Page 1 of Before I Should Leave
My suitcase was still halfway open on my bed when I answered the phone, speaker on, silk robe tied tight, and my assistant’s stressed-out voice boomed through.
“Please don’t kill me.”
I rolled my eyes, tossing my lash case onto the dresser. “Every time you start with that, I know I’m about to be annoyed.”
“I had to switch your car service. Elite Black canceled last minute.”
“What?” I turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows lining my bedroom wall, the evening sky beyond moody with thick gray clouds. “Jonnae, I cannot miss this flight. I told you I wanted the car downstairs by seven-thirty. It’s already 6:47.”
She sighed. “I know, I know, but I got somebody. He’s already en route. He should be there by seven-fifteen.”
I zipped up my carry-on and walked it over to the foyer. “And what ‘somebody’ would that be?”
“New company. Real low-key. Black-owned. I found them on a referral thread from another client. One of the drivers just went independent, ex-military—”
I held up a hand to nobody but myself. “If I have to Google him, I don’t want him.”
“You don’t have to Google him,” she said quickly. “Look, just… trust me, Emani. You’re gonna get there. It’s one ride... and one fine-ass man who’s apparently efficient and punctual.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” she said too fast. “Nothing.”
“Girl.”
She laughed nervously. “Look, just get dressed. Call me if anything’s off, but I swear he came highly recommended.”
I hung up with a short, “Mmm,” and set my phone on the kitchen counter. I hated changes, especially the day before a high-stakes speaking gig.
The Women in Tech & Finance Summit had invited me back for the third year in a row. I was the opening speaker this time. My face was on the damn flyers. Emani Wells, bestselling author ofTake Your Power Back, Forbes-featured businesscoach, and proud, card-carrying member of the “Don’t Fuck With Me” club.
I ran my own consulting firm, flipped my first viral blog post into a brand, and had made it a habit of walking into rooms where I wasn’t expected and setting shit on fire. So no, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for any last-minute surprises, especially not ones involving my transportation. The weatherman said heavy rain was coming, and I just wanted to get on my flight already.
Still, I threw on my airport look, which consisted of a black ribbed two-piece set under a long trench, gold hoops, and weatherized Uggs. My silk press was just a few hours done, and I contemplated leaving it wrapped under my bonnet, then quickly decided against it. Combing my bob down, it flowed effortlessly to my shoulders, then I applied some gloss to my lips. My brown skin was glowing, curves hitting, and I looked every bit the woman that I knew I was.
By the time I sprayed my signature scent and slid on my heels, I got the text from Jonnae with the car details. No logo. Just a matte black truck. Driver’s name: Diesel.
I made my way down to the lobby, catching the doorman’s nod before stepping out into the evening air. Fall was in full effect, and this evening was a breezy one. The first raindrops tapped at the pavement as the truck eased to the curb. When the driver's door opened, I looked up from my phone and froze for a second.
This wasn’t some pressed-in-suit corporate driver with tight gloves and a Bluetooth headset. He stepped out tall as hell in a black short-sleeved fitted tee with tattoos inked into both muscular arms and even crawling up his neck. Black jeans that showcased his long, bow legs. Black Timbs on his feet. Braids under a black fitted cap. Fine in a rugged, make-your-life-complicated kind of way.
He opened the back door like a gentleman. He didn’t smile or flinch, though. “Ms. Wells?” His voice was deep and smooth, but unbothered like he didn’t need to prove a damn thing.
I hesitated. Not because I was scared—please—but because I wasn’t used to drivers looking like him. I cleared my throat. “Emani.”
“Diesel.” He nodded once, reaching for my luggage. “We tight on time. You ready?”
I climbed into the back seat, catching a whiff of his cologne. “Don’t let the rain slow you down,” I murmured as he closed the door behind me.
He put my luggage in the trunk and then got in the front seat, adjusting the mirror to glance at me once. That’s when it started. . . that quiet little crackle in the air, subtle but impossible to ignore.
The city lights blurred against the rain sliding down the window as we pulled off. It was that thick, restless kind of rain. The kind that made the roads slick and the evening feel heavier than usual.
Diesel drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, long fingers tapping slowly like he wasn’t the least bit concerned about the storm or the traffic piling up around us. I leaned back against the seat, adjusting my Birkin beside me and checking the time. My flight was in two hours. Barring an act of God or a crash on the interstate, I’d make it.Barely.
I cleared my throat, not meaning to speak but somehow hearing myself say, “You used to drive for Elite?”
His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror; sharp and observant. “Nah, a different company. I’m independent now. Just started takin’ clients through referrals a few months ago.”
