Baller: A Bad Boy Romance

by Love,Amy

  The Quinn thing was solved, or at least it was solved as far as it was going to get solved. I had to do damage control. I had to find out who the woman was and I had to make sure that nobody got to hear about this before Quinn had her little article or whatever ready. I was not looking forward to the interview. I didn’t even know what she would end up writing because I had told her all there was to tell about the woman and what was going on.

  She had so many rules and conditions and shit, I had one of my own. She did televised interviews, but the ones she wanted with me were apparently text. That was fine. I didn’t actually care if she wanted to take pictures or video, she just couldn’t do it without my permission first. No. That would be a problem.

  Chapter Seven

  Quinn

  Today was the day.

  I couldn’t wait to hear what he would have to tell me. He better be here. That was another thing I wasn’t willing to tolerate. Lateness. He was in demand and that meant he would have to put come concessions on his time to accommodate me. That would be another way to keep him on his toes. That was where he needed to be.

  I wasn’t going to take it.

  He wasn’t going to run around like a hoodlum if I had anything to say about it. What he did in his spare time was no longer his own business. It was mine. If I caught him slipping one time, there would be hell to pay. He had agreed so grudgingly to my terms like he was really mad about it. He was so used to being indulged and so used to getting to do whatever he wanted, without any real consequences.

  His talent was at that level that a lot of people had to train for years to attain. His genetics, aptitude, and skill in the sport that just came naturally to him was only made sharper by his training. Even at the man’s worst, when he was dulled by alcohol or whatever the hell else he took, he was still a better player than most people could ever hope to be.

  Didn’t he see I was doing him a favor? What would he do if he wasn’t a hooper? All that height? It was nearly the only job he could do.

  It was probably wrong for me to feel so good about having Dante in that compromising position. It was only after I had gone home and received a message from Dante telling me he was grateful that I was going to take the time to listen to him and expose the truth that I fully recognized how much power I had in this situation. The interview today and the piece I would be releasing would be about the woman, but who was to say I couldn’t get more out of him than just that?

  He was Dante Rock; the man behind the hooper persona was likely very interesting. I could ask the important questions that I had never heard anyone ask before. I could get him to open up about his past scandals, not the boring stuff like which socialite he was using or was being used by, but questions like, what did he plan on doing about his apparent anger issues that had gotten him in trouble in the past?

  That was good. He was a livewire. He flew off the handle, creating full on brawls on and off the court. Where did that come from and what had he done, if anything to control it? He should have done something. He needed to. Honestly, I wanted to know whether he knew what the consequences of his actions were, the real consequences, not just the suspensions and minor injuries he might get.

  Acting like that, with other players and with fans, was just inexcusable. He might have had a temper, but that wasn’t a good enough reason to act like that. His longevity in his career depended on people liking him and him showing that he was a person who you could depend on to not do stupid shit like that. When he acted like a wild hyena, it reflected badly on the Charlotte Yellow Jackets, and they would be held—at least to a certain degree—responsible for his actions. It had to be something. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. There weren’t real people who just acted crazy like that for no good reason. He was basically a brand, and I wanted to separate the man from the face. Who was Dante Rock, actually? Was that even his real name?

  He was in the locker room when I got there. He was sitting in front of his locker. Professional team locker rooms were nothing short of fantastic. They were massive, first and foremost, and emblazoned from the ceiling to the floor with the yellow and black of the Charlotte Yellow Jackets.

  “There you are, TMZ. Sexy as ever,” he said, grinning at me from his locker. I shook my head and walked up to him. I was wearing the same sort of thing I had been the first time we had met. A pencil skirt and blouse with heels. It was not sexy; it was professional. The women who worked around him wore uniforms where their cleavage and half their asses were out. My get-up was practically nun-like. I looked like Sister Quinn of Our Lady’s Sacred Heart Convent next to those cheerleaders.

  We were not playing this game. He was not going to start this whole song and dance, not with me. He being as hot as he was, and me being a girl would have nothing to do with what would eventually transpire between us. There were the obvious reasons, like professionalism and the fact that having a romantic relationship with someone I was reporting on was the grossest misconduct imaginable.

  Romantic relationship. When was the last time Dante had had one of those? Did he have a romantic bone in his body? Did he know what that was? Was he familiar with the concept? I wanted to bet on no. If he took a quick click through TMZ, the only news outlet he seemed to know about, he would find out that his exploits with young women were very well and extensively documented.

  He wasn’t going to flirt and sway me for his cause. I was there to be impartial. I wanted the truth, and if he wanted to be off the hook, he would give it to me.

  “Listen, Dante. I’m not one of your little hoes, okay? I am here to clear you name if there is reason enough for it to be cleared. We aren’t friends, and we sure as hell aren’t anything else.”

  “Mm-hmm. Do you threaten all your interviewees like this? It’s kind of hot.”

  “You and I are working together. Sitting here and talking to you is part of my job. Because I am at work. I will and expect you to behave professionally, as well. Your job is a little untraditional, but you can understand that can't you?”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. I was being mean. Was I being mean? I couldn’t be nice to him. He’d steamroll right over me. He didn’t understand nice. If he did, he didn’t understand it in this context. I couldn’t let him feel like he at any point was leading the interview or had the upper hand. He was at my mercy and he had to remember that. I had to remember that.

  His personality was so dominant; it was hard to believe that he would really be the kind to roll over and let a woman dictate him, but he was going to be that guy and I was going to be that woman. If he wanted his name cleared, it was going to be on my terms. It was his story, but I was writing it.

  “Uh huh. And I can't fuck another girl till the end of the season. I got it. You read me the riot act already. Let's get this over with. You’re late,” he said to me as I walked into the room. I wasn’t late. He was just early actually, to my surprise and approval.

  “You’re on time. Keep this up and we’ll have no problems. You and I,” I said. He was already in his basketball shorts, but that was it. He didn’t have his jersey on. His body was lean and powerful. He was built for speed. Luckily for him, his body, built by his sport, wasn’t that bad to look at. Very luckily for him, considering his track record with the ladies.

  He looked good, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. There was no way he didn’t hear that often enough to be sure of the fact himself. He didn’t need to hear it from me. Besides, I couldn’t say it, not with the sort of relationship that we had. Not when I wanted to get the truth out of him.

  He wasn’t even my type, anyway. Too tall. Too much of an asshole. Too cocky and arrogant. Too much of a whore. Was it bad that he was still appealing despite all the glaring character flaws? I understood the appeal, sort of, but that wasn’t what he or I were here for.

  “I don’t have to tell you why we’re here, do I?” I asked, turning my recorder on and taking a seat next to him.

  “Because you are intent on making my life a living h
ell?”

  “Be serious, Dante.”

  “I don’t know, might be hard. This reporter lady made me promise her that I wouldn’t party or chase girls for as long as she was writing about me. You can understand that I’m a little bit on edge, can’t you?” he said sarcastically.

  “All that irritation is the toxins leaving your body,” I shot back facetiously. He rolled his eyes. “So let’s start.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Are you currently in a romantic relationship?”

  “What?” That one took him by surprise. I waited for him to answer and saw that he would need some encouragement before he was able to.

  “Are you currently in a romantic relationship with anybody?” I repeated.

  “No. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “The presence of a romantic partner would strengthen your case. In one way, if you had someone you were dating, you would be able to plead that you didn’t know the woman because you were dating someone else. Also, a girlfriend or wife or very faithful fuck buddy would be able to vouch for your character and back it against a woman trying to defame it.”

  “Are you trying to lecture me for not being in a stable monogamous relationship?”

  “I ask the questions. Not you. Who was that woman?”

  “I did not fucking do it.”

  “Mm-hmm. You have told me that several times now, and each time I have told you that that just won't cut it.”

  “That’s all there is to it, TMZ,” he said. “I’m sorry I can't give you a story because there just isn’t one there. I don’t know that woman, and I didn’t do anything to her.”

  I looked at him.

  “What? You don’t believe me? Are you going to make me swear on a Bible or something? Am I on trial?”

  “I believe you, but you need to give me more than that.”

  “There is no more.”

  “Why should anyone else believe you?”

  “Because I didn’t do it. That’s not enough? I have nothing else to say.”

  I looked at him and wondered why he had to make this so hard for me. So he didn’t do it. Fine. He didn’t do it. I believed him, but that wasn’t enough. There were more people who would want to believe that he had done it rather than he hadn’t. There had to be more to the story than just a denial.

  “Do you realize how bad it looks when you choose not to comment?” she asked me. “It makes it look like the woman is right. That might as well be your comment if you aren’t going to defend yourself. Telling me you have no comment is the same as saying you did something.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “I believe you, but a lot of people will not unless you can tell then what actually happened.”

  “I can’t tell you anything, Quinn, because I haven’t seen that lady in my life. I have no idea who the hell she is.”

  “Think…because that answer is not going to cut it for a lot of people, especially coming from you.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, people know about you, Dante. They know that you aren’t a family and church man. They know you party, and they know you chase skirts. This isn’t that big of a mental jump for a lot of people to make.”

  He rubbed his hands over his face and looked down.

  “Quinn… you might think or want to think that, but I swear, on my mother’s life, on my sister that I have never hit a woman. Not that one and not anybody else. I would die before I hurt a woman. I swear it to you, Quinn.”

  I looked at him. He was visibly agitated. The tension ran through his long limbs and his jaw ticked.

  “I’m just trying to tell you the kind of impression that other people are going to have. Why do you look so shaken if you aren’t guilty?”

  “It’s just… it’s just…”

  “It’s just what? This is a safe space, Dante. I know I’m a reporter, but I don’t want to say anything that isn’t true. I would never use anything you say to me against you.”

  He looked at me.

  “My dad… my father, for most of the time that I knew him before he finally walked out on us, used to beat my mom,” he said.

  I felt all the air get sucked out of the room. For a second, I had no idea what to say to that. What did you say to that?

  “Did he ever hurt you?”

  “No. She never let him.”

  “When did it start?”

  “My sister was just a baby. She was like…two, and I was six. It went on until I was twelve.” I knew he had a sister. There weren’t stories on her the way there were about him, but there were some pictures because they had been photographed together. She was beautiful. They had the same light features. Her name was Gabrielle Rock, and if she was two when he was six, then she was the same age as I was.

  “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

  “He used to yell at her. He used to call her a whore and a slut, and I never knew what those words meant at the time, but I knew they weren’t good. Gabbie would cry and I would hold her and tell her to keep her hands over her ears so she didn’t hear the thumping and screaming.”

  Thumping and screaming. I cringed, as I imagined hearing that.

  “Was he ever charged with domestic abuse?”

  “No. Never. I didn’t see him for years, but he came out of the woodwork when I started in the league, demanding money for all the trouble I apparently caused him when I was a kid. I give it to him because I know he isn't above coming after my mom again, or Gabbie.”

  “He sounds like a monster.”

  “He was. He is. It took mom years to get over what he did to her for all those years. Me and Gabbie, we were scared shitless of him. We couldn't do anything, if it wasn’t his threats that scared us, it was the fact that mom worked so hard to keep him away from us.”

  “You were just kids. It doesn't matter if he never touched you…he abused you, too.”

  “The way my mom used to cry, the way she would scream when he would hit her… I would never hurt a woman. Never. Not after seeing what happened to my mom when my dad was done with her. I would rather have both my fucking hands cut off than use them to hurt a female.” His voice was hard. His words came like he was talking through gritted teeth. He didn’t do anything to that woman. I believed him, but hearing the reason why made goosebumps rise all over my skin.

  “Is she… is your mother still alive?”

  “She lives in Calabasas. I bought her a place there. She’s fine now. He’s not coming near her again.”

  “You still have her; that’s all that matters.”

  “We came so close to losing her. Too fucking close. She was so fucked up after he left, she got into a relationship with a dealer and started abusing drugs. I can't tell you how many times I found her passed out on the couch and thought that was it. He used to…” He paused and took a deep breath. “Before he left, my dad, he used to do this thing, I only saw it once, but he would knock my mom down onto the floor and he would grab a handful of her hair. She would scream because it hurt but he would… he would kick her until the only thing left in his hand was a handful of her hair.”

  His voice cracked as he said “hair.” His face was stony still, but his eyes were shiny like he might cry. I reached for him, almost as an automatic response. His hands were on his lap, and he had them balled into fists. I covered one gently with my own, urging him to unclench and let me hold it. His hand was large, but the grip he eventually had on mine was gentle. He looked at me. We were sitting very close together. Extremely close.

  “I’m so sorry you had to see your mother go through any of that. I can't imagine how hard it was. No child deserves to go through that fear and terror.” I used my other hand to gently brush his cheek. The skin was stubbly under my thumb. He was a child from an abusive household. I had never heard any reports of that, not once. All that was public knowledge was the fact that they had grown up pretty working class in Ohio, him, his sister, and his mo
m, but I didn’t know all this. The public reports surrounding his parents—(there weren’t many)—were that his mom and dad had split up and she had kept the kids. It was his story and his dark past, but hearing him tell it, I felt cold. I felt this urge to…I don’t know…hug him, or something.

  “I don’t like someone wrongly accusing me of assault,” he said.

  I felt horrible for ever thinking that he had done that…for even contemplating the possibility and threatening him. He had done nothing wrong. She, the woman who had been at the basketball center, really was in the wrong. She was falsely accusing a man who was totally innocent. I felt anger all of a sudden. I felt angry at that woman for making those wild and reckless claims.