Then…Naz
THEN…NAZ
I shouldn’t.
Mosely has been very clear, on more than one occasion with more than one guy on the team, that his sister is off-limits. Now I know why.
She glows.
In a world that feels gray, she’s a burst of color, and she shines. Her smile makes a face that is already pretty gorgeous. Her skin is richly brown and luminous. Two neat braids hang on her shoulders.
I glance toward the stairs that lead back into the house, but I already know I’ll accept Takira’s invitation. I do recognize her question for what it is—an excuse for me to stay. Any other girl tried this, I’d run in the other direction. Though I’m not the biggest star on the team, there’s something about me that attracts girls now . It wasn’t always this way. I was the quiet, nerdy guy reading comic books on the bus until seventh grade. My body took over—started filling out and growing up—fast. It got me noticed in ways I’d never been noticed before. I’m still not completely used to this body or the attention it brings.
“Never mind.” Takira looks down at her hands resting on the long legs crisscrossed beneath her on the blanket. “Sorry. I know you have a game tomorrow.”
Wordlessly, I take the spot beside her, laying the jacket between us.
She gives me a tentative smile and draws her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
“My last name is Armstrong,” I tell her. “But in middle school, I started playing football. I got really good. I was a quarterback. Everybody said I had such a good toss, people started calling me Strongarm instead of Armstrong. Even though I play basketball now, it kinda stuck.”
“So if you were good at football, why come play a sport you’re not as good at?”
I huff out a surprised laugh.
“Sorry,” she rushes to say, lowering her knees and turning to face me. “I just meant…well?—”
“No, you’re right. I was better at football, but…” I gesture toward the long stretch of my legs on the blanket. “Growth spurt, sophomore year. There are exceptions, but most quarterbacks aren’t six foot seven.”
“You couldn’t play football anymore?” she asks, frowning.
“Probably. Let’s just say recruiters weren’t banging down the door for a guy built like me as their quarterback. I mean, I could probably try some other position, but I always played basketball, too. Both coaches, basketball and football, sat me down and said if I really wanted a shot at the pros for either sport, I might want to choose.”
“And you chose basketball.”
“Basketball kind of chose me.” I shake my head, still unsure how I got here sometimes. “Coach Lipton saw me play and recruited me to St. Catherine’s.”
“He recruited Cliff, too. Mama said there was no way Cliff wasn’t going. Free prep school education, not to mention their reputation for players going division one.”
“Yeah. It’s hard to turn down.” I hesitate but go on, for some reason willing to share with this girl what I haven’t shared with many people. “My, um, mom’s got some health issues. Really bad arthritis and it’s getting worse. I want to see her retire early if she can. Get her medical bills paid. Maybe buy her a house someday. Make sure my three sisters are set up.”
I laugh self-deprecatingly and say, “Stereotype, huh? Baller makes it out the ’hood. Gets a fat contract. Takes care of his mama.”
“You live in the ’hood?”
“Nope. The 'burbs.”
We laugh together at that.
“What about your dad?” she asks.
“Died when I was in fifth grade.”
“I’m sorry.” Her brows bunch up, and her dark eyes hold a world of sympathy.
“Yeah, it was unexpected. Stroke. He was young, but…” I shrug. “Took him out, and even though two of my sisters are older than me, I felt like the man of the house, ya know? Like I’m supposed to take care of them or whatever.”
I look down at my hands, unused to talking this much but finding it too easy to stop.
“I love basketball, but not the way Cliff and some of the guys do. It’s a means to an end. I don’t breathe ball like your brother.”
“No one does,” she says dryly. “Ball has been his whole life for as long as I can remember.”
“So why hair?” I ask, changing the subject because we probably don’t have much time. Who wants to talk about her brother when I could be learning more about her ?
“Why not hair? I like to make people look good. It makes me feel good seeing how just getting her hair done can boost a woman’s confidence. Maybe one day I can be in the thick of things. New York City. Hollywood. Making famous people beautiful. Regular folks, too.” She laughs. “You gotta start somewhere.”
It’s getting dark now with only the moon and a few fairy lights strung on the roof for illumination. The darkness softens the lines of her body, but I can see her turn her head and look at me—sense her searching my face in the dim light.
“You think you’ll get some looks from colleges?” she asks.
“Playing backup for the best baller in the city?” I chuckle, leaning back on my elbows. “Probably not. My old coach offered to put some feelers out to a few football programs. I may not make it to the NFL, but I got good tape. Even if I just win a scholarship, play for four years, get a business degree—that’s better than nothing. I’d actually be pretty happy with that.”
“A backup with a backup plan,” she teases.
“I guess. I’m not Cliff. I need options if I expect to succeed.”
“You’re not like Cliff, no,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t have ambition. Things you want. They’re just not all about you.”
I nod slowly because she’s right. I am ambitious. The need to help my mom, to provide for my family and set up their futures—it burns in me.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to help my family,” I say. “If I thought digging ditches was the best way to make that happen, I’d grab a shovel. If it’s not ball, it’ll be something else.”
She giggles at that, and it draws a smile from me, too.
“I know Cliff would have nothing without ball, but that’s not me.” I shoot her a sharp glance. The guy may be an asshole eighty-five percent of the time, but he is her brother. “Sorry. I didn’t mean?—”
“No, you’re right. He probably would shrivel up without ball. He can’t imagine a life where this dream doesn’t come true.” She tips her head back and stares up at the sky. “I just hope it does.”
The smooth line of her neck is exposed, and her breasts rise and fall with easy breaths under the shirt cropped at her belly button.
“Are you checking me out?” she asks, flipping onto her side and propping her head in her palm. “Because guys have drawn back a nub for less.”
“You’re very pretty,” I say softly, finding it hard to joke about the effect she’s having on me. “I like you a lot.”
Shit. Why’d I say that?
I’m not good with girls. Like, yeah, they come to me because I’m an athlete and they want to say they’ve been with a guy from the team, but that doesn’t mean I’m that dude who says the right things or knows how to flirt.
Instead of responding to my awkward statement, she stares back at me, blinking long lashes before turning onto her back.
“Look how bright the stars are tonight,” she says, biting her bottom lip and watching me from the corner of her eye.
I ease down on the blanket beside her, careful not to let any of our body parts touch. I fold my hand under my head and consider the sky.
“Up here,” I say, “they feel really close and bright.”
“It’s the quarter moon. Less moon, brighter stars. When there’s a lot of moonlight, it hides them. Dims them.”
Over the next hour or so, the noise below grows thinner as cars pull off and the guys leave. I keep holding my breath and stealing glances at the stairs, like someone will come up here any minute and make us stop, but no one comes, and we keep talking. She has this way of looking at the world that feels a lot like mine. She’s filled with subtle ambition, too. Her brother’s ambition blares in every room he enters, like a trumpet. Her hopes and dreams are quieter, but no less sure. I want to see where this girl will go because I think it will be far. Probably beyond my reach. I may only have these moments to know her.
It’s a strange night. It feels out of time, like we’ve known each other for a century or more and the rhythm of the conversation is something we’re resuming, not just beginning. Not something that will end. As it gets chilly, she pulls the corner of the blanket up over her legs, and I do the same. We’re rolled up, and it pushes us closer together.
“We’re an egg roll.” She giggles.
I love her laugh. Low and breathy or when she’s surprised into it, big, chasing away reservations. She gives her whole self to it, throwing back her head and once even slapping her knee. I wish I was funnier and had made her laugh more tonight. I don’t have lines . I enjoy a good conversation—the kind that makes you think about who you are and get to know someone else. The kind that makes you laugh at yourself and want to make someone else laugh over and over because in just a few hours, you’ve grown addicted to the sound.
I glance at my watch and swallow a curse.
“It’s later than I thought. Coach’ll kill me if I’m not ready tomorrow. Even though I’ll probably ride the bench all night. Cliff’s gonna play every minute he can with all those scouts at the game there to see him, but I gotta be ready.”
“I hope you get some time to play, too.” She frowns. “It’s the last game of the season. It’s not fair if you don’t get some time on the court.”
“It doesn’t work like that. Besides, like I said, I may still get some looks for football.”
“I hope so.” She hesitates, bites down on her bottom lip before rushing on. “Maybe you could call me sometime, or…” She shakes her head and blows out a quick breath. “You don’t have to. It’s not like?—”
“I will call you,” I cut in. “I don’t know where things are headed after this year, but we could stay in touch.”
She beams, and that smile outshines the moon and the stars. “Yeah, I’d like that too.”
I can’t leave without…something. I want to touch her, to kiss her, but that might be weird. I’m still trying to figure out what move I should make when she makes it for me. She leans over and kisses my cheek. It’s a friendly gesture, but as soon as her mouth touches my skin, the small flicker of heat that has simmered inside ever since I laid eyes on her in that tiny top and those tight jeans roars to full flame. I turn my head, kissing the corner of her mouth. She stills, her wide eyes searching my face. Without looking away, her tongue darts out to lick my bottom lip. I groan, cupping her head in my hand, dipping to suck her bottom lip and then the top. She pushes closer under the blanket, pressing into my chest, straining up to open my lips with hers.
“Takira,” I whisper, sharing a breath with her. “We should stop.”
“No.” She shakes her head, kissing my chin and touching my cheekbone. “Kiss me again.”
I can’t resist her, especially not when the lust, the desire I’ve been feeling for her all night is so clearly reciprocated in her eyes, in the way she touches me. I kiss the fragile line of her collarbone and suck at the satiny, sweet-smelling skin of her throat. My lips coast up to the small cleft in her chin. I notch my tongue into that little indentation, and she laughs, shifting her head to kiss me again.
This time it’s deeper, hotter. My hands wander down to her ass. It looked so good in these jeans, but in my hands—God, my dick is so hard. She touches me through my jeans, and I pull away from the kiss to draw in a deep breath.
“Takira,” I pant. “Don’t do that. I won’t be able to…I want to…”
She places my hand on her chest, looking at me and not breaking the stare. Her breast is soft and spills over the edges of my hand. I squeeze, and she moans, her eyes drifting closed as she leans deeper into my palm. I brush my finger across the nipple, and it goes hard.
“That feels good,” she gasps. “Keep doing it.”
With one hand, I knead her breast. The other hand wanders down her back, palming her ass, cupping her hip. Turned on her side, she opens her legs, resting her knee on my thigh and biting my earlobe, then soothing, sucking it into her mouth.
“You can touch me,” she whispers, guiding my hand between her legs.
Even through the denim, I can feel that she’s hot there.
“You sure?” I ask, frowning. “We don’t have to.”
“I want you to, Naz.”
Searching her face, I nod and slowly lower her zipper. The sound is loud on the roof, and I glance up at the stars as if they might judge me, might stop me from taking something I desire this much. When my fingers slip into her jeans, past the edge of her cotton panties and to the slit of her pussy, she gasps, breath leaving her in a whoosh.
“Oh, my god,” she says, panting as I slide my finger over her clit, repeating the motion until her hips are moving in time with my touch. She rolls onto her back and eases her jeans and panties down, spreading her legs.
I shove her shirt up, squeezing her breast through the bra. Her nipples pebble beneath the fabric, and I bend down, nudging the satin cup away and taking her nipple into my mouth.
“Naz,” she moans.
“You have great tits, Kira,” I manage to say. “You’re beautiful.”
I cup her pussy and slip a finger inside. She’s so tight, and the slick walls clamp around my finger like a fist. I don’t want to assume or hurt her.
“Are you a…” I press my lips closed over whatever awkward thing I was about to say. “Have you ever?—”
“I’m not a virgin, Naz. It’s okay.”
I keep rubbing her clit. It’s swollen, and she’s so wet and tight. I ease in another finger, watching her expression for clues that it feels good or if it hurts.
“Yes.” Her eyes roll back. “Naz. Don’t stop.”
“Kira,” I groan, taking her breast into my mouth, licking the darker halo of skin around her nipple. As my fingers move in and out of her tightness, I can’t help but imagine how it will feel when that’s me. When she’s spread under me and I can push into her. Wetness seeps into my briefs. I’m leaking at the thought. Her eyes squeeze shut, and she bites her lip. She grips my wrist, and her back arches, a cry trapped in her throat as she soaks my hand.
“Did you just…” I falter, not sure. “Did you just come?”
She nods jerkily. “No one’s ever made me come before. Only when I touched myself. That’s what they were talking about?”
Laughing, the sound rich and delighted and floating in the crisp air, she turns on her side to face me. Her kiss-swollen lips pull into a wide smile. Reaching between us, she grabs my dick through my jeans and says, “Your turn.”
“Takira!” Cliff’s voice climbs the stairs. “You up here? Mama’s looking for you.”
“Oh, shit!” she whisper-shouts, moving swiftly beneath the blanket to pull up her underwear and jeans. “He’ll kill you.”
“Fuck!”
We scramble to our feet, and she shoves the blanket into a storage bench. Her hair is all over the place, one of her braids halfway unraveled. I can clearly see that one cup of her bra is still pulled down beneath her shirt, and her hard nipple pushes against the thin fabric. Her jeans are pulled up and zipped, but unbuttoned. Cliff’s heavy footsteps echo up to us, and my heart triple times in my chest, but I take a second to pull her toward me so I can fix her clothes.
“You’re a mess,” I mutter, buttoning her jeans and reaching beneath her shirt to pull her bra into place. I have no idea how to braid, but I’m trying to smooth her hair when our eyes catch.
Damn, she’s pretty.
There’s something luminescent about her skin, and her lips are rosy, like all the blood has rushed to them. Her eyes—her eyes outshine the stars, and I’m gone. My heart melts in my chest looking at her. She grins up at me and laughs, shaking her head. It’s no use pretending, and I don’t care what her brother thinks.
“What the hell are you doing up here with my sister, Armstrong?” Cliff growls at the door leading to the rooftop. He looks at where my hand rests at her waist, at the smooth skin bared by her shirt. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”
“No, you’re not.” Takira steps in front of me. “Cliff, stop.”
“I got this,” I whisper in her ear. “Let me?—”
“We’re just talking,” she says. “I stayed up here after the team left. You know how I like it up here. Naz forgot his jacket, came back to get it, and we started talking.”
“Everyone else left two hours ago,” Cliff snaps, narrowed eyes sending me kill messages. “You been up here talking that long?”
“I know your conversations consist of grunts, half-formed thoughts, and plays from a handbook,” Takira says, her tone dry, “but some people do talk. Unlike most of your teammates, Naz can actually hold a conversation.”
Cliff looks at me suspiciously, and with good reason. My jacket covers a monster erection that probably won’t go down for days.
“Well, the game is tomorrow,” Cliff finally says, his tone still rough, but his breathing more even. “Go home and get ready to ride that bench, scrub.”
Resentment rises in me—that because of him I never get to play, that he holds it over my head all the time and tries to demean me in front of the team because of his own insecurities. Most of all, I resent that because of him, I have to leave Takira.
We’re all walking down the steps from the roof when she catches a fistful of my T-shirt at my back. A step above and behind me, she bends to whisper in my ear, “Tomorrow. After the game?”
I turn my head and meet the velvety brown of her eyes and nod. I’ll ride the bench tomorrow, and no one will see what I’m capable of. I’ll have to figure out what I’m doing for college. I’ve accepted that, but what I won’t accept is not seeing Takira again.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling back at her. “After the game.”