Let Me Love You (McClain Brothers Book 1) Read online

  (The McClain Brothers: Book 1)

  Alexandria House

  Pink Cashmere Publishing, LLC

  Arkansas, USA

  Copyright © 2018 by Alexandria House

  Cover image by JAIDA A. PHOTOGRAPHY

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing 2018

  Pink Cashmere Publishing, LLC

  [email protected]

  http://pinkcashmerepublishing.webs.com/

  1

  I stumbled through the front doors of Bijou Park, hoping, wishing, and praying that the black coffee and plain bagel in my hands would serve to appease my boss. Peter Park was a horrible person. Temperamental, demanding, flippant, but talented and at the top of the custom jewelry game. An internship with him was an anxiety-ridden thrill ride and an opportunity most aspiring jewelers would kill for. I just happened to walk in on the right day—the day he and his assistant-slash-girlfriend received a beat down at the hands of his wife, Twyla. He was bloody and in need of a new assistant. I took advantage of his desperation by adding a little custom-jeweler training to the deal. I’d been assisting and training under him and his staff jewelers for a little under a year.

  But today I was late.

  Peter Park didn’t do late—ever.

  I nodded at Freda, the tall, ebony receptionist who could slay any fashionista even though she was in her sixties, and headed straight for the gold door with the silver lever handle that led into Mr. Park’s office. I knocked, waited, and when the door swung open to reveal a livid Twyla, I thanked the heavens for my tardiness. Twyla was a certified fool and only showed up at Bijou Park when trouble was brewing between her and Mr. Park.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Park,” I offered.

  Twyla flipped her forty-inch Remy hair extensions over her shoulder and clasped her hands to her wide hips. She was at least three inches taller and sixty pounds heavier than her Korean American husband, and a damn pit bull. Mean, jealous, violent, and destructive. Peter Park might have reigned terror down on his employees, but his wife reigned terror down on him. Oddly enough though, she liked me, probably because she didn’t see me as a threat since I didn’t dress or act like I was trying to catch a man—specifically, her man. However, I still hated being around her. With her drama-filled reality show antics, she made black women as a whole look bad.

  “Jo, honey, give us a minute. I’m in the middle of reminding my husband of a few things.”

  I glanced behind her to see Mr. Park at his desk, his silky black hair disheveled, tie crooked, glasses askew. The contents of the top of his desk were littering the floor around it. I almost felt sorry for him.

  Almost.

  But not quite.

  “Uh…sure. I’ll be in the back with Shirl.”

  “Mm-hmm.” She shut the door in my face.

  I scurried to the small office occupied by Shirlene Ramsey, the most tenured bench jeweler. Shirl’s strength was making Peter Park’s artistic visions a reality since he rarely got his hands dirty anymore, so to speak. She didn’t design jewelry, but she was excellent at interpreting others’ designs. My goal was to design and create, and I was fortunate to be able to see both sides of the process on a daily basis.

  “She still on the warpath?” Shirl asked, when I dropped into a chair next to her work station.

  “Yep. What’d he do this time? You know?”

  Shirl glanced up from the piece she was working on and shook her head. “All I know is we had all barely made it through the front doors when she stormed in yelling and screaming, but I can guess what happened.”

  I could, too. Mr. Park loved black women, surrounded himself with us here at his company, and was a compulsive cheater despite the fact that Twyla always caught up with his infidelities. It was as if he refused to stop cheating on her and she refused to take their five daughters and leave him. He cheated; she beat his ass and tore up his office. Rinse and repeat. It was a wonder if the ridiculousness of it all didn’t affect Bijou Park, but then again, half the clientele ordered custom pieces for their mistresses or side chicks. The relatability of Peter Park’s life was probably what made the business so successful.

  “You were late?” Shirl asked, her eyes on her diamond-drenched work again.

  “Yeah…overslept. I didn’t fall asleep until early this morning.”

  “Netflix or Hulu?”

  I rolled my eyes at how predictably pathetic my life was. “Hulu. Watched a bunch of Top Chef episodes.”

  Her forehead creased as she carefully added another diamond to the eagle-shaped medallion. “I didn’t know you liked to cook.”

  “I’m tryna learn how to cook.”

  “By watching Top Chef?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve picked up some good tips from that show.”

  “Girl, you better be getting you a soul food cookbook, so you can cook your way to a husband.”

  “Had one of those. I’m good.”

  “Humph. Okay...”

  I sighed as I pulled my cell from my purse to see if Mr. Park had summoned me via text as he usually did after he was able to calm his wife down and get rid of her.

  “Shutting down on me?”

  “Just checking my phone.”

  She looked up, rested her back against her chair, and gave me her full attention. “Jo, how old are you?”

  Here we go. “You already know that.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Twenty-eight,” came out on a sigh.

  “Twenty-eight and all you do is work and watch TV at home—”

  “That’s not all I do, and you know it.”

  “You didn’t let me finish. You—”

  The door to her office burst open to reveal Peter Park and his wife’s handiwork—a swollen eye, bruised cheek, and busted lip. “Jo, my office,” was all he said before leaving, rubbing his jaw as he shut the door behind him.

  I hopped up even though I was pretty sure this man was about to take his frustration with his situation out on me in some way, like having me drive all over the city for some elusive Korean dish or something. But at least I was avoiding this repetitive conversation with Shirl.

  Once in his office, he nodded toward a black Bijou Park box on his desk. “I need you to deliver this to a client. I was supposed to, but I obviously can’t now, and I’m late, so you need to leave immediately.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, because I wasn’t about to deliver something to some side chick, and if it was a man I was delivering the piece to, I wasn’t going anywhere looking like I jumped out of bed, threw on the first clothes I could find, and raced to work—which was actually what happened—but Peter Park cut me off.

  “My driver will take you there, and Oba will accompany you since the piece is quite valuable.”

  I frowned slightly. “H-how valuable?”

  “That’s a thirty thousand-dollar piece.”

  My eyes widened as they fell on the box again. I barely noticed as he stood, grabbed it, and shoved it into my hand. Then I was being pushed out his door to Oba, one of the humongous security guards who carried holstered weapons and were an ominous presence at Bijou Park because of the nature of our work.

  M
inutes later, I was in the backseat of a black Denali with heavily-tinted windows and Oba was in the front seat chatting with the driver as we made our way to—

  “Hey, uh…Oba, who are we delivering this to?” I asked.

  Oba shrugged while glancing back at me. “He didn’t tell me.”

  I didn’t ask the driver, because his old ass creeped me out. He reminded me of Samuel L. Jackson’s character in Django Unchained—gray and ornery. I did, however, lift the lid and peek inside the box at the piece, one I’d seen Todd, another bench jeweler, working on. A puffed heart made of what appeared to be zillions of tiny diamonds on a platinum chain. It was brilliant and gorgeous.

  What felt like forever later, we stopped in front of a small boutique hotel, a really nice one, and I started feeling pissed about delivering this beautiful piece of jewelry to some skank. Nevertheless, I slid out of the vehicle after the driver opened the door for me. Oba checked his phone, said, “Fifth floor. Penthouse suite,” and then motioned for me to walk ahead of him.

  I clutched the box nervously, wishing I had a bag to put it in because I was afraid I’d drop it and its contents before we made it to our destination. As if reading my mind, Oba said, “Hold on,” reached into the front seat of the SUV, and unearthed a shiny black Bijou Park sack. I took it from him, carefully sliding the box inside.

  Oba walked closely behind me as I stepped through the elegant lobby toward the elevators. My legs felt like rubber as the weight of what I was doing settled on my shoulders. I was delivering an insanely expensive piece of jewelry to someone, someone obviously rich and probably famous. What if someone had followed us from Bijou Park and tried to rob us? Sure, Oba was huge and armed, but what if a group of huge, armed dudes tried to rob us? What if they kidnapped me and held me for ransom and—the elevator dinged, making me jump, snatching me from my thoughts and prompting me to step inside. Moments later, the doors opened, and after we exited the elevator, Oba had to give me a little nudge so I would start moving toward the only door in the hallway. A cavernous bassline grew louder and louder as I approached the door, and when I knocked timidly, I doubted it could be heard over the music.

  Oba reached over my five-foot-two frame, which seemed even smaller in stature with his imposing one towering over me, and beat his fist against the door, startling me even though I saw him do it. I glanced up at him nervously. He gave me a shrug and a smirk.

  The music was lowered, and the door swung open. A man that damn near matched Oba in height and girth appeared with a scowl on his face. He and Oba were on opposite ends of the skin tone spectrum. Where Oba was dark as night, this man was extremely light-skinned with orangey-colored hair. He frowned down at me, then let his eyes climb up to Oba. That’s when a smile appeared on his face. As I stood there, he reached over my head and gave Oba dap. “‘Sup, my nigga?!”

  Oba was just as animated as he said, “Sup, Dunn?! You know…same ole grind. Shit, Park didn’t tell me we were coming to see your guy. Wish I’da known. I ain’t know what I was getting into.”

  “Who dat?” This querying voice came from inside the suite.

  “Tell Boss Man Peter Park’s folks are here with that piece,” Dunn said.

  “A’ight,” answered the voice.

  “Y’all come in,” Dunn offered, and then he smiled at me. “O, man? Who we got here?”

  I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself. Because I was running late this morning, I’d thrown on a pair of jeans and a loose t-shirt, didn’t bother to apply a stitch of makeup so the freckles that I’d always hated were prominent on my face, and my wild natural hair was pushed away from my face with a thick, cloth headband. I didn’t look hideous, but I wasn’t displaying anything that made me worthy of his leer.

  Before Oba could introduce me to Dunn and vice versa, the voice returned and I found it was attached to another behemoth of a man—all height and muscles like Oba and Dunn with a skin tone somewhere in between theirs. “Aye, the boss said y’all can go on back there,” he announced, nodding toward a door deeper in the suite.

  “A’ight, Tommy,” Oba said, looking from the voice to me. “Lead the way, Jo.”

  I swallowed and moved toward the door only to hear mumbling and snickering behind me, sure one or both of the two giants who evidently resided in that suite were looking at my ass. I rolled my eyes again.

  Knocking on the door, I felt my heart begin to race. Who was this boss man of theirs? Was he rich and famous or just rich? Oba obviously knew who he was, because he was familiar with his security. I wished I had time to ask Oba who—

  “Come in!” was yelled through the door.

  I turned the knob and walked inside, stopping without giving Oba room to enter.

  I recognized him instantly, but anyone would’ve since he was probably the most recognizable rapper on the planet. He wasn’t old, only in his late thirties, but had been in the rap game for so long he was definitely considered one of the old heads at this point. Award-winning, multi-platinum-selling, world-renowned, skilled like no other, and fine as all hell. That’s how I’d describe Big South. I was shocked, pleasantly stunned into silence and paralysis.

  He was shirtless, and the swollen muscles of his chest and abdomen teased me as a sheet covered his lower body. He was sitting on the side of the bed, his dreads hanging loosely around his face. He wore a blank look on his face as I stood there unraveling in his presence.

  His chocolate eyes raked over my body before shifting behind me to Oba. “Park too big to make deliveries now? Got his side pieces doing his work, huh?”

  Side piece?

  Negro, what?

  That broke the I-cannot-believe-I’m-in-the-same-room-with-this-fine-as-hell-man spell. I blinked a couple of times to try to calm myself, and while Oba explained that Peter Park was “under the weather,” I made quick strides across the room, got all in Everett “Big South” McClain’s face, and hissed, “For your damn information, I ain’t nobody’s side piece!” I glared at him for a moment and then noticed the woman—actually, just her ass—in bed behind him.

  Did this man really tell us to come in here while he has a naked woman in bed with him?

  Was he naked, too, underneath that sheet?

  What an asshole!

  His eyes widened with surprise at my abrupt movements. “Shit, my bad, lil’ mama.”

  My top lip involuntarily curled into a snarl as I dropped the sack in his lap. “And here’s your damn necklace,” I said, then turned and breezed past Oba, leaving the room, then the suite, without another word. Yeah, everyone knew of Park’s reputation, but to assign the side chick role to me was presumptuous and totally disrespectful! Big South was a jackass, and a nasty one at that, nasty as hell. But the worst thing was how turned on I was from just being in the room with him. I didn’t do rappers, especially not asshole ones.

  But I’d be damned if I didn’t want to do Big South’s stupid ass at that moment.

  2

  “Aye, hold up!”

  Oba’s voice didn’t slow my steps as I headed down the hall toward the elevator. While I loved hip hop music, I hated most rappers, especially conceited ones. Maybe I was in the wrong business. They were the main ones buying custom jewelry. Damn-it!

  “Aye!” Oba’s big hand stopped the elevator doors from closing and he slid inside. “You better hope he don’t complain to Mr. Park.”

  I frowned. “Complain about what? He got his necklace, safe and sound. Not a scratch on it.”

  “Yeah, but you threw it at him.”

  “I didn’t throw it. I kind of…dropped it in his lap.”

  “And you cursed him out.”

  I laughed. “You call that cursing him out? You need to get out more. I can do way worse than a couple of ‘damns.’”

  “I’m just saying, he’s a client. You don’t think you were out of line back there?”

  “Me out of line? He let us in that room with a naked ass in there with him. He was probably naked, too! And he called me a damn sid
e piece!”

  “South is good people. He ain’t mean nothing by that shit. Everybody know how Mr. Park get down. Plus, he used to send Keisha out to do stuff like this all the time. That’s probably why South thought you were his girl.”

  Keisha was the assistant-slash-girlfriend I replaced, so I said, “Well, I ain’t Keisha.”

  “That shit is obvious,” Oba said, as the elevator doors opened.

  We were halfway back to Bijou Park when it hit me that he was right, though. Since he was already dealing with a Twyla beat down, Mr. Park was probably about to act a whole fool with me for “disrespecting” one of his clients.

  *****

  The day was nearing its end, and I was manning the receptionist’s desk since Freda left early for a doctor’s appointment. Peter Park had been closed up in his office since Oba and I returned, opting to communicate with me via text, instructing me to spend the day training under the bench jewelers and then to take over for Freda. No yelling. No mention of Big South at all.

  Maybe he didn’t snitch on me after all.

  Things were slow, so I had my face buried in my phone, perusing Facebook, when I heard his voice.

  “Is Park in?”

  My head jerked up to meet intense chocolate eyes. He towered over me and the desk, his free-falling dreads framing his impassive face. His thick, dark lips were relaxed. My eyes slowly descended over his plain black tee to the diamond letter “S” hanging from the chain around his neck. It was undoubtedly a Peter Park piece. I could recognize them from a mile away. Mr. Park definitely had his own style and was irrefutably the best at what he did. As a matter of fact, I could tell he’d created this piece with his own two hands.

  My eyes rose in time to see him lift an eyebrow. Shit, now I was staring at him. I blinked a few times and finally said, “You have an appointment?”

  He glanced behind himself at Dunn, who I hadn’t noticed up until that point, and chuckled. “Much money as I spend up in this bitch? I don’t need one, lil’ mama. Just tell him South is here. He’ll see me. He’s here, right?”