“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.
“I was meeting with the team at Elevation.” She smiles brightly. “I’m signing.”
“That’s awesome.” I squeeze her hand. “Jared and company will take care of you.”
“And what about you?” Her voice drops, taking on a husky tone. “Will you take care of me, too?”
“Uh . . .” Is there a diplomatic way to say hell no?
“I’m here for the rest of the week. Maybe we can get together before I leave.”
“Uh . . .” I must have a concussion because I haven’t said more than “uh’ in the last two minutes. “Sure. Why not?” In my head, I hear Jared pimping me out at least for drinks until we have her signature on the dotted line.
She leans closer so her blouse droops, and I see the curve of her breasts. Don’t get me wrong—Pippa’s got a great body. She’s one of the top tennis players in the world. And the sex was good, but her light floral scent is all wrong. Her hair is jet black, missing the burnished streaks. Her lips are thin, not full and pouty and pink. She’s beautiful and just right for someone, but she’s not Iris. So she’s not right for me.
The door opens again, and another dark head peers around the corner. This is the one I was hoping for.
“Iris.” Everything brightens—the room, my voice, my smile, and I feel Pippa’s regard sharpen on my face. “Come on in.”
“Oh, I . . .” She flicks a glance between Pippa and me, darting down to our clasped hands on the hospital bed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
I snatch my hand from Pippa, and she looks at me, wearing hurt on her face. I haven’t given Pippa any reason to think we’ll be anything again. I need to be kind, but clear that we are not happening.
“You’re not interrupting.” I gesture to the other side of the bed. “Come on and sit down.”
She walks over to the bed with dragging steps, glancing at Pippa’s expensive clothes and the shiny diamond studs in her ears. Pippa is gorgeous. Of Asian descent, her dark hair falls straight to frame the high slant of her cheekbones. She’s beautiful, but she’s not my Iris.
Yes, I think of her as mine. I will have no trouble telling her so once we get past “slow.” Hell, I’m hers, too, whenever she wants to claim me. Over the last few weeks, though we haven’t even kissed, we’ve been building something.