by Zuri Day
It was the sound of her voice that had awakened her, and Shayna’s heart had plummeted when she realized that her rendezvous with Michael had been in her dreams. As the fingers of dawn had etched themselves across the morning sky, Shayna had placed her fingers where she longed to feel Michael’s manhood, trying with limited success to assuage the ache in the valley that her dream had caused. In these early morning moments she was all too aware that it had been almost four months since she’d had sex, and probably years—if ever—since she’d made love. It was here, in solitude and silence, that she remembered how real had been the vision even as she acknowledged her love for Michael, albeit only in her dreams.
“Shayna!”
Shayna shook herself out of the reverie. How long had she been daydreaming? It felt like moments, but the flashback had occurred in mere seconds. “I’m sorry, Kim. Just remembered something that I, uh, needed to tell Michael.”
“Well, if the look you had on your face just now is any indication, it will be a juicy tidbit you share.”
“No,” Shayna said, feeling a heat that had nothing to do with the sun overhead. “Michael doesn’t date his clients and with my ongoing Jarrell drama, love is the last thing on my mind.”
“Hmph, whatever,” Kim replied, her voice disbelieving as she picked at a wildflower growing in the grass. “So is he?”
“Is he what?” A great kisser? A phenomenal lover? Hung like a jury split at six and six?
“Gorgeous! Shayna, did you even hear me?”
“He’s nice looking,” Shayna replied, trying to sound even toned as a flush rose from her neck to her cheeks. “With probably a list a mile long of females to remind him of this fact.”
Kim looked up, shielding her eyes against the day’s brightness. “Here comes Coach,” she said, rising quickly. “Let me get going before he dreams up more exercises for me to do.”
Personally, Shayna was glad for the diversion. Better to deal with the dreams her coach might be having . . . than her own.
16
A week went by without Shayna seeing or talking to Michael. But he was never far from her thoughts. Ever since that stupid dream, she’d not been able to get him out of her head. It didn’t help that Jarrell was back to his old habits, blowing up her phone and sending crazy texts. Seems his promise to leave her alone had a time limit. On a positive note, her ribs were healing nicely. She now only wore the bandage at night. She’d also started performing light stretches, and walking three to four miles daily around the track. If all went well, she’d be able to run in the Platinum Card Classics.. Not only was it an important event in the USTAF Series, but the prize money would add much-needed cash to Shayna’s dwindling bank account. It helped to split living expenses with her roommates, but one of the main reasons she’d hooked up with Michael’s firm was for the possibility of sponsor dollars. Running was her passion, and a sport, but it was also business, her livelihood. Michael had told her that he was the man for the job, and now she hoped that he was a man of his word. These were just a few of the thoughts running through her head on a rare evening where she had the condo all to herself. Until now, there’d been little time to miss Jarrell’s companionship and while Shayna meant what she’d told Kim about no time for love, she’d neglected to mention the times of loneliness.
Having finished putting away her laundry, Shayna paused in front of the floor-length mirror hanging on her closet door. She was wearing baggy shorts and a loose, torn T-shirt. Lifting the shirt, she ran a hand over her midsection, pressing the areas that a short time ago had been in such pain. The swelling had vanished, along with the bruising, and while areas of tenderness remained, Shayna was pleased to see that she could move fairly freely without hurting. She finished her impromptu medical exam, but continued her perusal. Turning sideways, she eyed her profile, dispassionately and somewhat critically viewing her compact body, adequate breasts, and round booty. She faced the mirror, brought her face up close. When out with her friends she garnered her fair share of attention, she guessed. But her mother, a tall caramel beauty who looked more like Shayna’s older sister than a mom, often derided her chocolate tone, and called her generous backside a “ghetto butt.” Jarrell was drawn to women with generous cleavage, even that which had been created with a surgeon’s skill, and regularly stated—often while tousling her shoulder-length hair—how much he loved long flowing weaves. With a pang more real than her cracked ribs had produced, Shayna missed Big Mama, the one and only person on the planet who’d told her she was beautiful, and Shayna believed it.
“Don’t matter who else loves you if you love yourself,” Big Mama had admonished Shayna more than once.
“But what about Mom? Why doesn’t she love me?”
“She loves you,” Big Mama explained. “Just don’t know how to show it, never did. And then something happened that made her shut off her feelings.”
“What?”
Big Mama had shook her head. “That’s something she’ll have to tell you. But she loves you, Shayna. In her own way, she loves you.”
“What about my father, Big Mama? Did you ever meet him?”
“No, never did.”
Shayna was seven years old the first time she asked about her father. Beverly told her he’d been “claimed by the streets” when Shayna was just a baby. Throughout the years, Shayna had often tried to learn more about her dad, but Beverly wasn’t forthcoming. “Didn’t really know him,” she’d told her. “We broke up before you were born,” she’d add. Beverly may have loved Shayna “in her own way,” but Big Mama had loved her in every way, and had given her the strength that at times Shayna forgot she had.
Tired of her own thoughts, Shayna trudged into the kitchen, fixed herself a simple salad, and plopped down on the couch in front of the TV. Her mind whirled again, this time with thoughts of Jarrell. As she surfed the channels, she remembered the events surrounding the fifty-five-inch flat screen, shortly after she’d won an event for a five-figure prize and Jarrell was more than happy to help her spend the money. He’d been as excited as a five-year-old when he’d purchased the big screen, had spent most of the night playing video games when he’d finished setting it up. Jarrell had changed over the years, become more aggressive and possessive. But there had been good times. Once.
Shayna was thankful when the phone rang, interrupting the inner dialogue that otherwise refused to keep silent. “Hello?”
“Hey, Shay.”
“Coach?”
“That’s right.”
Shayna sat up as she muted the television. While John was a dedicated coach, everyone knew that the weekends not spent at track meets were committed to his wife and daughter. That he was calling her on a Saturday night meant something was serious. Her heartbeat quickened as she ran through the possibilities for this call, including her deepest fear—that someone was replacing her on the relay team or another event. “What is it, Coach?”
“I’m calling about the Cape Cod Classics coming up. We’re going over the roster on Monday and I want to know if you think you’ll be ready for that event.”
“I’ll be ready,” Shayna answered without hesitation. Since high school, track had been the one constant in her life that never let her down, her salvation when life threw fast pitches and curveballs. She didn’t want to contemplate life without it, especially since these points counted toward the World Indoor Championship happening the following March.
“What is your doctor saying?”
Even though it had been almost two weeks since Gregory had seen her, again, Shayna answered without missing a beat. “He said I was healing perfectly and on schedule. You saw the lightweight jogging I’ve been doing and yesterday I incorporated a few leg weights.”
“Nobody knows your body like you do, but I’d still feel more comfortable talking with your doctor. Coming back to work prematurely can result in permanent damage. As much as I’d love to have you participate, we have to make sure you’re healthy. So if you’ll give me your doctor’s na
me and number, I’ll call him first thing Monday morning.”
“I don’t have it handy, Coach. Can I get it and call you back?”
“The wife and I are heading out to dinner. Why don’t you call me with it tomorrow?”
“Will do.” Shayna ended the call and dialed Michael. She hadn’t talked to him since he’d invaded her dreams earlier in the week, and felt a bit embarrassed at the prospect of speaking with him now. As if to do so would reveal her secret, that she’d enjoyed their nocturnal rendezvous and wished that it had been real.
After several rings, the sound of Michael’s voice poured into her ear. “Morgan.” It sounded as though he were at a club or party; his voice was raised loud above the music.
“Michael, it’s Shayna.” Her voice rose as well, to be heard above the din.
“Hold on a minute.” There was a rustling sound before his voice became muffled. Shayna’s brow creased as she imagined him excusing himself from a foxy-looking female. “Hey, Shayna,” he said from a quieter location. “What’s going on?”
“Sorry to bother you, Michael,” she said, though she felt not at all bad about taking him away from his date. “But I need your brother’s number.”
“Why? Is something wrong?”
“No.” She told him about her coach’s request.
“Oh, okay.” Michael gave her the number. “If you get his voice mail, leave a message. He got a rare weekend off and went to Vegas, so he might not answer his phone.” A pause and then, “So tell me . . . are you home alone on a Saturday night?”
Put like that, her reality sounded pitiful. She was at home and quite alone. Again, the dream flashed before her eyes and for a moment, more like a split second, she thought about inviting her manager over. “I’m taking it easy so my body can heal,” she replied, quite proud of herself for coming up with such a legitimate-sounding answer on the spot. “We have a meet coming up soon and I’ve got to be ready.”
“That reminds me. I need to see you this week. Choice will be heading back to New York soon and before leaving, she has a few samples she’d like you to try.”
“We just met with her. She has samples all ready?”
“Yes. Choice is one of the most talented designers in the business, not to mention a workaholic; the reason Chai Fashions is such a success.” A pause and then, “When’s a good time for you to meet us?”
“Any day after six will be good. I’m at work until then.”
“All right, I’ll call you. Stay sweet, Shayna.”
For moments, Shayna held the phone after the call had ended. His parting words had been delivered softly, almost whispered, like a caress. The gently spoken command stayed with her throughout the evening, as she watched a documentary on OWN and later, while soaking in a hot tub laced with healing salts. She thought of Michael. That night, again, she dreamed of him . . . fueled for sure by the last thought on her mind before slumber claimed her: Stay sweet.
17
Shayna squinted as her eyes adjusted from the bright outdoor sunlight to the subdued lighting of the downtown warehouse. When Michael told her where she’d be meeting Choice for the track suit fitting, Shayna had been a bit surprised at the location. After Googling Chai Fashions on the Web, she was sure they’d be meeting somewhere in Beverly Hills, possibly Rodeo Drive or some other street in the 90210 area. Instead she’d traveled down a familiar road near her alma mater, Olympic Boulevard, until she’d reached Santee Street, where she’d made a left, drove a few blocks, and parked her car in front of a nondescript corner building on the right side of the street.
Walking down a short hallway, Shayna turned into a fluorescent-lighted room filled with row after row of fabric bolts. Two long tables sat flush against the far wall, weighed down with various books, fabrics, and what Shayna guessed to be sewing accessories. Neo-soul flowed out of an iPod perched on the receptionist’s desk. A voluptuous Latina with long thick black hair, sparkling black eyes, and a pleasant smile greeted her. “Hello. May I help you?”
“I’m here for a meeting with”—Choice or Chai?—“Chai Fashions.”
“Sure.” The receptionist nodded, reaching for the phone at the same time. “And you are?”
“Shayna Washington.”
“Choice, Shayna’s here.” The receptionist pointed toward a hall. “All the way down that hall, last room on your left.”
Shayna walked in the direction the receptionist had pointed, noting that the rooms on both sides of the hall were filled with sewing machines, sewing accessories such as thread, buttons, zippers, and the like, and mounds and mounds of fabric. As she neared the last door on the right, she heard the sound of Michael’s laughter.
“Hey, guys,” Shayna said upon entering the room. She was a bit taken aback at Chai otherwise known as Choice’s markedly different appearance. Gone was the long hair (which Shayna now knew was a wig, not a weave), the oversized shirt, skinny pants, and clunky jewelry. Chai had obviously left the building. Today Choice wore a simple, formfitting jean dress with flat gladiator sandals. Her hair was short, natural, and dyed a shade of auburn that nicely complemented her skin. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, hoping that she’d successfully hid her shock at Choice’s transformed appearance. “Traffic was crazy.”
“No worries,” Choice said, from behind a table where she was draping a shiny fabric over a dummy bust. “And yes, I’m the same woman you met the other night. Well, kinda sorta. You met my alter ego, who the world knows as Chai. She’s out there so I can still enjoy my anonymity in my own skin.”
“You can definitely do that,” Shayna replied. “There’s no way I’d know you two were the same person.” And then, “I like your hair color.”
“Thanks, girl.”
“Hello, Shayna.” Michael got up from his seat, walked over to where Shayna stood, and gave her a hug. “Wait until you see your new look. You’re going to make a fashion statement on the track and start a trend in the streets.”
“I don’t know about all that,” Shayna replied, not trying to hide her skepticism as she eyed the array of rhinestones and other flashy colors laid out in front of Choice. “I don’t want to be out there looking like Cee-Lo Green at the Super Bowl!”
“Ha!” Choice stepped away from the bust and walked over to another table. She picked up two pieces of what looked to be a lightweight nylon fabric in understated gold, and motioned to Shayna. “Come try these on. You’ll see that I incorporated your ideas about mixing fabrics. It works. The changing area is there in the corner.”
Once inside the room, Shayna made fast work of shedding her drawstring pants and cotton tee. She liked the style of the outfit Choice had designed, the way the top cropped to just below the bust, and the boy shorts curved upward to expose more thigh. They looked comfortable and nonrestrictive, and the meshlike fabric gave the sexy illusion of showing more skin than was actually being exposed. The panels of Spandex added to the design’s uniqueness. She put on the garments, turned to look in the mirror, and almost gasped. The material hugged her booty in a way that gave the effect of a neon sign. “Booty here, it’s Shayna’s boooooty here!” Oh. My. Goodness. The voice of Shayna’s mother, Beverly, rose up in her mind. That girl has a ghetto booty. Her ass is huge! The neighborhood children had added to the teasing and by the time Jarrell tried to convince her that having a large gluteus maximus was a blessing, not a curse, it was too late. Beverly’s damage had already been done.
After a few moments, Choice’s voice interrupted Shayna’s unplanned and unwelcomed walk down memory lane. “Shayna, is everything okay?”
“Yes, it’s fine.”
“Here, let me see.” Shayna heard footsteps and soon Choice was pulling back the curtain. “Whoa, baby. You are rocking that outfit!” She entered and adjusted the bottoms. “Those shorts are on point! Come on out so Michael can have a look.”
Shayna battled feelings of being modest, a new experience. Showing skin on the track field was something that the athletes rarely thought abo
ut. But now, with Michael in the other room, waiting to peruse her body up one side and down the other, she suddenly felt as though she should be wearing more clothes. These thoughts were processed in the time it took her to follow Choice out of the changing room and into the main area where Michael stood.
For a moment, Michael swore that the air left the room. Shayna walked toward him. He was positive that she had no idea the vision she presented: tight, chocolate body, toned abs, muscled legs. Wow. The decision he’d made to stay far and wide away from any type of romantic liaison with any of his clients battled the desire he had to sex Shayna and thus get her out of his system. He forced himself to remember his ex-client, the female basketball stalker, even bringing to mind the last time he saw the woman. All flailing arms and kicking legs— subdued by Troy, his brother who owned a security business—she’d spewed words that burned his ears and launched threats that though she didn’t follow through on, could have warranted her arrest. He swallowed hard, found his power, nodded his approval. “Looks good,” he said, managing to adopt a properly casual tone of voice. That is, after he found it.
And then, at Choice’s instruction, she turned around.
Damn.
“Perfect,” Choice gushed, walking around her muse and admiring her skills. “This outfit looks amazing . . . if I say so myself. What about the color?” she asked Shayna. “Do you like it?”
Shayna nodded. “There are some meets with more restrictive guidelines, however. So we’d have to have the more conservative navies and blacks as part of the line.”
“No problem,” Choice said, walking back over to the table where garments were strewn. She picked up two pieces of black mesh, like the material that Shayna wore. “Try on these.”