Page 14 of The Dis-Graced
“Look, I’m sorry, Devon. It’s just that I have a lot going on right now, and I have to structure my time—”
“No, I get it. You need to focus on the things that matter.”
My gut twists with dread knowing that one wrong word could sink him into a mood where he’d be off to find some low-level drug dealer for a fix. “It’s not that—”
“Our meeting was just about done.” Grace gets up from her seat.
“You’re pulling out of the deal?” I ask in surprise.
She gives a big exhale and cocks a lopsided grin. She’s good at hiding her emotions, but I suppose she’d have to be with her line of work. You’d never guess the turmoil she was in by looking at her.
“No, but I have to pack so I can relocate for the assignment,” she says. “Call me when you’re ready.”
Devon places himself between us. “It was nice meeting you, errr…”
“Grace,” she says, holding her hand out to my brother, “and we’ve met once before. A long time ago.”
“Grace, that’s a beautiful name,” he says, taking her hand, but instead of shaking it, he brings it to his lips to kiss her knuckles.
I roll my eyes at their exchange, utterly failing to mask my annoyance. Devon, for all his faults, has always been a sensitive type and a romantic at heart, traits that women tend to eat it up. I’ve had a lot of women pursue me over the years, vying for my attention and to be seen on my arm, but no one has ever fallen for me the way they have for Devon.
Grace turns to leave, and I wait until she’s already out the door before I pull out my phone and message her.
Drake:I’m sorry about the rude interruption.
Grace:No worries. Family is important.
Drake:I’ll send a car to pick you up and bring you to my place at around 7 tonight. We’ll go over the details of the assignment. If you’re fully on board, be prepared to surrender your freedom.
Grace:Yes, Warden Dallanger.
Chapter 5
Grace
The thought of being stuck in an apartment for months on end is a nightmare to me. One of the reasons I went into journalism was so I could travel and see the world, but unless I’m prepared to make some concessions, I’m never going to get to do that again.
Although we will be meeting for business, I decided against wearing formal attire since I’ll be staying at Drake’s penthouse, and instead opted to wear black yoga pants and an oversized shirt. My hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and I’m wearing minimal makeup, so it doesn’t look like I’m trying to attract his attention. With everything going on in my life, the last thing I need is more accusations of me behaving inappropriately.
And honestly, I can’t blame Drake for how he’s been acting. Major news sites are reporting that I was sleeping with a subject I was supposed to be doing a piece on, and although I can deny it, the evidence is stacked against me.
Drake’s driver pulls into a garage in what’s known as Billionaires’ Row on the southern edge of Central Park and lets me out. I make my way to an elevator where I’m brought to the eighty-fifth floor, and it opens to a modern, white decor.
Hot damn, I’m being kept in a gilded-cage.
A silver and glass chandelier hangs down from the entryway’s impossibly tall ceiling, illuminating the open floor plan. The largest apartment I’ve ever lived in could probably fit in the entrance space.
“Good evening, Grace,” I hear Drake say, but I’m too busy gawking at the contemporary glamour to properly address him. It’s beautiful, and so clean, but not at all sterile.
When my eyes finally draw over to Drake, I see that it’s not just the decor that’s impressive. Drake is dressed casually in a plain white tee shirt that’s so tight I can see every defined line of his muscles.
This whole assignment will be a test of my will power, which admittedly isn’t very strong.
“Would you like a cup of wine?” he asks.
“Ummm, sure.”
“Follow me.”
