by Kennedy Ryan
I turn my head and glare at him over my shoulder. “I swear it. Test me, Chase.”
In the silence, I can almost hear his thoughts churning, his fear rising to match and soar above mine as he remembers the herbs and amulets and stones in my apartment. Wondering what they’re for and what I’m capable of.
“Let me go,” I repeat, infusing my voice with returning confidence. “And I’ll leave instructions for you to deliver my photograph.”
His fingers loosen enough for me to wrench away and turn. I raise my knee and aim straight for his balls. They’re for show anyway. He crumples, his hands between his legs and his face wreathed in agony. I shove his shoulder so he falls on his back. He rolls over, his face all red and spotty. I stand over him.
“I want my photo,” I tell him, my voice hard. “And to answer your question about the ballplayer, you’re right.”
I squat down and find his pain-squinted eyes.
“He can get it.”
Kenan and I stand in front of the restaurant a few minutes earlier than we told his sister, Kenya, we’d meet her and her friend. The day is cooling some, but is still very warm. Too warm for the elbow-length sleeves of my top, but Chase’s rough handling left bruises on my upper arms. I don’t feel like answering questions, or talking Kenan out of beating Chase into a pulp. I have better things to do. Like see freaking Grip in concert!
I think the shirt looks fine, though. It’s black-and-white-striped, tightly molded to my torso and cropped above my belly button. I paired it with a black tulle skirt, flaring out and kind of flirty, and some comfortable red flats because . . . walking.
“You look so beautiful,” Kenan whispers, his cool breath fanning the hair at my ear.
“So do you.”
And I ain’t ever lied. He is . . . magnificent is my favorite way to describe him, and it still doesn’t properly convey the effect this man has on me. The towering height and the breadth of his chest and shoulders. The legendary arms that don’t bulge, but are roped with muscles and veins. And as tall as he is, he’s the slightest bit bowlegged.
I die.
Like, really, God? You had to put that cherry on top?
The mahogany skin. That striking face with jutting bones and onyx brows and piercing eyes, so dark and like a one-way mirror, seeing out but not letting you see in.
But he lets me see in. That’s probably the sexiest thing about him, and that is saying something. My man is fine.
I just called Kenan my man. After telling him today that I don’t belong to him, I just claimed him in my head. And I think I would cut a bitch if she tried to take him from me. Exes included.
“Babe?” Kenan peers down at me, frowning. “You okay?”
No, I’m not okay, I scream in my head. I’m falling for you, and this is not part of the plan. Shiiiiiiiiiit. And double shit.
“Uh, yeah.” I fan one hand. “It’s a little hot.”
“Let’s wait for them inside.” He thumbs over his shoulder to the restaurant. I glance up at the mustard yellow awning emblazoned with Serafina. It’s one of my favorite spots for Italian. The girls and I have hit it a few times after The Met, but it’s close to Central Park, too.
I nod and Kenan takes my elbow to guide me in. He’s also, unlike Chase and most of the douches I’ve been with, a gentleman. I need to start my list of reasons to stop falling. Not reasons why I should.
We take the stone stairs to the top level where there’s balcony seating. It’s always crowded, and the restaurant doesn’t have a ton of space, but the food is great, and we can get to the park pretty quickly from here.
We’ve ordered drinks and an appetizer when his sister arrives. She’s tall, which shouldn’t surprise me considering she is Kenan’s sister and plays in the WNBA. Her features also echo Kenan’s in subtle ways. He stands, his smile wide and natural, as he reaches to hug her.
“Kenya,” he says, turning to me. “This is Lotus DuPree. Lotus, my sister, Kenya.”
“What’s up?” Kenya studies me carefully, cautiously. I sense the protectiveness for her brother, and I like her right away. He’s been through a lot, and she should vet anyone who enters his life and has such intimate access to him.
“Hi.” I stand and reach for her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, you, too.” She slants a teasing look at Kenan. “I’ve heard sooooo much about you. Like, so much.”
“Shut up, Ken,” Kenan says, shooting her a quick frown, and they seem so much like a typical brother and sister it makes me smile. “Introduce me to your friend.”
A slim woman steps into view from behind Kenya, holding her hand. She’s pretty with smooth skin the color of rich mocha. No makeup that I can detect. Long, curly lashes frame her big brown eyes. She wears baggy jeans, Chucks and a white Public Enemy T-shirt. Cornrows peek out from the edges of an Oakland Raiders cap.
“This is Jade,” Kenya says. “Jade, my brother, Kenan, and his . . .” She looks between the two of us as if she’s waiting for confirmation on how she should refer to me.
“This is my girlfriend, Lotus,” Kenan answers dryly. “Nice to meet you, Jade. I haven’t heard as much about you. Kenya’s been keeping secrets.”
“That’s aight,” Jade says with a chuckle. “Nobody been talking about her ass either.”
We all laugh, sit, and settle into easy conversation over my Chardonnay, Kenan’s water, and the beers the two girls order.
“So you work in fashion?” Kenya asks.
I’m mid-bite of my orecchiette pasta when she asks, so I gulp it down and wipe my mouth with a napkin before answering. “I do. For Jean-Pierre Louis.”
“Never heard of her,” Kenya says, picking up a slice of her pizza.
“Him,” I correct with a smile. “He’s the founding designer for JPL Maison.”
“Fancy.” Jade chuckles. “If it’s not Converse, Nike or Gap, you have to school me.”
“Kenya, your brother already told me you play ball.” I turn the question back around to them. “And what do you do, Jade?”
“I write music,” Jade says and shrugs. “Been doing it all my life, but kinda new at getting paid for it. So far, so good.”
“Speaking of which,” Kenya says, glancing at her watch, “should we be heading to the park? The show starts soon, right, babe?”
Jade nods and glances at her phone, lit up with a text message. “Oh, this is Grip. Lemme see what he’s talking about.”
My mouth is hanging open. Kenan gently presses my chin up to close my lips and whispers, “You surprised or just catching flies?”
“She knows Grip?” I whisper back, hoping I’m being discreet, but I’m low-key about to lose my shit.
“Yeah. Kenya says they’re cousins. I didn’t tell you? We have front-row seats. We’ll go backstage to meet him after.”
“Um, nope,” I say. “You skipped right over that part.”
“I’ll have to communicate better now that you’re my girlfriend,” he says. His smile fades. “I just said it and didn’t even ask you if it was okay or if—”
I don’t consider his sister or his sister’s girlfriend sitting right there, but lean forward to cut off his explanation with a kiss. It’s quick, but it’s enough. He cups my face, and he kisses me again, longer, and with such tenderness it soothes the soreness from my confrontation with Chase. Not the bruises on my arms, but the other ways Chase hurt me today. Violating my privacy. His attempts to objectify me. Every way he tried to make me feel less fades in the shadow of this kiss.
“For real, though?” Kenya’s amused voice butts in. “Y’all just going for it at the table?”
Kenan’s fingers tighten on my face so I don’t pull away. “Yup,” he says against my lips with a smile. “Can you blame me?”
When I pull away, Jade is texting her famous cousin, I presume, but Kenya is looking at me, and her eyes brim with as much concern as humor.
“I’m gonna run to the restroom before we go,” Kenan says. “Be right back.”
When he’s gone, I look at Kenya, waiting for whatever comes next.
“So here’s the deal,” she says slowly. “I need to know what’s up with you.”
I lift my chin and take the last sip of my wine before setting the glass back down.
“What’s up with me?” I ask. “In what way? What do you mean?”
“You know the deal with Bridget’s drama,” she says. “I heard she rolled up in your job.”
“Damn,” Jade mutters, flicking a glance at me before turning her attention back to her phone.
“When all that shit came out, if Kenan hadn’t stopped me, I would have kicked Bridget’s ass,” Kenya says, her face serious. “And that’s the truth. I just wanna know if I’m gonna have to kick yours at some point for doing my brother wrong.”
I always did admire the direct approach.
“Don’t be fooled by my size,” I start by telling her. “My ass doesn’t get kicked.”
“Guess she told you,” Jade mumbles, still typing on her phone.
“Is that right?” Kenya asks, a grin starting on her lips.
“That is right.” I tap the stem of the wineglass. “And I have no intention of hurting Kenan. I care about him a lot.”
“He cares about you a lot, too.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “I thought he was gonna get himself arrested when he saw that photo. I had to hold him back, and he never loses control.”
Her mouth slowly straightens from the smile into a line, so like Kenan’s. “If I hadn’t been there, he would have kicked that guy’s ass for sure.”
I rub my arms, wincing at the lingering tenderness from the bruises hidden beneath my sleeves. I’m even more determined that Kenan won’t see them.
“That situation is handled,” I assure her. “I’ve dealt with Chase.”
“Does Kenan know that?”
“Does Kenan know what?” he asks, frowning between the two of us.
“Hey,” Jade says, standing. “We gotta roll. The car’s outside to take us.”
“It’s only a few minutes away,” I say. “We could walk.”
Kenya and Kenan look at each other and say together, “New Yorkers.”
“Y’all want to walk everywhere.” Kenya laughs and follows Jade to the exit. Kenan and I are right behind.
“What did Kenya mean?” he asks. “Do I know what?”
I draw a shallow breath and release it quickly. “She asked me about the photo in the gallery.”
“Dammit.” Kenan grimaces. “I’m sorry. I have no idea why she even mentioned it.”
“I know why. She loves you and was afraid you would get into some trouble going after Chase.”
“She might be right,” he says, a rough chuckle rolling out of him. “But it was all good. If you didn’t sit for it or sign a release, we need to figure out how to handle it, though.”
“Yeah, I, um . . . did. I already handled it.”
We reach the sidewalk, and Kenya and Jade climb into the waiting black SUV.
“How did you handle it?” He stops before we reach the car.
“Kenan.” I glance around him and see impatience gathering on both girls’ faces. “Let’s talk about it later. They’re waiting.”
“Let them wait.”
“Kenan, come on,” Kenya says.
“You can wait one minute,” he tells her sharply, “or go the fuck on. Up to you, Ken.”
She rolls her eyes and huffs a heavy breath. “Well hurry up.”
“Okay,” he says, turning back to me. “Now that you got everybody waiting.”
“I have everyone waiting . . .” I laugh at the tiniest gleam of humor in his dark eyes. “I can’t believe you, Kenan Ross.”
“Tell me. What’d you do? How’d you handle it?”
“I went to see Chase.”
The spare lines of his face tighten. “And how’d that go? Did he give you any trouble?”
“No trouble. It’s been removed from the exhibit.”
It’s a long summer day, and the sun hasn’t quite set. In the near dark, he searches my face before nodding.
“Okay. You handled it. Good.” He flicks a grin to his sister. “Coming. Doesn’t hurt you to wait sometimes.”
On the very short ride to Central Park, I tell myself I didn’t lie. I omitted parts of the truth to protect him, and I’m still fully realizing how important that is to me.
25
Kenan
“He’s good,” I say as Grip leaves the stage on Central Park’s Great Lawn.
“Good?” Lotus asks, her face scrunched up. “Frozen yogurt is good. Boiled eggs are good.”
“I prefer scrambled.”
“The new James Patterson is good.”
“Is it really?”
“It’s aight.” She shrugs and gives her head a quick shake. “My point is, Grip is great. Amazing. Gifted.”
“So he’s in your top five?”
“For sure.”
I glance over to where Jade and Kenya are talking to some big guys I assume are security guards. “Looks like you’ll get to meet him soon.”
“I’m going to try really hard not to embarrass you and your sister,” she says, her face completely serious.
“Damn, Lotus. I’ve never seen you this excited about anything. Should I be jealous?”
“Absolutely not,” she says. “Never.”
But we both know I was jealous earlier and acted like an idiot. “About today,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m sorry I showed up at your office with my . . . how did you put it? Caveman shit?”
“Glad!” someone yells from behind us.
I brace myself to be nice and patient when all I really want to be is with Lotus. We’ve had almost no time truly alone since she got back from Milan. I’ve kept a respectable distance most of the night to make sure nothing suspicious shows up on social media before we can talk to Simone in Monday’s session.“Gimme a sec,” I tell Lotus and nod toward the approaching fan.
This is the job.
One autograph turns into two and then more. I don’t think of myself as famous most of the time. Nights like this remind me, but this isn’t really my life.
“If you’re finished being all the Champ is here,” Kenya drawls from nearby, “we want to go see Grip. He has to leave soon.”
I laugh at her joke. And it is a joke. My sister knows me better than anyone, and realizes I would be perfectly fine if no one ever recognized or approached me. I’d prefer it.
When they lead us backstage, Lotus grabs my hand and squeezes. Hard.
“Oh, my God,” she squeals, her eyes bright. “It’s happening.”
“Um, remember that whole trying-not-to-embarrass-me thing?”
“Yeah, sorry. That’s out the window. Brace yourself for fangirling. Major fangirling.”
I’m loving this. My little always-cool and self-possessed badass is going to lose her shit.
We’re taken to a small room with a few couches and a table stocked with bottled water. I recognize Grip right away, of course. He’s taller than I thought, maybe five inches shorter than I am. He’s still wearing what he performed in, jeans and a black T-shirt with DOPE written in white. His shoes, though, give me sole envy. The original 1985 Air Jordans.
“What’s up, cuz?” he addresses Jade with a wide smile. He crosses the room and hooks an elbow around her neck, steals her Raiders cap, and kisses her forehead.
“What I tell you about the hat?” Jade grumbles, but she belies it with an affectionate smile. “I want you to meet somebody. Be on your best behavior.”
“Only behavior I got,” he jokes.
“Uh-huh. This is me you talking to.” Jade twists her lips and rolls her eyes. “I know your ass.”
She motions Kenya forward and takes her hand. “This is Kenya,” Jade says. She’s a hard chick, but her eyes soften when she looks at my sister.
“Heard a lot about you, Kenya,” Grip says. “I’ll pray for you trying to put up with this one.”
> “Much needed and much appreciated.” Kenya laughs and gestures toward Lotus and me. “This is my brother—”
“Glad!” Grip says. “I didn’t make the connection. What’s up, dude?” He walks over and daps me up. “I’m keeping my eyes on the Waves.” He points a warning finger at me. “Don’t come for my Lakers.”
“Oh, the purple and gold, huh?” I ask.
“For life, bruh,” Grip replies with an apologetic shrug. “I’m an LA kid. I got no choice.”
“You get a pass then,” I tell him, reaching for Lotus’s hand. “This is my girlfriend, Lotus.”
Grip shifts his look to Lotus and then looks back at me, brows raised approvingly. Everyone knows he’s notoriously in love with his wife, Bristol, so I know he means no disrespect. The opposite, actually.
“Hi, Lotus,” Grip says with a smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, uh . . . well, I’m . . .” She draws a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m such a fan. The show was fantastic.”
“See?” Grip stretches his arm toward Lotus, his palm open. “That’s what I’m talking about. None of you busters gonna even tell a brother he did good.”
He gives Lotus an exaggerated nod and bow. “Thank you, Lotus. Glad someone noticed.”
“Someone needs his ego stroked again?”
The question comes from a woman at the door with dark hair and silvery–grey eyes. She’s not in the public eye much, but I know it’s Grip’s wife, Bristol.
He walks over, drops a quick kiss on her lips, and pulls her in front of him, crossing his arms over her waist. “Don’t come in here talking about stroking if you’re not willing to deal with the consequences, Bris.” He peers down at her, focusing a wicked look and grin on his wife.
“Ewww.” Jade grimaces, walking over to give Bristol a quick hug. “’Sup, Bris. Grip, don’t start with that shit. You got a room around here somewhere. Use it. Where’s the kids? That’s who I really came to see.”
“With Mama James,” Bristol says, settling back against her husband’s chest. “Back at the hotel.”