AlTonya Washington - Texas Love Song

“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 overall effect of the eighteen-story building may have come across as cold, stark and uninviting but Basil Ross treated his employees very well. Editorial and custodial staff alike was given the utmost respect. Proof was evident in their working conditions and compensation. Basil Ross and Wade Cornelius each subscribed to the notion that a well-treated worker was an effective worker.

Aside from the drone of voices rising from the TVs, there was minimal personal chatter. Everyone was about his or her business and proud to be. Anyone privileged enough to walk through the doors of the Ross Review understood that they were walking into the environment of respect and admiration the publication waved like a banner.

* * *

Inside one of the glass-encased conference rooms, the dull rumble of laughter could be heard as the daily budget meeting began to wind down. Basil made a point of ending every meeting on a cordial note. The issues reported on by the magazine and stations were often so melancholy, smiles were hard to come by unless a story brought a criminal to justice.

Such was the case that morning. A dual effort between the crime and financial beats had yet to fully uncover the true motive behind a series of murders targeting new Machine Melendez employees.

“Follow the money, boys,” Basil was saying to his chief reporters for each beat. “You’ve already uncovered that the murders were professionally done. That costs money.” He watched David Crus and Noah Eames nod solemnly as he smiled.

“Show me you’re worth what I’m paying you,” Basil added, drawing a round of laughter in the process.

“Speaking of money,” Basil started once the chuckles began to silence. He reached for the last folder to his left and grimaced upon opening it. “I regret to announce that change will need to be made with regards to the Machine Melendez account.” Pulling the silver-rimmed spectacles from his nose, Basil focused on wiping the already spotless lenses. “Apologies for bringing noneditorial business into our budget meeting but since our two VPs are right here…”

Basil replaced the square-framed glasses and looked toward his son and daughter at the end of the table. “It’s best to get this out of the way now. I don’t want this mess fouling up the rest of my day.”

Avra Ross lowered her brown gaze while scooting down a bit in her chair. Squeezing the cup in hand, she focused on blowing across the surface of her coffee in order to cool it. She looked up when her father loudly cleared his throat.

“You’re gonna owe your brother big for this one, miss,” he said.