The other thing I was allowed to pursue was basketball, and that was Dad’s domain. We spent hours on the cement courts at the local park, perfecting my jump shot on a crooked rim with metal chains for a net. For years, my father was always ready to play after school, even after spending ten-hour days that began at three in the morning, working the trash trucks for the Oakland Department of Sanitation.
Now my coach, my best friend, my dad, is no longer around. Just like that. Here one day and gone the next.
The overwhelming grief I feel is tempered by a need to remain strong for my mother and my sister. They’re as devastated as I am. Dad was forty-nine years old and was the only man my mother had ever been with. They started dating in high school and were rarely apart. Until now.
The funeral is an appropriately solemn affair, and Mom holds up well, considering. Macie, on the other hand, is a total mess and I spend the entire ceremony with my arm wrapped around her shoulder. I was quite touched that Drake and Allie, Mason and Claire, and Link all flew in on Drake’s jet for the funeral service. It must have been surreal for some of my and my family’s friends from Oakland to see Drake Manning in person, but considering the occasion, most people kept a polite distance.
Afterward, those closest to us return to the house for a bittersweet celebration of Dad’s life. The house itself represents one of the few big arguments he and I ever had. When I signed my first contract with the Lakers after being drafted, I told my folks I wanted to buy them a new house in a better neighborhood.
Dad declined the offer. “Why on earth would we want to move?”
“Dad, I can buy you and Mom a million-dollar house in a better, safer part of town.”
He had given me a memorably steely look.
“Keep your money, Marcus. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with Four Corners.”
That was the unofficial name of the neighborhood where I grew up. We were among the lucky ones; his job had provided him the chance to buy a small house, rather than live in the crowded projects where most of my friends’ families were. I realized he was proud of that little house and had no intention of moving, so I told him it was a standing offer in case he changed his mind.
Looking around the place now, I suspect Mom will want to stay put.
Condolences pour in from everywhere; the neighborhood, our friends in town, and, to my surprise, I also find flowers or cards from Darren Weatherford, my teammates, Coach Madden, my old University of Kentucky coach, and even many players around the league. It’s as confusing as it is heartwarming. I’m not close to any of these people—I always saw them as merely current or former co-workers or bosses. I smile when I see a card saying that Rashida Blanchard made a donation in Dad’s name to the 4forgotten Kids Foundation.
An old girlfriend stops by and can see that I’m at the end of my rope. Pepper (her real name is Deandra, but everyone always called her Pepper) says we should go for a drive, that I need a break. She drives me straight to her apartment and minutes later she’s on her knees, unzipping my pants.
“I know just what you need, Marcus,” she says.
She lowers my pants and takes my limp cock in her hand. Looking up, she smiles and says, “Mmm. I really missed this, you know?”
Then her lips close over the head. I close my eyes and let her work her magic. Pepper was the first girl who ever sucked me off and she was talented even way back then.
The minutes pass by—one, then five, then ten—and I’m no harder than when she started.
“What’s the matter, MJ?” she asks while giving me wet, sloppy licks.
“I don’t know.”
I really don’t. This doesn’t happen to me. I’ve never had erection issues. In fact, I get hard way too easily sometimes.
Pepper stands up and slowly takes off her clothes, all of them. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen it, but she’s still got the same tight little body I remember.
She pushes me onto her couch, then climbs between my legs and continues the blowjob.
After she’s spent a long while doing her best to arouse me, I give up and tell her I’m just not feeling it. Too much on my mind right now. Can’t focus. I’m not sure if that’s all that’s wrong, but it’s a big part of it.
We get dressed and Pepper drives me home. I kiss her on the cheek and thank her, telling her I’ll get in touch next time I’m in town. That night, Macie, Mom and I eat some dinner the neighbors cooked for us, then spend a quiet evening mindlessly watching TV. It’s reassuring that some things never change. Then again, Dad isn’t watching TV with us.
I want to stay in Oakland longer for my mom and my sister, but have no choice but to return to LA the next day. I’m lucky I missed only two games, and the Lakers somehow managed to pull out a victory without me in one of them. Tonight, I’ll be going straight from the airport to the Staples Center for a big contest against the Washington Wizards.
I’m thinking I’ll tune everything out and use the game I love so much to distract me from my misery, but it’s no good. I miss twenty-two of the twenty-five shots I take, as well as two free throws. My seven points is the least I’ve scored since my rookie season, and we lose a crucial game. Afterward, though, each of my teammates stops by my locker to pat me on the back. Even the team’s broadcast crew has a nice word for me.
We’re in the thick of a playoff race, and I almost single-handedly lost a critical game for us, yet their focus is on my emotional state. It’s too much for me to process, so I dress quickly and head out. My first thought as I exit the parking lot is to take a couple of honeys to a hotel for some serious distraction. I spy a sister with big tits pushing at a tight little T-shirt. I signal her over and the security guard lets her approach my Lamborghini.
“Hey, Marcus,” she oozes, her big eyelashes batting. “Where you headed now?”
“Headed to my bed. You wanna come?” When she smiles, I add, “We’ll need to bring someone else, too. I need a double dose tonight.”
Without batting an eye, she looks around at the other women gathered by the gate, interspersed with kids and professional autograph dealers.
“See anyone you like?” she asks.
I look at the faces of the women, going from one to another and seeing only eager—no, make that desperate—expressions. The one standing next to the car, the one with big tits whose name I didn’t bother to get, looks at me expectantly.
That’s when something inside me shifts.
It’s not a major change, just a slight feeling of uneasiness. Maybe it’s just because I’m worn out from the events of the last week. At least that’s what I chalk it up to. All I know is that I don’t want to share a bed with any of these women, no matter how hot some of them are.
“Listen, I think I’m going to just go home and chill tonight,” I tell Big Tits.
“Let me chill with you. I can help you relax.”
I force a smile.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Then I push the pedal and get as far from them as I can. I try to turn off my brain on the drive home, but all I can think about is my family.
I wake up alone in my own bed, and am relieved I made the right decision last night. I needed some rest, and I slept like a rock for the first time in nearly a week.
There’s no game tonight, but we have a noon practice at the training facility in El Segundo. Other than that, I have today to myself.
After breakfast, I consider calling Rashida. She was sweet enough to understand my not showing up for our date, and even said I could call her if I needed to talk. I pick up my phone and find her in my contact list, then pause. Right now, I’m not sure if I should call her or not. I’d like to see her, but I don’t feel like a heavy discussion about anything at the moment, especially not about my dad. I set the phone down.
The Lakers practice is enjoyable. That’s saying something, because I normally despise practice. I’m grateful to my teammates for their unexpected show of support, and the fact that I did nothing to earn that support is not
lost on me. I make a concerted effort to have a little fun with them, and it actually works. On top of that, my shooting touch seems to have returned. For two hours, it’s the opposite of last night’s game; I’m an absolute beast, hitting nearly every shot I put up. It feels great to be totally distracted by basketball for a while.
Later, though, that feeling has been replaced by an overriding anxiety. It’s Friday, and the other members of the Bad Boys Club called about getting together for drinks, but I realize I still don’t want to talk seriously to anyone. I just want to get out of my head for a while. Maybe I should go to a club tonight just long enough to pick up a woman. Or two. Or three.
That’s when my phone dings with a text.
Thinking about you. My offer for a talk still stands.
Rashida is an intelligent woman. If I tell her I want to keep the conversation light, I’m sure she’ll understand. Forgetting about my little orgy, I call her.
“Marcus,” she says, “how are you?”
“I’ve had better weeks.”
“I can imagine. I am so sorry about your father. And your mom? How is she dealing with it?”
It’s sweet of her to ask about my mom. “As well as can be expected.”
There’s an awkward second or two before we both talk simultaneously, stepping on each other’s words.
“You feel like getting together?” she asks while I’m asking, “You busy tonight?”
We both laugh. “Up for some dinner, maybe?” I ask.
“Sure, but you don’t seem in the mood for a restaurant. Why don’t you come over and I’ll make dinner for you here? We can have some wine and talk a bit. Maybe watch a movie afterward.”
That sounds so much better than bringing strange women back to my place for an empty fuck. Rashida and I seem to have a genuine connection.
“Yeah, that would be great. I’ll bring the wine.”
18
Rashida
I have no idea why I’m so nervous as I put on my makeup. I left work early, then picked up Jayden at kindergarten. When we got home, he watched TV while I showered. Without letting myself wonder why, I selected the best matching bra and panties I own, with the black lace just sheer enough to… to what? I don’t know.
Stop thinking, Rashida, and just get ready.
I check myself in the mirror, turning so I can see how my ass looks in these panties. Even though my body is nicely toned and I’m blessed with a small waist, I’ve always thought my butt was too big, and I feel self-conscious about it. But why does it even matter? Marcus isn’t going to see that part of me anyway.
I slip on sweats and a T-shirt over that beautiful underwear, then tell Jayden he needs to take a bath. As usual, he resists.
“Do I have to? I’m not dirty.”
“Jayden, get in that tub right now.”
When he keeps stalling, I apply leverage.
“You know who’s coming over tonight?” I ask.
My boy shakes his head.
“Marcus,” I tell him and watch his face light up. “But you’ll only see him for a few minutes, then you’re going to Evan’s house to spend the night.” He’s fine with that; Jayden may be fond of Marcus, but Evan has a PlayStation loaded with games. “Now hurry, go take your bath, before Marcus gets here.”
While he’s in the tub, I straighten my bedroom, then tell myself it’s silly for me to clean in here. I invited Marcus over for dinner and to talk about his recently deceased father, not to lure him into my bed.
At least I think that’s why I invited him.
For dinner, I’m making a recipe I got from my grandmother, her amazing shrimp and sausage jambalaya. I was smart enough to prep all the ingredients before I showered, and now I begin to sauté the diced onion, celery, and bell pepper in butter. If Marcus shows up on time at seven, Jayden will have a few minutes to say hi before Janet, Evan’s mom, comes to pick him up. I told her I was having someone over for dinner and asked if she could watch Jayden. I’m not sure why I suggested he spend the night there, but I did.
Jayden walks in, having decided to replace the nice shirt I picked out for him with his beloved Marcus Jennings jersey. It hangs down to his knees, but at least it doesn’t have sleeves to deal with. I add tomatoes, garlic, bay leaves, Worcestershire sauce, and chicken stock to the pot and cover it. The rice is already in the rice cooker, so I rush to the bedroom to finish getting dressed.
Not wanting to look like I’m trying too hard, I decide to pair some black pants and heels with a gray sweater. It’s simple, easy, kind of casual, and yet still a little sexy. At this point, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I want to look sexy for Marcus, even if it’s just for dinner at my house.
There’s a knock on the door just as I’m dumping the shrimp and the sausage pieces into the pot with everything else.
“Marcus!” Jayden shouts and runs to the door.
It’s indeed Mr. Jennings, carrying a bottle of red wine and almost having to duck his head as Jayden pulls him through the doorway. He’s quite a specimen in charcoal slacks, a lavender silk shirt with white necktie, and dark gray vest. I stare for a second, my breath taken, then recover quickly and give him a tender hug.
He tries to smile, but he looks like he’s holding in some deep emotions. It’s obvious his heart is broken by the loss of his father. Grief like that can’t be submerged.
“Come see my Legos,” Jayden says, following it in rapid-fire succession with “I saw you playing basketball on the TV. Did you know I’m having a sleepover at Evan’s house?”
Marcus laughs. “I didn’t know that.”
Jayden suddenly stops his whirlwind activity and says solemnly, “I’m sorry your daddy died.”
Marcus pats my son’s head. “Thanks, buddy.”
“You should come to my birthday party,” Jayden says. “Then you’ll be happy again.”
It’s a sweet gesture from my little man, and Marcus plays along. “Will there be cake?”
“Yeah. Lots of it. And ice cream. And games.”
“When’s the party?”
Jayden looks at me. “When is it, Mom?”
“Not till August,” I laugh. Four months away.
Another knock on the door and Jayden shouts. “I bet that’s Evan!”
He flings the door open and Janet and Evan enter. She starts to say something then is shocked to see the extremely tall man in the room. Although the condo has nine-foot ceilings, Marcus has a point of view no man has ever had in this place.
I introduce him to Janet. As she shakes his hand, she says, “I know who he is. Simon is not going to believe this.” I forgot her husband is a huge Lakers fan.
“You’re really big!” Evan says loudly, staring up at Marcus.
“Marcus is my friend,” Jayden says. “He plays basketball. I went to his game and I watch him on TV.”
Evan’s eyes grow big at this revelation. Then Janet says, “Well, we should get going. It was lovely meeting you, Marcus. Have a nice dinner, you two.”
She gives me a naughty look as she turns for the door, and I hope Marcus doesn’t notice it. I hug Jayden, then he surprises me by turning to Marcus and lifting his arms for a hug. Marcus picks him up at least five feet in the air and gives him a hug.
“I’ll see you soon,” he says. When he sets him down again, Jayden runs out the door, slamming it behind him.
And I’m left alone with Marcus.
“Dinner’s still cooking.” Holding up the wine, I ask, “Shall we open this?”
As I head to the kitchen, I have butterflies in my stomach because I can feel his eyes on me from behind.
The jambalaya is spot-on perfect. I mentally thank my grandmother. Marcus is impressed and won’t stop talking about how amazing it is. I ask a few questions about the funeral and his family, but I can sense he’s on edge emotionally so I steer the conversation towards lighter topics. From that point on, it almost feels like an extension of our lunch date a week earlier.
We open a second bottl
e of wine, one from my pantry that probably cost a tenth of the one Marcus brought. By the time I’ve had one more glass, I’m feeling a warmth in the pit of my stomach and can’t stop myself from marveling at how absurdly handsome this man is. Everything about him—his gorgeous face, his deep voice, his insane body—seems to burrow into me, pushing at my edges and making my nerve endings tingle, filling me with a desire I haven’t felt in years.
I clear the empty dishes from the table and ask about his plans for summer now that the Lakers season is nearly over.
“Can’t make plans yet,” he says. “We may still be playing in June.”
“I’m confused. I thought there were only a few games left in the season.” At the sink with my back to Marcus, I quickly rinse the dishes to put them in the dishwasher.
“Two games left, but we still have an outside chance at making the playoffs. If we do, we’ll keep going until we lose a round.”
As he says it, his voice grows louder with every word. I can feel him approaching from behind, then his hands lightly touch my waist and he leans down and whispers into my ear.
“Thank you for a lovely dinner, Rashida. I needed this night. Badly.”
I’m too scared to move. I offer no resistance as his hands slide around me, enveloping me. His body presses against my back and he brushes my hair aside with his cheek so he can kiss my neck. When I feel his lips against me for the first time, it’s as if he’s lighting a fuse. One of his arms releases, then drapes down diagonally across my front, brushing against my breast as he holds me tightly against him. The more he plants little kisses on my neck, the more that fuse burns down, getting shorter and shorter.
Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 3: Marcus Page 11
