I could get it all over with.
The color returned to Tommy’s face now that I wasn’t arguing. He nodded with a grin. “Thank you. And I like the new look. Very different but good.”
I moved a hand over my buzz cut, a smile on my lips at this guy. “Thanks.”
The team did what they could in the back seat of a moving vehicle. I was glad I thought to shave before leaving Shining Hope so I didn’t look completely homeless. We pulled up to the Four Seasons, to the back I assumed because of the press. Another bodyguard was there to meet me, opening the door and letting me out. Tommy got ahead, looking kind of flushed without Camille by his side, and I didn’t blame him. She kept things together. She was so good at that.
“Colton?”
I still remember the way she stared in my eyes that night. It haunted my dreams actually nightly. Her hand on my cheek, her small fingers in the hair I used to have…
“Mr. Chandler?”
I’d stopped, Tommy standing before me. That panic creeped up his cheeks in more flush. Putting a foot in front of me, I kept on, about to meet my maker in front of only God knew who. Outside of the airport, I hadn’t had to deal with any press for so long. I watched for Cami during my strides, my hands damp for some reason, my mouth dry, but I didn’t see her.
I grabbed Tommy once inside. “Where’s—”
“Son.”
My hand was grabbed—a distinguished black man, the owner. My agent, Joe, brought me in, trumping my blazer with his tailored suit.
I returned the handshake, surprised that his presence brought even the smallest relief. The last thirty days had been long, so long, and I was happy to find a trusting face.
“Glad to see you’re no longer on the mend,” he said.
Yeah, no longer.
He slapped my back, pulling away. “You look good.”
I made sure of that before I left rehab. I’d been bad at that before I left, and I wouldn’t do it again. Not again.
He squeezed my shoulder. “Let’s go do this thing. Get it all out, and then, you can go home. We’ll talk details later.”
Details. The harsh reality of what I could have fucked up because of what I did hit me, but I swallowed it down as I nodded for Joe. He led the party off, but I noticed we were minus one. Cami. Where’s Cami?
No one had answers for my internal questions, and I was led off to a door, bantering going on behind it. I could only assume the source was the press.
Joe turned to me. “Just read the prompters. They’ll tell you everything you need. I won’t allow any questions.”
Due to the obvious situation. He left that part out though. I was grateful. He opened the door, saying he’d go in first before bringing me on. He spoke a few words, saying I was here to make a statement only and wouldn’t be answering any questions. Turning, he gestured toward me, but I eyed Tommy.
“Where’s Cami?” I asked him. Joe waved again, but I needed an answer.
Tommy looked up, shaking his head. “Oh, um, she’s at her apartment. There was an issue, so I volunteered in her place.”
Issue? What issue? I wanted to know, but Joe Martina was figuratively going blue in the face. I went out, and shutters blinded me. Almost instantly, the press ignored Joe’s words. They fired off questions I wasn’t at all equipped to answer.
“What’s the story, Colton?” came one. “Will the judge’s sentence affect your contract negotiations?”
The ultimate question, and one I had no idea how to answer even if Joe allowed that today. I had been in talks to sign with a new team. I received many offers after paying my dues on the court for the past some odd years, but the ultimate plan had been to settle on one in particular. Miami had sought me out among the lot, and the pressure and understanding was there to commit to them. They pursued me before I went pro, but I wanted to earn that right before joining them. That had always been the plan. Especially since that was the team my brother played for.
My older brother Griffin had a legacy in Miami since he started several years ago. He worked hard, made his mark, and the world, as well as our family, wanted us to play together for those last few years he’d be burning up the court. He was choosing to retire early and had been preparing for it for quite some time. He had a young family with my sister-in-law and had stake in her business, as well as my family’s furniture business. His passion stayed with basketball, but his heart had always remained solid in family. In Miami, he would ride it out to the end and was supposed to pass the baton, his legacy there, to me.
At least, he was supposed to before all the crap with me went down.
The questions rang, but Joe held up his hand, denying them. He leaned in. “All questions about Colton’s contracts will be addressed in the near future. Colton’s here just to make an official statement today. So please hold your questions.”
He gave the floor to me, whispering, “Prompter,” before he did, and I saw that prompter. I saw the show I was required to put on.
I adjusted the mic. I was taller than Joe.
“I want to start by thanking Judge Fulton,” I started reading the green-lit words. “Because without him, his sentence, I might not have gotten the resources I needed to address what happened. I might not ever have addressed my… my issue.”
The words tasted funny in my mouth, the bullshit, and I chose to ultimately amend that last word—addiction. I wouldn’t say that word written for me to say about myself. I wouldn’t say it because it wasn’t true. I went on.
“My struggles with…” There went that word again. I skipped it. “My issues have been hard and my time at Shining Hope helped me reflect upon it in ways I never would have without being forced to call attention to it. In so many words, the judge saved my life and I thank him for that.”
I felt like a puppet, spouting off crap that the press was shoveling and documenting up with their cameras and notepads. All that judge did was crack down on something he thought he understood. He thought he knew me, a young athlete who got himself in too deep with the drugs. That’s what he got me for, drugs, and the noise complaint made on my house that night only made it easy for him. I got slapped with a huge fine, but no jail time… as long as I went to rehab.
My gram had cried at the news. She was the strongest woman I knew and never broke down. But that day she found out I was going to rehab, she did. She did the day she believed I had become an addict.
An addict.
Just like her daughter.
That word, that belief, hurt even still, which was why I wouldn’t say it today, skipping over it. Dampening my lips, I went on with the fodder, thanking the law for doing their duty. I let the press believe I learned something. I convinced them that those thirty days had been meaningful and not me dodging every answer my counselors at Shining Hope had tried to get out of me. Because that’s all I did while I was there. I served time as if jailed, and once gone, I went back to my real job. I went back to my life.
I read the script. I went along with it because those words allowed me to have the life I worked so hard for back. Words I could do. Convincing the media, and even my family, was something I could handle. She’d made sure that I could, Cami. She’d written these words for me to say today, her style and the delivery of them was the easy part.
My only worry lay with the woman who I knew provided the script.
Chapter Three
Cami
The ceiling collapsing only added to the nightmare. In a steady river, it fell to my bedspread, exploding in a pool of liquid I had no desire of knowing the source behind.
An ache left my throat watching my silk sheets, drenched in murky water from the apartment above me. Pressing my hand to my brow, I whipped around, and the only thing I got from my super was a cringe from behind his clipboard. His chubby fingers marked something down on the paper that better be a note for reimbursement for yet more of my personal property damaged by his. The only room in my apartment that wasn’t flooded from his pipes bursting was, ironicall
y enough, the bathroom.
I dropped my arms. “When is this going to be fixed?”
Hal did a shoulder wiggle, moving his fingers over a thick beard. “It’s hard to say,” he said, which in Hal speak meant several short millennia. He still hadn’t fixed my fridge and I’d lived here for a few years now.
I guess the joke was on me.
In a huff, I reached for the edge of my bedspread to take off and wash, but then thought better of it.
You lived a long life, Ms. Wang. My Vera had traveled with me since my time in New York City. I supposed most things I left behind anyway.
Pushing my curls behind my ear, I stalked the expanse of my apartment, Hal taking note of all areas affected by the flooding—which was everything, but he had to officially document everything as my landlord. He snapped a couple pictures with his cellphone before meeting me at the door, the setting California sun bleeding its light into my dampened apartment.
“Of course I won’t be charging you during your time away,” he said, pushing his pencil behind an ear. That’s the only place he had a little bit of hair. It came in small patches out of his earlobes and the sides of his head. Like any at all was better than nothing. He sniffed, clearing his throat. “You can use the money for where you’ll be staying.”
I forced a smile. “How generous, Hal. I appreciate that.” And a healthy lump sum for the property damage, but I kept that to myself.
He nodded, backing away. “I’ll keep you updated. We should be able to get the place back in tiptop shape real soon for ya.” His face screwed up a bit like he was unsure of the very statement he just made. His confidence also must have left him completely because he scurried away, the rubber soles of his shoes squishing on my carpet when he fled.
A little cry escaping, I turned on my sneaker to salvage what I could of the rest of my stuff. Check-in at my hotel wasn’t until four so I still had an hour or so to fill my car. I managed to get a pretty good deal at an extended stay with a few faux crocodile tears for my reasons of quick need, but even still, I was paying a small fortune. I could imagine hiring a surrogate to carry my child for nine months would have been cheaper.
That’s what you get for trying to be cheap, Cami.
Well, I was definitely paying for that decision now. I left a dark trail of footprints from my travels in the sopping wet living room to my bedroom, but my concerns for the carpet were very little at this point. Half the contents of my apartment would need to be replaced.
Sighing, I grabbed the most important things—my clothes. I filled the trunk of my Jetta with those alone, so by the time I went back to my closet I was forced to play the game of what I really needed. I chose memories over comfort, grabbing photos of my family and some jewelry I got from my mom this past Christmas. Hal made it very clear whatever I couldn’t take would be at the mercy of his restoration team so anything that looked even remotely expensive was either coming with me or going to the storage locker I rented this morning. I didn’t need the electronics so my TV and things all went there. All that was left to go through were all the little nooks and crannies of the apartment.
I opened one of my dresser drawers, finding my stash of knickknacks and papers. It was essentially a junk drawer, but something caught my eye, a picture.
I pulled it out, resting my hip against my bedpost. In a wide ballroom, the picture was one of the many events I was forced to work at as my job as a personal assistant, and the man I worked for stood beside me. Sandwiched between two basketball players, I stood, the wide birth of them both taking most of the photo’s surface area. One was Jesse Michaels, power forward for LA, and the other was my boss, Colton Chandler. In a dark gray suit, he had his hand on my shoulder, his fingers ghost white on the skin exposed by my formal gown as he’d very much forced me to get in this photo with him and Jesse.
“Loosen up, Cami. It’s just a picture,” he’d whispered in my ear that day. But he’d always had a light voice, soft. I had never in my life heard Colton yell, and his whispers weren’t that far off from his natural speaking voice.
Jesse took the selfie and I posed for it between the two, giving one of those smiles that said I had to be there but didn’t mind that day.
My stomach flipped at what I had gotten out of today. Avoiding Colton’s homecoming had definitely been strategic, and though I didn’t plan the pipes bursting and destroying my stuff, it did give me an excuse for avoidance. I hadn’t seen Colton in over thirty days.
And I didn’t know what to say when I did.
Sliding the photo into the box, I further denied the inevitable. My assistant, Tommy, was me today, and a monkey could follow the directions I gave him. He couldn’t mess up my instructions for Colton today even if he tried. “Pick him up,” I told him. “Get him to his press conference.” The final direction was to take him home, so it was foolproof, even for Tommy.
He’d do what I said, all right. Colton will be okay.
Convincing myself of the fact, I picked up the box. I underestimated its weight with all the stuff I’d thrown into it but managed to get it out of my bedroom.
That’s as far as I got.
My feet wet, I tripped on a piece of raised, sopping carpet, but leveled out when a set of hands came underneath mine. I steadied, and over the box came these eyes, blue ones, bright ones that managed to catch every bit of that sun setting outside my open apartment door.
I jumped. “Colton!”
My hip hit my lamp on the couch and the bulb shattered when it hit the floor. I didn’t want to add apartment fire to the mix, so I picked it up quickly and felt Colton’s presence behind me the moment I stood.
“Are you okay?” he asked, drawling. Colton Chandler was from Texas, his origins much closer to this city than mine.
I pushed my hair back, turning around. Had I not seen those eyes at first, I might have questioned who this man in front of me was. Colton had a bit of scruff on his chin, five-o’clock shadow. Though, it wasn’t unkempt. The kicker was his hair, though. He had it buzzed, faded low, as if in the military, and without his fluffy blond curls, the overall package made him seem older. He looked like he’d aged a couple solid years instead of the thirty days he spent away, but not in a bad way. He matured gracefully, reminiscent of a fine wine.
Blinking those thoughts away, I raised the lamp, laying it to rest against the wall. “What are you doing here?”
He set the box down. “You weren’t at the press conference.”
He’d come all the way here because of that?
I pushed back my hair. “I sent Tommy.”
He nodded, taking a seat on the edge of my couch. He was so much bigger than it. “Yes, but you weren’t there,” he said, leveling that flare of blue at me. It was deep, intense.
Breaking away from it, I lifted my hands to the environment. “A little preoccupied, I guess.”
By the way he surveyed the apartment with his gaze, one would think he just noticed. He frowned. “What happened?”
I blew out a breath, reaching to gather more things. “Pipes burst. I’m trying to salvage what I can.” He watched me from behind, and I turned. “You can take it out of my salary if you want. Me not being there?”
He lifted his hand, shaking his buzzed head. “You know better, Cami. You’re fine.”
But was he? I watched him watching me, feeling pinned.
“How are you?” he asked, low like he was testing the air with the words, and maybe he was. We both knew the last circumstances in which we’d seen one another. The difference between him and me was he didn’t have the memories burned into his brain from them. He didn’t get to see his family, his large brood of normally happy family members gathered solemnly around his hospital bed. He didn’t get the questions about what happened to him and was then forced to relay the details about how I found him.
He didn’t get to see him dying.
“Good,” I said because no one ever really wanted to know the real answer to that question.
His l
ips moved after that. Like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. He dampened them. “Cami—”
I picked up the box at his feet, but then he stood, reminding me of something else.
How freaking tall he was, his legs were tree trunks as he stepped forward. Barely lowering, he took the box from my hands. “Where does this go?”
He followed me out to my car, the Jetta chirping via my key fob. I got the door for him and he shot the seat up, maneuvering to get the box in the back seat. With every shimmy, his back muscles moved, sliding along the cotton under his red t-shirt.
Swallowing, I stepped back a bit, his body covering me in shadow when he stood from the car. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” he said, pushing his hands into his athletic shorts. His steel calves flexed as he rocked back on the soles of his sneakers. “Where will you go?”
“Go?” I asked, blinking.
God, quit staring at him.
He smiled a little. Maybe he knew he caught me. He pointed behind to my apartment. “With your apartment being flooded.”
Folding my arms, I fell against my car. “Hotel. I’ve got an extended stay.”
His eyes narrowed. “For how long? No offense, but the place is kind of a mess.”
“Oh, none at all,” I said, raising my hands. “It’s only where I live.”
Titling his head, that smile went full. “You know what I meant.”
I did, so I let it go. “No idea, and apparently neither does my super. He couldn’t give me a time.”
The pair of us stood there for a while, looking at anything but each other, and I had no idea what to make of that. I had no idea what to do with that. I had been working with Colton for a handful of years now. In fact, shortly after he hit the ground running in his career, and over that time, we fell into kind of a routine with each other. And though it was professional, it had never been awkward. It had never been this. I told him thank you for helping me with my box, then went inside to get the last of my stuff.
Gratefully, he didn’t follow me.
Colton (Found by You Book 7) Page 2