by Pamela Yaye
“Yeah, I just have to toss my toiletries in my carry-on.”
“Let’s go to your room. I want to see what you’re taking.”
“Why?”
“I can’t have you walking around the beach in that repulsive one-piece bathing suit you bought at Sears ages ago. Miami’s a sexy city. The more skin the better.”
Laughing, the sisters exited the bathroom and stepped into Yasmin’s room.
Spotting the suitcase next to the dresser, Imani unzipped it and examined the contents inside. “Did Mom give you the carrying case I asked for? You know, the Versace one with the gold buckle.”
Puzzled, she shot her sister a look. “I haven’t seen Mom all week.”
“But you didn’t come home last night. If you weren’t at Mom and Dad’s, then where were you?”
“I, ah, stayed at Rashawn’s.”
“Stayed over or slept over?” she asked, raising her brows suggestively.
Yasmin wore a smirk. “What do you think?”
“No you didn’t!”
“I did.”
“No way!” Imani shrieked, bopping around the room like she was on a pogo stick. “Was it good? Does he move in bed the way he does in the ring? Did you finally have a frickin’ orgasm?”
“Yes, yes and yes!” Yasmin squealed, giving in to her laughter. “One minute we were talking and the next thing I know we’re going at it on the lounge chair!”
“I don’t believe you! You’re lying!”
“It’s true.”
“Shut up!”
“Keep it down, Imani. I don’t want our neighbors to hear you.”
“I’m just…I can’t believe it!”
“I know. I still have goose bumps.”
“You filthy harlot!” Imani teased, her eyes alight with mischief. “How long has this been going on?”
“Last night was our first time.”
“And?”
“It was everything I thought it would be,” Yasmin gushed, unable to wipe the dreamy smile off her face. “He was sweet and sensitive and—”
“No, wait. Don’t say another word,” Imani ordered, grabbing her sister’s hand and dragging her through the bedroom door. “We need to have this conversation over a bottle of wine and some of those tasty cheese rolls.”
“I can’t spend the rest of the morning on the patio. I have to go into the office.”
“What for? We leave for Miami in a few hours.”
“I know, but I’m not done preparing for my Mind and Body Seminar. The psychotherapy convention is on Tuesday and I still have a ton of work to do.”
Imani stopped abruptly. “Okay, give me ten minutes to change.”
“You want to come with me to the office?”
“Hell, yeah! Yassie, this is bigger than big news! You slept with that fine-ass boxer and if I believe your body language—” she flicked her index finger up and down “—which I do, he literally rocked your world.”
Yasmin stared at the computer screen. For the last twenty minutes, she’d been sitting in her first-class seat, racking her brain for a titillating introduction to her seminar. Her laptop was on, but instead of creating an outline for the workshop, she was thinking about Rashawn. Hours had passed since he’d kissed her good-bye, but she still couldn’t wrap her mind around what had happened last night, or rather, that morning. How had an innocent conversation led them to making love? And even more shocking, now she couldn’t concentrate long enough to finish her work!
Yasmin glanced around the cabin. Most of the passengers were sleeping, a few read and others chatted with their seatmates. Imani sat beside her, flipping through a stack of Property Investor magazines. She had been reading since they’d arrived at the airport and would likely continue until the plane landed. Yasmin wasn’t surprised. Everything about her sister centered on work. Sure, she was enamored with Dean, but the Web designer couldn’t compete with her career.
Imani had been a real estate developer for six years and at twenty-nine was on the fast track to becoming president of J&M Properties. Smart and personable, she made friends easily. She studied the ebb and flow of the real estate market religiously but it was her celebrity clients who had put her name on the map.
Outside the window, wispy clouds sailed by. The sky was a fiery shade of red and orange. The flight had been delayed a half hour, resulting in irritable passengers and a ten o’clock arrival time in Miami. Because of the delay, Rashawn wouldn’t be able to pick them up, but promised to have a limousine waiting. After some shameless flirting and a discussion about foreplay that made Yasmin blush, he had wished her a safe flight and promised to take them for breakfast in the morning.
Needing a distraction, Yasmin minimized her file and typed Rashawn’s full name into the Google address bar. His image filled the screen. A smile lit the corners of her mouth. He was bare-chested, in shorts, runners and gloves, flaunting his washboard stomach and wide shoulders. Sitting up, she slowly licked her lips. Rashawn stood in a boxer’s stance, hands up, chin down, a primal expression on his face. Smoothing a hand over her collarbone, the very spot he had plied with buttery-soft kisses, educed a visual slide show of last night. They had been so aroused, so consumed with gratifying their desires they hadn’t even made it to the bedroom. On the lounger, under the glow of the moon and the radiant backdrop of the stars, they had given themselves to each other.
Exhausted, they’d stumbled back inside and crawled into bed. Sleep called, but they’d cuddled and kissed, relishing the excitement of their newfound love. Clueless about the boxing world, but wanting to know more, Yasmin had asked him about the nature of the sport. He had spoken openly about the challenges he faced and his struggle to remain grounded when everyone around him had changed. Pressure mounted from every side. Relatives, friends and acquaintances posed new deals, suggested possible fight matchups and lined up business meetings without his knowledge. Yasmin was surprised to hear about his rocky relationships with his brothers, mainly Armondo and his constant demands for money. Yasmin listened quietly. It wasn’t another therapy session and he wasn’t her client. They were a couple now and she didn’t want to drive him away by analyzing everything he said.
“Ms. Ohaji?”
Transfixed by his image on the screen, Yasmin didn’t hear the flight attendant call her name. Imani jabbed her in the ribs and she slid her gaze to the stewardess with the cottonlike hair.
“Ms. Ohaji?”
“Yes?” she replied, closing her laptop and returning it to the carrying case.
“This is for you.” The flight attendant handed her an enormous basket wrapped in cellophane. “You’ll find the card inside.”
Before Yasmin could respond, the lady turned and marched briskly up the aisle.
Her eyebrows climbed. “Do they deliver gifts on airplanes nowadays?”
Imani shrugged. “I guess so.” She tore the wrapping paper, grabbed the card and opened it. “Girl, you must have put it on him fierce. Listen to this. ‘It’s not chocolate fondue, but I hope it satisfies your sweet tooth until I see you later.’ Hot damn!”
“I can’t believe he’d do something like this.” Yasmin took the card and read it for herself. Giggling, she tucked it into her purse.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing, my ass,” Imani scoffed. “You’ve fallen for him, hook, line and sinker, but you don’t want to admit it.”
Yasmin organized her thoughts. She’d been in love before, but not like this. This was something every woman dreamed of. Being romanced by a loving and sensitive man was an intoxicating drug. Rashawn made her feel special, valued, respected and there was no greater feeling than knowing there was someone out there who thought the world of her. “We’re just dating. I care about him but it’s not as serious as you’re making it sound. We—”
“You want me to believe this thing with you and Rashawn is just a fling? A one-time thing? Come on, Sis, you’re talking to me. If you’re rolling between
the sheets with him, it must be serious because you’re not a casual-fling type of girl. You dated boring Eric for a year before you gave him a taste, but you let Rashawn dip his spoon into your chocolate after only a few months!”
“This has nothing to do with sex, Imani. It’s not like that.”
“Then, what’s it like, Yassie?”
To signal the end of the conversation, Yasmin tucked the wrapping paper into the seat pocket and poked her nose into the basket. It was a dizzying array of sweet-smelling scents. Juicy, succulent fruits—plums, strawberries, grapes—and her favorite snacks—cinnamon-roasted cashews, mint chocolate and a jumbo box of gummy bears—lined the basket. Nestled next to a bottle of pinot blanc was a book titled Bedtime Stories for Lovers and a box of flavored condoms.
Imani swiped the condoms and sniffed the box. “A box of fifty, huh? You’ve been holding out on me, Sis.” Smirking, she wagged her finger in her sister’s face. “You naughty girl. I can only imagine what he has in store for you tonight!”
Chapter 18
Dazzling lights shone down on the chic crowd at the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino. Women in spray-on dresses and men in suits placed last-minute bets, hunted for seats and ordered drinks. The scent of cologne, perfume and cigar smoke mingled, creating a sweet-musky fragrance. Rap music pulsed in the background, distracting Yasmin from her thoughts. Her throat was tight, her palms were damp and her legs were trembling. The fight hadn’t even started yet and she was a nervous wreck.
“Yassie, don’t look so scared.” Imani patted her hand. “Try to relax.”
“What if he gets hit really hard? What if he gets hurt?”
“Rashawn will be fine.”
“How do you know?” she snapped, annoyed.
Imani nudged Dean. “Tell her Rashawn will be fine,” she ordered, taking a sip of her cocktail.
Dean leaned forward, so he could be heard above the chatter of the high-energy crowd. “There’s nothing to worry about, Yasmin. He’s talented, he’s fast and he hardly ever gets hit. I’ve been following his career for years and he’s never been knocked out.”
“Really?”
“Lipenski’s old. A one-time champ just trying to make some money to pay his kid’s tuition. His last match was a year and a half ago and, according to published reports, he was so banged up he couldn’t move for a week.”
“Are you sure Rashawn will be okay?”
Dean nodded, then returned his eyes to the ring.
A tuxedoed man with a microphone took center stage. His stentorian voice sliced through the cheers, whistles and applause. The atmosphere in the arena was one of excitement and anticipation. And when Russian music filled the air, the male-dominated crowd roared. After counseling Sophie Kolodenko for months, Yasmin had picked up a modicum of Russian words and understood the chorus of the song. “I’m a man, a soldier, a fighter. No one will conquer me.” When Yasmin saw Luis “AK-47” Lipenski, fear zipped up her spine and clogged her throat. The veteran boxer was built like a bulldozer and had the face to match. He was a large, broad-shouldered man with remarkably big hands and dark, cold eyes.
By the time Lipenski reached the ring, the audience was on their feet, chanting his name. He jogged around the ring, smacking his gloves together, glowering at no one in particular. He was powerful and mighty, like Goliath, and though Dean had labeled him a washed-up fighter, he didn’t look much older than Rashawn. Lipenski tossed his robe into the third row of spectators, rousing the crowd’s fervor.
When the ring announcer started talking again, Yasmin stood. She didn’t want to miss Rashawn’s entrance. She didn’t recognize the song playing, but she liked the strong, contagious beat. Around her, people bobbed their heads, swayed to the music and sang the lyrics. His handlers—a Caucasian man with stringy hair, his brothers Vincente, Fenton and Armondo, and three beefy men she didn’t recognize—surrounded him. His name was splashed across the back of his shiny blue robe with the Puerto Rican flag below. Rashawn entered the ring quietly, confidently. His cornrows had been rebraided and his goatee was trimmed. It had only been two days since they had seen each other, but to Yasmin it felt like weeks. His gaze combed the audience and when their eyes met, his face broke out into a smile. Comforted by his smile, Yasmin waved. He winked in response, then fixed his eyes back on Lipenski.
After the referee advised the fighters of the rules and they knocked gloves, they were whisked back to their respective corners.
Yasmin shifted in her seat. Cleaning the sweat from her hands, she tucked her feet under her chair. This was nerve-racking. Feelings of foreboding surfaced, but Yasmin pushed them away. Nothing bad was going to happen to Rashawn. He was undefeated. He was the younger, healthier fighter. He had thirty-nine knockouts under his belt. But when the bell rang and Lipenski came charging out of his corner like Mike Tyson on Prozac, Yasmin cupped a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.
Lipenski tried to take Rashawn’s head off with the first punch. The one-time champion threw wild, out-of-control punches, pushed Rashawn into the ropes and used his elbows and forearms to inflict pain. Yasmin watched, mortified. Why wasn’t Rashawn hitting him back? She couldn’t understand why he wasn’t throwing as many punches as Lipenski. Was this part of his strategy or was he hurt? The three-minute round seemed to last an hour.
Yasmin reached across Imani and gripped Dean’s arm. “Is Rashawn winning?” she asked, when the bell rang. “Does it look like he’s favoring his right side?”
“No. Try not to worry. He knows what he’s doing.”
“If you say so,” she mumbled, facing the ring. Yasmin wished Rashawn would look at her or give her a signal to let her know he was all right but he was too busy guzzling Gatorade.
The longer the fight went on, the more scared Yasmin got. Lipenski was an animal—rough, mean, aggressive. He raged, throwing blows like a crazed man. Rashawn moved rapidly, economically, averting hits, but there was nothing he could do to stop Lipenski.
In the fourth round, at the bell, Rashawn cocked his fist and roared out of his corner. He landed a crushing left hook to the veteran’s jaw, sending him reeling back into the ropes. Sensing the shift in power, the crowd stood, yelling, chanting. And with the noise building, Rashawn threw a flurry of jabs, hooks and uppercuts. Oversized and overmatched, Lipenski couldn’t do anything but duck, run and rest against the ropes. Drenched in sweat, Rashawn sent a right hook to the side of the veteran’s head. Lipenski’s face blinked in pain and his knees buckled. Fans shouted for him to stay up, to keep fighting, to persevere.
While Lipenski was slow, listless and disoriented, Rashawn was balanced, coordinated and focused. Yasmin loved how he moved. Fluid, insouciant steps; loose arms, swift footwork. He was poetry in motion. He moved with speed and quickness, drawing words of encouragement from his team. Rashawn pounded Lipenski for three more rounds, blasting punches off his head, his chest and ribs. The one-time champion had a fat eye, a cut lip and blood oozed out of his nose, but he didn’t drop. At the end of the eighth round, the veteran staggered over to his corner and slumped down like a sack of potatoes.
Confident that he would be victorious, Yasmin leapt to her feet and began chanting Rashawn’s name along with the crowd. Ten seconds into the tenth round, he shot a powerful blow off the side of Lipenski’s head. His opponent stumbled forward before falling facedown onto the mat. Lipenski rolled onto his side and didn’t move. When the referee reached the count of five, Rashawn threw his hands up in the air and his brothers hoisted him onto their shoulders. Seconds later, the large overhead screen showed the summary of the match, eliciting cheers and, from Lipenski’s supporters, mumbles of frustration. Yasmin’s heart overflowed with relief. It was over. The referee declared Rashawn the winner and only then did she release her breath.
“You were amazing!” Yasmin praised, throwing her arms around Rashawn’s neck. Fans and supporters were celebrating his win at Heat Wave, the hottest new bar in South Beach. Music blared, champagne flowed and the air was
perfumed with smoke. The club was packed, but a steady stream of people continued arriving. With all of the people crammed inside, it was hard to steal a moment alone, but they’d found a secluded spot on the terrace.
The still night and bountiful stars set the mood for romance. Sheltered by the overgrown palm trees waving in the wind, Rashawn snaked an arm around her waist. Yasmin had no idea what she was doing to him. A simple flick of hair, her effervescent laugh and her smile knocked him sideways every time he saw her. Trading in his player card wasn’t an issue; if she asked he’d gladly burn it.
“I’ve never seen you look more beautiful than you do tonight,” he confessed, his voice infected with lust.
She was stunning, a vision of beauty in a vibrant mustard-colored dress that complimented every slope of her full figure. Her twists tumbled around her shoulders, a diamond chain graced her neck and bracelets hung from her wrist. She struck the perfect balance between sexiness and elegance. Staggered by her beauty and the subtle shimmer of her mink-brown skin, he bent down and kissed her. She tasted like honey, smooth and sweet. “Finally,” he announced, when they parted. “I’ve been waiting for my victory kiss all night.”
“All you had to do was ask.”
“I’ll remember that next time. Did you enjoy the match?”
“Oddly enough, I did. It was terrifying, exhilarating and exciting. I’ve never seen anything like it. You were incredible out there!”
“You think so?”
“Definitely,” she affirmed, lovingly caressing his cheek. He had a small gash above his left eye and his face was slightly swollen. Despite his battle wounds, he was the most attractive man in the club. His linen dress shirt and slacks hung loosely, casually. “How are you feeling? Any soreness? Are you hurt?”
Rashawn took his time answering. A boxer never conceded to pain. Pain was the enemy, the sickness that exploited an athlete’s weaknesses and limitations. Aside from some swelling, there was no visible evidence of Lipenski’s rage. “I’m good,” he told her, ignoring the angry throbbing in his head. “You’re here with me on the biggest night of my life, what more could I want?”