My Muted Love (Muted Hoplessness Book 1) Read online

  “Is Parker coming up with Rut?” I ask. Candice shrugs, blowing off the idea. I need to clear this waiting area. “Is Elle available?” She should have been. She called for this meeting.

  Without looking at me, Candice waves her hand toward Elle’s office door. “She’s been in there waiting on you,” she mumbles.

  I walk past her desk for the door. The moment I twist the handle and open it, a blast of familiar tunes hit me. In an instant, I’m transported back to seven years old in the living room of my Margaret’s trailer home in Millville, New Jersey. I’d wake up some Saturday mornings to her using the broom, mop, or brush as a mic. And quite often, it would be one of Shirley Murdock’s hits she was playing from the big flat screen mounted on the wall.

  Elle’s singing into a microphone feeding into the television screen, one of the most familiar songs in Shirley Murdock’s catalog for me, “Go On Without You.” Elle’s blonde hair is cut into a fade with a sharp part drawn at the left side of her scalp. The blonde tint is lighter than I saw when we had lunch together a couple of weeks ago. But that’s Elle Hunter; stylish and never boring to look at or follow.

  She isn’t alone in her office. Maggie from Finance sits on the couch swaying, amazed by Elle’s stapler performance. Lamont from Product Management is squatting on the armrest, cracking the hell up. There’s a woman of Asian descent I don’t know standing in the corner, clutching a clipboard and smiling on. Elle’s husband, Jackson, sits behind Elle’s desk with his chin propped up on his fingers, swinging in the chair. So much expression in his eyes though his smile is reserved.

  Then I glance at the screen again and see the lyrics are populating. The words are moving and before I know it, I’m next to her, singing my heart out. I don’t need the microphone, my fist works just fine. I close my eyes to a squeeze and recite the lyrics from memory. So many recollections flash behind my lids. As a child, when Shirley’s songs played, you had no idea of the experience but could feel the emotion so vividly, conveying it was easy. Ms. Murdock’s songs were a key thread in the fabric of my psyche, I learned some time ago.

  “Never again, will I let you go…” I belt out with strong emotion.

  “Okay, Tor!” I hear Jackson encourage from a distance.

  That quickly, I’m in an emotional zone. As an adult, you collect enough experience to finally match the emotions of the songs. Experiences so vivid, sometimes listening to Shirley’s music isn’t the best idea. But it’s fun singing with Elle. When a high note comes in the track, I lower my voice and look to Elle. Her bold persona stays true when she delivers it beautifully. I’m no singer, but remember Elle actually is. Since I’ve been signed to Love Is Action, I’ve spent lots of time with her, learning her many talents. Elle directs some of the lyrics to Jackson behind her desk. That cool veneer remains as his partial smile appears pleased.

  We sing until the last note, eyes landing on each other expressively. “I can’t go on without yoooooooou!”

  The office erupts with heavy applause, and I turn to find Maggie and the Asian woman taking pictures and recording a video with their phones. That is the last thing I expect, but I giggle in good nature. Cutting up with Elle is always fun. When I turn toward her again, Jackson is kissing her forehead before heading for the door.

  “Who knew another woman under forty-five knows a Shirley Murdock classic other than ‘As We Lay’?”

  “Man, are you kidding me?” I’m out of breath, but still buzzing from the nostalgia. “I love me some Shirley!”

  “Did you tell her at my wedding?” he asks, now holding the door open.

  My lips pout. “I wasn’t able to make it. Remember? I was in China, promoting the fight with Lian Liu.”

  “Shit.” He smacks his teeth. “I forgot about that. But I ain’t forget about that knockout at the start of the second round!”

  “Aye!” I throw an air jab.

  Laughing, Jackson leaves with Maggie behind him. I turn to find Elle signing off on a document as Lamont hovers over her, waiting on it. The other woman sits on the couch, sporting a smile.

  “Tori, have a seat.” Elle points to one of the chairs right in front of her desk.

  She’s done signing for Lamont and goes for her seat.

  “Peace, Tori,” Lamont offers on his way out.

  “Later, Lamont,” I return over my shoulder.

  “You alone today?” Elle asks while scrolling down the face of her phone.

  I shook my head, feeling my phone vibrate in my purse. “Security’s down in the café.”

  “Oh, good!” She places her phone down on the desk and squares her shoulders. “Two things. This is Michelle Wu, the new head of Image Management.”

  I stand to meet her midway for a handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. McNabb. I’m a huge fan and have been since forever.” She nods slightly. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  After a smile of pleasantry, we take to our seats again and Elle continues. “Tori, Michelle was contributory in closing on a new relationship with a graphic design company out of Washington for a new toy.” She waves to bring my attention toward the mounted screen. “That was part of the karaoke simulator they’re putting finishing touches on.”

  “To do what?” I shake my head to express my confusion and being overwhelmed by meaningless information.

  Elle leans into her desk with folded arms. “It’s a program that allows our athletes to rock out to their favorite songs and perform as though they’re singing in the mirror when…” She shrugs, looking as though searching for words. “getting dressed for the day while listening to the radio.”

  My face balls up. “Why would we do that?”

  “So glad you asked.” Elle sits back, sporting that million-dollar smile. “We here at Love Is Action want to give the fans of our clients’ insight on who they are when they’re not on the field, court, or in your case...” Her hand swings my way, showing off her almond-shaped manicured nails. “the ring. What better way to do that than to show off your comical, artsy side by way of music?”

  “The plan is,” Michelle stands and walks closer to the desk. “for you to select two of your favorite songs—technically five so we can try for sample clearance—and by using this program, perform them to be recorded. Once recorded and edited, they’re available to download for free when someone purchases your merch.”

  “That’s it?” I ask.

  Michelle looks to Elle for help. Elle sits higher in her chair. “What do you mean?”

  “We sing the song karaoke-style just for the people who purchase our merch on your site?”

  “We’re actually cutting a deal with Nike and Ase Garb to have the downloads available on their sites, too, but that would only be for those of our clients who are endorsed by those companies. Think of it as a way to slide personalbility of the customer’s favorite athlete into their digital bag when they’re purchasing any product in support of said athlete.”

  I squint my eyes suspiciously. “Is personlability even a word?”

  Elle winked. “It is when you catch my drift.”

  “But in this digital age, that shit won’t stay exclusive. It’ll be all over social media within hours of being released.”

  “Illegally, but…” Elle nods. “yeah. And that will be okay, because of the added exposure. Who are your favorite artists? Let’s say R&B—female.”

  I stretch my forehead, quickly thinking. “Female R&B? Faith Evans…” I shrug. “Shirley Murdock.”

  “Really?” Her hazel eyes light up. “I love Shirley! She’s the vocal master. Okay. So say you jam out to ‘Go On Without You’—”

  “Maybe ‘Found My Way’,” I interrupt her.

  Her neck snaps back and chin dips. “Oh, you’re a for real, for real SM fan, huhn?”

  “According to my therapist, it’s indicative of things I’m not so proud of.” I roll my eyes.

  Elle howls in laughter in front of me and Michelle does the same across the room.

&nbs
p; “Well, anyway…” Elle is still laughing. “Seeing you sing a song you’re passionate about makes you more personable and can possibly connect unknowing watchers to a common interest with you. That’s what we’re trying to do at LIA; broaden your visibility and secure every opportunity to fatten your portfolio.”

  “And the Image Management department,” Michelle chimes in. “is committed to exposing your image as well and as positively as possible. I think this venture will benefit everyone at the table.”

  I nod with my lips pushed back. “Send the paperwork over so I can take my time going over it.”

  “Yesssss!” Michelle cheers quietly, pumping her fist. I laugh as she walks to the door to leave. “Two down, two more to go!”

  Elle winks at her, sitting back into her chair and interlacing her fingers.

  I shift to face her again. “Who else okayed it?”

  “You know Trent doesn’t have a problem performing musically,” she answers, rolling her eyes with a smirk.

  “Shoot ‘Em Up! sho don’t! He gives me life!” I hoot.

  “I meet with Rut in a few minutes to see if he’s game. Knowing him, he’ll try to rope in his footwear company to get a slice of the pie.”

  I push back my cuticles, seeing it’s time for a manicure. “I ain’t mad at him.”

  “Yeah.” She sighs. “Neither am I. But on to other TM matters. Your Sports Illustrated feature just got a shakeup.”

  “How?”

  “It was supposed to be Tyler Thomas doing it.”

  My throat bobs to swallow without me asking it to. Then relief sets in. The idea of being interviewed by Tyler Thomas is nerve-racking. I was aware of his name and how long he’s been in the business before Elle and our team explained his request to interview me. But I didn’t know about his reputation and wild resume until then. Thomas has traveled the world covering poverty, war, and politics. Dude was one of the team of reporters for the Watergate Scandal in D.C., but was not tenured in the group yet, so he’s rarely mentioned with the other journalists who broke the story. It also didn’t help that he was Black in the seventies. He traveled with Muhamad Ali during many of his press tour runs in his prime. Tyler made sure Ali’s name stayed alive and positive during his troubles with the government when he rejected the U.S. draft. Tyler’s been interviewed by his peers like Diana Sawyer, and even Oprah for his work in journalism.

  The man has done so much in his career that it’s hard to recount it all. But no matter how many pages Tyler Thomas’ résumé yielded or the impressive bullet points on it, his name alone brings flips to my stomach.

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  My eyes blink and then move to her. Elle’s arms are in the air, and I can tell she used them to say whatever the hell I missed.

  “Yeah…” I hear come from my belly, but not my throat. Then I blink again, admitting, “No.”

  Her forehead tightens. “Where the hell did you just go?”

  I shake off the encroaching thoughts. The what ifs, where nows, the what nows…all of it. It’s never-ending torture for me.

  Swallowing hard, I finally answer, “Nowhere I need to be. I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

  After a few seconds, she speaks again. “He’s not going to be able to do it.”

  “Oh.” I can feel my lungs again. “So no more feature?”

  Elle nods. “Yes, girl!” She drops her chin and rolls her eyes. “You were on a trip, I see! He’s sending a replacement; some mentee of his.”

  Oh… Okay.

  I try to examine how it feels to be dumped by the Tyler Thomas.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Yes.” She’s still annoyed by my mental trip. “Ashton Spencer.”

  My spine gives out and back slams into the chair. The pits of my arms tingle and mist out of nowhere. For a short while, I can’t breathe and my chest is pumping wildly.

  “What the holy fuck, Tor?” Elle is out of her chair and over to me. “What’s going on?”

  Her panic snaps me out of my own. I have to ask myself what in the world is this! Shakily, I fight to get in control of myself. My hands slip on the armrests when I try to grip them to sit up.

  “I’m okay.” I try moving my heavy tongue around my dry mouth. “Let’s cancel it.” I try for casual.

  “Why?”

  “Because Thomas canceled. That’s unprofessional.”

  “I was told it’s for health reasons. He’s an older man, Tori.” Elle’s face is still tight from concern.

  “Yeah, but I got some pride to myself. This is last-minute.”

  “Not really. You’re due to start in two weeks.”

  My eyes go wild. I can feel it. “And for how long?”

  She shrugs. “It’s by word-count. From my experience, how long depends on how particular the writer is. If they feel they’re getting enough material from the subject to carve out a story, it shouldn’t be more than a couple of weeks.”

  “But I travel for training soon.” I remind her. “I don’t need a reporter in my head while I’m preparing for a fight, Elle. Especially not this one.”

  Elle’s head swings back and body holds tense. “You know him.”

  I can’t help my crazy blinking. “Who?”

  “You know who!” Her neck rolls. “The Spence guy.”

  Spencer…

  My eyes shift away.

  “How?”

  “How what?” I jump in my seat, my nerves fucking fried already.

  Her mouth drops. “You’re yelling at me.”

  “I’m not!” My eyes roll closed and my face falls into my palms, but when I feel my lashes being pushed back, I let up. “Elle…” I call her through my hands.

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re not girlfriends,” I mumble.

  “I know. We’re strictly client/management.”

  I cringe at that definition of our friendship. It’s bullshit: Elle’s been so much more. Her shrewd business savvy has cultivated my brand and made me a millionaire before the age of thirty. To do that, you must spend crazy hours together and have slip-ups in sharing or exposing personal details of yourselves. We’ve cried together after mutual losses. We share the same social circle. But every once in a while—when I need a girlfriend, and she’s conveniently around—I snap at her by reminding her we’re only business associates.

  I lift my head and nod. “Exactly. But as a woman, I’m sure you have dudes in your past you want to stay there.”

  “Oh, shit.” This time, her lashes smack together as her face goes toward the ceiling. “You’ve fucked him?”

  “It was a long time ago. I was a kid.” Why I feel the need to backpedal now, I don’t know.

  But the topic of this guy—man—is crazy personal. And painful.

  “What type of kid?” One of her chestnut brows lifts higher than the other.

  “Blakewood.”

  “Oh!” she whispers, mouth won’t close. “I forgot you went to Blakewood State!” So do I. Often. “Do you think he can’t be objective? Is there bad blood?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.” Sadness washes over me like a waterfall. “I don’t know him.” Anymore. “Haven’t in…years.”

  “How long has it been?”

  I can’t concentrate to do the math. Frustrated, I can’t stop shaking my head. “Ten…maybe more.”

  “Oh!” She goes back behind her desk. “That is hella long ago. You likely don’t remember what his dick feels like, much less harbor emotions too heavy to get the feature done.” She sits in her chair and leans back. That one brow plucking again. “Right?”

  Elle’s flexing. Yes, I’m the high-profiled client with much of the advantage and, therefore, leverage. But Elle’s reputation is solid in the entertainment industry, whether it’s corporate, music, or sports. And from what I hear, the Hunters are now moving into Hollywood. She’s built a concrete career in just a few short years and has used her powerful connections to make me a household name, something she’s done in almo
st no time at all.

  “I guess you have a point about that being forever ago,” I finally answer. “I don’t know him.”

  She shrugs, tossing her chin in the air. “Then we should be fine. Tyler Thomas may not be doing the interview, but his name will be on it alongside Spence’s.”

  “Spencer.” I can’t help but to correct her this time.

  She taps to wake up her computer, then repeats, “Spencer. Ashton Spencer. And I don’t want to fuck up an opportunity with Mr. Thomas. He’s Black journalism’s elite.”

  I nod firmly. “I got you.” My eyes zoom into hers to convince her of my assurance.

  Assurance that isn’t there.

  “Okay. The last thing on the agenda,” she breathes out. “We have a new nutritionist on board for you.”

  My forehead lifts. “Really? What happened to Dhar?”

  “Dhar was good, but he’s too traditional; doesn’t leave room for modern research. You know that’s always bothered me. And this last fight with the WBA questioning if you weighed enough for middle weight class... Like what the fuck else would you be?”

  My eyes fall to the ring on my left hand. She’s right, but they weren’t totally wrong. I barely made my weight requirements, thanks to stress. I trained hard for it, as usual, but didn’t refuel as much as Dhar advised. The source of my distraction rewarded me with a ring two weeks after my last fight. I’m now engaged, but can’t shake the risk it cost my career to get this.

  “Who’s the newbie?”

  “Dr. Shaquana Wilson.”

  “A sister?”

  “You damn right.” Elle’s head bobs up and down. “She’s been in the field for over twenty years and uses the empirical technology we need to make sure you’re in your best shape. She’s already prepared a meal plan.”

  Half of my mouth lifts, annoyed. “Plant-based?”

  “Mostly, but no.” Elle winks. “I think you’re going to like this one.”