, but grabbing both my arms so tightly I wince.

“That’s it?” he asks from behind me, grinding himself into my ass. “You think you can walk out and act like we never happened?”

He presses himself into me hard, flattening me against the door. My heart kicks me in the ribs. Sweat springs from my pores. A familiar but long-lost dread unfurls in my belly. I draw a deep breath.

“Let me go, Chase,” I say, calm, hoping he doesn’t smell my fear. “Or this gets worse for you.”

“Worse for me?” he asks with a heartless laugh. “You said you had things to figure out, but you’re giving it to him, aren’t you? You’re fucking that ballplayer.”

I force myself not to squirm, or try to free myself from his iron hold. Trying and failing to get free will only reiterate that I’m helpless. That he’s stronger. That I’m vulnerable . . . like before. Like that day. Dark spots appear before my eyes, and I blink in hopes of clearing them. Of refocusing.

“You’ve asked me before about the voodoo,” I rasp, hoping I’ve kept the panic from my voice.

He goes still behind me.

“Yeah, now I have your attention, you dickless bastard,” I spit. “Let me go, or I promise you pain. You think you can hurt me because you’re bigger and stronger?” I bark a humorless laugh. “That’s not power. I can make your life miserable for years to come in ways you cannot even imagine. One curse would do it.”

I turn my head and glare at him over my shoulder. “I swear it. Test me, Chase.”

In the silence, I can almost hear his thoughts churning, his fear rising to match and soar above mine as he remembers the herbs and amulets and stones in my apartment. Wondering what they’re for and what I’m capable of.

“Let me go,” I repeat, infusing my voice with returning confidence. “And I’ll leave instructions for you to deliver my photograph.”

His fingers loosen enough for me to wrench away and turn. I raise my knee and aim straight for his balls. They’re for show anyway. He crumples, his hands between his legs and his face wreathed in agony. I shove his shoulder so he falls on his back. He rolls over, his face all red and spotty. I stand over him.

“I want my photo,” I tell him, my voice hard. “And to answer your question about the ballplayer, you’re right.”

I squat down and find his pain-squinted eyes.

“He can get it.”

Kenan and I stand in front of the restaurant a few minutes earlier than we told his sister, Kenya, we’d meet her and her friend. The day is cooling some, but is still very warm. Too warm for the elbow-length sleeves of my top, but Chase’s rough handling left bruises on my upper arms. I don’t feel like answering questions, or talking Kenan out of beating Chase into a pulp. I have better things to do. Like see freaking Grip in concert!

I think the shirt looks fine, though. It’s black-and-white-striped, tightly molded to my torso and cropped above my belly button. I paired it with a black tulle skirt, flaring out and kind of flirty, and some comfortable red flats because . . . walking.

“You look so beautiful,” Kenan whispers, his cool breath fanning the hair at my ear.

“So do you.”

And I ain’t ever lied. He is . . . magnificent is my favorite way to describe him, and it still doesn’t properly convey the effect this man has on me. The towering height and the breadth of his chest and shoulders. The legendary arms that don’t bulge, but are roped with muscles and veins. And as tall as he is, he’s the slightest bit bowlegged.

I die.

Like, really, God? You had to put that cherry on top?

The mahogany skin. That striking face with jutting bones and onyx brows and piercing eyes, so dark and like a one-way mirror, seeing out but not letting you see in.

But he lets me see in. That’s probably the sexiest thing about him, and that is saying something. My man is fine.

I just called Kenan my man. After telling him today that I don’t belong to him, I just claimed him in my head. And I think I would cut a bitch if she tried to take him from me. Exes included.

“Babe?” Kenan peers down at me, frowning. “You okay?”

No, I’m not okay, I scream in my head. I’m falling for you, and this is not part of the plan. Shiiiiiiiiiit. And double shit.

“Uh, yeah.” I fan one hand. “It’s a little hot.”

“Let’s wait for them inside.” He thumbs over his shoulder to the restaurant. I glance up at the mustard yellow awning emblazoned with Serafina. It’s one of my favorite spots for Italian. The girls and I have hit it a few times after The Met, but it’s close to Central Park, too.

I nod and Kenan takes my elbow to guide me in. He’s also, unlike Chase and most of the douches I’ve been with, a gentleman. I need to start my list of reasons to stop falling. Not reasons why I should.

We take the stone stairs to the top level where there’s balcony seating. It’s always crowded, and the restaurant doesn’t have a ton of space, but the food is great, and we can get to the park pretty quickly from here.

We’ve ordered drinks and an appetizer when his sister arrives. She’s tall, which shouldn’t surprise me considering she is Kenan’s sister and plays in the WNBA. Her features also echo Kenan’s in subtle ways. He stands, his smile wide and natural, as he reaches to hug her.

“Kenya,” he says, turning to me. “This is Lotus DuPree. Lotus, my sister, Kenya.”

“What’s up?” Kenya studies me carefully, cautiously. I sense the protectiveness for her brother, and I like her right away. He’s been through a lot, and she should vet anyone who enters his life and has such intimate access to him.

“Hi.” I stand and reach for her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you, too.” She slants a teasing look at Kenan. “I’ve heard sooooo much about you. Like, so much.”

“Shut up, Ken,” Kenan says, shooting her a quick frown, and they seem so much like a typical brother and sister it makes me smile. “Introduce me to your friend.”

A slim woman steps into view from behind Kenya, holding her hand. She’s pretty with smooth skin the color of rich mocha. No makeup that I can detect. Long, curly lashes frame her big brown eyes. She wears baggy jeans, Chucks and a white Public Enemy T-shirt. Cornrows peek out from the edges of an Oakland Raiders cap.

“This is Jade,” Kenya says. “Jade, my brother, Kenan, and his . . .” She looks between the two of us as if she’s waiting for confirmation on how she should refer to me.

“This is my girlfriend, Lotus,” Kenan answers dryly. “Nice to meet you, Jade. I haven’t heard as much about you. Kenya’s been keeping secrets.”

“That’s aight,” Jade says with a chuckle. “Nobody been talking about her ass either.”

We all laugh, sit, and settle into easy conversation over my Chardonnay, Kenan’s water, and the beers the two girls order.

“So you work in fashion?” Kenya asks.

I’m mid-bite of my orecchiette pasta when she asks, so I gulp it down and wipe my mouth with a napkin before answering. “I do. For Jean-Pierre Louis.”

“Never heard of her,” Kenya says, picking up a slice of her pizza.

“Him,” I correct with a smile. “He’s the founding designer for JPL Maison.”

“Fancy.” Jade chuckles. “If it’s not Converse, Nike or Gap, you have to school me.”

“Kenya, your brother already told me you play ball.” I turn the question back around to them. “And what do you do, Jade?”