by A. J. Lape
Once inside the stadium, Lincoln, Alexandra, Pixie, and I met up with Dylan’s parents and Raymond White—and one of his sons. My heart thundered in my chest. Only one son accompanied Raymond…and I’d been hoping for two.
Raymond White was Lincoln’s childhood best friend…and also retired mob. They’d been next-door neighbors in Compton, and while Lincoln became a decorated police officer, Raymond became legendary on the other side of the law. Although their lives went in different directions, they’d never severed ties and kept their relationship with a heartbeat. Raymond’s relationship with his sons, however, was in need of a crash cart.
One son hadn’t known about the other—until recently.
And that on-the-down-low brother was the brother I preferred in my corner.
The friend of mine who’d had a gambling debt? The one who couldn’t pay and the AVO Padre kidnapped another friend as collateral? That friend with the debt—and I use the term ‘friend’ loosely—was Raymond’s youngest son, Boozy, or Raymond Junior. Boozy was so self-involved that whenever he entered my grey matter, my sense of sanity kicked him out. Other than the fact he almost cost my friend and me our lives, he’d lifted not one finger to remedy the situation. Well, let me backtrack. He did offer a solution, but his idea was so asinine I stepped in as an attempt to keep everyone alive. I didn’t do things alone however. Raymond’s oldest on-the-DL son, Domino (he went by the name Nicholas Rice), accompanied me. Although I’d figured out who Domino was by then, Domino’s familial significance hadn’t been known to Boozy. Boozy only knew Domino as a friend, but unbeknownst to him, Domino had kept tabs on his younger brother without revealing his identity at the request of their father. Raymond had only discovered the existence of his eldest son a little over eight months prior when Domino had been brought in on a drug charge. Lincoln then found a younger version of Raymond, and right or wrong, Raymond delayed telling Boozy about his brother for fear he’d reject him.
Since Domino was the only one with his father, it appeared he had.
While Raymond was in an easy conversation with Colton Taylor, his godson, Domino resembled a white-collared worker thrown in gen-pop of a high-security prison. He stood beside Dylan’s mother like he waited for someone to shank him. A striking, sophisticated woman with tawny-colored hair, Susan Taylor had eyes like a lioness. Rubbing Domino’s back in small circles, she murmured something to him with a tender smile, already cluing into the fact Domino wanted to bolt.
I kissed her. Performed a repeat with her husband and Raymond.
While everyone else was talking, I pulled Domino aside, hoping for a quick soundbite.
“I feel like this is sweep’s week in your family drama,” I muttered.
He grimaced. “The cat’s definitely out of the bag,” he whispered.
“Is that good or bad?” I asked. I gazed up into Domino’s face and wondered how Boozy hadn’t done the mental calc that Domino was his brother. Six foot four or so, Domino was black, well-spoken when he did speak, with high cheekbones framing chocolate-tinted eyes that had known a considerable amount of pain.
He scratched the back of his neck. “I thought it was going to be okay, but Boozy was supposed to meet us at the airport. He didn’t,” he said, his shoulders dropping from an emotional weight.
“Did Raymond at least talk to him?” I questioned. “Make sure he wasn’t in some sort of trouble?”
God knew it was a huge possibility. Domino winced again, and I braced myself for the worst.
Chapter 3
IDIOT COULD BE HIS SECOND LANGUAGE.
“He did talk to him,” Domino told me. “Boozy said he just needed space, but I understand the need. It should be him here…not me.” He took a quick breath, releasing an exhausted sigh. “Damn, I should just go home.”
I adamantly sliced my head to the left and then slowly to the right to emphasize my point. “You’re not going anywhere, and that’s not true,” I protested, touching his forearm and pulling him toward me. “You have just as much right as he does.”
Domino rubbed a strong hand down his jaw, scrubbing at it as though he tried to remove a stain. “Doesn’t feel that way.” He sighed.
I gazed at the time on my cell phone, knowing my friend, Finn, was waiting for me in the end zone. “Listen, one of my friends from high school is waiting for me in the fan section. There’s room for you. Wanna join us?”
Raymond’s gaze slid over, watching mine and Domino’s interaction. “Thanks,” Domino said, giving me a minor league smile. “But I’d like to get to know the rest of Lincoln’s family.”
After I told him to text me if he needed rescuing, I made my way to the end zone, headed for Finn Lively to watch Dylan and another friend, Lucas Conner at QB, light up the field. Both Dylan and Lucas committed to Gator athletics senior year. Finn, however, had a different path. And that path took an abrupt turn when he started working out with Dylan’s brother, Zander.
Zander was a junior at Valley High School, our alma mater, and had recently verbally committed to the University of Cincinnati to play lacrosse. His athletic career was the standard story as the legacy of a legendary athlete. Judged harder than most, his coaches questioned why he didn’t hit as hard as his brother, benching him because he didn’t measure up—when he should’ve been measured against those on his team. After riding the sideline freshman year, Zander decided to try lacrosse—and was actually at a tournament this weekend. Since Finn attended college at the University of Cincinnati during the semester Zander’s life fell apart, he practiced with him, and Zander became so good that he earned a full-ride scholarship. Finn, on the other hand, discovered he had a hidden talent for the game, quit UC, and walked on to the lacrosse team at U of F, earning a starting spot as midi. Sometimes things didn’t work out the way you thought they should, but you discovered Providence had a better plan all along.
Skimming at six-two, Finn had a long and lean body, and to be a platinum-blond, his blue eyes were framed by lashes so thick it should be a crime. We were elbow-to-elbow with other super fans and could barely hear anything past our own breathing.
Finn leaned down into my ear as I chowed on the popcorn I’d hijacked from one of his friends. “Bella,” he murmured, calling me by one of his many nicknames, “our boy has an enemy on the second team.”
I laughed with no humor, enjoying the sway of Dylan’s butt while he warmed up before kickoff. When hadn’t Dylan had enemies? He had the skillset to play both defense and offense, logging more tackles than anyone in the league since he’d entered the collegiate arena. To Gator Nation, he’d been the Messiah, but for those in the love-to-hate camp, he was ruthless, loving to hit, and enjoying a little too much what damage a mere human could inflict. Some claimed him to be a devil in human skin—risen from the bedrock of Hell. The way I saw it, he’d been hired to be tough, but for those of us who knew the personal side, Dylan Taylor’s passion for the game was surpassed by the way he loved his family and friends.
I tossed a handful of popcorn in my mouth, not caring that the buttery grease smeared on my chin. “Listen, I know a guy who knows a guy who can take care of the problem in one well-placed shot,” I joked. “In fact, no one will ever find the body.”
And Lord, that wasn’t far from the truth because that had happened with Twenty Bucks. When his enemy tried to kill me and died by an accident, Twenty Bucks scrubbed the crime scene, promising the evidence of Domino and me would never be found. That had been a week earlier. So far no one had come knocking.
Finn placed a hand on my chin, tilting my face toward him. “Don’t joke. I’m serious. Do you remember that transfer? Kirby York?”
Vividly.
York and I had never had a face-to-face, but he had one heck of a scandalous story. PEDs were found in his system his sophomore year, so when his previous team cut him, he transferred to U of F with the hopes of being a walk-on. He had to sit out a calendar year as part of his NCAA penalty but played a few games at the end of last season when his 36
5-sanction ended. Dylan had a bad feeling about the guy when he found out he’d joined the team, but Dylan had always been a man of second chances.
“A real choirboy,” I mumbled facetiously.
“Aye. Well someone shoved a mic in his face this morning, and he accused Dylan of everything from HGH to getting paid-to-play to somehow getting his hands on the opposing team’s playbooks.”
That was new. And Kirby York needed a fist to the face.
More popcorn down the hatch. “Did he tack on the part that Dylan skins baby kittens and numbs out with heroin and university-paid strippers nightly? Because that’s the best part,” I mumbled sarcastically. “It makes him a real superstar.”
“He left that part on the cutting room floor,” Finn quipped, “but I think it was only because the female reporter interviewing him likes Dylan and shut him down hard when he couldn’t provide witness names.”
Of course, she’d shut him down. All reporters adored Dylan. He did his job. He was articulate and patient with their questions, even if they proverbially went into overtime. Oftentimes, he would flip the tables and interview them in good fun. He was a natural—the reason sponsorships were lining up to sign him once they legally could. “Why are you so worried about this guy?” I asked. “We both know Dylan can take care of himself.”
By the end of the game, Dylan would be picking people out of his teeth.
Finn had a small set of binoculars hanging around his neck. He lifted them to his eyes while he answered, “York’s a local, and I can only assume he was given this chance because Coach Scott is a good guy and York’s dad is an alumnus and big-time athletic booster. Here’s the thing. York’s mouthy and the type that takes a dig at someone and then claims it was all a joke. He actually said that to the reporter when she shut him down, but two breaths later, he made it known he wanted the offensive line starting position…but was more than willing to take Dylan’s spot on the defense should the team need him.”
“So?” I scoffed. “He’s not going to take anything from Dylan.”
“I know that.”
More popcorn in my mouth. “Then why are you worried?” I said behind the kernels. “Besides, I can’t imagine once the coaches find out York dogged one of his teammates publicly—indirectly implying the organization pays for his illicit entertainment—that his behavior will be tolerated. It’ll work itself out.”
Finn didn’t look so convinced, ignoring my protests and continuing with a winter’s-coming look straight out of Game of Thrones. “There’s a good chance York’ll be at the club tonight if we go out afterward. Just be on the lookout, okay? Me and the guys will be, but I would prefer Dylan having quadruple coverage.”
“I got him,” I reassured Finn. “I’ll be all over York like glue on a postage stamp.”
Swapping the popcorn for Finn’s binoculars, I zeroed in on Kirby York. Big guy. White. Brown hair down to his shoulders that had gone wavy from sweat. Dylan had about three inches and fifty or so pounds on his hater, but the guy carried himself on the field with a considerable amount of authority. Either confident, cocky…or trying too hard. My guess was a mixture of the latter two because he was dressed in an orange jersey, which signified the second team. More than likely he’d already figured out the only way for him to make first team was to take down Dylan Taylor. It was one thing to be eager to go mano a mano with a player like my boyfriend. Dylan welcomed and respected the battle. But it was totally different if you wanted to take a teammate out of the game by ruining his reputation with manufactured lies and innuendo. My guess was York anticipated eating the grass and merely attempted to spin the hype of Dylan’s strength before the stats came out.
Good luck with that, bud, I thought. Dylan was the type of player who forced you to level up. I’d seen him fight raging psychopaths in a fight club and come out the winner. Then again, if this guy was the douchebag Finn claimed him to be, idiot could be his second language.
“Big guy,” I said.
“Dylan’s bigger,” Finn said defensively.
“Sounds jealous.”
“Who isn’t?” he agreed.
“So you think he’s gonna come at Dylan hard?”
I returned the binoculars, raptly listening for an answer. “He goaded Dylan bad,” he said. “Normally, I wouldn’t give it a second thought, but Dylan’s had a rough week. Well, a rough few weeks, to be honest. He’s obsessing over you reporting to the academy on Monday, fearing the worst. I just don’t want him to do something stupid.”
When a guy found out his girlfriend nearly ate a second bullet, I suppose there would be a tendency for him to be a little more anxious and proprietary than normal. Dylan had phoned hourly during my shifts this week, checking to make sure my doors were locked, my stun gun was charged, and the mace on my keyring was shooting a steady stream when activated. He’d gone through something similar when I returned home from being abducted in high school. Time had mellowed his paranoia, but a bullet actually hitting its mark resurrected some behaviors. Dylan wasn’t normally someone who hovered—he did his thing, and I did my thing—but Dylan was someone who could become distressed given the right formula. God only knew how his emotions would escalate when I pinned a shield to my chest.
Here was the thing about Dylan’s worries though. When he stepped onto the field, whatever had been eating at him evolved into mental and physical fuel. The best games of his career had historically come on the heels of some life event of his own or of one of his loved ones. Most usually the physicality of the game righted any pivots in his emotional axis, and he rebounded back to the voice of reason and positivity.
Once the game started, we returned the kickoff to the thirty-yard line, and Lucas Conner—QB for the blue team—moved the ball down the field on several well-targeted throws. We missed an opportunity on third down, however, and wound up settling for a field goal. When the orange team took possession, the quarterback went for the long ball on the second down, and their wide receiver pulled down the ball and wound up in the red zone. The tension and roar of the crowd was deafening, but once the ball was snapped, Dylan morphed into the legendary Dylan Taylor that sports broadcasters were in awe of. He shoved York off balance in some sort of spin technique, and while York was trying to figure out why the earth had moved, Dylan motored straight for the QB. With a two-hundred-plus train motoring toward him, the QB couldn’t get the ball released fast enough. The ball became jelly in his hands, bouncing up and down. Dylan forced a fumble, and in what had become a patented Number Eighty move, Dylan snagged the ball mid-air and ran eighty yards for a touchdown.
Boomshakalaka….
A brief pause of stunned silence came from the announcer until he finally went live uttering in a hushed wonder that Dylan had been clocked at twenty-four mph. Cheers erupted from the stands, and while I celebrated the Hall of Fame-worthy play alongside them, somewhere amidst the hoopla, I grabbed Finn Lively’s eyes once more. Dylan had just annihilated Kirby York when it counted—his version of having the last word.
Yup. York would be coming for him.
Chapter 4
DID MR. WRONG GIVE YOU THOSE FRESH BRUISES?
“Hullo?” I asked. “Anyone there?” I paused and added a snarky and drawn-out, “Hellll-oooooo??”
I was on a three-peat with a prank caller, wondering what numbskull was excited to hear me utter the same three sentences, three times in a row with an escalating amount of sarcasm. When heavy breathing evolved to the point of hissing mosquitoes, I hit the disconnect and redialed the 212 area code sequence in a call back. I received one of those electronic voices that sounded like a robot, killing the call when I heard Dylan’s voice.
“Where’s the most beautiful girl in the world?” Dylan bellowed as he sauntered out of the locker room, a black duffle slung over his shoulder.
Sliding my phone in my back pocket, I swiveled and clocked on God’s gift to womankind. Dylan wore a dark suit and royal-blue tie, his jet-black hair glistening with droplets from a recent
shower. On one hand, he looked as GQ as they came. On the other, he was a beautiful menace. The only thing not savage about him was perhaps the expensive clothes on his back. Striding toward me with the gait and power of a jungle cat, Dylan winked—his hands opening and closing as if they anticipated having me inside them. It amazed me how any friction or worry between us jumped to passion once we embraced. Thing was, before he could make it to my side, a microphone was thrust in his face, and an ESPN reporter began questioning him in a rapid fire.
I heard a series of clicks, the shutters of cameras illuminating the afternoon outdoors like fireflies. Dylan radiated power—a power so thick people were left trying to figure out if it anchored them or left them flat on their backs, staring at the sky.
“The long-suffering girlfriend,” I mumbled to his father who stood next to me right outside the locker room doors.
Colton Taylor resembled his son so much they could be clones. “You can’t be serious,” he said, his identical dimples imploding. “My son just called you the most beautiful girl in the world in front of the other women standing here.”
One look at the hunger in their eyes—and the wide road of life before Dylan—and I felt like a depreciating asset. Ugh.
I shook off the nerves, savoring the moment. “Dylan does occasionally proclaim his love rather loudly.”
“More like staking his claim if you ask me,” his father muttered.
Dylan laughed at something the reporter had said in a baritone sound so big it shook the earth. Everything about Dylan was big: big joy, big love, and even big hate. While he answered a question, he grabbed my gaze, silently requesting I stay put. Listen, a wild boar wouldn’t scare me away.
