by Xavier Neal
My mother lets out a defeated sigh and ruffles her straightened hair. “Perhaps the two of you could at least pretend you get along like the adults you’re supposed to be.”
“Sorry mom,” I apologize and peck a kiss on her olive-skinned cheek.
Britney doesn’t bother repeating the words.
No matter how hard my mother tried when we were all younger, my sisters refused to accept her relationship with our dad. Their mothers didn’t like that she was white and thin with strawberry blonde hair. They didn’t like how he ‘favored’ me. They didn’t like how we were consistently being idolized by the media as some perfect family. Because of all the hatred they drilled into my sisters, they’ve never once showed my mom an ounce of genuine respect. Over the years they’ve come to tolerate her at best and even now, in our thirties, they only force themselves around her because it’s part of their agreement to have our father filter funds into their shopping accounts.
Mom offers me a warm look. “Going out with friends?”
“Date.”
Her eyebrows lift in intrigue at the same time my father comes strolling around the corner. “No dating until you’re forty.”
I give him a crooked smile. “You used to say no dating until I was thirty….”
“Yet we all know you started giving away the cookies the minute they were fresh out the oven,” Britney mutters bitterly, eyes still planted on her phone.
The desire to snap back is stunted behind my gritted teeth.
I do my best to be a good sister for our dad’s sanity. It’s never been a mystery how much our bickering and inability to get along pains him. I made a decision when I graduated high school not to add to the stress so much as alleviate what I could, even if it meant not commenting on Britney’s bad nose job or Tabby’s interest in politicians rather than politics. It also helps to constantly cleanse my spirit with fresh spring water behind the ears and thou shall not cunt punch mantra.
His arm slips around my mom’s waist. “Need to borrow the car or a driver?”
Owning a car is right up there with owning my own place. Waste of money. Besides public transportation is part of the adventure in every other city. I’d let it be included during my time here as well if my father didn’t lecture me about the dangers of taxi drivers.
“Driver? Unless you need him.”
My swift attempt to be flexible stretches his smile. “Nah. Taking us out in my new birthday present….”
“You went ahead and got the Lambo?”
“Mercy.”
I shake my head at his descriptive addition.
“Don’t judge.”
“Never.”
My mother and I exchange a mirth filled expression.
“You know, I didn’t start getting to grow my car collection until I turned 50.”
Most men start growing their infidelity around then. He decided he wanted to start buying the things he didn’t during his basketball career.
“Daddy, there are only two seats in that,” Britney whines from the table.
“Yes.” He quickly states. “You have to drive your own car.”
She catches my poorly hidden smirk. “At least I have my own car.”
“At least I have my own nose .”
“Girls.” His tone is sharp.
“I should go,” I announce promptly. The ability not to snap back at every sideline comment Britney makes is fading much too fast. At this rate I would need to purchase a factory’s worth of serenity candles in order to re-establish peace. “Enjoy dinner everyone.”
“Let me walk you out while Adeline finishes her wine,” my father swiftly insists, rushing to my side.
“Mom, will you buzz David for me?”
She nods, grabs her glass, and crosses to the selection of intercom buttons on the wall near the wine fridge.
Dad clears his throat. “Say goodbye, Britney.”
She glances up from her phone and flashes me her middle finger.
I return the gesture.
Swear she could drain the patience out of Buddha.
Once my father and I have rounded the corner out of ear shot, I immediately ask, “What do you want, Dad?”
“What makes you think-”
The pointed look stops the charade.
“I need a favor….”
“What kind of favor? Something easy, like locating mom’s favorite pumps that I know are somewhere in my closet? Or something more difficult like buy my Ursula worshipping sister a birthday gift to pretend I give a shit about her? Or…are you talking more on a professional level like entertain Drake Lenzi for the weekend to help convince him to endorse your shoes across the ocean.”
The latter I didn’t mind. Drake Lenzi is one of the world’s sexiest soccer players and was a perfect gentleman until I was less than a lady.
We continue our route to the front door. “Speak at the annual Summer Hellcat Banquet for me this year?”
All my movements freeze, and he shifts himself in front of me.
He’s 6’7 with milk chocolate skin, a muscular frame, clean shaven from his bald head to his hard face, and a ‘ladies must melt for him’ grin, which he’s had for his entire life. I’ve seen baby pics to prom ones and the smile never became less irresistible. Lamar “Big L” Hall is a man other men have always looked up to, been envious of, and tried to destroy. I know my larger than life charm comes from him, along with the continuous reminder to stay connected to something larger than myself, but sometimes, he leaves even me in awe of his unparalleled magnetism. He’s almost impossible to say no to, which makes being his daughter that much harder.
“You would be a great guest speaker, Little L. You know the ins and outs of the game. You know more about both teams than anyone else on the list, plus I think it would be great for morale if it was not only someone who loves the teams, but was raised around them.”
When dad retired from basketball, he took a vast chunk of the money he had, and became part owner of the Hellcats. A couple years later when the sister team, Cliffsworth Hellcats, was revamped, he became partners with James Hopkins. Investing back in the sport he loves is about more than just profit. It always has been. It’s about giving back to something that gave him everything . Something he lives and breathes. Something that lights his soul aflame. Being raised around a man who would sacrifice everything he had to chase his own passion is probably the reason I was willing to do it for mine.
“Dad-”
“It’s been a rough season,” he confesses the obvious.
I may not work specifically in the league, but I damn sure keep track of it, the same way I do all other conventional sports. Though, I will admit, I watch those two teams a little closer given they’re like extended family. Extended, free throw sucking, family. God, we gotta get rid of Terrell Diamond.
“I think this summer’s banquet should focus more on togetherness. Unity. Playing like a team and not just bags of money in killer shoes.”
“Profit is up on the brand, isn’t it?”
He slips his hands into his dress pant pockets and nods. “Branching out into women’s sportswear was definitely the right move and not just because your mother now feels like she contributes more to the company. The launch this fall introducing the couples line should be extremely profitable. Research has shown working out with your significant other is an increasingly popular trend.” When he starts to see me smile, he pushes, “Come on, Little L. Do this for me? Squeeze me into your schedule?”
I let out a loud annoyed groan. “Fine.”
Dad flashes me a victorious smirk.
“Two conditions. One, you will not serve veal at this thing.”
“No baby cow.”
“And two, you mark me down as a plus one.”
Suspicion seeps into his expression. “Are you predicting this date you’re meeting to still be around? Should I be asking more questions about him rather than complimenting you on your last article, which moved three of my players to make donations to
charities who sponsor wheelchair sporting events for children?”
“Seriously?!”
He nods, the pride on his face unmistakable. However, before I can comment on it, he questions again, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
I have a hot cowboy whose picture I have been masturbating to for the past week or so doesn’t seem like a good answer.
“Not big into labels, Dad.”
“I know. Labels or lists or anything else you find stifles freedom or creativity.”
“Exactly.”
“But is this date-”
“Just mark it down, Dad.” I brush off his pending question. “It just needs to be a blanket, plus one. Who knows what the summer may bring. It could be him. It could be Azura. It could be a lumberjack or Jill I met while camping in Washington. You know I don’t make long distance plans. I would just like to keep the option open.”
My father doesn’t budge. “London….”
With a small smile, I begin to stroll away from him towards the front door, and call out, “Have a good night, Dad.”
If he would’ve asked me a few weeks ago about the idea of bringing anyone along as an official date, the speech would’ve held a little more weight than it just did. Going out on dates wasn’t even on my radar any more than having someone send me a good morning text message. Every. Morning. Everything with Oliver, from his lack of sports knowledge, to his frustrations with my inability to answer his leaving work calls is different . I relish in the unusual, the unordinary, the unpredictable and whatever is growing between the two of us is exactly that. What’s even more extraordinary is I wanna keep it. Not the same way I collect unique mementos from my travels in old white shoeboxes, but in a mated for life nature. It’s as if I want our souls interlaced….
After a brief ride into downtown, I arrive at Braylore’s Bistro to find Oliver with his friends hanging out at the bar as I predicted.
Trendy places like this are always running behind with reservations. You book a table at four, you’re really not getting seated until closer to four forty-five. You book a table at eight? Be grateful if you see your entrée before ten.
I strut straight over instantly catching his attention. He ceases the conversation he was having with the people beside him and devotes all his energy to me. The look of irritation over my tardiness fades. He rapidly drinks in the sight of my body squeezed into a white burlesque, corset halter dress with a red bow tied right under my tits and a ruffle skirt that is long except in the front where my thighs are. My red wedge sneakers along with the orange, oversized bow in my hair, tie into the bright shade on my lips. Oliver’s attention takes its time soaking up every little detail.
When he’s finally finished, he clears his throat, and scolds, “You’re late.”
I give my attire a wave. “Stunningly so.”
He instantly agrees with a crooked smirk yet bats it away. “Late is late.”
“And there’s never a good excuse to be late?”
“No.”
Leaning over so my lips are pressed closer to his ear, I whisper, “Not even if it’s because you’ve got me bent over the bathroom sink with your cock so far inside of me you are by definition, balls deep ?”
The groan he releases is animalistic and results in him fusing our mouths together. His tongue viciously lashes at mine, punishing it for being tardy, punishing it for teasing, and most importantly, punishing it for being gone so long. With every push I swear we’re erasing the lifetimes we’ve spent apart. My hands slide down his gray dress shirt to pull back, but he wraps a hand around the nape of my neck, not ready to end it yet.
Neither am I….And I don’t just mean this kiss.
A set out of loud throat clearing eventually breaks through the desperate devouring we were swept away in.
Oliver releases his hold and instantly his cheeks redden in embarrassment.
In a quiet voice, I question, “You’re really not used to making out in public, are you?”
He shakes his head. “I’m usually more reserved.”
“I love it when you’re not.”
Oliver groans again, mouth gravitating towards mine, when a male voice states, “Before you two start at it again, maybe introduce us?”
Spinning around to greet the three on lookers, I begin to introduce myself when the male closest, beats me to the punch. “Holy shit, you’re Little L!”
Oliver’s arms protectively wrap around my waist. I smile at the sweet sentiment. “You can call me London.”
“Holy shit!” The brown-haired male repeats, this time nailing the other male in the arm. “It’s Little L!”
My correction is met with a forced smile. “ London ….”
“Why are you two shouting about her?” The petite blonde questions from behind her Cosmo. “What’d you do? Sleep with her already?”
Her bitchy comment merely makes me smirk.
Women have a tendency not to like me. For as long as I can remember they’ve hated the fact that I can sit down and go toe to toe on sport’s topics, that cause most women’s eyes to gloss over, without having to fake it. I love sports and most men have a hard on for women who do. Oliver being an exception. My new favorite exception.
“Natasha,” Oliver reprimands. “Have some respect for my girlfriend.”
Girlfriend? Um…I’m not exactly a fan of the limited life titles like “girlfriend” bring, yet I’m seeing a guy who is ready to slap them on me willy nilly? Shouldn’t we talk about this? Discuss it? I mean, I am definitely a more go with the flow kind of creature, but occasionally I am not above stopping the boat until everyone on board agrees on a route to take.
“Girlfriend?” They croak in off key unison.
He doesn’t back down. “Correct.”
Not correct regardless of the positive, passionate reaction it seems to give my heart.
“Holy shit, man!” The male repeats. “ You’re dating one of the hottest women in the world of sports.”
“The world in general,” Oliver insists, face landing on my shoulder, hard on brushing against my back.
I toss him a seductive look over my shoulder. “Compliments make my clothes come off so much easier.”
Another blush makes itself known.
“I loved when you were the guest commentator for the UFC fight of Marx vs. Macee! Everything you said was just…like... yeah! ” He lifts his glass to have a sip of his martini. “And then when you were on Monday Night Mercy discussing the NBA draft last year.…”
“Can’t believe the Hellcats traded Miles Dennis to the Delsberg Diamonds,” the other guy interjects. “Biggest mistake they could’ve made.”
“Wouldn’t say that,” I casually argue. “Patrick Faison seems like an improvement to our team. Besides, have you seen what a shitty season Miles has had this year? The Diamonds have won one game.”
“Excuse me,” Oliver abruptly interrupts, grabbing my attention. “I thought you were an extreme sports blogger.”
“I am.”
“But KFC-”
“UFC,” I quickly correct. “It’s fighting not fried chicken.”
“Right and the NDA-”