Diva NashVegas

by Rachel Hauck

  “Speaking of God.” Piper jogs around the court to gather up all the loose balls.

  “Smooth transition, Cantwell.”

  She lobs a couple of balls to me. “Did you do what Zach asked you to do?”

  I regard her for a second. “What did Zach ask me to do?”

  “He told me, Aubrey.” She tucks a ball under each arm. “He asked you to pray about marrying Car.”

  Dribbling up to the basket, I try another layup. And miss. “I’ve started to work on my promise.”

  She steps closer, passing me one of the balls from under her arm. “How does one start work on a prayer?”

  Gripping the ball between my hands, I bounce once. “Do the talking but not the listening.” I pause. “Part of me is afraid of what I’ll hear.” “Which would be . . .”

  “He’s disappointed in me.”

  Piper motions for me to take a shot. “Aubrey, don’t you know? God would kill the fatted calf for you.”

  I shoot and miss, then scurry for the rebound and lob up another shot. The ball rolls right over the rim and falls down the other side. “Scott is going to wipe the court with me.”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, fatted calf. Prodigal son and all that, right? Prodigal daughter in my case.” I stop and stare out over the lawn. “I never really left, Pipe, just wandered away for a while . . . But wouldn’t that be lovely? To be back in my Father’s house.”

  “It would.” Piper’s hand gently caresses my shoulder. “His love never—”

  I whirl around. “Never fails. I know.”

  She jabs my chest. “Don’t forget, okay?”

  I smile. “You won’t let me.”

  She starts clapping her hands. “All right, enough yapping.” Lining up the basketballs on the baseline, Piper instructs me. “Let’s get your game back. We’re going for a hundred free throws in a row, no misses. Let’s go.”

  “A hundred? Holy schmoly.” Bending forward, bouncing on the balls of my feet, the familiar feel of this old drill surfaces. “A hundred in a row, a hundred in a row.”

  Piper bounces me ball after ball, while I miss shot after shot. After about the thirtieth miss, Piper holds up. “You’re rushing. Slow down. Think.”

  “Slow down.” I draw a deep, steadying breath.

  “Concentrate.” She fires the next ball. “Go.”

  I fire it up, and miss again.

  “Your wrist. Use your wrist.”

  “Scott is going to kill me,” I wail.

  “Stop whining, Aubrey. Find your groove.”

  A few more shots, a few more misses, then it happens. The magic. The rhythm. The groove. Whoosh. “Wahoo!” I raise my arms in victory.

  “Don’t stop, keep going.” Piper fires the ball back.

  I shoot. Nothing but net.

  By the time Scott shows up, Aubrey “Abdul-Jabbar” James is bouncing around the court, mopping sweat from her eyes, ready to take him down.

  “Hope you’re prepared to lose, ’cause I can’t miss.”

  “No, I didn’t come prepared to lose. I hope you’re prepared to lose.”

  “Pipe,” I call, “from now on, Thursday is staff basketball day.”

  Gina looks up from where she’s stocking a cooler with FRESH! and Gatorade. “Count me out, boss.”

  “Ah, come on, it’ll be fun. Then we can go for a swim.”

  Gina screeches and hurries away, her fleshy elbows pumping up and down.

  “Don’t let George and Ringo out!” I holler after her with a glance at Scott. “ They like to play chase.”

  Scott swaggers to the center of the court, his arms and hips in opposite sway. He’s wearing a pair of Adidas slides with white socks, a pair of pale blue Melo shorts with a white sleeveless T-shirt. His shoulders are square and thick, his arms muscled.

  I stop bouncing as he saunters pass me. “What are you, the basketball mafia?”

  Stopping midcourt, he juts one foot forward and lifts his dark shades to his forehead. “I should be able to beat you on this court. No problem.”

  Laughing, I resume bouncing, circling him Apollo Creed style. “You’re going down, Vaughn.”

  He peers at me over his lowered shades. “Game time.”

  With that, I buckle over laughing. His pretense of cool is hilarious. Rafe comes over while Scott exchanges his sandals for sneakers and introduces me to a second cameraman. “This is our summer intern, Owen. He’s going to run the mini-DV today.”

  I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.” He’s a young twenty-something with an eager expression and sky blue eyes.

  His grin stretches across his face. “I love my job. Aubrey James . . .” Rafe tugs on his shirtsleeve, pulling him aside. “Be cool, man. Be cool.”

  Back to bouncing. Man, this is going to be fun. Courtside, my fans (aka paid employees) set up lawn chairs. Gina’s wearing an oversized floppy hat and sipping something pink from a hurricane glass.

  Piper-the-coach leans forward with her elbows on her thighs. “Come on, let’s go, Aubrey. You can take him.”

  Zach, who’s just arrived, cups his hands around his mouth, “Take him down, Aubrey.”

  “What? No one rooting for the winner?” Scott faces them with his arms wide.

  “Got to go with the home team,” Zach reasons with a laugh.

  “We’re rooting for you, man.” Rafe gives Scott a thumbs-up from behind the camera. “Win this for Inside NashVegas.” But when Scott looks away, Rafe catches my eye. ”Win,” he mouths.

  I give Rafe a thumbs-up, then challenge Scott. “Are we talking or playing?” Back to bouncing. Man, this feels good.

  Scott strides onto the court, palming an orange ball. “Ladies first.” I check to Scott. “First one to twenty-one wins.”

  He angles forward, shadowing my moves. But when he lunges for a steal, I swerve around him for an easy layup.

  “One to zip.” I can’t stop smiling. Or sweating. The late morning sun is high and hot in a cloudless blue sky.

  “I see how it is.” Scott takes the ball out, then runs inbounds with a hard drive for the hoop. He stops short for a jump shot and makes his basket.

  “One to one, I believe.” He backs away, passing me the ball, wearing a goofy, arrogant expression.

  Shaking my head, I bounce the ball. “Scott, Scott, Scott.”

  “Watch her, Scott. She’s aggressive.”

  What? Whose side is she on? “Piper . . .” With my guard down, Scott slaps the ball from my hands for a steal and sinks another basket.

  He prances around the court. “Two to one. Two to one.”

  Game face on, I point to Piper. “Stop aiding the enemy. You distracted me, and now look.”

  The game is brutal. Thirty minutes later I’m huffing and puffing, and it’s very evident I’m not seventeen any more.

  The score is nineteen to twenty, Scott.

  “He’s got you figured out, Aubrey,” Piper announces from the sidelines. “You did some research,” I say, dribbling in. “Figured out my best three-pointer.”

  He mirrors my movements, guarding me. “What can I say? I’m a sports reporter.”

  More and more, the quirky sportscaster with the cocky grin, lyrical laugh, and soulful eyes captures me. He makes me feel . . . Never mind. Play ball.

  Keeping my eye on Scott’s ball-stealing hand, I drive up the middle. He stumbles, trying to steal, and I shoot an easy fadeaway. The ball swishes through the net.

  “Twenty to twenty.”

  Next, Scott tries his own fadeaway that bounces in, then out. I charge for the ball. “Look who’s got the ball. Look who’s going to win.” “Pride goes before the fall, Aubrey.” He charges me, trying for a steal. “You can’t win.”

  “Come on, Aubrey, finish him off. He can’t really play,” Rafe taunts. “You should’ve seen him when we played the Fox 17 sports crew last year. Shewwee, stinker.”

  “Please, Rafe, he almost beat me.” I shove past Scott for the final drive and winning shot.<
br />
  Out of nowhere, Owen-the-intern cuts across the court right in front of me. I eek out a shrill “O-wen!” and swerve sideways, trying to miss him. But my shoulder plows right into him.

  The Inside NashVegas intern topples backwards, smacking his head against the hard court floor.

  “Owen, are you okay?” I drop to my knees next to him.

  Zach rushes in from the sideline. “He smacked his head pretty hard.” Doctor Gina bends over the down cameraman, holding up two fingers. “How many fingers do you see?”

  “Two.”

  “Good.” Gina reaches for his arm. “Can you get up?”

  “Yeah,” he mutters, rising up on his elbows with a slow, goofy grin. “I got plowed by Aubrey James.”

  “Boy, didn’t I tell you to be cool?” Rafe mutters.

  The rescue squad helps Owen to his feet. Once he’s seated with a Ziploc baggie of ice pressed against his head and Gina assures me he’s all right, I go back to the court.

  Scott stands under the basket, ball poised over his head. “I believe this is twenty-one.” He pushes the ball toward the rim.

  But instead of sinking down, it rolls around and . . .

  “Sink, you stupid ball. Sink.” Scott jumps up and down, waving his arms. The ball falls down the other side of the rim and bounces over to me.

  The sideline spectators erupt.

  “Aubrey, get the ball. Get it.”

  With two steps forward, I swoop it up for an easy basket and find myself nose to nose with my opponent. “I believe that is twenty-one.”

  19

  “Aren’t you glad I let you win?” Scott pops a grape into his mouth. He’s downed a tall tumbler of Gina’s sweet tea and is waiting for a refill.

  “Spin it any way you want.” I lift my chin to catch the breeze generated by the porch ceiling fans. “We all know the truth.”

  George and Ringo pace between us, panting, licking knees as they stroll by. Every muscle in my body aches, and I twisted my ankle trying not to trip over Owen.

  Poor Owen. He’s next to me with ice on his eye, bruised from the camera eyepiece. “How is it?” I ask.

  He lowers the ice pack. “Doesn’t hurt as much.”

  “I’m really sorry, Owen.”

  He replaces his ice pack and smiles. “Not every day a guy can say he got a black eye from Aubrey James.”

  Scott taps him on the knee. “Next time, be sure to stay out of the way.”

  Owen’s ruddy cheeks flush a deeper red. “Yes, sir.”

  Scott makes a face. Sir? I start to tease him, but Piper taps me on the shoulder. “Phone for you.”

  “Who is it?”

  She shrugs. “He didn’t say.”

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  I rise slowly from the wicker sofa. “H-hello.” A stonelike knot catches in my throat, making it hard to breathe. All porch conversation stops.

  “What are you trying to do? Just leave it alone.” His tone is terse.

  “Leave what alone? What are you talking about?” I walk to the edge of the porch; my aching muscles are now trembling.

  “We’ve been down this road before. Leave it alone.”

  “Peter, I’m not looking for you.” There’s a collective sigh from the crowd behind me. Now they know. “Why do you think—” There’s a click followed by a buzzing dial tone.

  Piper takes the phone, pressing End. Chills crawl over my sweat-dried skin. “That was Peter. Someone must be searching for him. He thinks it’s me. Again.” When I turn around, everyone’s expression is serious. I smile with a shaky laugh. “Fun times, huh?”

  Zach scoots to the edge of his seat. “Are you searching for him?”

  “No. He made his feelings known the last time I tried to get in touch with him: leave him alone. So I did.”

  Piper sets the phone on the glass table. “How long has it been since you heard from him?”

  “Six years.” I return to the sofa. “I think we had the same five-second conversation. Some kook who was looking for a payout tried to scare him out of hiding.”

  Any other day, missing Peter would be a dull, foreign emotion— one I’d tucked away years ago in the name of self-preservation. But today, the missing is painful. All the talk of Daddy and Momma and our gospel days has scraped the protective coating away from my heart. Zach presses his hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”

  “I am, but, if y’all will excuse me . . .” Pausing at the door, I wave to Scott. “Thanks for the game.”

  Friday evening Car’s in bed working on his laptop when I crawl under the covers, still sore from yesterday’s game of one-on-one.

  Peter’s voice clung to my heart most of yesterday afternoon, but by this morning, I’d shaken the impact of his call and resealed my emotions.

  However, my business meeting with Eli today brought up a whole new set of issues. Fluffing the covers and plumping my pillows, I watch Car from the corner of my eye.

  “Brie, you’re shaking the bed. I’m trying to type here.”

  Hugging my legs to my chest, I ask, “How’s the SoBro project?”

  “Still frustrating. Working a lot of angles, trying to figure out why investors won’t commit.”

  I rest my chin on the top of my knees. “When were you going to tell me I’m one of your angles?”

  His fingers freeze, hovering over the keyboard. “What makes you think I’m using you as one of my angles?” His eyes shift from the computer screen to me.

  “I met with my business manager today.”

  Car shoves his laptop aside with a heavy sigh. “Brie, I called Eli and asked a few questions. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal?” I pound the mattress. “Car, he actually thought I wanted to invest in one of your condos. He spent a lot of time rearranging my accounts, moving money around. Did you not know he’d call me?”

  “Then he wasted his own time. I didn’t ask him for a commitment.” Car stretches out his long, lean legs and locks his hands behind his head. The air around him is scented with end-of-day cologne and deodorant.

  “Then you better rethink how you word things, Car. You had Eli convinced.”

  He cuts his gaze over to me. “Why won’t you trust me and invest, Aubrey?”

  “Trust you? When you’ve gone behind my back three times now?” I slide down under the covers, shivering. I’m both angry and cold. Car sets the air-conditioning so low on summer nights the room has a wintry chill.

  He rolls toward me, propping himself up on his elbow. “I went to Eli with our standard proposal. If he liked it, I thought he could bring it to you.” He sighs. “Which is ridiculous, considering I share your bed, not Eli.”

  Buried up to my chin in blankets, I stare at the sculptured swirls in the ceiling. “Car, I need you to tell me you’re not out for my money.”

  His eyes narrow and snap. “I don’t need your money.”

  “Then why are you going behind my back to get me to invest?”

  “Because it’s a great idea. If you invest, I can capitalize on it with other investors.”

  His confession sends a cold shiver of realization over my body. “Capitalize on my name, Aubrey James?”

  He rolls off the bed. “One of the partners dropped your name during dinner with several potential investors. It’s amazing what a beautiful face and famous name will do for bored, rich men.”

  “You cannot use my name.” My tone leaves no doubt.

  Car paces at the foot, his hands on his hips. “You’re going to be my wife and I can’t mention your name to my business associates?” He shakes hands with an imaginary man. “Why, yes, Mr. Investor, I am married. She’s beautiful, talented, and wonderful, but her name is a secret.”

  “Your cheesy sarcasm pisses me off.” I flip over to my side, away from him. But then, in a surge of anger, I sit up. “Car, do you know how damaging it can be for me if something goes wrong with one of these investments? Suppose an investor feels cheated or duped? They’ll sue me
, not Car Carmichael or Carmichael Financials.” I press my hand to my chest. “My name will make the headlines. But all of that aside, I won’t risk AubJay Inc.”

  He chews on his bottom lip, avoiding my gaze for a long, silent moment, then crawls onto the bed next to me. “Aubrey, look, babe. All I wanted was for Eli to hear our plan. It’s good and sound. I figured if he pitched it to you, then our agreement to keep our finances separate for a while wouldn’t be breeched.” Slipping his arms around me, he holds me close, kissing my forehead.

  “You make yourself sound very noble, Car. But you knew your actions violated our agreement.”

  He strokes my hair and slips his finger under my chin with a feathery touch. “Okay, I hear you.” His kiss is delicate and sweet, and no matter how hard I resist, I melt a little bit. “How’d I get lucky enough to find you?”

  Smoothing my hand over his high, broad cheeks, I remind him. “Your parents lived in the right neighborhood.”

  He laughs and rolls over to his side of the bed. “Don’t forget the movers are coming tomorrow.”

  I remember. “Don’t you forget I’m tied up all day with Dave. Gina will be here to help the movers.”

  He caresses my arm. “Don’t stress over this album, Brie. Why mess with the magic that’s always worked?”

  “Because I’m thirty, not nineteen.” I click off my nightstand light. “We’re going to the Bluebird Café tomorrow night to hear a songwriter, Robin Rivers.” I scoot over to him and tug on his arm. “Meet me there? Please, Car, it’ll be fun.”

  “Naw, you go ahead. This is your thing.”

  “My thing,” I echo softly. “What happened to all the ‘we’ stuff when you talked about money?”

  He unfastens his watch, setting it on his night table. “I don’t know anything about songwriters. They all sound good to me.”

  “What about being there for me?”

  He switches off his night-table lamp and, in the dark, reaches for me. “I have a tee time on Sunday with some clients. I’d planned to get organized Saturday night after the move. Can you meet this songwriter another time? Stay here and help me get settled in.”

  “You know the time pressure we’re under on this album. We’re already behind. And if we want to work with Robin, we need to know now.”