LONG SHOT: (A HOOPS Novel)

by Ryan, Kennedy

  “Dammit,” she mutters, pulling her hair off her neck and twisting it into a knot on her head. “I don’t need this today.”

  “We were on the same flight,” a guy offers from beside her, his eyes crawling up and down her body in a way that even makes me feel violated. “My luggage still hasn’t come either. Maybe we could—”

  “Don’t.” The look she gives him should wither his hard-on. “It’s so not happening.”

  “I was just thinking if you—”

  “I know what you were just thinking.” She turns away from him to search the conveyor belt again. “You’ve been just thinking it since we left New York, and not hiding it. So again, I’ll say …”

  She turns back to him with a look that would singe the fuzz off your balls.

  “Don’t.”

  I like her already. The guy is sputtering and still trying, but he has no game. It’s sad really. Guys who have no game.

  “Bristol.” I say her name with confidence because I can already tell that’s the only thing she’ll respond to.

  Her head jerks around, and those silvery eyes give me a thorough up and down sliding glance. After she’s made it all the way down to my classic Jordans and back to my face, she looks just behind and beyond me, as if she isn’t sure she actually heard her name or that I’m the one who said it.

  “Bristol,” I say again, stepping a little closer. “I’m Grip, a friend of your brother’s. Rhyson sent me.”

  Her eyes widen then narrow, the frown deepening.

  “Is he okay?” she demands. “Did something happen?”

  “No, he’s just tied up.” I smile to reassure her, hoping she’ll smile in return. I want to see her smile. To see how those braces worked out for her.

  “Tied up?” Those full lips tighten, still showing me no teeth. She shakes her head a little, huffing a quick breath and stepping closer to the conveyor. “Figures. So you’re stuck with me, huh? Sorry.”

  “I’m not.” At least not now that I’ve seen her. I wouldn’t have missed this for my burrito.

  She gives me the same knowing look she leveled on No-Game guy. Like guys have been looking at her like that for a long time. Like she can smell lust from fifty paces. Like she’s telling me it isn’t happening.

  Oh, it’s happening, baby girl.

  I’m plotting all the ways I’ll convince her to go out with me and then who knows where that’ll lead when I remember. This is Rhyson’s sister. Shit. The hottest girl I’ve met in ages, and I should probably try not to sleep with her.

  Okay. I’m agnostic again. Sorry, Ma.

  “I’m waiting for my luggage.” She runs a hand over the back of her neck the way I’ve seen Rhyson do a million times when he’s agitated. I note all the other things about her that remind me of my best friend. Let’s just say Rhyson’s DNA looks a helluva lot better on her. I mean, he’s a good-looking guy, but he’s, well, a guy. If I rolled that way, maybe. But I roll her way, and dayyyyyum.

  “Here’s mine,” No-Game pipes up with a smug smile when he pulls his big square suitcase from the line.

  Bristol creases a fake smile at him that disintegrates as soon as she looks back to the belt.

  “Mine shouldn’t be far behind then,” she says.

  “Unless it’s lost,” No-Game sneers but can’t seem to drag his beady eyes from her rack.

  “You got your luggage,” I say, looking down at him. “How ’bout you step off?”

  His blue eyes hiding behind the round glasses do a quick survey of me. I know what he sees and probably what he thinks. Big black dude, arms splashed with tats, “First Weed. Then Coffee” T-shirt. He’s probably ready to piss himself. He’s like the Diary of a Wimpy Kid all grown up but still wimpy. I could squash him with my eyelashes. It seems we’ve arrived at the same conclusion because No-Game Wimpy Diary guy turns without a word and pulls his suitcase behind him, docile as a lamb.

  “Impressive.” Bristol smirks but still doesn’t flash teeth. “Been trying to shake that jerk since La Guardia. I felt like spritzing every time he looked at me.”

  “Spritzing?”

  She makes a spraying motion toward her face.

  “Yeah, like to refresh your … never mind.” She rolls her eyes and sighs. “Anyway, he may look harmless, but I bet under all that geek he is a nasty piece of work. Unfortunately, it only takes money, not actual class, to fly first class.”

  I’ve never flown first class, so I wouldn’t know. Come to think of it, I’ve only flown once. Ma sent me to Chicago to visit her cousins the summer my cousin Chaz died. That was a bad summer. I don’t know if it was the heat, but The Crips and The Bloods made our hood a jungle that year. They may have been hunting each other, but a lot of innocent blood ran down our streets. Not that they cared. Not that they ever cared. Ma took all the money she’d been saving from braiding hair to get me out of Compton that summer, and I think I flew Ghetto Air. Whatever shitty aircraft that little bit of extra money got me on, that’s what I flew. Not that Chi-Town was less violent, but at least it didn’t hold any memories for me. You don’t dream other people’s nightmares. And in my own bed, I’d wake up every night hearing the shot that killed Chaz just outside my window.

  “Finally.” Bristol’s voice brings me back. “Here it is.”

  An Eiffel-tower sized Louis Vuitton suitcase ambles down the conveyor belt.

  “I thought you were just here for a week?” I lift one brow in her direction.

  “I am.”

  “You sure? ’Cause I could fit my whole apartment in that big ass suitcase coming at us like a meteor.”

  “Very funny.” A teasing grin pulls at the corners of her bright eyes. “Maybe that says more about your apartment than it does about my suitcase.”

  The one-room hovel I call home right now appears in my mental window.

  “You might be right about that,” I admit with a laugh, grabbing the colossal suitcase when it reaches us and setting it on the floor. “Shit. You pack your whole sorority in here?”

  “I’m not in a sorority, but thanks for the stereotype.” She reaches for the handle, and her hand rests on top of mine. Both our eyes drop to where her slim fingers contrast with my rougher, larger ones.

  You know that electric tingle people talk about? That thing that zips up your spine like a tiny shock when your hands first touch? That isn’t this touch. It isn’t electric. It’s something that … simmers. A heat that kind of seethes under my skin for a second and then explodes into a solar flare. I watch her face to see if she’s feeling anything. If she does, she hides it well. If she’s anything like her brother, hiding things is a habit. Her expression doesn’t change when she tugs the handle until her hand slips from under mine.

  “It’s got wheels.” She pulls the suitcase toward her and finally meets my eyes. “My feminist sensibilities tell me to carry it myself.”

  “Maybe my manhood won’t let me walk idly by while a delicate lady carries her own suitcase.” I shrug. “I got a rep to protect.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt you have a rep.” Bristol’s brows arch high and her lips twist into a smirk. “Where to?”

  I grab the suitcase by the handle, pulling it from her grasp, and start walking. When I look over my shoulder, her narrowed eyes rest on the mammoth suitcase I’ve commandeered. The defiant light in her eye makes me want to commandeer her like I just did this overpriced baggage. This is Rhyson’s sister. I need to keep reminding myself she should be squarely placed in the NO FUCK bin. But, damn, if all bets were off, she’d be feeling me every time she walked for a week.

  If things were different.

  But they’re not.

  So I won’t.

  I’m just gonna keep telling myself that.

  FLOW - Chapter 2

  Bristol

  I’M MORE THAN capable of dragging my luggage around, but I appreciate the view as I watch Grip do it for me. My eyes inevitably stray to the tight curve of his ass in the sweatpants dripping from his hips. His back widen
s from a taut waist, the muscles flexing beneath the outrageous T-shirt hugging his torso and stretching at the cut of his bicep.

  Ever since he called my name and I looked up into eyes the color of darkened caramel, I haven’t drawn nearly enough air. Soot-black eyebrows and lashes so long and thick they tangle at the edges frame those eyes. Lips, sculpted and full. Some concoction of cocoa and honey swirl to form the skin stretched tightly over the strong bones of his face. I’m almost distracted enough by all this masculine beauty to not be pissed at my twin brother.

  Almost.

  Five years. I haven’t seen Rhyson outside of a courtroom in five years, haven’t even spoken to him since Christmas. I finally initiate this visit to him in Los Angeles, and he sends some stranger for me?

  I fall into step beside Grip so I can read his expression when I drill him. In profile, he’s almost even better, a tantalizing geometry of angles and slopes. He tosses a quick look to me from the side, a caramel-drenched gaze that melts down the length of my body before returning to my face, stealing more air from my lungs.

  “So, why couldn’t Rhyson come get me?” I ask.

  “Long story short,” Grip says as we reach the exit. “The album Rhyson’s been working on—”

  “He’s working on an album?” A grin takes over my face. “I didn’t know he was working on new music. Piano, I assume? I can’t wait to hear—”

  “It’s for someone else,” Grip corrects. “He’s producing an album for an artist, and her label wants all these changes before it drops. Some remastering, maybe some other stuff.”

  “Oh, I was hoping he was back to performing. Doing his own music.” I narrow my eyes and nod decisively. “He should be.”

  I’m actually here in part to convince him of it. I’m staking my entire college degree and career aspirations on him seeing things my way. People usually do see things my way if I play my cards right. My mother taught me to play my cards right. She may not be much of a mother, but she’s a helluva card shark.

  “He will one day.” Grip offers me a small smile. “When he’s ready.”

  “You think so?” I hope so.

  “Yeah.”

  He drags my suitcase toward an ancient Jeep with a mountain-sized airport security guard standing in front of it.

  “Thanks, man.” Grip pounds fists and accepts keys from the guy. He glances up and down the busy sidewalk. “Anybody give you shit yet about the car being here?”

  “Nah.” The guard gives a quick head shake. “You know I run this place.”

  “Yeah right.” Grip sketches a quick grin. “Well, thanks.”

  “No problem, bruh.” The guard’s eyes flick to and over me briefly before returning to Grip, brows lifted in a silent query.

  “Oh, Amir, this is Bristol, Rhyson’s sister.” Grip waves a hand between us. “Bristol, Amir. We grew up together. He made sure my car wasn’t towed while I came to get you. It was all kind of last minute.”

  At the last minute, Rhyson decided he would delegate me to strangers. I swallow my disappointment and spit out a smile.

  “Nice to meet you, Amir.” I extend my hand, and he brings it to his lips in unexpected gallantry.

  “The pleasure is all mine.” Amir grins roguishly, his eyes teasing from beneath a fall of dreadlocks. “You didn’t tell me Rhyson’s sister looked like this.”

  “Didn’t know.” Grip laughs and hauls my huge suitcase into the back of the Jeep. “The operative words being ‘Rhyson’s sister’, so pick your jaw up and say ‘Goodbye, Bristol’.”

  “Goodbye, Bristol.” A delightful smile creases Amir’s face.

  “Goodbye, Amir.” I can’t help but reciprocate with a wide grin of my own. Amir salutes and makes his way back inside the airport. When I glance back to Grip, he’s leaning against the dilapidated Jeep watching me closely, traces of a smile lingering on his handsome face.

  “What?” I quirk an eyebrow as the smile melts from my face.

  “Nothing.” His shoulders push up and drop, languid and powerful. “Just thinking those braces worked out well for you.”

  “Braces?” My fingers press against my lips. “How’d you know I used to wear braces?”

  Grip hands me his phone, and if I didn’t have enough reasons to string Rhyson up, sending “ugly stage” adolescence pictures to his hot friend gives me another. Once I get past embarrassment for my twelve-year-old, frizzy-haired, flat-chested self, I really study the picture more closely. It’s a rare family photo, and I remember the day we took it with absolute clarity. Rhyson was home off the road for a few weeks. We’d known since he was three years old what an extraordinarily talented pianist he would be, but it was only around eleven that he actually started touring all over the world. Music is a family business for us, and my parents went with him on the road as his managers. I, however, had no talent to speak of, so I stayed home with a nanny who made sure I ate, went to school, and had a “normal” childhood. As normal as your childhood can be when your parents barely remember you exist.

  “Rhys sent that so I could identify you at the airport.” Grip holds out his hand for his phone.

  I study the photo another few seconds. Rhyson looks like he’d rather be anywhere but with the three of us. Just a few years after that picture was taken, he would find a way to leave us. To leave me. As much as I told myself over and over that he emancipated from our parents, not from me, that never made me feel less abandoned or less alone in our sprawling New York home. After he moved to California to live with my father’s twin brother, Grady, I’d sit in the music room at his piano, straining my ears for the memory of him rehearsing in there for hours every day. Eventually, I stopped going in that room. I draped his piano in white cloth, locked the door, and stopped chasing his music. Stopped chasing him. I told myself that if he wanted to be my brother again, he’d call. Except he never did, so I called him. It hurts to feel so connected to someone who obviously doesn’t feel as connected to me.

  “You okay, Bristol?”

  Grip’s question tugs my mind free of that tumultuous time in my family that felt like a civil war. His hand is still extended, waiting.

  “Sorry, yeah.” I drop the phone into his palm, careful to avoid actual skin-to-skin contact. Based on how my body responded to the brush of his fingers when he took my suitcase, I suspect he could easily fry me with another touch. “Just feeling sorry for that geeky little girl in the picture.”

  “Oh, don’t cry for her,” he says with a grin. “I have it on good authority when she grows up the braces are gone and she has a beautiful smile.”

  I roll my eyes so he won’t think his lines are actually working on me, though he does actually make me feel a little better.

  He opens the passenger door and I slide in, catching a whiff of him as I go. It’s fresh and clean and man. No cologne that I can detect. All Grip.

  “So where to now?” He starts the old Jeep but lets it idle while he turns radio knobs, searching for a station.

  “Food.” I blow out a weary breath as the long trip and lack of food hit me hard. “I hope Grady’s got food at his house.”

  Grip’s eyes widen just a bit before sliding away from me.

  “Uh, there may not be a ton of food at Grady’s place.” Grip taps long fingers on the steering wheel. “He’s kind of out of town.”

  “Out of town?” I snap my head around to stare at his rugged profile. “He knew I was coming, right? How can he be … what?”

  My father and his twin brother Grady weren’t close before, but after Rhyson emancipated from my parents to live with him, our relationship with him grew even more strained. My parents resented him “taking” Rhyson away, and I haven’t seen him either. I never had much of a relationship with my uncle, and it doesn’t look like that will change on this particular trip.

  “A colleague had a death in the family,” Grip says. “He needed Grady to step in for him at a songwriters’ conference.”

  A piece of lead rests heavily on my chest, const
ricting my breath for a second. Why am I even here? It’s obvious I’m the only one looking for any connection, any reconciliation for our family.

  “He couldn’t have anticipated this,” Grips adds hastily.

  “I get it.” I force a stiff curve to my lips and stare out the passenger side window so Grip doesn’t see the smile never reaches my eyes. “This is gonna be some family reunion. Uncle Grady away and Rhyson … tied up.”

  We don’t cry in front of strangers.

  My mother’s voice echoes back to me from childhood. We don’t cry in front of anyone, truth be told. I blink furiously and sniff discreetly, hoping a red nose isn’t betraying the stupid emotion swelling in my belly and pushing up into my chest. I must be PMSing. I suckled at my mother’s iron tit. Something this insubstantial after all I’ve been through shouldn’t affect me this way. I know not to wear my emotions in places people can see them. And yet, here I am, against my mother’s wishes and advice, clear across the country, risking parts of my heart with family who apparently don’t give a damn about me.

  “Bristol, Grady will be back soon and Rhyson will be around.” I hate the deliberate gentleness of Grip’s tone. It’s as if he sees my cracks and knows that at any minute I might break.

  Red nose and teary eyes or not, I’ll show him I won’t break. I’ll make sure he knows I’m stronger that that. That I don’t need my brother or my uncle. That they are the ones who missed out on knowing me.

  I whip around to tell him so, to unload my defenses and assurances on him, but all my bravado slams into the compassion of his eyes. More disconcerting than how beautiful his eyes are, is how much they seem to see. How much they seem to know. The bitter words die on my tongue. I swallow the shattered syllables. I swallow the pain. With practice, it goes down easy, lubricated by tears I’ll never shed. I’ve had lots of practice. I’ve had lots of tears, but this stranger, this beautiful stranger, won’t see. I steady my trembling mouth and level my eyes until they meet his stare squarely.