Page 1 of Trading Places

Chapter 1

Zari

“Eyes wide open, but your mouth says nothing,” Chance’s voice projects into the microphone as he spreads his arms. The white spotlight shines on his body.

I sip on my dirty martini— Corrine always knows how to mix the olive brine with the vodka to make it salty and savory. The chilled drink goes down smoothly, and my ring sparkles as I hold up my glass.

Cigar smoke hangs in the air, mixed with perfumes and colognes.

There’s something about spoken word that makes goosebumps rise on my arms.

I’ve never been able to put words together like that, even though I went to private school my whole life. I’ve always admired hearing it since I used to sneak off to a hole-in-the-wall spot on King Street when I was a teenager.

I swirl the olive in my glass without taking my eyes off him. Every single line has me on the edge of my seat.

Anthony grips my thigh, and I look over at him with a warm smile. He kisses my cheek, then moves closer to my neck. His lips hover right against my spot.

“Stop,” I giggle.

Someone clears their throat, but I ignore it.

Chance is really doing his thing tonight, and I’ve been following him for years.

I put my hand over Anthony’s, and my heart races while I watch.

“Thank you,” Chance says, bowing before us and waving off.

We all break out in unison and snap our fingers.

I scan the small space, and it’s packed to the brim with Black folks of every shade. Even a few white people are in the mix. This is the third packed house in a row. My father opened this jazz spot five years ago as a peace offering to my mom. This is what he calls one foot out of the streets.

It’s a nice small luxury jazz spot with deep forest green velvet chairs and small wooden cocktail tables. I remember when my mother picked out the gold chandeliers and the lush greenery.

The band resumes the live music and that wraps up the spoken word for tonight.

“I’m going to get you another martini, babe,” Anthony says, standing up. His simple gold cable chain hangs down against his sweater. He leans down and kisses my forehead.

I nod. “Thank you, babe.”

I watch him walk through the crowd. His colorful sweater fits him like a glove and his slacks show off his thin, lanky, model frame. I always tell him he shouldn’t be wasting his time here in Northern Virginia.

Anthony’s fine ass needs to be on the damn runway in New York or Paris. Any color fabric would look good against his beautiful dark skin, sharp jawline, and high cheekbones.

I look down at the flawless diamond ring on my left hand. Six months from now I’m going to be Mrs. Anthony Pittman.

My mom is probably somewhere going over the guest list for my big day.

I twist the princess-cut band. I swallow hard and cross my legs. The diamond is so damn big it catches the different shades of blue and purple bar lights.

I smell a familiar scent and it hits my nose. Calvin Klein mixed with Dove soap, and a cigarillo. Here comes the fucking devil himself.

Drey stands in front of my table, stroking his neatly trimmed beard. There’s a grey patch in the middle. “Good evening, Ms. Davis, or should I say Mrs. Pittman?” he says in a fake-ass proper voice. His locs brush against his shoulders. Most of his locs are pulled back, while a few frame his face.

He stands tall with his muscular frame in his gray sweater, a thick-ass gold rope chain around his neck like it’s the damn eighties, and designer jeans. This nigga ain’t even shy about checking me out.

“Hello, Mr. Hall,” I say, smirking.

“We have some business to discuss,” he says, his eyes trailing down my upper body.