by Zuri Day
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked, as soon as he’d placed down the phone.
“Going to the track,” Shayna answered. “I know I can’t work out, but I can still talk to the coach, get pointers, and maybe use the Jacuzzi.”
“On your legs only,” Gregory interjected. “Any pressure in your rib area will be too much.”
“What time is practice over?” Michael asked. Shayna told him, and he replied, “Then why don’t you join me for dinner tomorrow. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
14
The evening was balmy as Shayna pulled her cherry red ride up to the restaurant’s valet stand. She smiled as the flirty Latino opened her car door, winking as he greeted her while looking appreciatively at her bare legs, long for someone who barely topped out at five foot four. After much debate about fashion choices, Brittney had helped Shayna into a tan-colored mini, a soft, shiny jersey number with dolman sleeves. Her strappy jeweled sandals that laced up the calf not only added height to her stature but highlighted her muscled legs. She’d taken a couple aspirin before leaving the condo and with her cracked ribs tightly bandaged felt relatively okay.
Stepping into the Japanese restaurant that Michael had recommended after finding out she loved sushi, Shayna was immediately enveloped in the warmth of the room: russet wood and black leather with subdued lighting throughout and an open kitchen boasting high flames. She approached the hostess station, attended by a sultry looking Asian woman with long black hair, kohl-rimmed eyes, deep red lipstick, and a genuine smile. “Hello, and welcome to Katana,” she said. “Table for one?”
Shayna smiled. “No, I’m meeting someone.”
“Are you Ms. Washington?”
“Why . . . yes.”
The hostess smiled. “Right this way, please.” Shayna was led to an open-air patio area that overlooked the Strip. She spotted Michael right away, talking on his phone and looking fine as usual.
He stood as she and the hostess approached. “Hello,” he said once the hostess had directed her to their obvious destination. He hugged her, shoulders only, pulled out her chair, and waited until she sat down to retake his seat. It was something that Jarrell would never do, and made Shayna feel shy and a bit of a princess at the same time. “I’ll be off in a second,” he said, placing his hand over a portion of the phone as he did so. Shayna took the opportunity to look around her and take in the bright lights of the big city, the beautiful people in their element with conversation and traffic noise providing a disjointed yet somehow melodious backdrop.
Michael soon ended his call. “Sorry about that,” he said, placing the phone on the table. He eyed Shayna for a moment before adding, “I think this is the first time I’ve seen you in a dress. You look gorgeous.”
“Thank you.”
He signaled for the waiter. “What would you like to drink?”
“Sparkling water is fine.”
Michael placed their order then, after acknowledging someone who’d spoken to him, continued. “Given your full workout schedule, it’s understandable why you don’t drink alcohol.”
“I was never much of an imbiber, except for the occasional glass of champagne to celebrate a big win. The last glass I had was in London.”
“No, the last glass you had was at my house.”
“Oh.” Shayna warmed at the memory. “Right.”
“The Fly Four,” Michael said, raising his water glass in reference to the 4 x 100 United States relay team who’d brought home the gold. Shayna had also brought home the gold in the 100-meter race and the silver in the 200. He knew that her coach had expected her to win every race she ran, and when the 2016 Olympic torch was lit in Brazil, Michael had the feeling that she would do just that. With his guidance and support, there would be a significant difference: the whole world would be watching her and would already know her name.
After the waiter came over, introduced himself, and took their drink orders, Shayna reached for her menu. “So,” she asked while browsing the appetizers, “who am I meeting tonight?”
“Choice McKinley-Scott,” Michael responded. “Owner and designer of Chai Fashions, out of New York.” Shayna looked up from the menu, her face a question mark. “I met her last year during Fashion Week; we’ve been kicking around some ideas for sportswear. I think she’ll be perfect to design a look for you, something original that”—shows off that tight, sexy, chocolate body—“will make you stand out on the track.”
“As long as it’s not something too crazy,” Shayna said, looking down again at the menu and missing Michael’s grin.
“Don’t worry, baby,” he drawled, “anything with my name on it is class all the way. Or should I say . . . your name.”
“Me? I’m not a designer.”
“No, but you have a sense of style and, more importantly, the body to show it off. Choice will sketch out some ideas but I want you to be an integral part of the design process, to put your personality, taste, and stamp on the collection that will bare you name.”
“How did you know that I like fashion?”
“It’s my job to know everything about you. And no, I haven’t hired a private investigator—just read, watched, and procured every ounce of public information available. I read about your penchant for fashion in an interview for LA Weekly.”
“Wow, you really do your homework.”
“I look at every possible angle by which we can establish your brand. A clothing line for somebody like you is a given.”
Shayna nodded, and continued to ponder this thought as she browsed the menu. The more she learned about Michael Morgan and his thought process, the surer she was of her decision to have him rep her. He was one of the best. “What should I order, Michael?”
“If you’ll allow, I’ll order for the table. We’ll start with the robatayaki—”
“That’s what comes on skewers, right?”
“Right. And then we’ll enjoy some sushi, and finish up with a nice beef or seafood entrée. You don’t even have to worry about liking whatever is set in front of you. I honestly don’t think the chef could make a bad dish if he tried. He—” Michael’s attention was captured by someone coming up behind Shayna. He smiled, stood, and soon welcomed a slim, attractive woman into his embrace. “Shayna,” he said once they’d parted, “this is . . . uh . . . Chai.”
“Hello.” And then to Michael, “I thought we were meeting Choice.”
“You are.”
“Michael Morgan,” Choice/Chai drawled.
“Dang, my bad.”
“It’s okay, man. I’m sure my secret is safe with you”—she turned to Shayna—“and my potential client. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Shayna.” Lowering her voice, she continued. “Most people don’t know that Choice and Chai are the same person. Long story. Tell you later.”
“So tonight you’re . . . Chai?” Shayna didn’t have to share that she thought the idea a crazy one. Her look said it all.
“Ha! Correct.” As the woman bent down to hug her, Shayna was enveloped in a divinely unique fragrance, a little musk, citrus, and floral action that was somehow sophisticated and earthy at the same time. By the end of the evening, she’d conclude it a perfect choice for the designer who wore diamonds like cubic zirconium, and even though hers was an “out there” look—waist-length hair (whether a wig or weave Shayna could only speculate), large tinted glasses, and a garishly loud big top over pencil thin jeans—the comfort she displayed in her own skin gave her a sistah-girl-next-door charm. “Have you guys ordered?” she asked, hooking the strap of a large leather handbag over her chair before she sat down. “I’m starved!”
During an hour and a half of delicious dishes and great conversation, Chai showed how she’d taken the running attire ideas that she and Michael had discussed and brought them to life. The designs, though simple, were nothing like what was currently worn on the track. The material was similar to today’s look, lightweight and supple, but the bottoms were in more of a boy short design while
instead of a straightforward tank, the crisscrossed design of the top added a feminine flair. Shayna’s eyes sparkled as she looked through the simple drawings and listened to Chai’s ideas for color choices. “Something bright and sparkly,” she said, taking in Shayna’s dark brown skin as she did so. “Not disco-y, you understand, but understated pizzazz, an iridescent or rainbow tone.”
“I like the idea of the flash,” Michael said, eyeing Shayna with what surely could have passed for unabashed appreciation. He finished his sake, and then continued. “Like you said, nothing gaudy, but something that complements her . . . body and skin tone.” He licked his lips, subtly, unconsciously, and caused Shayna to clench her thighs against the squiggle that went from tummy to punanny and did the happy dance. “What do you think, Shayna?”
“I think it’s not going to be us who have the last word, but my coach. He’ll want to make sure that the cut will not have any impact on my running abilities and he’ll only allow this look for my individual races. For the relay, the girls and I have to roll with the same look.”
“Well, that can certainly be arranged,” Michael answered. “I’ll give John a call and schedule a meeting. Maybe we can do something for the entire team, right, Chai?”
“Most definitely.”
“Cool.”
Chai’s phone rang, and she left shortly afterward to join her husband, a big baller, shot caller in the world of architecture back east. When she parted, it was as if a barrier between Michael and Shayna had been removed. The shiver that ran down Shayna’s back had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the way Michael now observed her.
“What?” she asked softly, becoming shy and unnerved under his intent perusal.
“You’re beautiful, you know that?” He blinked his eyes slowly, near-black orbs framed by long, curly lashes.
“You’ve drank too much sake,” Shayna replied.
“Maybe,” Michael said, the warm, soothing Japanese alcohol having loosened his normally controlled tongue. “But that doesn’t stop the fact that your skin is glowing in the moonlight. It looks so soft, so . . . ” He reached across the table and ran a finger down Shayna’s arm.
She pulled back. “That tickles!”
Michael’s phone vibrated and broke the mood. He looked down at the face, then picked it up. “Hey, man. Y’all there already?” He continued to gaze at Shayna as he listened. “All right then. I’m just finishing dinner. Give me a half hour. That was my brother,” he said, once he’d ended the call.
“Gregory?”
Michael shook his head. “My youngest brother, Troy. We’re getting ready to shoot hoops for a minute.”
“You?” Shayna inquired, her look both skeptical and laced with humor. “In your condition?”
Michael signaled for the check. “You’re just not used to seeing me laid-back, relaxed. I’m not drunk, not even tipsy. And even if I were, I can still make all kinds of moves.” His eyes raked over her body. “Believe that.”
And she did. As he walked her to the valet, his firm, strong hand lightly touched the small of her back, as they engaged in casual banter while awaiting her car, and later, when she’d shed her clothes and crawled between the sheets. Especially then, Michael was the self-assured, consummate lover that she’d imagined.
15
“Hey, girl.”
Shayna looked up and smiled at Kim, the first-leg runner in the 4 x 100 relay and the only married woman in the racing quartet. Her husband, Patrick, ran hurdles and did the long jump. In both events, he’d taken the silver medal at the 2012 Olympics held in London, England. Shayna, Brittney, and Talisha hoped they could find a love like that experienced by Kim and Patrick.
“Hey, girl,” Shayna answered, once Kim had joined her on the grass.
“I’ve heard of trying to get out of practice before, but a bicycling accident? Seriously?” Her twinkling eyes belied the disbelief in her voice.
“I’d rather be running, trust me on that. I’d do hills, marathons, anything rather than deal with this discomfort.”
“You’re still in pain?”
“It’s getting better.”
“So, Shay. I’ve never heard of you riding bikes and even so, you know Coach doesn’t like us doing anything that could compromise our health.”
Shayna hated being dishonest with her friend, but dutifully did as Michael had asked and relayed the lie that he called “spin”—that she and a bicycle rider had performed a get-to-know without proper introductions. “It was a freak accident,” she finished. “I’ll be okay.”
“How long will you be out?”
“Just a couple more weeks.”
“That’s good.” They fell silent, watching the various team members working out in their respective sports: high jump, long jump, triple jump, shot put, pole vault, hurdles, and running. Shayna rested back on her elbows and lifted her face to the sun, enjoying the gorgeous Southern California weather with its bright blue sky, fluffy cumulous clouds, and soft breezes. The grass was springy beneath her hands and in this moment, Shayna caught a glimpse at what contentment looked like. “Shayna.”
“Hmm?”
“What’s this I hear about you being represented by Michael Morgan?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Patrick ran into Jarrell; he told him. Is it true?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, sis, that’s totally cool, girl! Athletes are doing flips to get with his agency. What’d you do for him to pick you?”
“Nothing. He came to me.”
“Word?”
“Yep.”
“Hmm. Jarrell said that’s why you and him broke up, because you slept with Michael to get him to represent you.”
“What?” Shayna sat up quickly, forgetting all about her tender ribs and ignoring the pain that came with the sudden movement.
“Yeah, girl, that’s the rumor he’s spreading. He told Patrick that you’ve been trying to get back with him, but that Michael Morgan could have his leftovers.”
“He is such a liar.”
“I figured as much,” Kim said, offering a compassionate touch on Shayna’s arm. “I told Patrick that Jay was lying, that I remembered you telling me about the breakup back in London. But if he said that to Patrick, there’s no telling how many other people he’s told, or what other kinds of rumors he’s spreading.” Kim continued, her voice soft with concern. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, I’m glad you told me. I need to let Michael know about this just in case Jay tries to take these lies public.”
“Girl, tell me this. Is Michael as gorgeous in person as he is on TV?”
Shayna’s face softened as she remembered the night before.
She’d heard a noise, and thought it was either Brittney or Talisha. Her door opened and then he was there, wearing the same black shirt, faded jeans, black loafers, and bright smile that he’d sported at the restaurant. She said nothing as he approached her, wide eyed and waiting, and when he joined her in the bed, she did not protest.
No words were said and the moment he pressed his thick, soft lips on her equally full ones, none were needed. “You taste like blackberries,” he whispered into her mouth. She swallowed the comment, along with his desire. With lips still locked, he ran his hand up and down her arm, stroking the skin, squeezing her hand in his. His lips left hers to trail kisses down to her neck and collarbone. He looked deep into her eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you.” She simply nodded, words blocked by a need, an urgency for her to throw caution to the wind and not miss this chance at what she was sure to be lovemaking of the highest skill. He shifted his body in order to continue his oral salutation, down to her shoulder and across to her chest. His intent gaze dropped to her nipples and they hardened under his perusal. He bent down and took first one in his mouth, and then the other, flicking the hardened pebbles with his tongue and then blowing on the wetness. Bypassing her wrapped midsection, he continued down her thighs, knees, calves, a
nd back up again. Her stomach clenched when he paused, repositioned himself, and spread her thighs. “May I?” he asked, voice husky, eyes black with desire.
She nodded.
“I didn’t hear you,” he whispered, placing a soft kiss between her thigh, and another at the top of her bikini-waxed paradise.
“Yes,” Shayna gushed, in a voice that was foreign to her own ears.
A soft chuckle and then those lips. On hers. Down there. The perfect kiss. She hissed and spread her legs farther apart, totally oblivious to any pain except the exquisite ache in her honey pot, the throbbing nub that begged to be licked, and her clenching muscles that begged something long, and thick, and pulsing to squeeze. He parted her slick wet folds with his tongue, lapped her honey with swordlike thrusts and a fencer’s precision, taking her nub into his mouth and causing it to bloom like a flower. “You taste good,” he said. And then went back for seconds. And thirds.
Shayna was beside herself with ecstasy. Her hands gripped the sides of his head, as her fingers rubbed the ultralight stubble underneath them. He chuckled as she held him there, captive between her thighs, grinding her heat against his open mouth and searching tongue, short gasps of breath coming from her slack mouth. He parted her with his fingers, totally exposed, and then licked her long and thoroughly, slowly as if time was on their side. Shayna felt the lioness of passion being unleashed, felt the coils of her core loosen as her body started to shake. Awww! Before the shuddering could cease, he’d rolled them over as gently as if she were a piece of priceless porcelain, had placed her on top of him and guided himself inside her. She gasped at the combination of agony and ecstasy as she widened to accommodate his massive girth, and the length as well. He held her still for a moment, until her nature fully welcomed his gift. And then he truly began the greeting, raising her up and down his moistened shaft, thrusting himself inside her with a ferocity she’d not known existed, twisting himself to reach parts of her insides that had never been touched, slamming into her soul with a wild abandon. They came as one, their cries a symphony.