Love T.K.O.

by Pamela Yaye

  The driver sped out of sight, ignorant of the harm he had caused.

  When Yasmin reached the parking lot of City Bar Tampa, she turned off the engine and inspected her outfit. Not only did she have coffee marks on her jacket, she had a long line down her skirt. Groaning inwardly, she grabbed some Kleenex and tried to blot out the stains. Her efforts only made it worse. She couldn’t go inside the restaurant in stained clothes. She wanted to see Rashawn, but not looking like this.

  Yasmin picked up her cell phone and punched in Rashawn’s number. He answered on the first ring and the sound of his voice instantly lifted her spirits. “Hey, it’s me,” she greeted him.

  “Where are you?”

  “In the parking lot.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  Yasmin told him about her near accident and clothing dilemma. “I feel terrible canceling at the last minute, but you understand, don’t you?”

  “No problem, we’ll go to my place instead.”

  “I’d rather go home and take a long bath. I’ve had the worst day.”

  “I’ll be right out. Stay put.”

  The line went dead. Seconds later, Yasmin watched Rashawn stroll confidently out of the restaurant. He glanced around the parking lot, spotted her and smiled. Her heart murmured. The pull of their physical attraction was overpowering. Like two opposing forces joining together. She had never experienced or imagined that this could be real.

  He opened the passenger-side door and stepped inside. His scent infused the car and when he leaned over and kissed her, she melted. Pulling away, his eyes slid from her face to her legs. “Doc, the stain’s not that bad. I can barely see it.”

  “Liar!”

  “Okay, you look like you had a fight with a coffee machine.”

  Yasmin laughed. “Thanks a lot. You sure know how to make a girl feel better.”

  “I’m just playing.” He took her hand and kissed her palm. “I’m not letting you get away so what’s it going to be, your place or mine?”

  “I won’t be good company,” she confessed, giving him a sad smile. “I have a lot of things on my mind and a million and one things to do between now and Saturday.”

  “Why don’t you go home, relax for a while and meet me at my place in time for dinner?”

  Yasmin considered his offer. She didn’t have anything to do tonight except fret over all the things that could go wrong at the fund-raiser. Imani was working late, Katherine was going speed dating and her parents were out of town. Why not hang out with Rashawn? They never ran out of things to say and he would help keep her mind off her troubles. “I can’t stay long,” she told him. “I have an early-morning meeting with the caterer.”

  “Cool.” Rashawn opened the car door. “See you later?”

  Feeling playful, Yasmin winked. “Definitely.”

  Chapter 11

  “My feet do not stink!” Yasmin yelled, hurling a cushion at Rashawn. “You wish your toes were as cute as mine!”

  Ducking, he dodged the blow and repositioned her legs on his lap. “Don’t flatter yourself. Your feet smell like nacho cheese!”

  Giggling, she poked him with her toe. If she hadn’t eaten two helpings of the shrimp calamari he’d ordered, she would get up and give him the beating he deserved. But after a plate of food and two glasses of wine, Yasmin couldn’t move. And the skillful way he was massaging her calves was making her feel drowsy.

  Rashawn worked his hands from her legs to her heels. “Do you have time to go shopping on Saturday? I was hoping we could check out some of the furniture stores.”

  “I can’t. Not only am I organizing the fund-raiser, I’m on the decorating committee, as well. I’ll probably be at the hall most of the day.”

  “Do you need more volunteers?”

  “Of course. It would be great if you could come by.”

  “If you need me, I’m there. But what about my place? As you can see, it still needs a lot of work.”

  When Rashawn had said he wanted help decorating, Yasmin had thought it was a ploy to get her inside his house. But after a brief tour, she had realized he didn’t have anything but a couch and some chairs. There were no rugs, no blinds, no lamps. Rashawn didn’t have any furniture, but he had a sixty-three-inch TV, a PlayStation 3 and CD stands that held thousands of movies.

  Surprised at how bare it was, Yasmin had dug into her wallet, pulled out Essence Gilbert-Clark’s business card and encouraged him to call. Rashawn had rejected the idea, insisting they could decorate together. Yasmin wasn’t an interior designer, but she loved fabrics and accessories and she knew what looked good. Conflicted about what to do, she’d considered everything Rashawn had done for her since they met. He had filled in at the Men of Initiative program, had scored Pro Bowl tickets for the silent auction and agreed to emcee the fund-raiser. Since he had given so much of himself, the least she could do was give him some decorating tips. “Why don’t we go on Sunday?”

  “Cool. I’ll work out in the morning, then come scoop you.”

  Yasmin murmured in response. She felt herself slipping away. The last six weeks had taken their toll. Working ten-hour days and then spending her evenings at the center was exhausting. But the soothing touch of his hands and the quiet sounds drifting in through the window quieted her body and soul.

  “Can I get you anything? Another glass of wine maybe?”

  “No,” slipped out of her mouth in a dreamy whisper. Tucking a hand behind the pillow, she leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes. His touch was sweet. As his hands worked their magic, she reflected on all of the good things happening in her life.

  A Better Way Counseling Services was thriving, the renovations at the community center would begin at the end of the month and she’d met Rashawn. A thoughtful, considerate man who made her smile. He was attentive, generous and charismatic. So much so, it was hard for her not to gravitate toward him. He was completely hooked into her wants and needs, and when they were together Yasmin had never felt so sexy. Or desirable. It was a heady feeling, one she had never known.

  “This couch is too small for us,” he told her, squirting massage oil onto his open palms. “We should go into the bedroom.”

  He was right, but Yasmin would rather lay on the couch than on his king-size bed. Two glasses of Merlot, soft sheets and his sensual voice were a sensual combination. There was no telling what would happen. “I don’t mind. Besides, I’m too full to move.”

  Rashawn drenched his hands with oil and rubbed her legs. Her mink-brown skin was smooth and silky. She was an impressive five feet eight inches, and proud of her regal height. Tonight, she was flaunting her legs in a thigh-grazing sundress. When he’d opened the front door and seen her standing there, he’d taken her into his arms and kissed her until he’d gratified his desire. Then and only then did he let her go and invite her inside. To him, she was perfection. An incredibly desirable woman with a strong sense of self. Sexy in every imaginable way.

  He thought back to the night they had met. From the moment he had spotted her, he had known he had to meet her. She stood out from everyone else in the room and for good reason. Her beauty was evident in her smile, the glow of her skin and the way she carried herself. They had only known each other for a couple of months, but they had developed something special in a short space of time. More memories came to mind. The day he had showed up at her office and caught her doing an impromptu duet with Anthony Hamilton. And the time they’d spent at Food Fest sampling chocolate fondue. But it was the image of her playing soccer that brought a grin to his mouth. Trustworthy, intellectual and sophisticated, Yasmin Ohaji was everything he wanted in a woman and more.

  Rashawn worked his hands across her shoulders blades, down her arms, then up to her neck. Her face was the picture of peace. Eyes closed, hands folded, legs crossed at the ankles. Driven by desire, he bent down and kissed her softly on the lips. He was happy to keep things on a casual level for now, but it was just a matter of time until they would become lovers
. And when they did, he would make sure to cherish her.

  A sigh escaped her lips and he unraveled. He was a slave to his body and it was calling out for more. With massage-oiled palms, he rubbed his hands down the length of her thighs to her legs. Yasmin tilted her head to the right, exposing her collarbone. Before he could stop himself, he was raining kisses along her neck. Rashawn felt her arms around him, drawing him closer. Using his tongue to draw light circles along her ear, he slipped a hand up her dress and caressed her inner thigh. Addicted to the taste of her lips, he kissed her again. They kissed long and hard, the intensity of their attraction rocking them both. His body yearned for her, desired her, needed her. The only thing standing between them making love was an appropriate amount of fear. When she put a hand under his T-shirt and stroked his chest, he groaned. It was time, he decided, slipping a finger into her panties. The setting couldn’t be more right. Intimate conversation, a hot-oil massage, soft music. But as he stretched out on top of her, he saw the trepidation in her eyes. This wasn’t right. He had to stop. Yasmin wasn’t ready for their relationship to become sexual, but that didn’t stop him from wanting her.

  Nestling his face in her hair, he said, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t think I was actually sleeping, did you?” Yasmin pulled back so she could see his face. “Trust me, the best way to enjoy a massage is with your eyes closed.”

  “Well, how did I do?”

  “On the massage—” Yasmin lifted a brow “—or the extra services?”

  Chuckling, he kissed the tips of her fingers. “Both.”

  “You’re a ten.”

  The doorbell chimed. But instead of getting up, he traced a finger up the slope of her inner thigh. “Where were we?”

  “You’re not going to answer the door?”

  “Nope.”

  “It could be an emergency.”

  “Then they should call nine-one-one.”

  Giggling, she playfully pushed him off of her. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she announced, adjusting her dress. “Get the door, Rashawn. It could be important.” Ignoring the wounded expression on his face, she stood and sashayed out of the room.

  His eyes trailed her down the hall. As long as he’d lived, he’d never meet anyone as captivating as Yasmin Ohaji. She was the most authentic woman he had ever met. Her confidence, her attitude, her playfulness; he desired her in ways he couldn’t explain. They were that much closer to being a couple and just the thought of her being his woman inflated his heart with pride. Grinning, he got off the couch and strolled into the foyer. His smile couldn’t get any bigger, but when he opened his front door, it fizzled like smoke. Surprise gave way to annoyance as he folded his arms across his chest. “What are you doing here?”

  Armondo sneered. “Is that any way to greet your baby brother?”

  Yasmin stuck her hands under the faucet. Peering into the mirror, she scrutinized her look. Her makeup was flawless, her lips were glossy and every hair was in place. Smiling back at her reflection, she shut off the water and searched for something to dry her hands. There were no cloths, no paper towels and no Kleenex. Rashawn wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t have anything in the apartment.

  Opening the closet, she found a pile of face towels. As she wiped her hands, she caught sight of several miniature vials along the back shelf. Yasmin wasn’t one to snoop, but she hadn’t rummaged around looking for them. They were in plain view. Having justified her thoughts, she reached in and turned one of the bottles around to the label. “Jintropin—Human Growth Hormone for Injection,” she read aloud.

  Yasmin blinked. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. This had to be a mistake. Rashawn was using performance-enhancement drugs? Backing away from the closet, she steadied a hand to her chest. It felt like her heart was beating twice as fast. Her mind raced as her thoughts turned to Quintrel Durant.

  Years ago, when she had been working at the public health clinic, she had counseled the amateur bodybuilder. Addicted to steroids and desperate to qualify for Mr. USA, the nineteen-year-old had upped his dosage and ultimately damaged his kidneys. After a ninety-day stint at an Orlando treatment center, he had quit using drugs and cleaned up his life.

  Her lips tightened, her face an angry mask. Rashawn Bishop was a liar, a cheat, a fraud. He was preaching health and fitness to the boys in the Men of Initiative program, but was using illegal drugs. He pretended to be honest, sincere and genuine, but he was none of those things. Integrity was a dying trait in the twenty-first century, but she would rather be alone than with a man who lied to her. Yasmin couldn’t believe she had been fooled. How could she have been so wrong about him? Flattered by his attention, she’d allowed herself to be swept up in his games of deceit.

  Hands shaking, she slowly opened the bathroom door. In the living room, Rashawn was talking to a teenager with oily skin and shifty eyes. In a black Kangol pulled down past his eyebrows, an extra-large football jersey that skimmed his knees and jeans so wide they could double as a parachute, the boy reminded her of the thugs Rashawn had chased off at the Laurdel Lounge.

  “You’re back. You were gone so long, I was gonna come check on you,” Rashawn teased. He motioned to the kid. “This is my brother Armondo.”

  Her shoulders tensed when Rashawn slipped his hand around her waist. Fighting the urge to smack his arm away, she said, “It’s nice meeting you.”

  Armondo tore his gaze away from the TV. “Yeah, same here.” Propping his feet up on the table, he resumed flipping channels with the remote control.

  “He stopped by for a quick visit, but he’s leaving now. Get up, Armondo.” Rashawn spoke in a loud, booming voice. “It’s time to bounce.”

  Yasmin moved out of his arms. “That’s not necessary. Visit with your brother. I have to go.” Before Rashawn could protest, she had her purse and was marching briskly down the hallway.

  Rashawn caught up with her in the foyer. Capturing her around the waist, he begged, “Doc, don’t run off. I want you to stay.”

  Ten minutes ago, Yasmin would have melted into his embrace. Now she wanted to get as far away from him as possible. Untangling herself from his arms, she backed up against the door. “I have to go.”

  “I understand. I guess I can survive not seeing you for a couple of days. What time do you need me at the center on Saturday?”

  “Forget I mentioned it. I think we’ll have enough volunteers.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

  “Positive.” Yasmin blinked back tears, the sudden demise of their relationship weighing heavily on her. “I can’t go shopping with you on Sunday. I just remembered I’m having brunch at my parents’ house.”

  “All day?”

  “Pretty much. My mom throws a huge get-together once a month and my entire family will be there. It’ll be hard for me to get away.”

  His eyebrows merged. Rashawn couldn’t understand the drastic change in her. They’d had a passionate evening, filled with kisses, caresses and a sensual massage, and now she was cold. Was she upset because Armondo stopped by? Confused, he propped a hand on the wall, preventing her from opening the front door. “Are you mad because my brother’s here? You want me to get rid of him so we can finish our date?”

  “This isn’t about your brother.”

  “Then, what is it about?”

  Yasmin was anxious to leave, but she couldn’t go without telling Rashawn how she felt. “Call me when you’re ready to get help. I know some of the best addiction specialists in the country.” With that, she flung open the door and escaped into the night.

  Stupefied, Rashawn watched her climb into her SUV. What the hell was she talking about? He didn’t have an addiction. Aside from a beer or two when he was out with the guys, he didn’t touch alcohol. She’d been the one to drink wine at dinner, not him. Averse to taking medication of any kind, he didn’t even use over-the-counter drugs. Lost in his thoughts, he ambled back into the living room and slumped onto the couch.
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  “What’s up, bro?” Armondo clamped a hand on his back. “She bust your chops when you went in for a goodnight kiss?”

  “I don’t know what just happened. We had a good time together, a damn good time. Everything was cool until she came back from the bathroom.”

  “Maybe she found your secret stash of Playboy magazines.”

  “Shut up, Armondo. This is serious.”

  “Are you shittin’ me? You really diggin’ that girl?”

  Rashawn’s lips curled, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Is that a problem?”

  “Well, no, but she’s African.”

  “And?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. She’s cute and all, but you guys make an odd couple.”

  “Really? How so?” he challenged, fighting the urge to heave his younger brother out the front door.

  “Well, for starters she’s real dark and you’re superlight. She’s professional and you’re from the ’hood. See where I’m going?” Ignorant of the disgusted expression on Rashawn’s face, he resumed flipping channels with the remote control. “Whatever happened to that sexy Hispanic chick from Long Beach?”

  “You mean the gold digger who asked me to pay her rent on the first date?”

  Armondo snapped his fingers, his eyes alive with recollection. “Yeah, her! She was fine as hell.”

  “I’m tired of dating girls like that. I want a woman with substance and women like Evalisse Jimenez are about as common as a lap dance in a strip club.” Smoothing a hand over his goatee, his thoughts returned to Yasmin. Something was up. He didn’t know why she was mad at him, but he was about to find out.

  Rashawn leapt off the couch and Armondo stalked behind him. “Can we talk about the loan now? All I need is ten grand, bro. You know I’m good for it. I’ll have it back to you before you even notice it’s gone.”

  “Not now, Armondo.”

  “I need the money to cut my demo. Mom would give it to me if she had it, but she doesn’t. My rap career’s finally taking off, bro. If you don’t believe me, check me out next week at the Bamboo Club.”