Texas Love Song. AlTonya Washington
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night. She knew of course that he’d been stalking her much longer than that.
Setha Melendez gave another quick glance across her shoulder and felt momentary ease when no shadow passed in her line of sight.
Son of a b, she hissed silently, wisps of dark hair fluttering beneath her nostrils as she inhaled deeply to catch her breath. She cursed her pursuer again for involving them in this when it had nothing to do with them. None of it had been their fault.
Setha grimaced; those words sounded naive even though they’d been spoken silently in her head. There was one thing she’d learned at an early age. In the Melendez family, it was one for all and all for one. If one was despised, they all were.
Her quick breather reached its end when the clatter of a rolling bottle caught her ear. The sound had come from the far end of the alley. Setha cast a last, longing look at the awesome pumps and then figured she’d better get a move on. She prayed whoever found her discarded shoes had more fun wearing them than she did.
* * *
“Jumpin’ ship already, man?” Bose Osmond grinned at his boss’s older brother.
Khouri Ross returned the grin while shaking hands with Bose who was one of the seven bouncers at his sister’s club. “I’ll leave you and your colleagues to it,” he said, casting a weary hazel stare at the bodies packing the three-story brick building. “Never been a fan of love songs.” He shrugged.
“Understood.” Bose nodded solemnly from his perch guarding the club’s back entrance. “Rocky says she’s tryin’ to soften the club’s image.”
Khouri chuckled. “In this neighborhood?”
Bose joined in on the laughter at Raquel Ross’s expense. The chuckles shaking his large frame ended on a sigh and he scratched the smattering of whiskers covering his chin. “So how’s Avra doin’?”
“Still mean.” Khouri shook his head at the mention of his older sister.
“Still fine?” Bose’s question was laced with interest.
The look on the man’s face instilled more laughter in Khouri. Amusement crinkled the corners of his translucent stare. “You’re a glutton for punishment, B.”
Bose raised one hand as though he were about to testify. “What can I say? A woman like that can make a man do anything.”
“Hmph. Don’t I know it,” Khouri groaned while patting his sagging dark jeans for keys. It was because of Avra that he’d been checking up on their little sister and her club that night. While he was most definitely a protective older brother, he’d have rather spent the night at his monthly poker game.
“See ya around, B.” Khouri clutched Bose’s hand for a quick shake and hug, and then left through the rear VIP entrance to Rocky Ross’s.
Khouri’s phone chimed just as he approached the black Rover bearing the personalized plates carrying his first name. There was a text from Niko Latham, one of his poker buddies. The man had wasted no time boasting about his winnings from the night and thanked Khouri for his absence.
Smirking, Khouri opened the passenger door to the Rover. Dropping down to the leather champagne-colored seat, he texted back telling Niko to enjoy his one and only win. Then he stood to ease the phone into a side pocket when he lost his balance as someone brushed against him.
Lengthy hair and a gasping sound gave him pause but didn’t slow his reflexes. He caught the woman’s forearm and held her fast.
“Calm down,” he whispered, tilting his head to get a look at her face partially covered by thick black tendrils. He could see that she was terrified. “I won’t hurt you,” he said.
The woman struggled viciously and her gaze remained fixed on the alley she’d just run out of.
Soon, Khouri’s light eyes were trained in that direction, as well. “Someone’s following you?”
“Please.” Her tugs against his hold lost some of their power. She had yet to look away from the alley.
“Let’s go inside.” Again, Khouri shifted his head to get a better look at her face—a beautiful one at that.
The woman shook her head frantically and slightly renewed her struggles against his hold.
Khouri opened the passenger door to the Rover. “At least have a seat in my car while I get some help.”
She tugged more insistently on the imprisoned arm. With her free hand, she kept a death grip on the clutch purse at her chest. Still, her eyes remained on the darkness filling the alley.
“Please?” It was Khouri’s turn to urge. He eased his grip on her wrist and motioned toward the passenger seat.
Eventually, the woman shifted her gaze. She didn’t appear any more trusting of the seat than she did of the faceless threat in the distance. When noise rose from the alleyway, she chose the lesser of two evils and took refuge in the SUV.
She’d slammed the door shut before Khouri could do the honors. She used the flaring sleeves of her mocha-colored swing dress to cover the lower half of her face. Khouri watched her slink down in the seat, appearing every bit the timid child. The windows were tinted a few shades above complete black, but she remained hunched low.
Khouri told himself to focus on the matter at hand and he reached for his phone. He was about to dial inside the club for someone to come outside, when the sound of a runner caught his ears. Eyes narrowed toward the dark alleyway beyond the club, he waited. He winced, feeling a dull pressure tighten his palms. He realized his hands were aching to reach out and instill the same fear that the man running toward him had instilled in the woman who cowered in his car.
Somehow, he resisted the urge. The hooded pursuer raced by the other side of the Rover. Silence returned to the alley as the figure ran farther into the distance.
Khouri turned, intending to help the woman from his car. Again, the woman handled the door herself. Jumping out to the sidewalk, she sprinted off in the opposite direction from her tracker.
“You’re welcome,” Khouri said to her departing figure.
Chapter 1
The Ross Review boasted offices out of Miami, New York and London. The publication was headquartered in Houston, Texas, and was the brainchild of Louisiana native Basil Ross. The man had become a household name among a host of literary circles.
At eighteen, Basil—along with his childhood friend Wade Cornelius—started the weekly publication from the laundry room next to his mother’s in-home hair salon. Back then, the magazine was geared toward Basil’s peers. Topics covered the various challenges facing the black population in ’60s-era Louisiana.
Reporting from a purely militant viewpoint, the Review was of course underground in nature. Basil realized the dangers in reporting on civil inequality and racial attacks on the national, state and local levels. Still, he thrived in the knowledge of that very thing. The young publisher had made a name for himself long before he ever decided to put down stakes in Texas.
Upon visiting the Review, one would take the news floor as anything but. There was however a cool efficiency about the place. Reporters and staff toiled away at neat, high-end polished oak desks and were surrounded by glass walls in addition to windows.
Big-screen plasma TVs hung from various points in the ceiling on most every floor and broadcasted news from twenty-four-hour stations. The stations were also part of the Ross Review umbrella which, in the mid-nineties,
had been added to Basil Ross’s list of accomplishments.
While Ross Review employees were privy to an enviable view of downtown Houston, those on the other side of the glass had no clue about the goings-on of the organization inside. The underlying reason for the one-way windows was clear and spoke to the publication’s motto. Ross would reveal no “crime” before its time.
The