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)
“Damn, Naz,” Takira huffs out a laugh. “You always this bold with it? You don’t be trying to hide your interest, do you?”
“I’m rarely this interested.”
Her dark eyes snap up to mine, searching for the truth I know is there.
“I gotta go,” she says, not addressing my last comment.
“Could I get your number? You live in LA now, right? Maybe we could—”
“I don’t think so.” She slides her eyes to a point over my shoulder. “That’s probably not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“I think you know.”
We stare at each other, stewing in the shared memory, not only of the night we bared our hopes to each other but of the night that followed. The night that changed everything for me and for Cliff.
A couple stumbles down the hall, kissing and not really paying attention. They bump into me and pull apart to study us.
“Sorry.” The woman giggles, her blue eyes a little glassy. I recognize her as one of the models from today’s show.
“You finished in there?” The guy nods to the bathroom where Takira stands in the door.
“Oh.” Takira steps out of the way, clearing their path. “Yeah, sorry.”
“Thanks,” the model says, grabbing her partner’s hand and dragging him inside, slamming and locking the door behind them.
“I think that’s my cue to go,” Takira says, turning to head up the hall.
I grasp her wrist, being careful with the strong, slim bones captured between my fingers. She looks from that point of contact between us up to my face.
“Five minutes,” I say.
She blows out a long sigh, her expression resigned, and nods. “Five.”
A few people wander into the hall to wait for the bathroom. Judging by the grunts and pants coming through that door, they might be waiting a minute. I don’t miss the speculative glances some send my way. You don’t catch me chasing nobody. A monk I’m not, but you won’t find me trending. I keep a low profile. So me standing in the hall practically petitioning a woman for five minutes of her time… I don’t need folks in my business like that.
Not releasing Takira’s wrist, I lead her farther down the hall and to a flight of stairs. I glance over my shoulder to meet the question in her eyes.
“Just a little privacy,” I tell her. “There’s a place downstairs.”
After a small pause, she nods and allows me to continue. The stairwell empties into the billiard room. I was down here with Kenan and some of the guys earlier playing pool, but they all went to find their girls. Lucky for me, the room is now empty. I lean against the pool table, and she works her wrist free from my loosened grip. Putting some space between us, she hops up onto the edge of the table beside me and kicks her shoes off.
“Sorry,” she says, smiling ruefully and wiggling her toes. “Had to. Been on my feet all day.”
“You have pretty feet.”
I bite my tongue because judging by the half-amused look she angles at me, that was not a normal thing I should have said in this moment. Somehow I’ve reverted to the awkward kid I was at eighteen.
“Thank you.” She yields a grin and leans back on the heels of her palms. “Your five minutes start now.”
If I only get five minutes, I’m diving in.
“I called you,” I tell her. “After the game, I mean.”
“You did?” she asks with a frown.
“Yeah. I didn’t have your cell, so I called your house.” I huff out a self-deprecating laugh. “I guess I thought even after what happened at the game with Cliff, there might still be a chance for us to hang out. Get to know each other.”
“I didn’t know you called,” she says softly.
“Yeah. The first time, Cliff answered.” I chuckle without any real humor. “You can imagine how that went.”
“His anger with you was unjustified.” She looks at me squarely. “You didn’t punch that coach. Cliff did, and it cost him everything. Well, it cost him a chance at division-one ball. The bad decisions he made after that—the drugs—they cost him everything else.”
“I knew he had a temper. We all knew, but I never expected him to lose it like that.”
With thirty seconds left in the first half of the biggest game of his life, Cliff Fletcher punched our opponent’s coach so hard he fell to his knees. He was black-balled on every list after that. No coach, no college would touch him.
“It was a bad call by the ref,” Takira admits dryly. “But no foul, no call is worth your future. Cliff didn’t have to go HAM on that ref, and he didn’t have to punch that coach in the face.”
She bites her lip, flicking a glance to me beside her, propped against the pool table.
“You were ready for the moment, Naz,” she says. “I don’t even think Coach Lipton knew you could play the way you did when he subbed you after halftime.”