by Lex Martin
“No.” I squeeze her hand gently, lifting my other hand to cup her face. “Listen to me.”
“August, that contract was forty . . .” She draws a deep breath before charging on. “Like, forty million dollars.”
“Forty-five, but what’s a few million here and there?” I joke.
“But what about the team?” She asks, ignoring my attempt at humor. “Houston made the finals this year.”
“Yeah.” I stamp down the fear that I’ll never win a championship, never have a ring, the holy grail I’ve pursued most of my life.
“That team is primed for a championship,” she reminds me unnecessarily. “Maybe even next season.”
“Iris, I’m well aware.”
“But it makes no sense. I don’t understand.”
Here’s my chance to get it right. My chance to make sure she knows that, though I’ve been chasing a ball up a court all my life, with this I’m not playing games.
Take the shot.
“Your dreams and ambitions got swallowed up when you had to follow Caleb,” I say, holding her eyes with mine. “I want you to know there’s someone who will follow you.”
She blinks several times, and I can only hope my words are sinking in.
“But you can’t . . . I’m not . . .” She falters and tries again. “August, Houston is your best shot at winning a ring.”
“You’re right.” I loosen my fingers from hers so I can hold her face between both hands. “Going to Houston is my best shot at winning a ring.”
“Then why would you—”
“But staying here,” I cut in, caressing the fullness of her bottom lip with my thumb. “Staying is my best shot at winning you.”
Iris
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
It’s not the first time Lo has asked me this question, and it certainly won’t be the last.
“Don’t start, Lo,” I mumble, stretched out on my stomach on the living room floor, coloring with Sarai.
“Now tell me again what he said?” she asks, knowing good and damn well what August said. I’ve told her the last four times she’s asked.
“He said Houston is his best shot at winning a championship,” I repeat, stripping all the emotion from my voice but swooning all over again inside, “but staying here is his best shot at winning me.”
“Damn, he’s good.” Lo gathers a fistful of popcorn. “The last thing I would be telling that man is that I want to go slow.”
I don’t answer but keep my head down and focus on coloring in the lines.
“More like, let’s go right now.” She squints at the television mounted on the wall. “Now, which number is he?”
I glance up from the Frozen coloring book to the television broadcasting the Waves game. The players’ backs are turned into the huddle for a time-out.
“He’s number thirty-three. It was his dad’s number, too.”
“Now his dad was a brother or what?”
“Yeah, his dad was black. His mother’s white. His father actually played in the NBA, too. He died in a car accident his second season.”
“Oh, man. That’s rough.”
We both glance at the television when the crowd cheers. August just made a three-pointer. He high-fives his teammates.
I could be there. In the month we’ve been in San Diego, August has offered Sarai and me tickets, but we’ve never gone. They’re still in pre-season, though, and this is an exhibition game. The regular season doesn’t start until the end of this month, and I promise myself I’ll go to some of those games despite the public scrutiny that will inevitably follow if I’m associated with Caleb’s biggest rival.
“I’m glad he’s having a good game.” I smile, because I know he’ll text me after and ask if I watched, and what I thought, and how’d he do.
“Hmmmmmmmm. Look at all that curly hair.” Lo slides a sly glance from the television to me, watching for a response.
I glance up again, and my heart triple times. August stands at the free-throw line. Of course, he makes the shot. He’s a ninety percent free-throw shooter.
“He does have great hair,” I admit neutrally. It’s shorter than when I saw him in Baltimore, when it clung to my fingers like hungry silk, but he was rehabbing then.
“That man is fine,” Lo says. “He could get it.”
My head snaps up and my eyes shoot venom.
“There we go!” Lo points to my face and laughs. “About damn time. I’m just trying to gauge if you’re feeling him or not.”
Oh, I’m feeling him. I’m feeling . . . everything, and it scares me to death.
“So he’s okay with you taking things slow?” Lo probes further.
“Yeah.” An involuntary smile tugs at my lips, and I drop my crayon. “You know he has a Louisiana iris at my desk every morning when I get to work?”
“Well, he’s rich. He can afford to have it delivered.”
“Nope.” I shake my head and suspect I may look dreamy. “On the way to his early morning workouts, he delivers it himself. He even leaves handwritten notes.”
“What do the notes say?”
I shrug, biting my bottom lip and caressing the blue–gray crayon that matches his eyes almost exactly.
“Simple things like I hope you have a good day.” I giggle and feel my cheeks heat up. “Or you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
Are we still going slow?
I’d play you at the five.
I can’t wait for our next kiss. Remember our first?
Our first kiss ended with his head between my legs and my best orgasm to date. In a closet, no less. What could August accomplish with a bed?
“We talk about everything,” I continue with a smile. “Work, life, ball. It’s so easy, so natural for us.”
Lotus sits up on the couch, leaning forward and pressing her elbows to her knees.
“He sounds like a great guy. He’s fine as hell.”
“He loves Sarai,” I add with a smile. “Every time he’s in the Elevation building he goes by to see her, even if it’s just for a few minutes. She can’t say his full name, so she calls him Gus. He hates it, but he won’t make her stop.”
“You’ve already fallen for him,” Lo says softly.
Groaning, I flip onto my back, the coloring book abandoned. Of course, I’ve fallen for him. I’m not an idiot. I started falling for him the day we met, and I haven’t stopped falling since.
“That doesn’t change how I need to handle this,” I tell Lo, my eyes fixed to the beamed ceiling in our small house. It’s in a great neighborhood, but our place is small—just the right size for Sarai and me. A tiny square of grass serves as our backyard, and we have a lemon tree that scents the air when we sit outside. There’s a second-hand . . . okay, third- or fourth-hand car in the driveway, purchased with a little bit of the money MiMi left for Lo and me to split. It’s not much, but it’s all mine.
“When I told you to change your course,” Lo says, bringing me back, her eyes and voice matched for seriousness, “I didn’t just mean find a job. There’s a life out there, girl. You are not just somebody’s mama.”
“And I’m not just somebody’s woman either,” I say curtly. “Believe me. I’ve been that.”
“Don’t let Caleb win, Bo.”
Since Lo helped me escape and already knows what happened, she’s really my only outlet to speak freely about it. That NDA keeps me locked down, but it’s also the agreement that gave me my freedom.
“I’m not letting him win.” I sit, finding her eyes and looking at her straight. “I just have reservations.”
“About August?”
I shrug, not sure where my reservations stem from, but sure that I have them.
“It’s hard to trust again,” I admit. “I missed all the signs with Caleb. The jealousy and possessiveness. Pressing for deeper commitment than I was ready for. Isolating me from the people I care about. When you’re that wrong about someone, it makes you cautious.”
&nbs
p; “And that’s it?” Lotus presses.
“I also worry about what Caleb will think—what he’ll do.”
“Excuse me?” Lo’s face wears full-coverage indignation. “What’s that sombitch got to do with anything?”
“He hates August. Hell, August hates Caleb, too.” I plow a nervous hand through my hair. “You know it was Caleb’s dirty play that broke August’s leg two seasons ago, right? He did that on purpose, Lo. And he told me he’d do worse if I got involved with August.”
“He can’t do a thing to either of you now.”
“That’s easy to say when it’s not you,” I say bitterly. “You have no idea.”
“So now we gonna compare rape stories?” Lo asks softly. “Is that it?”
“Oh, God. No.” I rush to the couch to sit and grab her hand. “I didn’t mean it that way. I know you know how it feels to be violated. I just meant . . .” How do I make her understand the depths to which Caleb sank to control me?
“Caleb is crazy. Like truly crazy.” I close my eyes against a torrent of nightmarish memories. “The things I’m holding over him only work if he cares about his career and his endorsements and everything else more than he cares about . . .” I don’t want to make my fears more real by voicing them.
“More than he cares about you?” Lo finishes for me.
“Yeah.” I hesitate before going on. “He was obsessed with me. I know that sounds self-absorbed or conceited or something, but it’s true.”
“I’ve seen his crazy, Bo. You don’t have to convince me.”
“He threatened to hurt August again if I didn’t stay away from him. He threatened to hurt you, too.”
“Me?” Lo touches her chest. “The hell. I’d like to see him try.”
“I told you before he knew your address by heart. Knew your schedule and where you worked in New York. I didn’t even know that.”
“I know.” Lo’s thick brows converge above the outrage in her eyes. “I just hate that he used me against you.
The walls feel like they’re closing in on me even discussing the invisible but very real chains Caleb used to hold onto me.
“Everyone who meant anything to me, he used against me, and he’d do it again and worse if he got the chance.” I shake my head. “Seeing me and August together—I just hope it doesn’t push him over the edge. That’s part of my hesitation, too.”
“You can’t live your life in fear of him, though.”
“Sometimes it’s the fear that keeps you alive, Lo. I learned a lot from this experience. I learned that people are really cavalier with other people’s lives.”
“What’s that mean?”
“They tell women to ‘just leave’, and they say ‘you’re so weak to stay.’” My words tumble out of me faster than I can process. “Yes, there are women who stay too long. Yes, there are women who accept abuse, confused that somehow it’s still love. That wasn’t me, but I knew that if I tried to leave and failed, he would kill me.”
Lo stares at me in silence for a few moments. I can tell she thinks I’m being melodramatic, and I have to make her understand.
“Seventy percent of domestic-abuse homicides occur when the woman tries to leave. That means that when a lot of these motherfuckers say ‘I’ll kill you if you leave me,’ they mean it.” A sob catches in my throat, but I shove it back down, determined to have my say with a strong, unwavering voice. “Imagine if I’d left and he got partial custody of Sarai. That monster having my daughter on the weekends? Never.”
“That wouldn’t have happened,” Lo says, but she sounds less certain than she did when we first began.
“Oh, yes, it would have. He’s rich, famous, has the best lawyers money can buy, and no prior offenses. Sports, especially at his level, is so insular, and they protect their own. I’ve seen it for myself. Behind every woman who comes out telling her story, there’s a line of officers, staff, coaches, and people who should have helped, who knew and did nothing.”
Hurt, outrage, and fury throw a tantrum inside of me. I pause to draw a calming breath before going on. “He wouldn’t have gotten more than a slap on the wrist, and that’s if anyone believed me.”
I gather my hair back from my face and link my hands behind my neck. It’s an impractical justice, a woman having to share custody with the man who tried to kill her because his parental rights should be protected.
“People have no idea what some women go through behind closed doors or what keeps them there.” I shake my head. “That was me, living a lie and getting beaten up by the truth until I found my way out. And I don’t know if I’ll ever really get over it.”
“You will.” Lo tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, and I flinch.
“See?” My laugh comes out slightly hysterical. “He used to do that. He’d push my hair behind my ear so gently, but with his gun.”
“Shit, Bo,” Lo says, anger and horror taking up arms in her expression.
“You know I still sleep curled at the edge of the bed because it’s the only way I can. I didn’t want our bodies touching while we slept.” Tears clog my throat, and a few escape my eyes no matter how much I will myself not to cry. “I didn’t want him that close when I was asleep, but he wouldn’t let me sleep anywhere else.”
“You need to talk to someone, babe,” Lo says.
“I am, actually. I do. I’ve been talking to a counselor at a women’s shelter here in the city, but can a therapist strip my mind of the memories? Of the nightmares? Sometimes I wake up thinking there’s a gun between my legs.”
“What the hell?”
“Yeah, he liked to put a gun to my vagina and make me choose between that and his dick.”
“That bastard.” Lo’s eyes harden, and her full lips thin. “Don’t worry. His is coming. His days are numbered.”
Lo has removed her braids and wears her hair’s natural texture in a close cap of curls dyed platinum that contrasts starkly with her complexion. She looks so different, but the same light that burned in her eyes when she confronted Caleb ignites now.
“Lo, what does that—”
“Mommy, potty,” Sarai says. She stands and crosses one little foot over the other.
God, she’s adorable. I’m not biased.
“Potty training,” I mutter, standing and taking Sarai by the hand and heading for the bathroom. “We’ll be back.”
Sarai’s all done and washing her hands when Lo yells from the front room. “Bo, you said August’s number thirty-three, right?”
The concern in her voice propels my heartbeat, and I rush back into the living room just in time to see a replay in slow-motion.
August and his teammate Kenan, the one they call Glad, go up for the rebound at the same time. Kenan is huge, a little taller than August. He’s several inches wider and thicker.
His elbow slams into August’s forehead at full force. With dread building in my belly, I watch August fall to the hardwood and stay there unconscious for several seconds.
“Oh my God, get up.” My insides knot. “Please, baby, get up.”
I don’t even question the endearment when it slips naturally out of my heart and past my lips. I’ve been fooling myself, guarding my heart with a porous shield, and August slipped right in.
His eyes open groggily and he tries to sit up, but his hand starts shaking violently, and he collapses back to the floor.
I cover my mouth and ball my fist up over my heart.
“He’s gonna be okay,” Lo assures me. “Look. He’s getting up.”
Correction. Kenan is pulling him up, and someone is walking him off the floor. He gives a little wave to the crowd and stumbles into the tunnel.
They show the play over and over again, and every time, I hurt a little more. I think about everything I told Lo, and it’s all true. I am afraid of how Caleb will respond when he finds out about August and me. The fears I hoped to leave behind still wake me at night drenched in a cold sweat. Seeing August go down like that, though, and not knowing how bad it is puts
everything in perspective. Every day that we’re living, breathing, and in good health is a blessing, not promised. Understanding that, seeing him get hurt, makes me realize that I don’t want to go slow after all.
Not anymore.
August
Damn, my head hurts.
That’s what happens when Jolly the Big Ass Giant elbows you in the head.
My own teammate sidelined me. Not that it was Kenan’s fault. We were both going after the rebound and collided. He feels like shit and will probably come by as soon as the game is over. I’d love to be gone before then, but it’s not happening. “Concussion” is never anybody’s favorite word. I don’t need to be in the hospital, but I get it. When your whole body’s insured and a team pays you millions, they tend to take precautions. That doesn’t mean I’m not ready to go home.
I check my phone. No calls from Iris. Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe she wasn’t watching the game. Or maybe she and Lotus, who’s visiting from New York, took Sarai to that park up the street. My finger is poised over her contact when the nurse pokes her head in.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. West.”
“No problem.” I force a smile. “What’s up?”
“You have a visitor,” she says with a grin. “A pretty brunette.”
My heartbeat picks up, but I try not to look all overeager and shit. “Please send her in.”
I adjust the bed to a sitting position as the door eases open and a dark head peeks in. But the hair isn’t long and hanging in thick coils. It’s a bone-straight bob, and her golden skin glows from her afternoon tennis practice.
“Pippa,” I say, my tone flat and disappointed even to my own ears. “Come on in.”
“Don’t sound so happy to see me.” Pippa walks in and sits on the bed beside me.
“Sorry.” I rearrange my features into a pleased expression, though my face feels like wax. “Just the concussion probably.”
“I know.” She takes my hand and scoots a little closer on the hospital bed. “I saw.”
“I didn’t realize you were here in San Diego.” I want to pull my hand back, but I’ll give her a few minutes. We are friends.
