Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 58947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
“Shiiiiit. This has been better than anything I thought I’d ever have. Your brother was the star. I was the backup.”
A small awkward silence descends at the mention of her brother, but we can’t avoid the subject forever.
“You’re doing pretty good for a backup,” she says, her tone one of forced lightness.
“And how’s Cliff doing?” I ask, watching her face closely. “How’s he been?”
“He’s better.” She lowers her arms, the little wand she was using on my brows dangling from her fingers. “He’s actually doing really well. He just got a job coaching at my old high school.”
“That’s fantastic.” The granule of guilt I always feel when I think about Cliff scratches inside me for a second. “I’m really glad to hear that.”
“He’s, um…” She turns back to the mirror, stowing the tools she used. “He’s been clean for a while now. I assume you know about his struggles.”
In the mirror, I watch her plump lips pull into a flat line.
“After Sportsco did that disgusting exposé on him and other ‘flops,’” she says, bitterness woven into her words, “it triggered a relapse, but he’s better now.”
Her eyes find mine in the mirror.
“The reporter said you’d been contacted and asked to comment on all the trouble Cliff’s had since the championship game.” Her expression softens. “Thank you for not giving them anything more than they already had.”
They had a lot. The two-hour special documented in painstaking detail why Cliff and several other high school and college basketball phenoms ultimately failed to realize their potential. It was damning, and I wanted nothing to do with it.
“I would never talk about him to the press, or anyone, for that matter,” I say, my voice quiet, subdued. “I never have.”
“I know.”
Our eyes hold, and the space separating us heats, shrinks until even though she’s more than a foot away, it feels like there’s only a breath between us. Her chest rises and falls on a deep inhale. She licks her lips, almost nervously, and I can’t help myself. My eyes greedily track the movement, how she wets her bottom lip with her little pink tongue. Before my brain can wander to all the places I’d like that tongue to be, someone breaks the spell we’re under. Or at least, I am under.
“Are you Takira?” a tall girl with pink hair asks, stepping into our space. “Catalina sent me over for makeup.”
“Um, yeah.” Takira nods briskly. “I was just finishing up with someone.”
Pink Hair’s eyes wander to me, over me, and her grin goes wicked. “Well, hello, Mr. Armstrong. Ballers, ballers, everywhere. I’ll be at the after-party later if you’re looking for company.”
“I’ll be there.” I stand, removing the little smock tied around my neck to cover my clothes, and look down into Takira’s guarded eyes. “But I hope I’ll be busy catching up with an old friend.”
Takira doesn’t respond, but that’s okay. I don’t need her to. She gets started on Pink Hair’s makeup. If Takira doesn’t show up for the after-party, I’ll find her. After all these years and all that’s happened, we owe ourselves that.
Chapter Four
Takira
What are the odds?
Whatever they are, they’re against me. Of all people to sit down in my chair at today’s fashion show, an event I wasn’t even originally booked for…Nazareth Armstrong.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of him often over the years. How could I not? Every milestone of his career he celebrated, my brother bemoaned. Sometimes the amazing turns his life took were the very things that sent Cliff on his worst benders. When Naz’s team won the championship a few years ago, giving him a ring before the age of thirty, Mama couldn’t find Cliff for days. I flew home to help search because she was so desperate. The boy who was once her greatest source of pride has delivered the most sorrow to her door.
“Thank you again for stepping in today,” Catalina says, sipping her drink, the lights from the pool in Lotus’s backyard casting a glow on her face.
“Oh, thanks for asking.” I swirl the pomegranate martini in my glass. “It was fun.”
It had been. Not having done a fashion show in a while, I’d forgotten the rush of adrenaline that comes with the lightning-fast outfit changes and look adjustments. I practically launched a few models down the runway when time was tight.
“Takira!” Lotus calls from a few feet away. She’s changed and now wears a dress so short it exposes what looks like lace stockings tattooed around the tops of her thighs. The tiny straps show off the delicate line of her collarbone, and her platinum braids contrast perfectly against the rich brown of her face. Her round belly should appear incongruous in the sexy outfit with the strappy heels, but she manages to look effortlessly glamorous and comfortable in her own skin.