Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
“Come on in,” I say, waving him inside. “This is Frank, everybody. One of my producers at AM.”
“Nice to meet you all.” Frank runs a kind if cursory glance over the small circle gathered in our makeshift greenroom. His eyes stop on Touré and his smile broadens. “Mr. Wallace, we are so honored to have you. I know you’re here for Finley, but our cameras are out there and our team is capturing clips from the interview. We’ve been conferring with your agent to make sure you have final say on any footage we use.”
“Great. And I’m sure you know it, but you have one of Finley’s crown jewels on your team.” Touré swings his gaze back to me, smiling the smallest bit. “I don’t talk about myself much, and Niomi’s one of the few who could persuade me to do it.”
Boom! I offer him an appreciative smile. The team at AM knows my worth, but doesn’t hurt to have someone like Touré remind them with contract negotiations coming up.
“Believe me. We know what we’ve got in Niomi. Thank you again for sitting down with us.” Frank tips his head toward the door. “Let’s get out there and do a quick check for sound. That crowd is roaring and ready.”
The look Touré casts my way somehow shrinks the room down to the two of us, some coded message embedded in his gaze. Whatever he’s not saying, I may not hear it, but I feel it. Feel the warmth and the focus of his stare; of his attention.
“I’m ready,” he says. “You ready, Ni?”
I take in a deep breath and wonder if, faced with an hour one-on-one with the man I always wished and wondered about, my next words are truth, lie, bravado or something in between.
“Yup. I’m ready.”
CHAPTER FIVE
touré
If the raucous response and laughter are anything to go by, the crowd is loving this interview so far. The Yard is packed, the students spilling over its borders onto the surrounding grass. With the gigantic screen projecting us, the campus radio team set up, and Niomi’s AM crew capturing their shots, this feels like quite the production. It’s been a long time since I was on this campus, but I didn’t forget Finley. I’ve supported the school financially and done promo videos to help raise money and visibility. If my alma mater called, I answered however I could, but it never worked out that I could actually show up when they invited me. Once it was Kabul. Another time Moscow. A coup. A storm. I made my living as a story chaser, and I’ve always gone where the story led.
Maybe if he was home, I would.
Celine’s response was low-voiced and a low blow. One that found its target.
Me.
I spot her in the front row, surrounded by her friends I only vaguely know. Her near hero worship of Niomi doesn’t bother me. Hell, I’m as captivated by her as the millions of early morning viewers. Her polished, professional veneer never feels like a barrier. It enhances her appeal, but doesn’t guard. So many women I’ve worked with describe their wardrobe and makeup as armor. And God knows they need it in an industry still so overwhelmingly misogynistic and male-focused, even though we’ve made a lot of progress. But Niomi’s shiny exterior doesn’t gleam like a shield or deflect. Somehow this renowned interviewer sitting across from me on this stage on the Yard where we used to hang between classes is as inviting as she was on our video conference call with a ponytail, wearing her Finley sweatshirt.
“Touré,” Niomi says, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “I have an unsanctioned question to ask you.”
I would typically tense up, or as I did on one occasion, shut the interview down altogether and walk out, earning me a reputation with some as a recalcitrant asshole. I catch sight of my agent standing just offstage. Panic stretches her eyes. She knows I hate surprises. Frank, Niomi’s producer, frowns, speaking into his little headset, probably anticipating that I’ll make a scene or end the interview. None of that happens, though. I trust, not only the Niomi I used to know, but the one I’ve seen on the morning show disarming guests and proving over and over that she won’t exploit.
“This wasn’t in the plan,” I say, allowing the teasing in my voice to set everyone, including Niomi, at ease. “But for you? Anything.”
I’m shamelessly flirting with her in front of a few hundred students, several colleagues and my offspring. When Niomi introduced Ron as her cousin, all bets were off. It wasn’t even something I articulated to myself, but if there’s a chance she might be feeling me, she’ll have no doubt I’m feeling her.
“Alright, I’mma test that theory,” Niomi grins back at me. “You had a nickname in college.”