The peace of that moment in the common room felt like a perfect, fragile bubble. It was a feeling Jayla clung to, a stark contrast to the cold panic of that Tuesday notification months ago. But at Helping Hands, bubbles were made to be popped.
The first pinprick came the next morning. Resa, her voice strained over the phone. “Jayla, we need to talk. The board meeting moved up. They’re reviewing our quarterly numbers today.”
A cold trickle of dread traced Jayla’s spine. The numbers. She’d spent weeks untangling the previous director’s chaotic bookkeeping. She’d found discrepancies, small but persistent, in supply invoices. She’d flagged them, intending to present her findings with a clear plan for a new procurement system. Now, she was out of time.
She rushed to prepare, her stomach a tight knot. The meeting was a blur of stern faces on a Zoom screen. She presented her case, her voice confident even as her hands trembled under the table. She explained the inefficiencies, her proposed solutions.
An older board member, Mr. Henderson, cleared his throat. “Ms. Davis, your initiative is… noted. However, these ‘discrepancies’ you’re highlighting… they’re tied to long-standing vendors. Community partners. Your approach seems… aggressively corporate.”
The word was a slap. Corporate. The very thing she’d shed. She was being punished for doing her job, for trying to protect them.
Later, in her office, Brenda confirmed her fear. “Old man Henderson’s cousin owns that supply company,” she said bluntly, folding her arms. “You just kicked a hornet’s nest, baby girl.”
The professional drama was a slow burn, but the romance with Bryce was a wildfire. Their dates moved from cafes to his apartment, a spacious loft above his barbershop filled with the scent of sandalwood and aftershave. It was there, one rain-swept night, that the simmering tension between them finally broke.
They were curled on his sofa, a documentary playing, ignored. His fingers were tracing lazy patterns on her arm, each touch sparking a low current in her blood. She turned her head to make a comment, and the look in his eyes—hot, focused, full of naked want—stole the breath from her lungs.
He didn’t say a word. He simply leaned in, his kiss a stark departure from the gentle ones they’d shared before. This was deep, claiming, a promise of everything to come. A low groan rumbled in his chest as his hands slid from her arm to her waist, pulling her onto his lap.
“Jayla,” he breathed against her mouth, her name a prayer and a curse.
Her professional resolve, the director’s armor she wore every day, melted under his touch. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her fingers tunneling into his perfectly groomed hair. He stood, lifting her with him as if she weighed nothing, and carried her to his bedroom.
What followed was a blur of sensation. The rough texture of his beard against her neck. The surprising softness of his sheets. The solid, muscular weight of him pressing her down. He took his time, worshiping every inch of her with his hands and mouth until she was trembling and pleading. When he finally slid inside her, it was with a possessive groan that echoed her own cry of release. It was passionate, intense, and left them both breathless and tangled in the sheets, the rain pattering a steady rhythm against the windows.
Afterward, he held her close, his lips pressed to her damp temple. “You’re it for me, Jayla Davis,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “You know that, right?”
She believed him. In that cocoon of warmth and satisfaction, she believed every word.
The bliss was short-lived. The professional pressure escalated. Mysterious complaints were filed against her with the board claims she was “cold,” “distant,” that she “played favorites.” The source was anonymous, but the descriptions were tailored to hit her perceived weaknesses, the very insecurities she’d overcome.
Then, the ultimate blow: a city inspector showed up for a surprise review, citing an anonymous tip about code violations. As Jayla scrambled to accommodate him, her mind raced. This was too coordinated. This was sabotage.
The suspense reached a fever pitch a week later. Jayla was working late, the shelter quiet except for the hum of the industrial dishwasher. She was reviewing security footage, trying to cross-reference the days of the suspicious invoices. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She had a sickening feeling she knew what or who she was looking for.
A shadow fell across her doorway. She jumped, her hand flying to her chest.
It was Marcus. The gentle giant’s face was etched with uncharacteristic grimness. “Director,” he said, his voice low. “You need to see this.”
He led her to the monitor showing the feed from the back alley. A figure, hoodie pulled low, was jimmying the lock on the shelter’s back storage door. The door where donated goods, including pricey electronics occasionally given for the women’s job-training programs, were kept.
“Call the police,” Jayla whispered.
“Already did,” Marcus said. “They’re five minutes out.”
But as they watched, the figure finally pried the door open and slipped inside. Jayla’s blood ran cold. They were in the building. With her. Alone.
“Stay here. Lock the door,” Marcus ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. He moved toward the hallway with a quiet, terrifying efficiency.
Terrified, Jayla watched the hallway feed on the monitor. She saw Marcus corner the figure near the storage room. There was a brief struggle. The hood was thrown back.
Jayla’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
It was Brenda.
The no-nonsense nurse, the woman who had become her confidante, her friend. She was wrestling with Marcus, a bag of stolen tablets and smartphones at her feet.
“It was you,” Jayla breathed, the pieces crashing together. The inflated invoices from the medical supply company Henderson’s cousin owned. Brenda must have been getting a kickback. Jayla’s investigation had threatened her side hustle. The complaints, the anonymous tip to the city… it was all Brenda.
Jayla watched, stunned, as Brenda broke free from Marcus and sprinted down the hall not toward the exit, but toward the residential wing. Toward the women and children.
“No,” Jayla whispered. Without thinking, she burst out of the office and gave chase.
She found Brenda in the common room, cornered. But the woman wasn’t looking for an escape. In her hand was a canister of gasoline from the maintenance closet. The sharp, acrid smell filled the air.
“You just couldn’t leave well enough alone!” Brenda shrieked, her eyes wild. “You and your spreadsheets and your questions! You ruined everything!”
She fumbled for a lighter in her pocket.
Time seemed to slow. Jayla saw the flicker of the flame, the terror in the eyes of the few women who had gathered in the doorway, drawn by the commotion. She saw the future of this place her home going up in flames.
“Brenda, don’t!” a voice roared from the entrance.
Bryce. He stood there, having come to surprise Jayla after closing his shop, his eyes wide with shock. His presence was a split-second distraction.
It was all Jayla needed.
She lunged, not for the lighter, but for the canister, tackling Brenda with a force she didn’t know she possessed. They crashed to the scuffed linoleum, the canister skittering away, gasoline sloshing across the floor. Marcus was on them in an instant, pinning Brenda down as she screamed and cried.
The police swarmed in moments later.
In the chaotic aftermath, as Brenda was read her rights, Jayla stood shaking, the smell of gasoline clinging to her clothes. Bryce rushed to her, pulling her into his arms, holding her tight as the adrenaline crash made her knees buckle.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured into her hair, his own voice unsteady. “I’ve got you, Jayla. You’re safe.”
She buried her face in his chest, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of him. She had almost lost it all. But she hadn’t. She had fought for it. And as she looked around at the shell-shocked but safe faces of the women, at Marcus’s steadying presence, and felt Bryce’s solid strength holding her up, she knew.
This wasn’t just a job. It was a battle. And she was a warrior. Her home had been attacked, and she had defended it. Exhausted, terrified, but victorious, Jayla Davis finally knew exactly who she was.
Thee Juju Aura 