by Leigh Lennon
I can remember how she screamed for me as I loaded my suitcase into my father’s Mercedes. The step-witch grabbed her, scolding her for crying. Now, with Daddy on his way out of my dorm, I’m due to start classes tomorrow. My new life, on my terms; it’s all I ever wanted. Now if I can get Candace back with me, my life will be complete.
2
Israel
My agent’s town car is waiting on the curb the second I walk through the doors of my high rise. The doorman doesn’t hesitate and a relieved look graces his face as he beats me to the car. “Jeffery, I tell you this every day, man. I can get my own door.”
“I know, Mr. Laita, but rules are rules.” Jeffery only smiles my way and I have to admit, he’s my favorite doorman. He’s also one of the few that can pronounce my last name correctly. Even though I’ve been in the league for so long, everyone mutilates it. It’s exactly like it appears—Lay-tah.
We’re staring at each other, at an impasse. The corners of his mouth curl into a slight smirk, because he’s heard how I loathe this directive. “C’mon, man. Jeffery, fuck the rules. I put my pants on the same way everyone else does.” I lean in to whisper, “And I even shit the same way others do.”
Before I get my large six-foot-five-inch body in the back of Langston’s town car, he’s lighting into me, “Fuck, Iz, do you always have to be so crude?”
The muscle in the side of my neck pulses uncontrollably at the treatment I receive as though I’m helpless. Like I have so many times, I spout off at Lang, “It makes me approachable. I want everyone to know just because I’m rich and famous, I’m not helpless. I’m gonna put a stop to this, tonight. I fuckin’ own the building. For fuck’s sake, I’m a person like everyone else.” I won’t lie, I love having money but I hate being treated like I can’t do the simple shit in life.
“I hate to disagree with you, Iz—you’re not like everyone else. You’re Israel Laita, owner of three Super Bowl rings and the new voice and face of Fox Sports—that’s if we can get you a fucking halfway decent lawyer.” He’s being optimistic. And though he wants Fox Sports to win, I’m still entertaining ESPN, too.
“Lang,” I say, using the same nickname I’ve had for him since we were twenty, Langston has never suited him. “I’m the same Iz that you met our sophomore year of college.”
Putting down the phone that’s attached to his fucking ear, I’m surprised he doesn’t need it surgically removed. “And you fucking put me on the map, Iz. People salivate over you.”
I’m tired of the same shit from my best friend who just happens to be the best sports agent also. I ignore him, because it’s best for me, since I find myself at times wanting to shake the scrawny bastard senseless.
Putting the phone in his jacket pocket, I almost pass out in shock until he brings up my favorite subject. He knows how to calm me. “Did you have Nevaeh this weekend?” he asks.
I answer him with a nod of my head. “I took her to San Francisco to see my mom. She can’t get enough of her granddaughter. Mama says hi, by the way, and wonders when your arrogant prick of a self will be visitin’,” I add.
Lang loves my mama and somehow, she loves him. “I’m sending her an email today. I’ll be in San Fran with a client in two weeks,” he pauses a second barely breathing moving onto the next order of business. “Anyway, I want to get your opinion on this new lawyer before I pitch her to others in need of new representation.”
I do my best to suppress a laugh. Why in the hell is it so hard to get a decent lawyer for someone like me in LaLa Land of all places? I won’t hold my breath, though I’m told this one is a winner. “If she’s competent, she’s one step ahead of Crane Foster. That man’s a joke.”
Snickering, Lang adds, “The problem is that your fucking joke is the truth.”
“Tell me somethin’ about this new lawyer,” I say, trying to kill time. Lang is as undone over this situation we find ourselves in right now as I am, maybe even more so since this is part of his job. But, I’ve always been more than a client.
“Um, besides she’s nice to look at?” Of course, that’s Lang’s deciding factor. “She’s accomplished. Harvard Law School. Ran her family law firm until her dad died. Wanted a change of scenery. She has a strong background in sports broadcasting. But the best part is the little package known as her secretary. I tell you, I think she likes me, too,” he adds with one eyebrow raised while I attempt to avoid this statement. Typical Lang, I don’t comment on his man-whoring ways. The two minutes he’s been without his phone must eat him alive, he reaches in his jacket pocket to fish it out. The man can multitask with the best of them. “How’s Kendra?”
Of course he’d ask about Kendra. I’d gained custody of Lang in the divorce, but both my best friend and my ex-wife miss one another. “You know you can call her. She misses your fucked-up face, too.”
With his mouth tightening in a grimace, Lang argues, “It’s just weird. I never want you to think I’m on her side, and then there’s Paul.”
His loyalty is admirable and I’m touched, but still I’m a man so I jest, “What are we, fuckin’ ten? I know where your allegiance falls. Anyway, Paul isn’t that bad. He’s good to Nevaeh and at the end of the day, it’s all that matters. Did she cheat on me? Sure. Did it hurt like hell? Fuck yeah. But my own heart was never truly with Kendra and we all know it.”
Shaking his head in agreement, he offers, “I’m tired of you falling on your fucking sword when it comes to Kendra. We all know you never got over your first love and sure, I adore Kendra, but regardless, you were always good to her. And she cheated on you. If she was unhappy, she could have left, it’s not as if she doesn’t have her own money.” I’ll never throw my ex-wife and the mother of my kid under the bus. He continues with a heavy sigh, “But you’re right, it’s in the past. And I’ve missed her smart-ass comments. I’ll email her and see if we can get lunch.”
“You mean the ones that center around you bein’ a male whore?”
Lang ignores me. “I’ve missed that goddaughter of mine. Anyway, your words wound, I wouldn’t go that far about the male whore.”
“Though it’s the truth.” He only shrugs when the driver pulls into the parking garage of this new hopeful lawyer of mine.
The building is older, but still in downtown L.A., so it’s prime real estate. From the parking garage, we enter the structure and are face-to-face with double doors leading to the reception area. Stepping into the offices of Parker-Entertainment Attorney at Law, as the sign displays, I’m ignoring all the pings of Lang’s text alerts as if he’s the most important person on earth. The man has texting and walking down to a science as I fall a stride or two behind him. Truth be told, he’s a pretty sought after sports agent and computer whiz. He scored big with me; but what can I say, he’s my best friend so our success truly is intertwined.
Thinking of my daughter, I reach for my phone to see the morning text from Nevaeh. It’s one of our many routines we’ve adopted to stay connected since the divorce. I hear a young but sweet voice address Lang and when I look up, I’m transported many years back in the past. The person standing in front of me can’t be her, no, she’s too young.
Before my mind reaches my mouth, I question, “Liz?”
The beauty in front of me looks confused, as she should. I mean, there’s no way this can be Liz Declan. Before she can respond, I hear her phone beep. “Candace, please send them back as soon as they’re here.”
I have to break my gaze on this young woman as my eyes catch Lang staring at her ass. I want to smack him for undressing the girl in front of me who delivers such deep strife concerning someone I’d once loved.
As if she has just now recognized me, she continues, “Holy shit, you’re Israel Laita.” I nod, because this tends to be the reaction of most people.
I receive a text from Nevaeh as the secretary Lang can’t keep his eyes off of opens the door to her boss’s office. Looking up from Nevaeh’s selfie this morning, I gaze toward a pair of imperial violet eyes that
left me breathless the first time I came face-to-face with them sixteen years ago. And though they are lowered a bit, there’s no doubt in my mind who they belong to.
16 years ago
Are they purple? Can eyes indeed be purple? I ask these questions to myself when the girl next to me settles into her chair while a faint scent of lavender wafts from her body. She turns toward me only to give me a weak smile and more of her fragrance hits me. Like her, it’s subtle, with all her features screaming for me to take in the delicate breathtaking beauty of her. I try not to stare when she pulls out a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup from her backpack, devouring it at only eight in the morning. Everything about this beauty is intoxicating, especially those fucking imperial violet eyes. In them I think I may want to get lost because they’re a true miracle.
3
Liz
My eyes instantly are averted upward to a thud on the tile floor as Langston Jamison’s client drops his phone. My entire body stills when he raises his head but his face tells me he’s already seen me. Standing up quickly, bumping my knee and stumbling on my heels, I’m unable to peel my gaze from him. Here is the man I willingly gave up fifteen years ago, only after having him in my life for a year.
“Iz,” I barely croak out.
“Liz,” he replies. Our rhyming names were just one of the areas of our lives that left us in bouts of hysterics. My name on his lips hasn’t changed since I last heard him utter it, though.
He turns to Langston Jamison. “Lang, give us a second.”
The sports agent, whom I’ve only met once, hasn’t broken his stare from his phone. He’s not looked away from his cell and isn’t experiencing the exchange between us. Still unaware of our little reunion, Langston Jamison casually says, “I can’t do that, Iz.”
Breaking our stare, as he hasn’t turned away from me until now, Iz twists his neck to his agent and uses a voice I’ve heard only on rare occasions. “Langston, I said give us the fuckin’ room.” When Langston’s head pops up from his phone again, he must see the same resolve I have come face-to-face with many times. Raising his hands in defeat, Langston walks out of my office.
“Iz.” I can’t say anything else. Why can’t I run to him and share why I left? Oh, I know why I can’t. I left him damaged. Now, with him positioned near my sofa in my office space, he steadies himself with one of his large hands, unable to look up at me.
My body is void of movement. The words don’t come to me and it’s my job to always have them, not just any words but the right ones, too. My breathing hitches and I pause just over my desk, willing myself to inhale, pleading for calm to enter every part of my body while his stare undoes everything in me. When I finally look up, I still know him…too well. We’ve always shared an out of body experience and his passions are sometimes accompanied with anger. Searching his physique, the way his ripped muscles are shown under the simple gray top he’s wearing, and the slump in his stature, his anger is coming at me. It’s slow and steady like a category five hurricane.
Hating that I stir up the contempt and being the cause of it, I flatten the wrinkles in my skirt. I will myself steady in the four-inch stilettos I’m currently wishing I wasn’t wearing. Moving around the one piece of furniture blocking my way to Iz, I try to approach him but am halted by his hand. Nowhere to go, I sit on the edge of the front of my desk, waiting, and it takes every bit of strength I have to sit. I want to propel myself at him. Does he smell the same? Is his touch still soft, accompanied by the calluses from holding that pigskin of a ball for so long? Will my skin still shiver and my stomach ache for him to take a tendril of my hair away from my face, placing it with care behind my ear? I can’t wait anymore. This is my Iz, after all, the only man I’ve loved.
“Iz, please.”
Looking up, Iz stands firm in the spot he’s not moving from. “No, Liz. Our connection is more volatile than…see, I can’t think with you near me. Ever since you let us—go!” In his timbre is the same hatred that was in the angry boy I’d loved unconditionally. And though he didn’t let me hear his hate-filled rage often, I’m brought back to all the vicious accusations we’d fought against concerning race and color sixteen years ago.
“What now?” I ask, my tone reserved and quiet, but again, knowing this man, flight will be the next thing he does after the fight is over.
He takes his long and muscular body that I’d wrapped myself in more times than I can count and sits down, stretching out on my couch. He steadies his hands over his head, staring up at the ceiling, controlling his breathing. This is something I’d seen, especially when a white man would tell him to stick to his “own kind” and to leave the “white” hot asses for them.
The first time we’d experienced hatred in this way, it was my fear my big strong man would break the twig who’d said it. Though Iz always loathed stereotypical race lines, he hated me being referred to as if I were merely a piece of meat and not the person he’d loved.
“Iz,” I press. “What now?”
He stands, walking to the door. “We can’t work together, Liz. We just can’t.” Now I realize we won’t fight. He’s going straight to flight.
Fuck—I need this job and shoving my pride aside, that’s what I’m about to say, when he turns as if I’ve broken his heart again.
“You were it for me, Liz, you really were. You were my one and only and no one has compared, ever. Not even the world-renowned model, Kendra Kendal. I’d told you—leave the money behind, we’d make it. I’d make it big and even if I didn’t, we’d have each other.”
My legs are wobbly when I bend down to take off the four inches of heels that will cause me a broken leg if I don’t lose them. Marching over to him, I stand inches from his face. “You still think it’s about the fucking money?”
“I know it’s about the fuckin’ money, Liz. Look at you—you’re a lawyer. It’s what your daddy always wanted for you. You gave in to him, not following your dreams, our dreams, you with a microphone while I was on the field. Your daddy—he fucking won.”
As much as I need this client, he’s right. We can’t work together. “Then leave, Iz, that’s what you’re best at. I let you go but how hard did you fight for it? In my book, not too fucking hard.”
With his body turned, already primed to step out of the door, he rotates his head slightly and shuts it calmly behind him.
I don’t go far, when I hear Iz speaking to my sister in the reception area. When they stop talking and I hear the door to the garage open, I sit on my couch. It’s not long until I throw my two-thousand-dollar shoes, that I bought for myself when money was not an issue, against the wall nearest reception. At the thump thump, Candace comes in and looks at the damaged Jimmys on my floor.
She’s staring at me in disbelief. “Take your troubles out on me, sis, not the shoes. So, the meeting with the next Idris Elba didn’t go well, I assume?” It’s true. Iz does look as good if not even better than the British actor.
“Did you know the meeting was with Israel Laita?” My voice betrays the calmness I’m trying to display.
Turning from me and picking up my heels, her mind is working hard to figure out what has occurred behind closed doors. “No, Liz, I told you I didn’t. I would have prepared you. Fuck, I would have prepared me. One look at him and I could have had an orgasm right fucking then.”
“Thanks, Candace, for that visual. And just so you know, he held you as a little girl!”
She whips her head toward me. “Huh, come again? Oh, fuck, that was your Iz? You never told me your Iz was Israel Laita.”
True, I never did, but then again Candace doesn’t know the whole story either. I look away and she’s at my side, sensing I need the comfort she’s always been in my life. Squeezing my hand, she takes her other hand and turns my face, “Liz, what would make you give up the love of your life? I mean, I knew before today it was deep and real, but why?”
I don’t say it. I won’t say it and for that reason, I take the blame for messing up the second-best t
hing in my life—Iz. I’d do anything to protect the person I’ve always safeguarded. It just happens to be the sweet girl sitting next to me trying to get the scuffmarks out of my shoes.
Candace doesn’t need an explanation. As she surveys the tears staining my face, she speaks, “Daddy was always a racist bigot.” She continues, “It was him, wasn’t it?” I don’t say anything and unlike Iz, she understands in my silence that it wasn’t for money; it was for much more, something worth more to me. Though she comprehends Daddy had used her against me, that’s only a small sliver of the secret that’s bound me for years.
16 years ago
For five days, he’s been my silent companion in my first sports journalism class. Though he’s next to me every day, he only stares. His eyes bore into my skin. He’s sexy, a very well known athlete. Of course, I know who he is. I’m a sports journalism major for crying out loud. I’d be terrible at my future profession if I didn’t know the top ranked quarterback in the nation. After he declared Stanford over Alabama, it was all over the news.
This Adonis doesn’t speak, though, just stares, and given my fear of men, especially large men, I just smile. After a monster lecture of spatial symmetry in regards to the camera, I stand in order to let him out.
I’m surprised when the man, with dark skin and muscles that could rival the hulk, turns to me and says, “Have a good weekend, Buttercup.”
