by Camryn King
“The most dangerous aspect of this Saturday night will be me in heels.”
“That brings up the most important question. What are you wearing?”
“You have to ask.”
“Don’t tell me the little black dress.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“No. Way.”
“Why not? It’s totally fine.”
“You’re not going for fine. You’re going for knockout. And the event is this weekend? We’ve got to go shopping.”
“I don’t think—”
“You won’t have to. I’ll do the choosing. You’ll try them on.”
“Just bring me over something and I’ll wear it.”
Tomorrow. Six o’clock. Brooklyn Mall. End of story. Meet me in the atrium. Don’t make me come get you.”
8
If Christian Graham weren’t six foot five with a dazzling smile, a dimpled chin, and eyes that pulled one into his gaze, he’d still enter a room and command it. Even without the tailored suit he wore, the Rolex watch, or the diamond cuffs that peeked from beneath his jacket sleeve when he bent his arm, there was something magnetic and enigmatic about him. Graceful, panther-like movements, long legs, smooth and strong stride, And so it was on this late Saturday morning as Christian entered the Atlantic Grill on Broadway, just blocks away from the ball player’s newly purchased multi-million-dollar penthouse on Fifty-Eighth, fan reactions rippled along his path to a corner booth. He paid little attention to them, a brief nod or slight smile the only acknowledgement, if at all. His eyes were hidden behind designer shades. All other eyes in the room were on him. Nobody approached him to ask for an autograph, though, or to take a selfie. Five years in and New Yorkers knew the rules. On the court or during public appearances, he belonged to the fans and the city. When he navigated said city as a private citizen—leave him alone.
As Christian reached the booth, a man stood in greeting. Broad shoulders, like the ball player’s, skin a few shades lighter, same chestnut hair except streaked with gray, hazel eyes that mirrored those behind the sunglasses and twinkled as if holding mischief and secrets. He held out his hand.
“Good morning, son.”
“Hello, Dad.”
The two men shook hands while sharing a shoulder salute then settled into the booth with Christian’s back to the room. He removed his glasses. Dad’s request. They made small talk while placing their order. Christian opted for green jasmine tea but his dad, Corbin, ordered coffee made the way the son knew his father liked his women—Black and strong with two teaspoons of sweetness.
Corbin watched Christian text away on a phone that constantly vibrated, buzzed, and beeped. “Looks like you need another assistant.”
Christian shook his head, thumbs tapping and sliding across the screen. “Folks and their last-minute ticket requests. They know this event sells out every year.”
“I was surprised to get your text wanting to meet. Figured you’d be either too zapped after last night’s game or too busy with tonight’s preparations.”
“I’ve got people to handle all that.”
“Yes, but you are your mother’s son.”
“Controlling?”
“I was going to say responsible.”
Christian showed a dozen reasons why a popular toothpaste company paid him millions to represent their brand. “I like responsible, but when it comes to my shit, I’m controlling, too.”
“Ah, then that’s where you two differ.”
“Right, because Mom controls her life,” they finished together, “and everybody else’s, too.”
“So, you didn’t go out celebrating after last night’s comeback?”
“Yeah, in a cryo chamber.”
“Ha!”
“It’s not time yet to cut the net.”
Corbin nodded. “That’ll happen if you win the championship.”
Christian’s eyes flew from the phone to Corbin’s face in a blink. His expression was one carved in stone. “When we win. Not if, when.”
“Of course.”
“Other than your body taking a beating, you good?”
Christian shut off his phone and placed it on the table. “I’m all right. Dudes wreaking havoc on my whole left side trying to reinjure my shoulder.”
“I told Pete that I thought you went back too early.”
“Why? It wasn’t broken.”
“It’s your body, and I trust the doctors. Rebecca showed me the picture you took with the kid from your center while there. It was probably Zoey’s idea, but your mom took the credit, saying visiting him is how you were raised. Her words. It was a good story. Shined a spotlight on the foundation and let people know you do have a softer side. And a shot much preferred to the other ways in which you sometimes make news.”
Christian’s bad-boy antics often netted publicity that tarnished the otherwise stellar Graham name. He didn’t give a damn; he had told his mother that on more than one occasion. People were going to think what they wanted, believe what they wanted. He’d made this city’s basketball team a force to be reckoned with, one that overshadowed every other sports franchise in New York. That was his job, and what he owed the fans. As for the kid, Brandon, he’d been housed at another hospital altogether. Going to see him had nothing to do with his PR manager Zoey, Christian’s upbringing, or a photo op to soften his image. Christian needed answers. He was trying to save lives. Maybe his own, who knew? But he let his father’s assumption ride. Probably best.
“Speaking of the foundation, DeVaughn told me the bank bought four tables this year. Thanks for that.”
“Are you kidding? If I didn’t spend the bank’s money so the execs could schmooze with you, I’d probably get terminated.”
“You need to retire anyway. Help your brother run the center.”
“Rebecca’s still smarting that she didn’t get that role. She’s a much better fit than your uncle.”
“Maybe, but the foundation was Pete’s idea.”
“I know.”
“He did everything, managed every aspect of getting Christian’s Kids up and running. I think having the foundation to focus on is what brought him out of the depression he faced.”
“He does seem a much happier man these days. Of course, that might also be from a having a wife half his age.”
“Stop hating on Pete, Dad. Melissa’s good for him. Finally made him a father.”
“She made somebody one.”
Christian chuckled. “Still won’t get that DNA test, huh?”
“No. I think he’s afraid of what might be found out.”
“If it doesn’t matter to him, then it shouldn’t matter to you. He believes he’s lucky to have her.”
“She hit the midlife crisis jackpot and, as such, is truly the lucky one.”
“Okay, now you sound like Zoey.”
Christian said this even though his statement was true. Groupies were known for poking holes in condoms and hoping for pro player cash kids. Melissa was an A-tier groupie who had seen more naked basketball players than a reporter in their locker room. Christian also had doubts about the child. But Pete was happy, so Christian was tickled pink.
“Honestly, though, I would feel better with you taking a more active role. At least on the financial tip. You know I love my uncle, but I think for him spending money is almost better than fucking.”
“Oh, I can assure you that when it comes to my brother and his love for the dollar, he’d say it was infinitely better than any prize between a woman’s legs. But I don’t want to deal with his territorial bullshit. He directs that center as though he carried it nine months.”
“I’ll handle uncle. Better yet, I’ll set it up for you to go over the books when we’re out of town. He just started acting like he has sense again. Don’t want to throw him off normal.”
“Don’t worry about it. I know how to work around him.”
“Y’all’s sibling rivalry. Man, I swear.”
The conversation lulled as their
food arrived.
“So that’s why you’re buying me lunch,” Corbin asked. “As a bribe for my services?”
“I invited you here because you’re my father. And I love you.”
“Ah, thanks, son. I love you, too.”
“And to tell you to check out those books first chance you get.”
“Motherfucker,” Corbin grumbled as both men laughed and began eating.
Neither knew it then, but a time was soon coming when there would be no more smiles.
Not now, though. For Christian, today was a feel-good one all the way around.
* * *
The crowd was dense in the Mandarin Oriental hotel’s massive ballroom. As he had earlier in the day at the restaurant, Christian waded through a sea of admirers with charm and finesse. Tonight, he was resplendent in a tailored black tux complemented with white and silver. His stride was slow and confident, with a casualness carefully honed years ago to hide the fear and uncertainty he often felt within. Some might say he’d worked his ass off and had earned the right to be arrogant. But he wasn’t, not really. Every admiring glance he got now helped to cover the pain of childhood rejection, of being too white to be black and too black to be white. Now he commanded respect from every race, creed, and color. As far as Christian was concerned, it was about damn time.
He continued through the crowd, barely got more than a step or two before being stopped for a hug or handshake, a selfie or kiss. He accommodated all requests with the skill of a politician. He looked each person in the eye and in a room of more than five hundred people, called many by name. Those who approached were mindful of the injury sustained during the rumble with Golden State and stayed clear of his shoulder. The pain was pretty much gone, but there was still a weight being borne on its breadth: Brandon’s father, Danny, being shot, the kid trying to commit suicide on top of it. The whole situation was beyond fucked up. That answers continued to elude him bothered Christian more than he let on. In this instance, the foundation’s name was more than a catchy moniker. Christian truly cared for the kids who came to his center. Brandon reminded him of his younger self and occupied a special place in his heart. Which is why, after hearing the news during his own health crisis, he’d been driven to Queens to be at Brandon’s bedside to let the kid know that his life mattered, and that it was totally not cool to ingest a near-fatal amount of super sweet Kool-Aid mixed with industrial-strength disinfectant.
That was earlier in the week. Since then his ever-present publicist and PR manager, Zoey Girard, had lost sleep over the visit, trying to erase any link between the rumored suicide by a preteen who regularly came to the center and a murder attempt on the boy’s father. He hadn’t found out until the next morning that Pete had been questioned by detectives. They’d wanted to talk to Christian but his uncle had flatly refused. Being shuttled out a side door hadn’t been to protect him from gathering fans but to keep him an arm’s length from the law. Frustrating, but Christian understood what they were trying to do. Some might label him an asshole, but Christian’s Kids as an organization had a spotless reputation. All of them wanted to keep it that way. So, the official story for Brandon’s hospitalization wasn’t near suicide but an allergic reaction. They didn’t lie. The kid was no doubt allergic to murder and had reacted to someone wanting to kill his dad.
“Christian!”
“Can I get a pic?”
“Can we get a selfie?”
He turned to find a half dozen sexily dressed young women on his heels, cell phones at the ready.
“Hello, ladies. Whoa!” He turned to protect his shoulder as one particularly aggressive female elbowed her way through the others and wrapped an arm around him as if it were her due. “Tell you what, give me the camera. All of you come around. No, we’re doing one group shot,” he replied to clamors from those, including Miss Aggressive, who wanted an individual pic with the legend.
“Come on, shorty.” He motioned to a vivacious looking Latina on the group’s perimeter, the prettiest and quietest one among them. “Stand here to make sure that you get in the shot.”
He’d barely tapped the screen before Zoey appeared at his side, taking the phone and asking which girl it belonged to.
“Can you sign my—”
“No, he can’t.” Zoey took Christian by the arm, the one not attached to the injured shoulder. “Sorry, ladies. Christian is needed elsewhere.”
“Thank you for rescuing me, but that was a bit rude.”
“No, a bit rude would have been my blocking the path as I saw them make a beeline over. Anyone of those girls is a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
“How do you figure?”
“Jailbait, dude. Not one of them is over eighteen.”
“You’re bullshitting me.”
“Nope. I rescued you from a sixteen that could have gotten you twenty. But that’s not why I came over. Not the only reason, anyway.”
She’d walked them to an area along the room’s perimeter where there was a modicum of semi-privacy.
“What’s wrong? Is this about Brandon?”
“Brandon’s fine, and yes, his mother got the money you requested be sent. She’s appreciative. Look, I don’t have much time. I’ve scheduled a press conference to happen in thirty minutes.”
“What?”
“While everyone’s eating. Look, Christian. I know you wanted tonight to be all about raising money. This press conference is indirectly about that, too. News sharks keep circling the kid’s story. They printed what we gave them about an allergic reaction, but we think some of the keener ones smell blood. Rather than have them coming at you all evening, or trying to dig up shit on their own, we’re going to have the conference, lead off with how well Brandon is doing, and thank them for affording the family the privacy they need.”
“What about Danny?”
“Brandon’s father?” Christian nodded. “What about him?”
“Just wondering if anyone has made the connection.”
“No, thank God. One of the times that kids taking their mother’s last name is a good thing.”
“That’s fucked up, Zoey.”
“Sorry,” she said with a slight chuckle behind her insincere apology.
Rich bitch, Christian thought but didn’t utter, knowing if he had, Zoey would only have laughed. Having known each other since they were in grade school, their families were close, and she got a lot of leeway when it came to her skewed views on race, her lack of compassion, and sometimes lack of tact. There was nothing good about neighborhoods filled with single mothers and many boys who didn’t even know their fathers, let alone carry their last names. A woman who suckled from a trust fund titty couldn’t possibly understand what women like Karen, Brandon’s mom, went through. What it was like to be poor and Black in America. These thoughts were processed as he half listened to Zoey prattle on about spin, before something stole his attention altogether.
Tall. That was his first thought about her, as it was the first attribute that caught his eye. She appeared just over Zoey’s left shoulder walking to the bar, towering a head of long silky hair and a bare shoulder over the women around her. With the gentle lighting and distance between them, he couldn’t make out her nationality. Hispanic, Indian, maybe Middle Eastern? Just that she was tall and, from he could tell from her side profile, beautiful.
“. . . Ten, fifteen minutes max. After that you’ll be seated at the head table next to . . . Christian? Are you listening?”
He cut his gaze back to Zoey. “Yeah, I heard you.”
Zoey’s eyes narrowed. She turned in the direction of his gaze. “Oh, that.”
“You know her?”
“Not personally, and you should steer clear, too. She’s a reporter, an investigative journalist, and from what I’ve heard a good one. She just won some type of prestigious award, which means when she looks for answers, she finds them. Avoid her like the plague.”
9
Not even thirty minutes and Mallory’s feet protested th
e wearing of four-inch heels. She’d balked at the shiny, strappy stilettos, but Sam had insisted they went perfectly with the dress. They did, in that last Saturday when Sam brought them over to her, Mallory hadn’t wanted to purchase them, either. As she’d stood in front of her bedroom mirror, however, with her friend and colleague standing by like a proud mama bear, Mallory had admitted that every shopping suggestion Sam made had been a good one. Even Leigh would have approved. The one-shoulder dress, with its empress waist and flared skirt, played down her bubble butt and healthy thighs, and the color, which reminded her of a premium merlot or cabernet, brought out the golden hues of her sun-kissed skin and complemented her amber eyes. Mallory hardly ever wore makeup. She rarely straightened her rebel curls. Yet tonight, she stood at the edge of the bar wearing mascara, blush, and a shiny lip gloss, with hair that had been conditioned and flat-ironed into silky submission and now fell gracefully over her shoulders and midway down her back. Reaching for the club soda with lime the bartender served her, Mallory mentally thanked Sam once again. She felt out of place in the hoity-toity setting, but knew she looked the part.
Sipping her drink, Mallory scanned the well-heeled crowd and caught sight of Christian. He stood with a beautiful blonde, their heads turned in her direction. Looking at her? Mallory thought it possible until a man walked from behind her over to where they stood. Then the man and the blonde headed in her direction, passed her and continued toward the exit and in the direction of where she’d been told a press conference would be held. His assistant, Mallory wondered? A girlfriend? Didn’t matter to her one way or another. Were she in the market for love, which she wasn’t, a professional athlete was the last type of fish she’d try to reel in. Who’d want to sign up for that type of pressure? Even among several contemporaries in the room, Christian stood out. He was never without an audience. Women buzzed around him like flies. No, Mallory didn’t envy that woman one bit.
Turning away from the star of tonight’s show, Mallory scanned the crowded ballroom. The largesse, opulence, the inevitable waste went against everything she’d ever stood up for or believed in. Mallory had grown up solidly middle class yet even then sometimes felt privileged beyond what she deserved. So few with so much when so many had nothing. A mini-exodus caused her to check the semi-gauche, jeweled watch purchased from a street vendor. Game time. The press conference was set to start in less than ten minutes. Time to position herself in the path of his majesty and get the one-on-one.
