Always Been You

by Beverley Kendall

  “Graham.” That’s all Emily says, his name soft and low, her tone so apprehensive it’s almost too painful to hear.

  He whispers something else into his girlfriend’s ear and what’s clear by the tightening of the woman’s lips is she’s not happy with whatever he said. She looks up at him and his blue eyes soften. Then he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her red-coated lips.

  “I’ll meet you at the car,” she says, giving his scruffy jaw an intimate stroke. After sparing us one final—curious—glance, she hooks the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and turns and exits the mall with a hip-swinging saunter.

  He watches his girlfriend until the hydraulics of the door ease it closed behind her and she’s safely out of hearing range.

  Whatever semblance of civility he’d felt forced to employ in front of her vanishes the second he turns back to confront Emily. And yes, I mean confront, as in slitted eyes, bared teeth and the works.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  The control and suppressed fury in his voice make his words ten times scarier than if he’d shouted them at the top of his lungs. And as jarring as that was, what shocks me even more is that it’s delivered in a British accent. I definitely wasn’t expecting that. Men who speak with sexy British accents are supposed to be charming and flirtatious, not spew demands like a guard at a maximum-security prison.

  Em and I both kind of rear back at the vehemence in his voice and the fire blazing in his eyes. Then he turns that black stare on me and bites out, “I’m going to assume you’re a friend of hers.” His teeth practically grind on the last word.

  Um, someone want to tell me how I became embroiled in whatever went horribly wrong between them? I mean, I’m just here with Em shopping, minding my business—sort of—yet this guy is giving me the death-by-association glare.

  Instinctively, I inch closer to my friend. We may need to join forces to protect each other from this lunatic. Clearly he’s a nut job with some major anger issues walking around disguised as a fully functioning adult male.

  I take a surreptitious look around, hoping the security guard who’s asked me out three times is hovering close enough that if either Em or I scream, he can be here in seconds.

  Damn, he’s not.

  Since his question is rhetorical, I don’t bother to answer. Instead, I lift my chin in a weak show of courage and give him the universal, what’s it to you look.

  By the further narrowing of his eyes, he translates it correctly and places me number two on his shit list. Well screw him. I don’t know him from a hole in the wall and his opinion of me means diddly squat.

  “Good,” he says with a hard nod. “Then do your friend a favor and make sure she stays the hell away from me.” He’s speaking to me but his narrowed gaze is fixed on Em.

  I swallow hard. This is one guy I wouldn’t purposely want on my bad side, but apparently it’s too late for that.

  Before I have time to pull myself together, he delivers a final lethal look at Em. Then he turns and goes barreling through the exit doors into the blinding brightness and heat of the afternoon.

  “Holy crap.” Still in a state of utter shock, I jerk my gaze back to Emily. “You want to tell me what the hell you did to Graham?”

  Emily’s unblinking stare follows him until he disappears in the parking lot.

  “Em? Who is he?” I prompt.

  It takes a couple more seconds for Emily to lose her dazed, unfocused look and shift her gaze back to me. She shakes her head. “No one,” she whispers. “Just a guy I knew a long time ago.”

  “What, is he an old boyfriend? Did you dump him or something?”

  “April, can we not talk about this?”

  What? Wait. Whoa… Now I shake my head in confusion. “Em, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on. He’s just a guy from my past. We didn’t even date more than a month.”

  Skepticism sends my eyebrows shooting up toward my hairline. “Dated? Are we talking the horizontal mambo jambo or the get to know you kind?”

  Em emits a sad, weary sigh. “It’s a long story.”

  “Then just give me the abridged version.” My interest is way beyond piqued. I want the dirt. Every gritty grain of it. The display he’d just put on hadn’t been your typical romance gone bad behavior. He’d acted as if she’d killed one of his family members, buried the body in the backyard and collected on the insurance policy.

  At her silence, I gentle my voice and ask, “I take it things ended badly?”

  She smiles thinly. “Yeah, you can say that. Which is why I really don’t want to talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

  Of course I mind. She’s one of my best friends and there’s a hunky man in her past who looks like he’d rather walk over a mile-long bed of glass than have anything to do with her. I’m dying to know what went wrong.

  Edging closer to her, I tuck a dark strand of her hair gently behind her ear and say softly, “Can’t you tell me what happened?”

  A brittle laugh escapes her lips causing her shoulders to jump. “You want to know what went wrong? We had sex. That’s why he hates me.”

  My expression must have indicated my bewilderment and surprise because she shakes her head sadly and says, “Never mind. Honestly, April, I don’t want to talk about it.” Then she closes down, her expression going blank.

  My inner debate lasts for several long seconds. I could push but clearly she’s upset and doesn’t want to talk about it.

  I sigh. “Okay, I’ll drop it.”

  For now.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Monday

  This past weekend, three things happened. One, I broke up with my boyfriend of three months. Two, I agreed to let my best friend move in with me. The guy I’ve had a thing for all my pre-pubescent life. As far as I’m aware, mental sickness doesn’t run in my family so apparently I’m first generation certifiably insane.

  Lord save me from myself!

  Three, one of my best friends had a movie-worthy encounter with a surly, hot Brit, whom she’s being completely tight-lipped about. I’m determined to get to the bottom of what went so horrifically wrong between them. In the meanwhile, I’m going to allow the dust to settle—I’ll give it a few days—before I approach her again.

  The first incident doesn’t seem to be having as much lasting impact on me as the other two, which sadly says a lot.

  Going into the last week of finals, I didn’t expect anything else major to happen. Certainly nothing that would have my world tilting on its axis.

  I was wrong. Nothing could have prepared me for the storm that begins with a call from my agent. Nothing.

  I’m on the way to my car when I answer her call. “Talk about perfect timing,” I say cheerfully. My good mood is due to having breezed through my public relations exam, and relief that finals are over for the day.

  “Thank goodness I got you on the phone. I thought I’d have to leave you a message.”

  A jolt of excitement starts my blood pumping. “Good news?”

  Catherine Bueller, my agent of five years, is normally poised and friendly and totally together. She doesn’t call me out of breath as if she just won the lottery.

  I hear her inhale deeply as if trying to temper an unruly emotion before it gets out of hand. Holy shit, this must be big.

  Her voice is more subdued when she replies, “Definitely good. But maybe a bit of bad. It depends how you look at it. Which do you want first?”

  My heart skips a beat. Potentially bad news? In a guarded tone, I ask, “How do you look at it?”

  “A bumpy ride with a rainbow and a pot of gold at the end,” she replies.

  I like the rainbow and pot of gold part. “Okay, give me the bump first.”

  “Do you know who Bill Keets is?” she begins by asking.

  I slip into the driver seat of my car and close the door. “I don’t think so.”

  “He’s a sportscaster for ESPN,” she supplies in an attempt to j
og my memory.

  “O-kay.” Although the name sounds vaguely familiar, I’m drawing a blank on his face. I can count the number of times I’ve voluntarily watched ESPN on one hand and Troy usually had something to do with it.

  “Well his audio about you was leaked late last night and all the news stations are carrying the story.” A dramatic pause follows before she continues in a pitched tone. “Honey, your face and name are on every major news channel today.”

  Shocked, my hands still on the steering wheel, the keys dangling from my fingers. “What?” I slowly push the key in the ignition, turn it once and then click the switch to open the sunroof. A hot breeze rustles the hair on my shoulders and back. “I don’t understand. Why would he say anything about me?”

  “He was commenting on the video of you TMZ aired.”

  Oh that. “What did he say?” I adjust the Bluetooth ear bud in my ear so I won’t miss a word, and brace myself for the worst.

  “Why don’t I just send you the link to the story? You can listen to the audio yourself and then call me back.”

  “Why can’t you just tell me?”

  “It’s better if you listen to it yourself.”

  Uh oh. I take a calming breath and prepare myself to be utterly insulted. For my dignity to take a hit. A very public hit.

  My phone beeps with the incoming text she promised. “Okay, I got it. I’ll call you back,” I say before quickly hanging up.

  I click the link Catherine sent and a browser pops up and the audio of two males talking begins to play. I have to max out the volume because the voices are low and a little muffled.

  “Christ, she’s hot.”

  A rueful, vaguely lascivious laugh follows and another man says, “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crackers—her or her sister. Ever done sisters, Lazzio?”

  I feel my face warm.

  Lazzio laughs. “Not yet. It’s on my bucket list though. How old is she? She looks young.”

  “She’s in college, so she’s legal, thank God.”

  “I’m surprised, Keets. A die-hard Southern Republican like you? I didn’t know you went for black chicks,” Lazzio says, amusement in his deep voice.

  “Christ man, look at her. Besides she’s barely black. Both of my grandparents are from Sweden and Norway and I tan darker than she is.”

  The other guy grunts a sound of agreement. “True. Have you seen the mother? She’s as blonde as your daughter.”

  The audio cuts off after that.

  At first, I don’t know what or how I feel. I’m not outraged because people—black and white—have said similar things to me before. It comes with the territory. If I was to put it in dog terms, I’m a mutt. And I’m fine with being exactly who I am. I embrace both sides of my genetic makeup.

  As I’m still staring sightlessly down at my phone, my sister’s face appears on the screen. I click the button on my headset. “Hey, I haven’t heard from you in five days, where are you now?” My sister’s modeling career takes her all over the world. Lately she’s been doing a lot of work in Paris.

  “Where am I? I just arrived in LA to hear that my little sister is embroiled in a scandal. You want to tell me how it is you’re going to get that sportscaster fired?”

  “Fired? They’re going to fire him? Catherine didn’t say anything about that.”

  “Sweetie, you need to watch the news. It’s been big news on every morning program today.”

  I feel so out of the loop, it isn’t funny. It’s like everything about this story is happening around me. “Who’s saying what? Who’s demanding he get fired?”

  Victoria sighs. “The usual suspects. Several women’s rights group and the NAACP. Some are calling his remarks racist and others are calling it racially insensitive, but everyone agrees it’s sexist and an affront to womankind.”

  I let out a despairing groan. Honestly, right now all I want to do is crawl into a hole. “I can’t believe that video turned into this big a mess.”

  “You’re in the middle of finals, right?”

  “Yep. Why?”

  “I was going to tell you to come and stay with me until this blows over.”

  “In LA? Are you serious?” I scoff.

  “At least I have security at my building,” she points out.

  “I’m not going to need security, Vic,” I assure her. This is ridiculous. I’m a college student who models, not a celebrity or want-to-be celebrity.

  “April, your video is all over the news and a sportscaster from the biggest sports program on TV is likely to get fired over something he said about you—”

  “And you too,” I add. The pervs are interested in a sister sandwich.

  “—which means the media is going to want to hear from you. That’s how this stuff works.”

  I don’t want to believe that’s the way this whole thing is going to go. I don’t want to believe that something like this could actually happen to me.

  My phone flashes, displaying another incoming call. My agent calling back, wondering what’s taking me so long, no doubt.

  “Listen, Vic, Catherine’s calling. I’ll call you back.”

  “Make sure you do,” she states sternly.

  I switch over to hear, “I thought you were going to call me back. Did you get a chance to listen to it?”

  “Yes, I heard it, but I still don’t see what the big deal is all about. Vic says they’re calling for this guy’s resignation?”

  Catherine sputters. “Well yes.” She says it as if she can’t believe I’m posing the question. That it should be a forgone conclusion that this guy should lose his job.

  What am I missing? Because apparently, I must be missing something. “What do people have a problem with? That he said I’m barely black? Or that he says he’d have sex with me? Or is it that he wouldn’t normally go for a “black chick” but he’s making an exception because he doesn’t consider me really black?” I don’t think I’ve missed a single permutation of the scenarios.

  “I-I-I—”

  The stuttering means my agent doesn’t know either.

  After a pause, she replies, “All of the above, I guess.”

  I roll my eyes and clutch the steering wheel with both hands. “Seriously? Like this country doesn’t have enough real problems and people want to make a big deal about this?” Honestly, it’s beyond the pale absurd.

  “God, this is so not a big deal. He’s crass. He’s not politically correct, but I’m not offended. And it’s not like I haven’t heard other people—black people, women in particular—say things like that about me all the time. I’m not white and I’ll never be “black” enough for most people. That’s my life. It doesn’t bother me anymore.”

  “But this isn’t about you. This story is already bigger than that.”

  Wonderful. Just wonderful.

  “Look honey, I know this sucks, but like I first said, this has a silver lining.” Excitement creeps back into her voice.

  “It better be really really good news.”

  “It is. It is. I’ve already gotten three calls from clients specifically asking for you. William Keets’ locker-room comments could be the best thing that ever happened to your career.”

  I never intended to make modeling my official career, after all I’m going to school for Fashion Design, but I always intended to get as much as I could out of it. The money I’ve made from it so far is putting me through school and if I don’t go crazy, I’ll have enough to put a big down payment on my first place.

  The prospect of more opportunities to make more money certainly has me sitting up at attention. The more money in the bank, the more security, the less likely I’ll ever have to do without.

  “Three?” I ask, almost hesitant to believe she’s serious. I’m lucky if I book three modeling gigs in six months. Three in a day is…incredible.

  “Three,” Catherine confirms giddily. Like me, she’s seeing dollar signs. “And they’re willing to pay top dollar.”

  Top dollar in
my case is anything more than fifteen hundred dollars a day.

  I’m bowled over when she gives me the rates for each assignment. More than double what I usually get.

  I swallow hard, my mind spinning and my hands trembling as I start the car, close the sunroof and switch the A/C on high. “When are they?”

  “Don’t worry, hon, they know you’re in school. I told them you won’t be available until after Memorial Day. The first one won’t start shooting until next month. Then you’ll be flying out to LA for the second one and—hang onto your bikini—Milan for the last one.”

  I’m going to Milan.

  I scream it in my mind because I’ll look like an idiot if I do it out loud. God I wish I were home. There’s nothing like being able to share this kind of news with my friends.

  “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.” I’m practically hyperventilating. Because I need to know more; every single detail of my incredible fortune. I inhale deeply and get my breathing under control. “They’re flying me to Italy?” I’ve never landed an assignment out of the country.

  “Wait there’s more,” Catherine sounds giddier than I’ve ever heard her. “Elle wants you and Vicki to do something together. Two incredible beauties in one family. The readers will eat it up. And that’s a quote from Ms. Stickler herself.” Danielle is the editor-at-large at Elle. She’s huge.

  I loosen my death-grip on the steering wheel and slump back into my seat. “Danielle Stickler knows who I am?” Amazing. Fucking amazing.

  “She does now,” Catherine says smugly. “Once I get the contract, I’ll go over them and FedEx them out to you.”

  I’m nodding like crazy before I realize she can’t see me. “Yes. Yes.”

  Catherine laughs. “What do you say, the good news was better than the bad, am I right?”