The Art of Desire

by Stacey Abrams, Selena Montgomery

Genres: African American Romance; Romantic Suspense; Suspense

Synopsis

Trouble comes in threes...

One doomed love affair after another has made lovely Alex Walton swear off men. Now, she's determined to try something that maybe she can succeed at: a writing career. Little does she know that a chance meeting with a strikingly handsome stranger, a mysterious obelisk, and a lost kingdom will change her life forever. As Alex is about to discover, truth can be stranger—and far more dangerous—than fiction.

...but true love comes only once.

After three years inside a terrorist organization, Phillip Turman is trying to rebuild his life. His first assignment is to pick up Alex Walton, the maid of honor for his best friend's wedding, at the airport. His second is to deal with his instant attraction to her. But his third may be the toughest: to keep Alex out of danger as his past—and her need to know about it—threaten to destroy their future.

Release date: September 5, 2023

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 288

Sample

PROLOGUE
Zeben lay quietly in his cell, eyes closed, waiting.

The dreams grew stronger, more detailed. The months of captivity rankled, but he did not mind. Allah’s plan for his life loomed larger than those of the Jafirian government. God’s wishes trumped the petty desires of the ISA. Yaweh would free him from his captivity, if he only believed.

The key to his freedom, to his return to power, had been stolen by the infidels. Taken by one who called him brother and betrayed him. His destiny called to him, its bright truth flickered in his visions. Yes, he now had visions to guide him, since his liberty had been taken.

And in his latest vision, he’d witnessed his truth. Freedom and conquest were his destiny, and he would smite the thieves.

His gaunt body shuddered with the power of his visions. Show me the infidels, and I will destroy them. Hands trembling, he clasped them in supplication. Show me the betrayer, and I will lay him low. Now, the trembling suffused his body. Show me the power, and it shall be mine.

Keva, Zeben’s guard, approached the isolated cell, the boy’s scattered thoughts on the terrible row he’d had with his girlfriend. She’d been angry about the phone number scrawled in lipstick she’d found in his apartment. His stammered explanation of ignorance didn’t satisfy her, so tonight he’d bring flowers and candles. That should make her happy, he decided. Zeben’s dinner balanced precariously on a plastic tray, rounded and light. They claimed he was dangerous, would use any weapon at his disposal. But Keva had been assigned to Zeben for weeks now, without incident. Yes, the old man ranted about infidels and possessing a diamond the size of his fist. But he also muttered in his sleep about claiming the throne of Jafir.

Every schoolchild knew the legend of the monarchy.

The last rulers had been drowned in the Mediterranean twenty-­five years ago, their bodies crushed against the rocks on the craggy shore. Because Jafir was a constitutional monarchy, the people mourned the loss of the royal family, but did not replace them. Aristocracy was bred in the bone, not assigned.

Zeben was an old, senile fool of little threat, Keva decided. So he no longer hurried into the cell to deliver the meals and administer the prisoner’s medication, frightened of his shadow.

“Arm and leg in cuffs,” he demanded in a voice not yet settled into manhood, speaking into an intercom. He noted the clicks as the arm and leg were securely attached to the wall, limiting Zeben’s range of motion.

Zeben listened as the guard punched in the code that released the metal door to the narrow cell. Dim, milky light trickled into Zeben’s solitary room. To diminish his power, they’d separated him from his followers. But no matter. He was prepared.

“Good afternoon,” Zeben offered in a voice raspy from disuse.

Keva ignored him. One didn’t talk to the prisoners.

So much fear of an emaciated codger, he sneered. Nevertheless, he kept his distance as he placed the tray on the metal table bolted to the floor. When he left the cell, he’d key in the digits to release Zeben’s cuffs, freeing him from the wall.

Would Leondra prefer roses or daffodils? he wondered idly as he prepared the sedative. He tapped the glass of the syringe, the way the prison doctor taught him, and turned to administer the shot. He never felt the bony finger press firmly against his carotid artery, never knew he’d died.

Quickly, Zeben undressed the boy and put on the black uniform. Then he dragged the lifeless body to the hard pallet and cuffed him to the bed. Pulling the black cap low over his eyes, he made his way to the laundry room. There, his source informed him that a door led to the truck bay. With the guard’s purloined weapon, he calmly shot the two prisoners toiling inside the cramped, humid room.

Entering the codes he’d been given, he bypassed the security lock and emerged into a black tunnel. He ran then, the sound of the engines drawing him closer. He climbed into the piles of dirty clothes and soiled linen, disappearing in the fabric. Eventually, the truck began to roll forward, halting twice at the checkpoints.

Hours later, Zeben stood on the balcony of his lair, inhaling the sea’s cleansing air. The radio carried reports of an unidentified prisoner’s escape. The police scanner gave more detail, but none mentioned his name.

President Robertsi would quash all information, to allay the fears of his people, Zeben knew. Zeben knew also that the coward would contact the ISA and request assistance.

Loathing rose to mingle with the salty air. Robertsi was weak, dependent on foreigners to rule. Zeben would enjoy snapping his neck.

He turned and walked inside, his guest waiting patiently in front of his desk. Civelli grinned, the blinding capped-­tooth smile ingratiating and reckless.

“Did you bring it?” Zeben demanded, steepling his fingers on the blotter.

Civelli reached into his case and removed a sheaf of papers. “It’s everything I could find. Descriptions of the accident, medical reports on the bodies, police reports of the investigation.” He leaned into the chair and lit a thin cigar. Smoke swirled around the angular brown face. “I researched the history of the monarchy. If the heir does not claim the throne by midnight on the first, the wealth of the monarchy reverts to the government. Including the Kholari and its mate, the Sahalia ruby.”

“‘And the heir will be known by the possession of the obelisk. The Rites of Ascension shall be spoken and the rightful heir will take command,’” Zeben recited from memory.

Civelli shifted uneasily in his seat, eager to collect his fee and be on his way. Zeben’s fanaticism, though amusing, too often proved to be dangerous. Helping him steal Praxis had landed the old man in jail and sent Civelli on the lam. Four months in Pakistan fencing nuclear reactor parts, and three in India trading for silo specs. He’d been pleasantly surprised to receive Zeben’s summons. Research was always preferable to the hazards of war.

“So,” he began cheerfully, “I’ll take my fee and be on my way. Everything you requested is here.” He slid the sheaf across the desk.

Zeben studied him. Some called Civelli a weasel, others used more pejorative terms. To Zeben, he was merely an instrument, one effortlessly controlled. “I want you to find the obelisk,” Zeben announced.

Civelli started in surprise. “Zeben, it’s been missing for more than a quarter century. The Tribunal will be disbanded after this sitting.”

“There was no accident. The king and queen died at my hand. It was simple enough to capsize the boat, a charge in the motor. But they did not find the boy’s body. He is still alive.”

Civelli’s eyes widened in fascinated horror. A twenty-fiveyear-old mystery, an urban legend proven true.

“Civelli, I want you to find the obelisk.”

“What do I do when I find it?”

“Bring it to me. I have another task for you as well, Civelli.”

“Yes?”

“Kill Phillip Turman.”

Civelli didn’t blink. “Why me, Zeben? Why not one of your minions, I mean, men?”

“The betrayal of Scimitar runs deep, I do not know who to trust,” Zeben admitted.

“You trust me?” Civelli gave a short laugh. “Why?”

“Greed rules you, as surely as power is mine to command. I will pay you twenty million dollars if I ascend to the throne. You have one month to comply.” With that, Zeben turned away to watch the water. Taking his cue, Civelli stood.

“Where do I start?” Civelli asked. “Where weak men masquerade as kings. America.” 

Chapter One 

The panic rises in his throat. He can hear his ragged breathing. The air fills with the acrid stench of sulfur.

In the satellite hut in Jafir, metal screams from the force of being pulled from its moors. A beam falls and midnight comes, shot through with fire.

The cell is cramped and dank. Moaning from prisoners sounds in the twilight that hangs unchanged despite the passing hours. Dawn cannot penetrate the mounds of concrete that shroud his hell. When the guards come to drag him to the room, he pleads for mercy, futile words that only earn him more pain.

Zeben commands his loyalty, and he pretends to believe. Madness gleams in the old man's eyes, quivers in his voice as he foretells his destruction of the world.

Each day, the truth mocks him, but he tries not to believe. They will not forget him, but they will abandon him. Then the truth is clear, when years pass with no rescue.

He is not Phillip Turman, congressman from Maryland.

He is no longer Sphinx, agent and comrade. He is forsaken.

Phillip shot up, the soft navy cotton falling to his waist. He fumbled for the lamp. The light, dim and unsatisfying, barely illumined the room. As the nightmare receded, he glanced at the digital clock that flashed a blurry red 4:37 a.m. At least he'd gotten three hours of sleep this time, he thought ruefully, staring out the eastern exposure from the window in his bedroom. The sun had yet to take a stab at the morning.

On the bedside table, the phone jangled loudly.

Phillip lifted the receiver. "Hi, Dad," he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. Right on schedule.

"Hi, yourself. Didn't wake you, did I?" Jake Turman set his fishing pole by the cabinet and cradled the phone to his neck. The weariness troubled him, as did the alertness in Phillip's voice. The nightmares typically left him awake and restless at dawn.

"No, Dad. I was up. How were the fish?"

Steam billowed as Jake poured his morning cup of coffee. The doctor warned him off the caffeine, but he was old enough to make up his own damn mind. And he'd die with Folgers in his bloodstream and a hat brim in his hand. "Not biting. Must be a holiday, the way they're sleeping in."

"They probably need time to regroup. We caught at least a dozen this weekend."

"Yeah, son. That was a good day on the water." He looked out beyond his wood-railed porch to the murky waters of the Chesapeake. Pride swelled in his chest at the memory of the evening it became his. On the drive home from Cambridge, Phillip had driven past the Inner Harbor to a rural highway. Twenty minutes outside of Baltimore, he'd turned into the drive of a ten-acre farm, the blue A-frame farmhouse sporting a jaunty bow. To his father's stunned surprise, Phillip presented the keys to Jake, a graduation present, the boy had said, to the man who'd made it possible.

Phillip had been twenty-five, fresh out of business and law schools, newly wealthy and in love, Jake remembered. As his son had planned, his future was settled, merely awaiting his arrival. Phillip had always plotted the details of each day as though his life depended on it. His mother had been the same way. Like her, he'd always seemed so adult, so mature. Ambition drove him, caution guided him. Now fear edged his son's dreams, waking Phillip in a cold sweat every morning before day broke.

"Maybe you should move back out to the farm, Phillip," Jake said without preamble. "I could use your help in the garden."

"Dad, you won't let me touch your garden. I'll trample the peas, crush the tomatoes, and do heaven knows what to the corn."

Beneath the humor, Jake heard the fatigue and sighed. "I don't understand why you had to move back to DC. The governor offered you a good job, and you could work from here. We've got that DSL line you installed that I'll never use, and the contraption you call a computer just gathering dust in the study."

"We've talked about this, Dad. I've been hiding for long enough. It's time for me to move on. Don't worry. I have a plan."

Always occupied with tactics and strategy, once more Jake wondered about what had happened to Phillip in Jafir. He didn't believe the story of a prison camp any more than he believed Phillip was simply a politician. Baltimore's City Hall hadn't been a hotbed of political intrigue, but he'd learned to see layers where others saw only the surface. Jake believed his son when he said he worked for the U.S. government, but not necessarily for a branch acknowledged by the powers that be. He also believed that if you pushed Phillip too hard, the stubbornness pushed back even harder. Another trait he'd inherited from his mother. Conceding defeat, for the moment, Jake said, "You still heading to Atlanta today?"

"I fly out this afternoon. I have a few meetings first, so I won't have time to stop by the house."

Phillip didn't add whom he was meeting with, or why.

From habit, Jake didn't ask. Instead, he asked nonchalantly, "Is she going to be there?"

On the other end, Phillip's face tightened, the solemn lines tense. "I imagine so. Lorei and her parents are old friends of the Grayson family. Adam couldn't not invite them."

"Of course he could. He's your best friend and you're the best man," Jake grumbled.

"Dad," Phillip soothed, "I'm alright. I'll be okay. It's been seven years. She's moved on with her life and so have I."

"No, you haven't, Phillip. If you had, I'd be bouncing grandkids on my knees instead of fishing at dawn. You let that girl break your heart. Then you dug yourself a hole of a job and crawled inside. She's the reason those men-" Jake broke off his sentence, but they both knew the ending. Lorei's desertion led to his capture.

Temper threaded through Phillip's body, but he controlled the anger with practice. Years of honing the skill of hiding his feelings, submerging misery from his father and his friends. "Lorei didn't break my heart. She wanted a different life than I did. It just didn't work out."

"It took four years of engagement for her to figure that out?" Jake nudged the sore spot, knowing Phillip lied. The calm, subdued tones did not disguise the wounds that festered. The boy had a lot of mending to do. Reopening the past was excruciating, but it was often the only way to heal cleanly.

"When she walked away, you threw yourself into your work. I don't think I met another girlfriend, not since you two broke up."

The effort to curb his temper made his next words curt. "Dad, I will not talk about this."

"Shutting me out now too, Phillip?"

"I've got to go, Dad."

Jake relented, hearing hurt join fatigue. He had plenty of time to help his son find his way. With Adam's support, it was just a matter of time. He'd call him in a couple of hours to conspire. Out loud, Jake said, "Enjoy the wedding, son. Give Adam a hug for me, will you?"

"Of course." Then forgiveness, as easy as a simple phrase. "I love you, Dad."

"Love you too."

Phillip hung up the phone. Shoving the sheet away, he swung long muscled legs over the side of the bed. He tucked battered sneakers under one arm and rummaged through his dresser for a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.

Might as well get started, he decided, as he slid running shorts over lean hips. He certainly wasn't going to get any more sleep.

The streets were shadowed and empty, and Phillip had learned to dread the twilight. Nevertheless, he welcomed the solitude, the freedom of the run. He never thought he'd be happy to be alone again after three years of isolation.

The prison guards had locked him in a lone cell at the end of the block. Fear of his connection to Scimitar and the reputation of his alter ego conspired to condemn him to solitary meals, solitary runs on the yard. The runs saved his sanity and kept his body conditioned for battle.

He knew, of course, that he could have ended his confinement if he'd revealed his identity. But to break cover and seek assistance, he'd have undermined an operation already years in the making. The welfare of other agents and the life of his best friend depended on his silence. So he endured, for two years, relying only on furtive messages sent to the Capitol, with no answer.

Then Cavanaugh appeared, and he reentered Scimitar's world. But the loneliness did not end. As an operative, Phillip was cut off from Zeben's henchmen, in spirit if not body. He had not shared the religious zealotry of the intifada cell, nor did he have the bone-deep greed of the money-hungry. With nothing left to lose, he played his part well. The renegade American who abandoned his country, an interloper with no home.

His skill for siphoning funds from unsuspecting Cayman accounts and re-routing Swiss bank transfers protected him from too much scrutiny. But the loneliness of deep cover, without a confidant or a friend, gradually wore him down.

Until Raleigh and Adam helped destroy Scimitar.

Now, back in America as a hero, Phillip preferred the desolate sound of rubber slapping against the hard asphalt of Connecticut Avenue to the click-click of the cameras that had trailed him since his return. Reporters hounded him for his story. Publishers begged for rights to the biography.

A robin trilled out a call as the sun pierced the wispy clouds on the horizon. Maybe he would grow to welcome the attention, in a few years. Probably not, he mused. He'd never been very comfortable with his celebrity in the first place. But celebrity won elections, and Phillip Turman enjoyed winning. Spurred by his reminiscence, he picked up speed, the echo of feet against the pavement trailing him. Power was a heady draught, and he'd grown up in a family without power. Instead, they served those who possessed the elixir.

Phillip remembered the nights his father would come home from his position as a janitor at City Hall and empty his pockets. Slivers of paper would reveal a world of deals and machinations, a world Phillip yearned to join.

And, while he served to return power to those who had the least of it, he couldn't ignore the exhilarating rush command brought. From leading the SGA at Morehouse to deal-making at CompuSecure, Phillip reveled in his ability to move effortlessly from thought to action. An ability that Scimitar had stolen from him, he remembered bleakly, one more loss. Desolate, Phillip picked up his pace, crossing the bridge, heading into Dupont Circle. After his third mile, he turned and started the run home.

Later, buffeted by the shower's icy spray, Phillip tried to shake off the last remnants of the dream. Even nine months after his return to the States, the nightmare refused to leave him. He would just have to try harder, he determined as he forced his head under for another dousing. The past was gone. He had to focus on his future, starting in two hours. Wrapping a towel around his taut waist, Phillip moved to the mirror to trim the neat mustache that framed straight white teeth. His dad's insistence on braces had meant two years of peanut butter and jelly for lunch and plenty of school ground fights. Of course, he acknowledged as he checked his reflection, the result made his later teen years well worth the bruises. The orthodontist's magic brought him dates and elections. Lorei loved his smile.

The thought twisted inside him painfully, and Phillip struck the porcelain with a clenched fist. As always, memories of the past reminded him of what he'd lost and would never have again.

Like the Congressional seat he'd won at the tender age of twenty-eight that had been forfeited when the Justice Department declared him dead. And, as he'd discovered six months ago, Congresswoman Celeste Rogers had sailed through her sophomore election with 65 percent of the vote. The seat firmly belonged to her. Not that he was sure he wanted it back anyway. But that was one more question he'd answer later. Much later.

As he dressed, Phillip mentally scrolled through his Friday. First, the meeting with Governor Bundy about trade missions to the African-Arab Alliance. Next, coffee where he would feel out Attorney General Jim Henderson about a return to the Justice Department. Then he had a lunch meeting scheduled with Atlas. At three, though, he would catch a flight to Atlanta, where he would be the best man at his best friend's wedding. And maybe, he thought wistfully, maybe he would finally get some rest.

By noon, Phillip sat at a secluded table in a diner in Columbia Heights, across from the most stubborn man he'd ever known. In the center of the table, a faux ashtray issued radio waves to scramble their voices and interfere with any detection devices planted nearby. Guerry's was a public and out of the way restaurant, but Atlas took no chances.

The wrangling between Phillip and Atlas had become a ritual since his repatriation. Once a month, Atlas would appeal for him to accept a new assignment for the ISA. The International Security Agency, Phillip's erstwhile employer, desperately wanted him to head off to Israel or Huancavelica. Since his last mission as an operative had broken the back of the terrorist group Scimitar and saved vital technology, he was in high demand. Phillip, however, wasn't prepared to go back.

"Damn it, Phillip! You owe me!" Atlas barked, spearing a piece of steak. Time was running out, especially with the news he'd received from Jafir. He only had a month, and three of his best agents were AWOL.

Phillip sipped from a half-full glass of Merlot. "Atlas, your imagination is unparalleled. How it could be that I owe you for three years of incarceration is beyond me," he returned mildly.

"I got you out, didn't I?"

"After two years in prison and a third as a henchman for a lunatic. And let's not forget that your operative plotted to kill me."

"Chimera wasn't going to kill you. The girl was upset."

"She drugged me, dragged me to a cavern, and held a gun to my head. Seemed damned determined to me."

Raleigh would have killed him, Atlas acknowledged silently, if Phillip hadn't talked quick enough. Aloud, he said, "But she didn't pull the trigger, son. That's all that matters." Atlas gulped down his scotch and soda, then signaled the waiter for another round. He'd been wearing away at Phillip for weeks now, to no avail.

Despite Phillip’s weak excuses, Atlas understood he was still haunted and wanted nothing to do with the ISA. Atlas couldn’t blame him, but the game wasn’t over yet. The reports from the agents still stationed in the region had grown direr lately. And personal. He pasted on his most avuncular expression. “Phillip, we need you. I need you. You are one of my best men.”

“Flattery works on Adam, not me. That’s how I avoided being full-­time for so long. I’m impervious to your charm, Atlas. And I’m not ready to come back yet.”

Atlas sighed. True, Phillip had avoided full-­time missions until his engagement fell apart. Then he’d thrown himself into the organization, coordinating from his perch on Capitol Hill.

Turning again to flattery, Atlas made another run. “You are one of the best, Phillip. Besides, where’s your sense of duty? Loyalty?”

At that, Phillip’s deep brown eyes narrowed. His voice, a strong baritone that played with base, steeled. “Never question my loyalty, Atlas. Loyalty cost me my fiancée. It almost cost me my father. Try any tactic you like, but don’t question my allegiance.” The harsh tone brooked no argument.

As the head of one of the most powerful agencies the world had never known, Atlas understood the value of strategy. Here, logic called for immediate retreat. The threat was imminent, but time was on their side. When Phillip became truly necessary, Atlas would bring him inside. In the meantime, the ISA would continue to collect information and plot. Phillip had not abandoned him yet, as the monthly skirmishes proved. He doubted even Phillip recognized that he wanted to return to active duty. Let him wallow in denial. They had time.

He’d lay the groundwork now, though, he decided.

Atlas asked, “When are you heading for Atlanta?”

Nonplussed but grateful for the capitulation, Phillip answered warily, “As soon as lunch is over. I’m catching the shuttle. Why?”

“I need you to do me a favor.”

Phillip cocked his head. Feigning confusion, he said, “I thought I said no. In fact, I am remarkably certain that in the last thirty minutes, over an excellent meal, I told you no. Several times.”

Atlas lifted his scotch, leveled his gaze on Phillip. “A personal favor. Not ISA-­related.” The lie slid out with no difficulty.

Shrugging, Phillip relaxed. “Sure. What do you need?”

The lightning about-­face didn’t surprise Atlas. He expected it as his due. Phillip was one of his, would always be. Whether he liked it or not. As his boss, it was Atlas’s job, no, responsibility, to lead him to water if he didn’t realize he was thirsty on his own.

“Liz and Robert Walton are old friends of mine. Raleigh is staying with them until the wedding. Their daughter, Alex, is my godchild.” Atlas paused.

“And?” Phillip prompted.

“And I want you to keep an eye on her.”

“Is she in danger?”

“Not that I know of, but she’s coming home from a trip to South Africa. We know for a fact that some of Zeben’s cell escaped there after his capture.”

Returned to regroup was more accurate, Phillip thought sourly. Several of the men to whom Atlas referred were financiers who funded Zeben’s campaign. They’d fled Jafir hours after the ISA raid on the warehouse. Although the team had recovered Praxis, the Scimitar spy Darrick Josephs, and even Zeben himself, several of Zeben’s henchmen remained at large. Phillip recognized some by sight, others by reputation. The most immoral one, a man known only as Jubalani, trafficked in stolen art and plundered gems. According to rumor, he’d contracted with warlords throughout Africa to mine diamonds and rubies, all to be sold to the highest bidder with no return for the people. His profit-­sharing scheme funded border wars in Uganda, civil wars in Sierra Leone.

He and Phillip had met once, during a transfer to finance an aborted insurrection in Zaire. Through the years, Phillip funneled millions of dollars into Jubalani’s coffers, at Zeben’s command. Shame, as familiar to him now as the fear of twilight, swamped Phillip. With effort, he wrenched his attention back to Atlas.

“Is Alex with the ISA?”

Shaking his head vigorously, Atlas barked, “No! Absolutely not!”

Caught off guard by the vehemence, Phillip stared at Atlas. “Why the need for security? Is she involved with someone from Scimitar?”

“No, nothing like that,” Atlas answered, his voice even. “I don’t think there’s a problem, but I want you to keep your head up. If anything seems suspicious, let me know.”

“What am I looking for?”

“I don’t know. My instincts are screaming that having you, Raleigh, and Adam in the same place so soon after Scimitar’s demise isn’t a good idea. Having Alex there too makes me jumpy. The two of them should have eloped.”

When Phillip started to protest, Atlas waved him off. “I know. None of you work for me anymore. Except Raleigh, and I can’t very well keep her from her own damned wedding. I know. But I don’t like it.”

Phillip had no intention of missing the wedding either. To placate Atlas, he responded, “Zeben knows who Adam is, but Adam’s too well protected for Zeben to try anything at the wedding. And the only person who knew Raleigh’s identity was Cavanaugh. I doubt he told anyone.”

Atlas flinched at the mention of his old friend’s name. “If he could betray the ISA, I don’t put much faith in his protection of Raleigh.”

Cavanaugh’s treachery hurt them all, but Atlas had known him the longest.

“Until that last minute, Atlas, I think he did try to protect her,” Phillip said quietly.

“If Adam hadn’t killed him, he’d have taken her out. You and I both know it,” Atlas rejoined, dispensing with the guilt that lingered.

Understanding, Phillip looked Atlas squarely in the eyes. “It’s done, Atlas. We survived and saved the day. All’s right with the world.”

Altas’s rumble of disbelieving laughter broke the tension. “Be on your guard. I’ve got a sixth sense about this. Watch Alex for me, okay?”

“Alright. Will you be at the wedding?”

“Can’t.“

What, no toast to the happy couple?” Phillip teased. “And how would you introduce me?”

“The pain in Raleigh’s pretty ass. The thorn in Adam&rsqu