Celi-Bet (Solomon Brothers #2)

by Leslie North

  Javier sighed. Contentment, fatigue from battling an illness most of his life, something. His beautiful nut-brown skin had a grayish cast. Willow planted herself at the foot of his hospital bed next to legs-for-days Bolt and dug deep for positivity to surpass her melancholy.

  “Miss Loretta said you were riding a scooter up and down the hallway yesterday.”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you show ‘em how it’s done?”

  Javier did a neck jive and swiped a suave hand past the place he once had an enviable mane of thick, dark hair.

  Willow laughed. The kid had serious charm. Total ladies’ man, if he ever got the chance to become a man at all.

  “How’s your mom?”

  “Sad most days.”

  “She’s afraid one of those cute blondes down the hall will become your girlfriend. Steal you away from her.”

  A fast grin played at Javier’s mouth but subsided almost as quickly. “I think she knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  “That I have to go soon.”

  Willow’s throat thickened. She didn’t know exactly what he meant, certainly didn’t want to make a joke of it.

  “Go where, Javier?”

  “Heaven.”

  Willow’s chest swelled, to bursting, almost painful. Instincts had her glancing at Chase, but all she saw was Bolt’s silly expression.

  “How do you know?”

  “My grandpa comes most nights after Mom leaves. Sometimes he’ll sit in that chair over there until I fall asleep, so I’m not scared. We talk.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  “He tells me what heaven’s like. He says it’s different for everyone, but that joined souls stay together. Like a love gravity.”

  “Sounds amazing.” Tears backed up. Willow fought—hard—to subvert them from her eyes, but they crackled out through her voice.

  “I think so, too. I hope they have basketball there.”

  Bolt sat up slowly. He turned to face her, his hands resting at the base of the costume head.

  Chase was asking permission. Willow nodded.

  Chase removed Bolt’s head. “I hope they have basketball, too.”

  Javier’s eyes flashed cartoon-wide. His jaw dropped. Three-Stooges-like hand gestures followed. He glanced from Willow to Chase, Willow to Chase, mouth gaped.

  “I’m glad I said your jersey was my first pick,” said Javier.

  Chase laughed. Somber moment aside, they worked at devising a bro-handshake, paw to small hand. When that didn’t work, Chase unzipped Bolt’s costume and freed his right hand. The handshake grew to epic proportions, something she could never remember, but Chase learned it with the finesse of someone who had memorized an entire NBA playbook.

  A knock sounded at the door. Alex came in with a loaded tray—far more than mashed potatoes and Jell-O. He, too, failed to hide his surprise at seeing Chase there, but gave his utmost attention to Javier.

  “Someone told me you might want a little midnight snack.” He set the tray on the patient table and pressed the bed panel to elevate the mattress behind Javier’s head.

  “Three green Jell-Os?”

  “All for you, my man.”

  “Thanks.”

  Chase introduced himself and shook Alex’s hand. After a brief trifecta of male commentary on the Charlotte game, Alex said his goodbyes.

  “I can’t eat all this. Want some?” Javier asked Chase.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Together, they mowed through chili-cheese fries, steamed green beans, mashed potatoes, two cartons of chocolate milk and the fattest slice of lemon-meringue pie Willow had ever seen. Turns out, Javier wasn’t only an expert on presidents. He was a bit of a basketball historian, which led to an endless and spirited debate about the true greats of the game. They took selfies, Chase still half in Bolt’s costume. For once, the mascot code didn’t matter. Not much did, except the possibility that Willow might have been wrong—very wrong—about Chase Holbrook.

  It wasn’t a big deal that Chase couldn’t sleep. Today was a day off before a two-game road trip out to L.A. He could make up for being awake at four in the morning, watching muted highlights from around the NBA, by sleeping all day if he wanted. It wasn’t even a big deal that he had veered off his strict diet, designed for peak season performance, and overindulged in the best-tasting, greasiest chili-cheese fries in recent memory. What was a big deal was the source of his sleeplessness.

  Willow.

  In the two years since he had been in Pittsburgh, he never once bothered to look past her pigtails and sassy mouth and irritating positivity. Knowing what he knew of her now, everything fit. The grab-ass on the court. The need to have someone high-energy like Willow fill a costume that represented the team and the game. Basketball made people like Chase and Javier happy, but a ton of people who came to games for other reasons craved that happiness, too. After filling her shoes, literally, in both costume and deed, he had a new appreciation for how much she gave. He hadn’t seen that level of selflessness since Sol and Irma.

  But where did it end?

  He knew next to nothing about the woman sharing his place except who she was in the eyes of others. What did she want? No one aspires to be a team mascot. Her words from the hospital snack room returned to him. Wearing a costume means you don’t have to pretend to be anyone else. Did that mean that when she wasn’t Bolt, she was pretending?

  From the kitchen, the hush of slippers on tile brought him clear of his thoughts. He peered over the leather back of his sofa and caught a glimpse of her sneaking a glass from his cabinet and filling it at the sink. He had an entire shelf in the fridge of imported spring water from the French Alps, and she went for tap water.

  That wasn’t all he noticed.

  Willow wore the jersey Javier gave her earlier that night. Kid said he had a better one on the way, which damned near made Chase prouder than the day he’d learned about his free-agency trade to Pittsburgh.

  She wore little else.

  The hem and square NBA logo skimmed just shy of the swell of her ass and the ample arm holes promised a show from the side should she decide to reach for anything above her shoulders. That he wanted to march in the kitchen and give her a reason to stretch for something on a high shelf left him speechless, which, in turn, made him feel like a creep, watching her without saying anything.

  She chugged the water in an unabashed display of rampant thirst, set the glass on the counter, and said, “Now why can’t your head be on a swivel like that on defense?”

  Shit. Busted.

  “Why do you give me such a hard time? More than any other player?”

  An honest question. He wanted to know if Willow was one of the naysayers—the ones who believed the Alloys would have been stronger had they gone a different direction, the ones who believed he tied up funds for younger, healthier players straight out of the draft, the ones who counted the days until the Alloys were free to negotiate him gone. He knew she would shoot him straight. No pandering to what he wanted to hear, like so many others.

  Shh-shh-shh. Her slippers drew near until she stood before him. God help him, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her bare legs, unless he counted the snag when his gaze slid to her ankles and he marveled at the colossal unicorns that had swallowed her feet. He glanced at the Bulls highlights he had seen twice already as a safe haven, but the temptation to return his stare to her body, to her eyes, proved too strong.

  “Well, shirtless boy wonder, a long time ago, I learned that every time I gave you a hard time on the court, you got fired up enough to come back and do something remarkable. I started to believe that I might have a small part in that.”

  He wanted to tell her she didn’t need him to be remarkable—that she already had remarkable covered simply by being her. But he didn’t want this—this turmoil on his race to the record books, this level of affinity and protectiveness she had barely scratched the surface of in his awareness, this inability to remembe
r her as the annoying mascot girl. And he didn’t want the nearly overwhelming desire to show her the part of himself he revealed to few. For him, all emotion was connected to the game. No attachments, no expectations. South side had taught him that.

  She yawned and padded toward her hallway on a barely-uttered “Night.” At the last minute, she veered to her purse by the door, dug through her wallet, and dropped a five-dollar bill in the lust jar.

  Chase fought a big fucking grin.

  And failed.

  Symphony, an exclusive restaurant and pub with a view of the Los Angeles skyline, had a four-month waiting list. Unless your name was Chase Holbrook or Tarek Johns. Tarek had arranged a double date during the team’s evening gap in the city—Tarek with his sister, who was a talent scout for an up-and-coming west coast agency, and Chase with one of her rising stars—a bit-part actress named Fallon whose greatest roles to date included a toothpaste commercial and a distressed assault victim on a crime drama. The ambiance was minimalistic and grayscale, in keeping with the theme of music for the taste buds. What Chase found most minimalistic, however, was his date. She had shiny, chocolate-brown hair, perfectly symmetrical features, a smile too perfect to be real, airbrushed makeup—total sabotage on Tarek’s part. Gorgeous but wasteful.

  She took three bites of her ethereal salmon—whatever the hell that was—and shooed it back on the waiter. Her next three courses were no exception. Chase mentally accumulated the discarded food and thought of Grady and Sam and Millicent.

  “If you don’t like the food, we can go somewhere else,” he said to her.

  “It isn’t that. I have a callback for a beach series next week. They want me to run lines in a bikini.”

  He looked at Tarek, whose raised brows said a million things his mouth didn’t. Chase gave a faint shake of his head and dug into his filet mignon.

  At Tarek’s sister’s request, they had agreed to conversation that did not include basketball. This left out talk about Chase’s highest scoring game yet—44 points. He attributed his recent hot streak to the celi-bet—not because he was completely sold on the premise but because Willow always had somewhere to be, someone to help. During those times, he put in hours alone on the practice court. Gave him time to think.

  Mostly about her.

  Chase glanced over at the gorgeous woman beside him. He tried to get lost in Fallon’s full, ruby lips as she ate, but the collagen she had discussed with Tarek’s sister earlier tainted his appreciation. He tried to find a glimmer in her caramel-colored eyes as she spoke about her days as a pageant contestant, but he detected no passion behind her words. He tried to imagine her flawless body grinding against him in some secluded place with an infinity pool and moonlight, but she became Willow.

  Jesus Christ.

  He excused himself from the table and went out on the empty patio for fresh air. It wasn’t long before he heard Tarek’s smug voice behind him.

  “She’s gettin’ to you, isn’t she?”

  “You’re an asshole, Johns.” His voice had all the strength of a wet paper towel. Accompanied with a half-smile, insults were just something they did. “I’m not losing this bet.”

  “Who said this had anything to do with the bet?” Spoken like a choirboy hiding a skin mag behind his back.

  “C’mon, man. Look at her. Her toes have been humping my shin all night.”

  Tarek clapped his hands. “Priceless.”

  “I want to go back to the hotel.”

  “Now you’re talkin’.”

  “Alone.”

  “Man, are you feverish?” He reached for Chase’s forehead.

  Chase smacked it away.

  “You know how many men on this earth have a chance with Fallon Grey? Hell, I don’t even have a chance with Fallon Grey, and I’m the best-looking cat on the team.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of making conversation about things other than basketball, but she hasn’t stopped talking all night. About stupid shit. Like butt glue so she doesn’t get a wedgie during her audition. Is that supposed to turn me on?”

  “For your wallet’s sake, let’s hope not.”

  Chase stared at the intersection of a nearby palm tree and the warm L.A. skyline at dusk. So unlike Pittsburgh. What if the sports broadcasters were right? What if he had stayed in Sacramento? In this state, the fans loved him unconditionally. At least they did before he bailed, when he was fresh out of the draft, loyalty intact. Was Willow right? Had his joy come from chasing money and notoriety? Did that make him as shallow as Fallon Grey?

  Tarek sidled up to the railing beside him, the jokester in him all but leeched out. “We’re celebratin’, man. You played like Jordan out there today. No one could touch you. You’re about to beat my ass in the record books. Food’s good. Place is chill. So we go back and start up a conversation about something else. Anything else. You name it. Just don’t tap out on me, or I’m left with my sister all night.”

  Chase thought about his medium-rare steak. Goddamned perfection that shouldn’t go to waste. Tarek was right. They were celebrating. Chase had worked his ass off to get to his level—sleeping, breathing and eating the game until it consumed him. He’d be damned if he’d let a space-ace woman three-thousand miles away get in his head and ruin his night.

  8

  Chase returned to the table at Symphony, a slight shift in his frame of mind and spirits improved. They cleared their plates. Wine flowed for the ladies. Fallon nudged his cock under the tablecloth, the promise of so much more in her pointed stare. He could call a cab and have her six ways until morning, infinity pool and moonlight and whatever else he could think of to bankroll.

  The four companions spilled out onto the downtown street below.

  Chase glanced across the street. A man in filthy clothes and bare feet sat against the bank tower, holding a cardboard sign.

  The sight immobilized him. His culinary feast turned to an anchor in his gut.

  Tarek called out to him, the back of a cab propped open, ladies already inside. “Come on, man.”

  Chase’s stare again drifted across the street. A couple walking by gave the man a wide berth.

  “Hold up. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Chase jogged across six lanes, mostly empty. Tarek’s words filled the space behind him, a best-friend blend of curses, questions, and white guy slams. He stood apart from the seated man, easily in his sixties, by a good ten feet. For the first time, hairs rose on his neck. What if this guy pulled a knife on him? Then he read the sign.

  Too damned ugly to prostitute. Hungry and tired.

  Chase suppressed a smile. This guy was all right. Honest. Like someone else Chase knew.

  He tried to think what Willow would say. With her, it was never about someone’s misfortune. Always, she made it about their shared humanity. And without fail, she made sure someone on this earth knew their name.

  “I’m Chase.”

  “What do you chase?” The man raised his head.

  “Women, mostly. Balls, sometimes.”

  “Hopefully it’s not women with balls. Seen a few of those in my day.”

  Chase gave an appreciative laugh. Already the guy was more entertaining than Fallon.

  “What’s your name?”

  “They call me Crazy Jack.”

  “What did your mom call you?”

  “Worthless, mostly. But on Sundays, she called me Clarence.”

  Chase drew close and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Clarence. Mind if I sit?”

  Clarence completed the handshake. “Free country. Least that’s what they told me when I enlisted.”

  Chase settled beside him, his back to the building. This gave him a prime view of Tarek pacing and two bobbing heads inside the shadowy cab craning, watching.

  “Thank you for your service, Clarence.”

  Clarence just rattled a wiry exhale through the maze of overgrowth in his nostrils, past his grizzled beard.

  “I was hoping you could give me some advice.” Since
meeting Willow, honesty felt like a drug. A safe, league-sanctioned hit of something refreshing and real.

  “Shoot.”

  “There’s this woman…”

  “Always.”

  A slight grin tugged at Chase’s lips. “She’s impossible. In-your-face. Opinionated. Not even particularly gorgeous, but kind of cute in a girl-next-door way. Adorable, really, when she isn’t completely frustrating me.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I have to be guarded. People tend to come into my life for the wrong reasons.”

  “And you think she’s one of them?”

  “Everyone before her has put conditions on me.” If you get all-state, Chase. Top-tier, Chase. First round, Chase. Then we’ll talk. Then we’ll see. “It’s hard to believe any different.”

  “Sounds like a lonely life.”

  His brain catalogued the women, the college friends, the parasites who wanted to share his limelight. “Sometimes.”

  “Sure you’re not using them, too?”

  Chase glanced across the road at Tarek. His hands were open, spread wide, all “What the hell?” Maybe life was one big game, everyone using everyone else in some way to get ahead. Hadn’t he done the same to dig himself out of the slums? Hustling pick-up games to eat. Pitting guys against each other to drive competition. Sports agents, business managers, even teammates. Tarek setting up a night with a beautiful woman to win the bet. Maybe people like Willow were a myth, and she would show her colors soon enough.

  “Doesn’t matter. I don’t need her kind of distraction. I have something important to do.”

  “Something more important than the affections of a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’d say you’re the one with the problem, bub.”

  “She would like you, Clarence.”

  “Sounds like a keeper to me.”

  A ripple of warmth stirred where his anxiety had been. He let loose a laugh and slipped off his dress shoes.

  “They’re not very practical. Hurt my feet, actually. I’m used to different footwear. Mind if I leave them?”