Heat Wave

by Donna Hill

Maleek looked up at the six-foot-tall woman, whose features were not classically beautiful but gave her an interesting angular look that would have dominated on the runways. Their eyes locked as she flipped her waist-length bone-straight blond hair over her shoulder. He slipped on the thick robe her assistant handed him as he allowed his eyes to peruse her.

  After a long NBA season and a shocking loss in the post season, the last thing Maleek was looking for was a fling. If there was one thing he knew better than basketball, it was women, and he could tell from the predatory look in her eyes that Mali Gonzalez wanted to suck him bone dry for the night and then hypothetically bite his head off (i.e., kick him out of her bed) when she was done with him.

  He broke the gaze and gave her a cool nod. “I can’t wait to see the photos.”

  She gave him a hint of a smile. Her eyes showed a moment of regret, but then she moved on.

  Maleek didn’t doubt that she was hell in bed. Most older and more confident women were. He’d been schooled by the best. Ever since he entered the NBA at the tender age of eighteen, he had made enough money and experienced enough women to not be fazed by either anymore.

  He hurried into his dressing room to change back into his loose V-neck tee and plaid shorts. His publicist, Brad Ferrell, was standing outside the door of the studio, busy talking in clipped tones on his cell phone. Maleek breezed past him and motioned for his driver to pull up in his blacked-out Tahoe. “We’re out, Brad,” he called over his shoulder before climbing into the back of the SUV.

  Maleek shaped his defined lips into a smile as he watched the short and portly white man whirl around, nearly dropping his cell phone as he rushed to climb into the SUV behind his client.

  “You’re done?” Brad asked rapidly, talking a mile a minute as always. “I was sure Mali would keep you . . . occupied for a minute.”

  Maleek made a face. “Nah, I’m good,” he said, pulling his iPhone out of his pocket and using his thumb to tap the touch screen.

  “From what I hear, she is too,” Brad said with a chuckle.

  Maleek frowned. “I’m not up for groupie love,” he said, listening to the phone ring in his ear.

  “She has the groupies, playa.”

  Maleek cut his eyes at his publicist. He had told his long-time publicist that it wasn’t necessary for him to “act black” when he was around him, but Brad persisted with his random use of slang. He made playa sound like playheeeeer. “Sounds like you’re one of them,” he drawled.

  Yuri, his driver and bodyguard, barked out in laughter.

  Brad nodded. “I’d give away a kick in my right nut and everything in my pocket just to smell it.”

  “That good?” Maleek asked, ending the call when his sister’s cell went to voice mail. He didn’t do messages.

  “Right nut. Empty pockets. That’s all I have to say.”

  Maleek leaned forward and rubbed his slanted eyes with his fingertips even as he laughed. Since he had entered the league, Paul had been his publicist and his sidekick. He was good for laughs and even better for business. Whenever his client was in New York, he loaded Maleek’s plate with TV appearances, interviews, photo shoots, and business meetings.

  Maleek was a dominant force in the league, consistently being named to the All-Star team as he led his team to division titles and the playoffs. He was just as popular off the courts with endorsement deals that made his life even more lavish.

  The thing was, Maleek was tired as hell and wanted nothing more than to get to his sister and brother-in-law’s estate and crash.

  It was his routine for the last eight years. As soon as the regular season and playoffs were over, he went back to his penthouse in Colorado and locked it up for the summer before he hopped on the first plane heading toward New York. He was born and raised on the East Coast and he made sure to get back home for at least a part of the summer and stay connected with his family and friends.

  “Long day ahead, dawg,” Brad said, looking down at his BlackBerry. “Next stop is a taping of this new sports talk show. Olive is meeting us at the studio with a change of clothes for you.”

  Maleek nodded and cast his eyes out the window as Brad laid out the rest of his plans for the day. He barely heard him. His mind was elsewhere.

  Maleek was a planner. Always had been. Always would be.

  When most people thought two steps ahead, he was plotting four steps. And right now, his focus was on business. He had minority ownership in several commercial ventures, but this desire was different. He wanted to begin to plan his life outside of basketball and entertainment. His worst fear was being sixty and having to do commercials for bullshit Viagra or hair dye or cleaning supplies just to make it.

  He was a multimillionaire with a locked-in contract guaranteeing him millions more . . . but there had been many wealthy athletes and celebrities before him who ended up broke.

  Bzzz . . . bzzz . . . bzzz.

  His iPhone vibrated in his hand. He flipped it over and eyed the picture of his sister filling the screen. He answered the call.

  “Whaddup, Ayannah?” he asked, a smile already spreading across his handsome face.

  “Is my little big brother home?” she asked.

  “Your little big brother is a grown-ass man,” Maleek teased, his dimples deepening in his mocha cheeks. “And, yeah, I landed a couple of hours ago, but Brad got me stretched out pretty much all day.”

  Ayannah let out a little grunt of disappointment. “I’m still the oldest and you tell Brad slavery’s been over and to set you free.”

  “I heard that, shawtie,” Brad said, loudly. “And slaves didn’t sign ten-million-dollar endorsement deals, so I personally think they’d be offended by your comments.”

  Ayannah just chuckled. “Love you, Brad, with your wannabe my-brother-from-another-mother ass.”

  “Deuces, Ayannah,” Brad said, mimicking the Chris Brown chorus, focusing his attention back on his BlackBerry.

  “No. He. Did. Not.”

  Maleek shook his head. “You know how that go,” he said, using his thumb to turn the volume down. “As soon as I get done, I’ll be there.”

  “Okay. See you then.”

  Maleek ended the call just as the Tahoe slowed to a stop among a small crowd of photographers ready with their cameras posed. He pulled on a pair of aviator shades before he locked his phone and slid it into the side pocket of his athletic bag.

  He waited for Yuri to climb out of the driver’s seat and walk around to open the passenger door for him. He climbed out among the flashing lights of more than a hundred cameras going off around him. The questions were just as rapid as Yuri escorted him to the metal door leading into the production studio. Out of the roar of shouting voices mingling into background noise, a few questions reached him.

  “Maleek, are you disappointed that you will not be playing in the NBA Finals . . . again?”

  “Is it true your dream is to play for the Knicks since you’re from New York?”

  “Mr. Trenton, are the rumors about you dating Kim Kardashian true?”

  “After eight seasons and no ring, are you interested in being traded to another team?”

  Maleek was glad when the heavy metal door finally closed behind him and the noise was cut off. He glanced down at his Gucci sports watch. Not even two o’clock.

  “Hey, Maleek, when you fart, does it stink?” Brad joked, holding his fist up to Maleek as if it were a mic.

  “Shut up, Brad,” he said, holding back a laugh as a production assistant led them into his dressing room. “Especially since you tipped them off about us being here.”

  Brad tried to look offended . . . and failed.

  It was close to midnight when Maleek and Yuri finally arrived at his sister’s estate in Saddle River. Yuri went to his room in the guest house—as he did every summer he worked as Maleek’s bodyguard—and Maleek made his way into the mansion, not at all surprised when Ayannah walked out of the kitchen.

  “Leek,” Ayannah exclaimed, using her ch
ildhood nickname for him as she ran across the hardwood floors to jump and hug him around his neck.

  He hugged her back, thinking about how important they were to each other. Their mother had raised them alone and when she passed away four years ago, their bond had only tightened. They were siblings and best friends. Thick as thieves since childhood.

  Maleek had schooled Ayannah on boys and protected her from everything and everyone. Ayannah taught him how to woo girls, and Maleek had been a master at it ever since. Although he towered over her by nearly a foot, she had two years on him.

  “Where’s Lance?” he asked, setting her down on her slippered feet.

  “In bed,” she said, pulling him into the kitchen behind her. “He tried to wait up, but he just got in from overseas and was tired as hell.”

  Ayannah’s husband of the last three years was an entertainment host of a nationally syndicated show. They’d met at one of Maleek’s away games and had hit it off immediately.

  Maleek slid his tall frame onto one of the twelve stools surrounding the island in the center of the kitchen. “I’m ready to catch some z’s myself.”

  Ayannah shook her head. “No, no, no. All your boys are going to grab you up from me in the morning and I want to be able to look at my little brother—who is twice my height—and have him tell me that he is okay,” she said, reaching across the table to touch the back of his hand.

  What she said was true. All of his childhood friends knew he was in town and his phone had been ringing nonstop all day.

  “You worry too much,” he said, rubbing his large hands over his eyes and then his closely faded hair. “I’m good.”

  “Mama would be so proud of you. Championship ring or not,” Ayannah said softly.

  Maleek looked at her, thinking she was a slightly slimmer and younger version of their mother. “She would be proud of both of us,” he said, smiling a little to fight off the sadness that still clung to him at the thought of her.

  “She cut our behinds enough to keep us both on the right path,” Ayannah joked, rising to pour them both a glass of lemonade.

  “Like that time I cut school and our neighbor, Miss Clarke, told her that she saw me in the park.” Maleek shook his head at the memory of just how his mom convinced him to never skip school again.

  “Or like the time I took that nasty book about the pimps to school and my teacher caught me with it,” Ayannah added. “Mama was no joke.”

  They laughed as she set the drink next to him along with the ceramic rooster cookie jar filled with the pecan sandies he loved.

  “I miss her at all my games wearing any and everything with my number on it,” Maleek admitted, feeling an actual pang of loss in his chest as he took a deep sip from his glass.

  Ayannah bumped her hip against his back as she passed him to reclaim her seat. “Trust me, she’s still there,” she said softly.

  They fell into a comfortable silence as Maleek stared off into the distance.

  “I . . . uhm . . . I saw Monique last week,” she said gently, reaching into the cookie jar.

  Maleek tensed. “Oh, yeah?” he said nonchalantly, pretending like hearing her name again meant nothing to him.

  Faking it, like an image of her didn’t fill his head. Like his dick didn’t jump to life at the memory of her hot enthusiasm in bed. She was built for amazing sex, with one of the best bodies ever. She worked out five days a week, and not only was she thick, but she was solid and well toned—and she knew it. She was soft where she needed to be soft and firm where she needed to be firm.

  “She was working the Vanity Fair party last week,” Ayannah added, casting a sidelong glance at him.

  Maleek grunted in scorn. “Probably on the lookout for her next sponsor,” he drawled sarcastically.

  Ayannah made a mockingly painful face. “Ouch, Leek. Be nice.

  He just shrugged. Two years ago, Monique Landing had swooped into his life. The aspiring publicist was immediately supportive, an independent woman not overly impressed by his riches and fame. She was a chocolate beauty, with skin so smooth he used to dream of kissing every inch of her. She was everything he ever wanted a woman to be. She was his savior from a lifetime of groupie sexpots and one-night stands freaky enough to make a whore blush.

  In time though, he discovered that Monique was the worst of the lot. She was a false image seeming to be perfect because she showed him only what he wanted to see. She was a better actress than Halle, a better liar than Job, and a better illusionist than Houdini. She was a husband hunter determined to marry well, determined to be a wealthy Mrs. . . . by any means necessary.

  It took him a year to discover that everything about her and their life together had been penned, planned, and plotted by her.

  Everything.

  “You can’t let her have you afraid to fall in love again,” Ayannah said gently.

  Maleek froze from biting into a cookie as he looked at her like she was crazy. “Monique schooled me, she didn’t change me. Trust,” he said.

  “Good,” Ayannah said with a satisfied smile.

  Maleek was over Monique, and thankfully he had come out of the experience well schooled but not changed. He hated that he let a big butt, a smile, and some lies fool him, but thankfully by having women like his mother and his sister in his life, he knew there were plenty of good women in the world. He couldn’t wait to find the one meant for just him. He was more than ready to get married and spoil his wife for the rest of their lives.

  So to hell with Monique and good luck to her next mark.

  “I was thinking about throwing a big end-of-the-summer, start-of-the-NBA-season party,” Maleek said, wanting to change the subject and not caring one bit how obvious that was.

  Suddenly Ayannah sat up straight, her eyes excited. “You’re going to be so busy this summer, you really should hire an event planner. Right?”

  Maleek leaned back from her enthusiasm a little. Ayannah really wants to party. “You and Lance need to get out more,” he joked.

  Ayannah sucked air between her teeth. “Boy, shut up.”

  “So I guess you have a planner in mind?” he asked, rising from the stool with a stretch and a yawn.

  “Yes, Love,” she said, rising to set their glasses in the sink.

  “Okay, what’s her name?” Maleek asked.

  “Love,” Ayannah stressed. “Actually it’s Nylah Lovely of Lovely Events. Everyone calls her Love. Remember, she planned my wedding?”

  Maleek frowned. “Uh . . . no.”

  Ayannah chuckled and shook her head as she followed him out of the kitchen. “That’s funny because I’d bet any other man not getting cha-cha thrown at him night and day would find her pretty damn unforgettable.”

  Maleek shrugged as he climbed the stairs. “I don’t care if she makes Monique look like a man, I just need her to plan my party,” he said over his shoulder before entering his bedroom and closing the door.

  Chapter 3

  “Summertime”—Billie Holiday

  Love pulled her Range Rover to a stop in front of the three-story brownstone, feeling lucky to have found a spot right in front of the building. The tree-lined streets. The concrete sidewalks. The historic brownstones lined up and down the street with an odd mix of regality and a certain down-home charm. The community garden on the corner brimming with colorful spring flowers. Lights beginning to flicker on as the sun began to set. Children making their way inside to prepare for the final days of school. Neighbors waving to each other or just offering a smile in acknowledgment.

  It reminded her of home. Holtsville, South Carolina. The epitome of small-town America. Maybe that’s another reason that Harlem called out to her after her divorce. The similarities were clear. That familiarity between neighbors. That charm that southerners had. None of the briskness and coldness of rushed living to be found in the city. This was a community. This was more than a place to stay. It was home. A place to raise families and move at a slightly slower pace in life than the hustle and bustle
of Manhattan.

  Grabbing her briefcase and oversized Coach duffel, she climbed out of the vehicle and activated the alarm. She stepped up on the sidewalk and removed her shades as she looked up at her next-door neighbor, Mrs. Greenville, sitting on the porch bouncing her one-year-old baby daughter, Kiley, on her knee. “Hi, Camille,” Love said, pausing by the steps long enough to stroke one of Kiley’s brown chubby cheeks.

  “Hey, Love,” she said, smiling down at her daughter, who giggled as Love jiggled her cheek lightly.

  A sad pang of regret hit Love because she wanted nothing more than to have children, but Byron had requested they wait until he wasn’t traveling and touring as much because he didn’t want to miss any of it. At the time, Love had agreed because she was busy with her business and she also wanted a more stable home environment for a child.

  But now her marriage was over.

  She dated, but there were no serious relationships in the works.

  One-night stands were a definite no-no.

  Love frowned at the image of a sperm bank in her future.

  She gave Camille and Kiley one last smile, leaving them to their nightly ritual of greeting Camille’s husband, Aaron, on the porch when he arrived home from work. Love walked to her own home, her stomach instantly grumbling from the scent of cooked food filling the air from the home of her other neighbor, Ms. Lopez.

  As soon as Love unlocked her door and stepped inside her home, she hit the switch to bask the living room with light and used the remote from the small foyer table to turn on her high-definition sound system. Soon the sounds of Chrisette Michelle filled the air as she kicked off her red-soled alligator shoes and quickly shuffled through her mail.

  Love had just set all of her things onto the travertine counter of the kitchen when her doorbell rang. Summer was her busiest season and she had had three separate bridal appointments that day. But zoning out in the tub before reading on the roof would have to wait. Her book club meeting was tonight.

  Moments later Tashi strolled in carrying a bottle of wine and a bag filled with containers of takeout. Love could tell from the smell that it was sushi and tapas. Her stomach grumbled. She hadn’t eaten since her last cake tasting at Sylvia Weinstock’s.