Page 66 of Lennox Lane

Lennox lifted his glass. “To part one.”

Lane hesitated, then touched her glass to his.

“To me not regretting this.”

He held her gaze. “You won’t.”

“You sound sure.”

“I am.”

“Dangerous.”

“With you?” he said. “Always.”

Lane took a sip of wine to fight the smile creeping onto her face, losing by inches. The music played low. The lavender scented the room.

In this moment, Lennox didn’t feel like he was chasing something already slipping away. He felt like Lane had stopped long enough to let him catch up.

Lennox couldn’t remember the last time he’d been nervous. He had been hunted. Threatened. Followed. Summoned into rooms with dangerous men who believed money made them untouchable and secrets made them immortal.

He’d sat across from federal agents and criminals. Billionaires and politicians alike. Artists and script kiddies who assumed they could go toe-to-toe with him. And the occasional fool who thought hiring the Midnight Ledger meant owning him.

None of them had made him check his shirt twice in the mirror. Lane Sanders, however, had him standing in his closet like a man preparing for judgment day with cologne. He buttoned the cuff of his black shirt, then unbuttoned it and rolled the sleeves instead. Too formal would make her suspicious. Too casual would make her think he had not cared. Lane noticed effort. She also noticed performance. The line between the two was thin, and Lennox had spent most of his adult life tap dancing on the wrong side of it.

Tonight, he intended to get it right or at least less wrong. He had changed into dark jeans and a black short-sleeve knit shirt. He finished the ensemble with Flu Game 12’s and a good Cuban link chain. Simple. Casual. No watch flashy enough to look like he wanted applause. No chain heavy enough to announce his bank account before he did. He checked himself once more, then looked toward the folded piece of paper sitting on his dresser.

The poem. He could dismantle a corporation’s entire digital infrastructure with a laptop, a quiet room, and enough irritation. But the thought of standing on a small stage at an open poetry night and reading words he had written for Lane made his palms feel unfamiliar.

He picked up the paper. He had typed it first because he trusted keyboards more than feelings. Then he printed it and rewrote it by hand because Lavender Haze deserved ink. She deserved evidence that he had slowed down. That he had not generated something smooth and soulless. That he had sat with the words until they cost him something.

The poem wasn’t perfect, but then again, Lane wasn’t moved by perfection. Perfect was polished until nobody could see the truth underneath. Lane liked sharp edges. Honesty. Heat. Things that had survived weather and still dared to bloom. He folded the paper and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Tonight, he was taking her to an open poetry night.

Not The Blue Room, where he had watched her perform as Lavender Haze from the shadows. That felt like trespassing on sacred ground. Instead, he had chosen The Ink Well, a small lounge tucked above an old bookstore on the east side of Stonebridge. Brick walls, worn chairs, dim lamps, a tiny stage, and a crowd that came to listen, not just be seen listening.

Lane was going to lose it in a good way, and he knew it. Not because he was arrogant, though he was deeply committed to the lifestyle, but because he had paid attention. He had seen what poetry did to her. It softened something in her without making her weak. It gave her somewhere to put the weight. It let the parts of her that had been sharpened for survival speak in a language other than defense. Tonight, he was going to speak back.

Lennox looked at himself in the mirror. “You sure?” he muttered.

His reflection gave no useful answer, but memory did. KC’s voice rolled through his mind, heavy with warning, from a conversation Lennox had not appreciated enough when it happened.

It had been after the meeting at KC and Cadence’s house, after the women left for lunch. After Lennox admitted to hacking Lane’s phone and email with the casual stupidity of a man who had mistaken access for intimacy. Tariq had laughed first, because of course he had, but KC had not let the humor sit too long before dragging the conversation somewhere heavier.

They had ended up in the den, away from staff and house traffic, while Cadence’s laughter faded somewhere near the front door.

KC had poured himself water instead of liquor because Cadence had banned stress drinking during the pregnancy and Khalil Reed was now a man who followed instructions when his wife’s eyebrows told him to. Tariq had dropped into one of the leather chairs, legs spread with his phone in one hand and a grin still wide from clowning Lennox.

“You really hacked Lane because she had a date,” Tariq had said. “That is a new tier of down bad. That is premium stalking. Platinum package.”

Lennox had leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed. “Y’all keep using that word.”

“Because it fits,” KC said.

“You serious about her?” Tariq asked.

Lennox hated that question. Not because he did not know the answer. Because he did. Because the answer had been waiting in him longer than he wanted to admit, patient and inconvenient, arms crossed like Lane herself.

Tariq leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Lane ain’t one of them women you play tug-of-war with because your feelings scare you, bro.”