by Pamela Yaye
Yasmin spotted Anna Karenina on the table, but didn’t reach for it. Tonight she just wanted to be alone with her thoughts. The extra hours she had put in at the office after quitting time had been well spent. The fifth annual Parkland Community Center Charity Fund-raiser was starting to come together. It had taken some convincing, but Yasmin had booked the caterer, wrangled up a five-piece orchestra and organized a decorating and cleanup crew. There were eighty confirmed guests and, if they wanted to break even, they had to sell another forty tickets. All she needed now was a celebrity emcee. Last year, P. Diddy had been scheduled to appear, but a snowstorm in New York had prevented him from attending. It had been a huge letdown, but the music mogul later sent a donation and enough Sean John T-shirts for all of the children at the community center.
This year’s fund-raiser had to be a success. The well-being of a hundred inner-city children and their families was at stake. If she wanted to draw more attention to the event, she had to find a celebrity guest. Nothing attracted people to an event like an actor. Or a singer. Or an athlete.
Yasmin tilted her head to the right, an idea taking shape in her mind. There was someone she could ask. Someone popular enough to draw a huge crowd and raise thousands of dollars for the center. A man so charismatic he would make female guests swoon and male guests cheer. Rashawn Bishop was a hometown boy who’d made good, and that was a story anyone could admire. The only questions now were whether he would do it and what it would take.
“Hey, girl.”
Yasmin turned at the sound of her sister’s voice. Imani stepped onto the patio, the bottle of pinot blanc at her lips. “What are you doing home? Shouldn’t you be at Dean’s?” Yasmin asked.
“He had to work late so I decided to come home and catch up on some work.”
“I see.”
“Did you have a good day?”
“You mean before or after you reamed me out?”
Imani plunked down on the chair beside Yasmin. Her long legs poked out from underneath her money-green wrap dress, which emphasized her small bust and size-six waist. Kicking off her heels, she crossed her legs and adopted a matter-of-fact attitude. “You have no right to be mad at me. You blew off one of my biggest clients. Cecil Manning is not only poised to be our next mayor, he’s making major moves in the real estate industry, as well. We have a solid business relationship and I’d like to keep it that way.”
Yasmin took a deep breath and blew it out. When it came to her sister, she had no choice but to take the bitter with the sweet. She was annoyed with Imani, but decided not to speak on it. She had come out on the patio to clear her mind, not get into a discussion about that wimp Cecil. He had been calling her office nonstop since their blind date and had even gone as far as sending lavish bouquets of roses. Unlike Rashawn, he didn’t have a creative bone in his body. Exploring the city by boat sounded romantic. Flowers? As clichéd as a box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day.
Imani must have sensed her frustration, because she dropped the subject. “How are things coming along with the fund-raiser? I sold tickets to everyone in my office and all of the prospective buyers I met with today.”
“Thanks. Things are going a lot better now that I’ve booked the entertainment and found a caterer.”
“That’s great. Have you found an emcee yet? I mentioned it to Cecil and he was more than happy to volunteer. He said—”
“I have someone in mind.”
Imani took a swig from the wine bottle. “Really, who?”
“Ever heard of Rashawn Bishop?”
“That fine-ass boxer with the six-pack? Of course, who hasn’t?”
“Me, I guess.” Yasmin told her about what had happened at the Laurdel Lounge and his surprise visit to the clinic that afternoon. “He asked me out again. He said we could drive down to the pier and spend the night on one of those evening boat cruises.”
“Damn, girl! Why didn’t you tell me?” Imani asked, smacking her sister’s leg. “I wouldn’t be pushing Cecil on you if I knew you were interested in someone else.”
“I’m not interested in Rashawn. I just want him to emcee the fund-raiser.”
“You guys aren’t going out?”
Yasmin shook her head. “I can’t think about dating anyone until I’m over Eric.”
“When does this self-imposed grief period end? It’s been over two years and you’ve turned down every single guy who’s asked you out. You need to jump-start your love life and maybe this Rashawn guy is the one to help you do it.”
“Leave it alone, Imani. I’m not ready.” Her eyes watered and everything went out of focus. “I need more time.”
“Yassie, I know you loved Eric but who’s to say there isn’t someone else out there for you?”
When silence settled over the patio, Imani put the bottle of wine on the table, stood and headed back into the house. Returning with her laptop under her arm and a can of tuna and a spoon in the other, she said, “I know how much you like to look people up on Google, so let’s check out this Rashawn guy together.” While she waited for the computer to load, she opened the tuna and ate it straight out of the can.
Light flooded the patio as the computer came to life. Yasmin watched her sister type Rashawn’s name into the search bar, convinced this late-night investigation wouldn’t garner any useful information.
“Imani, don’t waste your time. I’m not ready to start dating, and even if I was, it wouldn’t be with someone like Rashawn Bishop. He’s pierced and tattooed and he’s a boxer, for God’s sake! He doesn’t even have his college degree.” Shifting in her chair, she averted her gaze. He was all wrong for her. He looked like a player, like the kind of man who lied, cheated and dogged women out. But, Yasmin knew that wasn’t true. Rashawn had stood up for her and only a gentleman would do that.
“Bingo!” A picture of Rashawn, bare-chested and glistening, filled the eighteen-inch screen. His Web site was loaded with pictures, newspaper articles and had expensive, high-powered graphics. Imani leaned forward, her nose practically touching the monitor. She read his bio out loud and shared any information she thought would interest her. “I’d go ten rounds with him any day!”
Yasmin didn’t doubt the truth of her sister’s words. Imani was in a committed, long-term relationship, but her gutsy style and carefree spirit attracted men in droves. “And what about Dean? What would you tell him?”
“Please, he’d probably ask if he could watch!”
Yasmin laughed, her narrow shoulders shuddering. Imani and Dean took spontaneity to a whole new level. They’d tried it all, strip clubs, bondage, threesomes, and still managed to maintain a healthy, committed relationship. Yasmin would never advise a female client to fulfill her man’s every wish or sexual fantasy, but Imani and Dean’s arrangement worked for them, period.
Imani tapped a manicured nail on the screen. “According to his bio, he just turned twenty-seven. You found yourself a hot young boxer! Way to go, Sis!”
“I didn’t know. I thought he was my age,” she protested, peering at the computer screen. Yasmin never would have guessed he was five years younger. He was mature, responsible and had an air of authority about him. Definitely not the average twenty-something guy. “I don’t care how old he is. Like I said, he’s not my type.”
“Don’t be so quick to write him off, Yassie. You know my motto. Keep an open mind and jump at every opportunity that comes your way. Before meeting Dean, I went out with anyone who asked. Why not? It’s a free meal, a chance to get dressed up, and half the time, decent conversation.”
“I’ve never looked at it that way,” Yasmin admitted. As usual, her sister had given her something to think about. No one said she had to marry the guy.
Imani turned away from the computer screen, the expression on her face a serious one. “Give it some thought, Yassie. You never know when love may come knocking.”
Chapter 4
Parkland Community Center was located in downtown Tampa. Drug addicts and prostitutes freque
nted the area, often scoring crack across the street from where toddlers played. At-risk youth under eighteen enjoyed computer classes, tutoring, group and individual counseling and job-readiness training. The center consisted of conference rooms, learning centers, a cafeteria and a full-size gymnasium. Parkland Community Center was an integral part of the neighborhood, but the twenty-five-year old building was falling apart. The roof had pot-size cracks, concrete crumbled from the walls and the floors were colored with stains.
“It’s huge in here,” Rashawn commented, as he followed Niobie through the lobby. Staff and volunteers milled about, talking to kids and answering phones, and a group of people were watching Judge Mathias on the thirty-two-inch TV in the lounge area.
“Thanks for giving me a ride down here.”
“No sweat.” As promised, Rashawn had dropped by the office with an autographed picture for Niobie’s son. Yasmin had left for the day, so when Niobie had suggested they go by the community center, where Miles was playing, Rashawn had agreed. He’d left the gym early and wasn’t anxious to return.
“The kids are going to flip when they see you!”
Rashawn could hear laughter, children’s voices and the sound of chairs scraping against the floor. They entered the learning center and found teens arm wrestling, a handful of kids playing board games and girls braiding hair.
“Mom!” A chunky boy ran across the room and threw himself into Niobie’s arms. “Did you bring me something?”
“You know I did, baby.” Niobie smoothed a hand over his plump face before reaching into her purse and pulling out a king-size chocolate bar.
“Thanks, Mom!” He ripped off the wrapping paper and took a bite. Chewing, he bobbed his head to the beat of his swallows.
The last thing the child needed was candy, but Rashawn kept his observations to himself. He wasn’t a single parent and he didn’t want Niobie to think he was judging her. As a young mother, she probably got her fair share of criticism. Her son was cute, in a Nutty Professor kind of way, but it was obvious he needed more exercise and less junk food. To his amazement, the seven-year-old demolished the candy bar in three bites.
It wasn’t until Miles was finished eating that he noticed the man standing beside his mom. “Who are you?”
Yanking her son to her chest, Niobie cupped a hand over his mouth. “Miles, don’t be silly. You know who that is. It’s Rashawn “the Glove” Bishop.”
Squirming out of his mom’s arms, he said, “Are you a basketball player? Do you know T-Mac? He’s my favorite.”
“No, I’m a boxer. Your mom told me you want to be a boxer, too.”
“No way! I’m going to be a race-car driver!”
Niobie’s laugh was tinged with anxiety. “Kids. One day he wants to be a boxer, the next day he wants to be a race car driver.”
Rashawn had a feeling this trip to the community center had little to do with Miles and everything to do with Niobie. This wasn’t the first time a woman had feigned interest in his career to get close to him. Most of the time he was flattered, but what Niobie had done cool wasn’t cool.
“Hey, it’s the Glove!” shouted a squeaky voice.
Within seconds, Rashawn had a group of children around him, asking for handshakes, autographs and money. Laughing, he opened his wallet and handed a fifty-dollar bill to the tallest kid in the group. “Run up the block and get everyone a fruit smoothie.”
“Yay!”
“Thanks, champ!”
“You’re the best!”
Children raced out of the room behind the boy with the money.
“That was a nice thing to do,” Niobie said, flashing a toothy smile. She coiled a hand around his arm like a python. “Why don’t I give you a quick tour while we wait for Miles and the others to come back?”
“Sure, why not?”
Niobie showed Rashawn the facility, introduced him to staff, volunteers and parents and told him interesting pieces of information about the people who worked there, the counseling sessions Yasmin oversaw and why the fund-raiser was so important to the families who frequented the community center.
“How much do you guys need to raise?”
“I don’t know the exact figure, but I’d guess about twenty-five thousand. The center receives support from local churches and other outreach programs, but we never have enough volunteers or supplies. Not to mention the extensive renovations that need to be done. The planning committee is hoping we raise enough to…”
Boisterous applause drowned out the rest of her sentence.
“Sounds like something’s going on in the gym.”
“It’s always crazy in there when the teenagers take on staff.”
“Why aren’t they playing out on the field?” he wondered out loud. It was a sunny day and he couldn’t understand why kids would want to be cooped up inside. Rain was expected tomorrow and most residents were taking advantage of the weather while it lasted. Beyond the community center doors, people were gardening, mowing their lawns and clearing the trash off their properties.
“Too many needles and drug paraphernalia.”
Shaking his head, Rashawn opened the door and allowed Niobie to precede him into the gymnasium. Sprinting full speed toward the soccer net in a blue tank top, shorts, kneepads and sneakers, was Dr. Yasmin Ohaji. She kicked the ball and spectators cheered the impending goal. The robust goalie blocked the shot and the soccer ball sailed through the air and smacked Yasmin hard in the face. The blow stunned her temporarily, but once the ball hit the ground, she was off and running again.
Propping a foot behind him against the wall, Rashawn crossed an arm across his chest. Smiling broadly, he watched Yasmin move effortlessly around the court. The therapist was unlike anyone he had ever met. Not only did she leave every man she passed breathless, she stood up for herself, demanded respect and had one hell of a front kick. Rashawn knew a lot of professional women, but he didn’t know any who played soccer with such tenacity. Yasmin was competitive, aggressive and seemed bent on scoring a goal before the time on the scoreboard ran out.
“Ready to finish the rest of the tour?”
Caught up in his thoughts, he’d forgotten that Niobie was standing beside him.
“Maybe later.” Rashawn wasn’t leaving until he saw how the match played out. Yasmin and her teammates had five minutes to tie the game and something told him she would be the one to score the goal her team needed.
Niobie chatted beside him, but Rashawn wasn’t listening. He was focused on Yasmin and when she shot down the court toward the goal, he cheered along with the crowd. She kicked the ball to a lanky man, who outran his defender, dodged the goalie and scored in the open net. The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game and, once the teams had shaken hands, the audience filed out of the gym.
Niobie touched a hand to his forearm. “We should go. I’m sure Miles and the others are back now.”
“You go on. I’m going to hang back.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” he said, momentarily pulling his attention away from the court. Appreciative of the time she had spent showing him around and introducing him to the staff, he said, “Thanks for the tour. See you later?”
“Ah, okay, bye.”
Rashawn caught Yasmin’s eye. Her sweat-drenched T-shirt clung to her body, outlining each and every luscious curve. She would look good in a brown paper bag, he speculated, admiring her thick, childbearing hips. Clapping his hands, he gave her a hearty smile. “You got one hell of a kick, Doc. Who knew a therapist could play soccer like a pro? You’re going to have to teach me some of your fancy footwork.”
Smiling, she smoothed the base of her ponytail. “Don’t let the business suits fool you. I played volleyball, soccer and basketball throughout high school.”
“I thought you said you didn’t like sports?”
“No, I said I didn’t watch sports. I’d much rather play than watch, especially football. It’s a great feeling chasing someone down and tackling the
m.”
“Damn, Doc! I’m scared of you.” His eyes were wide with admiration, conveying just how impressed he was. “And for the record, you can tackle me anytime.”
He licked his lips and Yasmin felt her legs go weak. Not only was Rashawn handsome, he had a likeable nature and a winning smile. If she could stop drooling over him long enough to speak, she could ask him to emcee the fund-raiser. This was the perfect time. He was in a good mood and it was unlikely he would turn her down, especially once she showed him all the repairs that needed to be done. “Are you going to be here for a while? Once I get changed I’d love to give you a tour.”
Rashawn thought of telling her that Niobie had beat her to it, but decided against it. Quality time spent with Yasmin would help her see him in another light. Based on his initial observations, he sensed she was an optimistic, fun-loving woman who knew how to take care of herself. He liked that. Soft on the inside but tough on the outside. He loved the rise and fall of her voice, the femininity of her laugh and the quickness of her smile. They would get along great. All he had to do was show her he posed no harm. If she could see that he was a good guy, with no ulterior motives, she would say yes when he asked her out.
“I’d like that. But don’t change,” he said, his gaze sliding down the slant of her hips. “I like your shorts.”
A tiny, frizzy-haired black woman in a crumpled apron interrupted their conversation. “There you are, Yasmin. I’ve been looking all over for you!”
“What is it, Ms. McClure?” A gentle and caring woman, Melba McClure planned and prepared all of the meals at the community center and donated more time than any other volunteer. A retired postal worker, she was the grandmother of six, dated regularly and was a stern but loving presence. “I thought you’d be in the kitchen getting things ready for dinner.”
