Page 5 of Invisible Bars
“Don’t look at me,” I snarled. “You don’t get that privilege. Eyes down,” I ordered, harsh and clipped.
Erin froze for half a second, searching my face for something I’d never give. I wasn’t built for sympathy, and damn sure not romance. Hurt flickered across her face, but she obeyed bydropping her head again, probably fighting the urge to ask me why.
When it was over, she sat there on her knees, wiping her mouth, staring at me like I’d forgotten my lines and she was waiting for a thank you, a kiss or maybe even a ride home. I gave her nothing but the sound of my zipper and the scrape of my lighter sparking a blunt to life.
Finally, she spoke, “That’s it? You’re not gonna say anything?”
I exhaled smoke through my nose. “What you want me to say? Congratulations? Keep up the good work? Give you a round of applause? A pat on the head? Get up.”
Her face twisted in disbelief. “You could at least act like you liked it.”
I chuckled, low and cruel. “Liked it? Girl, I don’t even likeyou. You just had a mouth and some free time. Don’t mistake usage for affection.”
Erin blinked taken aback, like she was trying to keep from crying.
“You’re a fucking asshole!”
I shrugged nonchalantly. “And you’re still on your knees for me. Whose fault is that?”
That did it.
Erin scrambled up, yanking her skirt down, tears ready to spill.
I didn’t flinch, chase her, or give a damn.
“You don’t deserve a woman like me,” she spat, holding the door open.
I leaned back, smoke curling from my lips. “You’re right… I deserve better. And trust me, better’s only one phone call away. Door’s that way,” I concluded, not bothering to look at her. My tone was the same as if I were giving someone directions to the nearest gas station.
Erin left crying and slammed the door like it hurt me. It didn’t; all it did was make the silence better.
I dragged on the blunt, smirk tugging at my lip.
Women always expect softness after sex.Wrong man. Wrong world.
I wish these muthafuckas would hurry the fuck up, I thought, scowling behind my shades.
I hated photos—being in the spotlight, period—with a passion. But when you're one of the wealthiest and well-known real estate moguls in the world, unfortunately, that shit comes with the territory.
That particular day, I was posted up in front of some luxury condo downtown, stuck between two fake-ass potted palms like I was a damn accessory. Behind the scenes, assistants were buzzing around—adjusting lights, fluffing greenery, and holding up those blinding reflective boards like they were performing heart surgery instead of taking pictures. Adding to that, I had on a stiff-ass gray suit that felt like a prison sentence, and my expression was locked in permanent fuck this mode—tight jaw, unmoved lips, and zero patience.
Just out of frame, standing like she was directing a Vogue shoot, was my bougie, worrisome ass mama: Giselle Kors. She had the nerve to have on a wide-brimmed cream hat and a Chanel blazer like she wasn’t already doing the fuckin’ most. Honestly, her last name fit her perfectly—designer, expensive, and dramatic for no damn reason. She was also the reason I was standing in 90-degree heat looking like a divorced senator on a campaign trail I didn’t sign up for.
My father wasn’t there—he, like me, didn’t care for those kinds of shoots. Especially after I came on board with the business. Giselle, however, more than made up for his absence with her nonstop commentary.
“Imanio, baby, soften your face! Stand straighter! Shoulders up! Chin out! Give commanding!” she shouted from behind the scenes like she was Naomi Campbell reincarnated. “You’re giving… constipated! Or like you just got released from Rikers!”
“That’s exactly how I feel,” I muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.
She rolled her eyes dramatically, like I was the one being unreasonable.
The photographer laughed nervously, unsure if that was a joke.
It wasn’t.
The stylist approached to adjust my clothing.
I grabbed his wrist mid-reach. “Touch me, and you’ll be scheduling therapy or waking up in the morning next to Jesus. Your choice.”
