Chapter 3
Chapter Three
NAZ
As soon as I agreed to do this fashion show, I regretted it. I even called Kenan, trying to get out of it.
“Sure,” he had said. “You can pull out, but you have to tell Lo yourself. Oh, and tell Iris you don’t actually care as much about survivors of domestic abuse as we originally assumed.”
“Motherfucker,” I’d muttered and hung up on his smart ass.
Needless to say, I’m here waiting to be powdered and brushed and groomed or some shit for charity, when something…someone soft and scented literally falls into my arms.
“What the hell?” I stumble a little but right myself before either of us fall and bust ass on the floor. I glance down to see who I’ve caught, and any words I would say cling to the roof of my mouth. I manage to pull one word down, despite my shock. Her name.
“Takira.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen her in twelve years. At least, in person. I may have lurked on her Instagram account and tracked her progress since senior year. On occasion.
“Naz.” A sooty fan of lashes surrounds doe-brown eyes. Her chin bears the same tiny dent as her brother’s. She’s always been a smaller, softer, prettier version of Cliff Fletcher. Over the years, they’ve both haunted me for completely different reasons.
“You two know each other?” Lotus asks, her alert eyes pinging between my face and Takira’s.
“A little,” Takira mumbles.
A little is accurate, since we only had one night before everything went to shit, but that doesn’t feel like the whole truth.
Doesn’t tell the story of how we talked about real things on the roof that night, sketching our dreams in the sky with stars.
As irrational as it is, when our glances lock, I see that awareness, the memory of that one night, in Takira’s eyes.
She pulls back, but my hands tighten reflexively at her hips.
It’s instinct to hold on to her. Not one I want to examine too closely, but she angles a sharp look up at me, her curves still pressed into the length of my body. Reluctantly, I let her go.
Even though she’s taller than average, her head doesn’t quite clear my shoulder.
It makes me want to protect her even if it’s only from falling.
Seeing her for the first time in more than a decade, it’s a ridiculous response, but that same connection I felt with her from the beginning is undeniable.
Given a little time and attention, I bet it could grow into whatever it could have been had things not happened the way they did.
That night before the championship, Cliff told our team that game would change everything.
He probably was thinking of himself…because he always did, but it changed everything for me.
As much as I’ve always been grateful for the chance that led me to a career in the League, I’ve also felt guilt over how things went down for Cliff.
Any possibility for something with his sister fell apart that night along with everything else.
“I want to hear all about how you know each other later. Right now, he’s your first model,” Lotus says, nodding to the seat and mirror right behind me. “Naz, sit. I think just a little powder and a haircut for him.”
“I just got a haircut,” I protest.
“I mean a good one.” Lotus grins, mischief in her dark eyes.
I grumble but sit obediently in the chair because Lotus may be tiny, but she’s a bulldozer. Takira closes her eyes briefly and blows out a breath before pasting on a polite smile.
“Cat,” Lotus says, her smile fading. “Let’s go check those dresses that just arrived. I hope we got the sizes right. No time for mistakes today.”
“Right.” Catalina’s eyes widen, and she trails Lotus’s marching figure, casting a look over her shoulder. “I’ll see you later, Takira. You did say you can make the after-party, right?”
Takira’s mouth forms an O, and her glance slides to me before lowering to the floor. “Um, yeah, but now I’m not sure I—”
“You’re coming!” Lotus yells from a foot or so ahead, turning backward and narrowing her eyes at Takira. “I want all the Dessi Blue gossip, and I have some other stuff coming up I’d love to discuss.”
She turns to walk off, but not before giving me a discreet wink. Am I that obvious? Or is Lotus that omniscient? According to Kenan, nothing gets by his wife, and she knows things about you before you know them yourself.
Thank you, Lo.
The prospect of getting to talk to Takira at the party tonight lightens a mood that has been admittedly foul all day.
I hate stuff like this. MacKenzie Decker, San Diego Waves’ president of basketball operations, says he’s only met one player less enthused about doing press and the public than me, and that’s Kenan Ross.
People often draw comparisons between Kenan and me.
When he retired, I was traded to the Waves and have never been happier with a team.
Kenan has been a big part of that. He mentors lots of young players, and though after eight seasons, I’m not considered young, Kenan’s still about ten years older than me.
There’s a lot I can learn from him, and he and Lotus have become close friends.
Which brings me back to the good turn Lotus inadvertently did me by recruiting Takira Fletcher for this fashion show. For Takira to also be doing my makeup…wait a minute.
“I don’t need makeup,” I tell Takira, who’s setting up little pots of blush and trays of eye shadow. Is that lipstick?
Oh, hell, no.
“It won’t be much,” she promises, her small smile tentative. “Powder to get rid of the shine. A little eyebrow grooming.”
She considers my head, narrowing one eye. “And Lo’s right. I’ll edge you up.”
“I always cut my own hair.”
“I can tell.” Her husky chuckle disarms me, rolls over my skin leaving a trail of goose bumps the same way it did when we were eighteen years old. “You actually do a good job. I’ve never seen you less than well-groomed. We just want it freshly cut for the show.”
“When did you see me do a good job? With my hair, I mean.”
The question lands between us with a thud. She’s facing the mirror, arranging her tools, and her hands pause for a second. I watch her reflection, the way her expression freezes before sliding into a grimace.
“Oh, um…I saw you on television,” she says, her hands busy again. “Like a press conference on TV after a game, in a few magazines, sports highlights. Stuff like that.”
I’m not sure which view I enjoy more. When she’s turned away from me, and I can appreciate the long lines of her legs encased in tight black denim, and the two overripe globes of her ass, or the front view.
When she faces me again, my eyes involuntarily drop to her breasts, bigger, rounder than they were senior year.
To be expected. She’s put on weight in perfect places.
Hips, thighs, butt, breasts. I thought she was fantastic before.
If possible, she’s bigger and better. Slim and thick.
Lush and tight with braids falling to graze the small of her back.
Holding her for just a few seconds proved she’s as soft as she looks.
She’s not little. Not a woman you’d have to hold back with.
Not a girl you’d be afraid to break if you fucked her hard.
It's very quiet with only my lascivious thoughts speaking to me as Takira leans against the small counter, arms folded under her breasts, brows raised.
“Should I turn in a slow circle?” she asks mildly. “In case there is one part of my body you didn’t get to ogle? Maybe you missed a spot. I’m sure you could accurately guess my cup size by now.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Oh, you weren’t checking me out?”
“No, I was,” I admit unabashedly. “I was gonna say I actually wasn’t done, so a slow circle would be great.”
“Oh, my god. You—”
“And I wouldn’t miss a spot.”
That shuts her up. Her pretty, pouty lips purse.
Her eyes narrow before she rolls them and turns back to the mirror and the items spread out on the counter.
She walks behind me to drape a protective plastic cape over my shoulders.
We both fall silent while she edges me up with her clippers, the occasional brush of her fingers at my neck and ears sending a jolt to my dick.
Fortunately, years of discipline playing at an elite level keep me from making a complete fool of myself.
I rest my hands casually in my lap so the slight rise of my erection won’t be too noticeable.
“So you did it, huh?” I ask when she’s finished with my hair and putting the clippers away.
She plucks a case of powder from the array of makeup on the counter, meeting my eyes briefly in the mirror.
“I did what?” She turns back to me with a wipe in her hand.
“You told me that night before the game you wanted to do hair. Looks like all your dreams came true.”
The wipe she’s gently passing over my face stills at the words “before the game,” and I kick myself for even bringing it up. She resumes wiping my skin clean and tosses the used wipe to the nearby trash can.
“I still have a few dreams left.” She lifts my chin and dusts my face with powder.
“Is this really necessary?”
“It’s for shine,” she says, smiling but not looking at me, which is good because my gaze is fixed on her breasts at eye level while she’s applying the powder.
It’s feeling like puberty all over again.
I’m not one of those ballers who has a different girl every night.
I get my share, but it’s never out of control.
When I’m fucking someone, I feel good, of course, but it’s all below the belt.
Seeing Takira again stirs other parts of me, just like she did the one night we had together on that roof.
All the things I’d like to do to her, with her, run through my mind now like they did then.
Only then they seemed…possible. After what happened at the championship game, I thought none of those things could ever happen.
Hell, Cliff basically told me they couldn’t.
Now, though, all these years later, we’re older, and maybe old wounds have healed enough that new possibilities could rise.
“Which dreams do you have left?” I ask, drawing my brows together when she spreads something cool and gelatinous over them.
“Stop frowning.” She laughs. “I’m trying to set your brows.”
“Completely necessary to walk out there for two minutes wearing whatever Lotus puts on me,” I say wryly. “Which dreams?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She sighs, pauses, and fixes her eyes over my shoulder, a wistful look settling onto her pretty face. “My own makeup line. A few other things.”
She glances back to me. “What about you? Seems like all your hoops dreams came true.”
“Shiiiiit. This has been better than anything I thought I’d ever have. Your brother was the star. I was the backup.”
A small awkward silence descends at the mention of her brother, but we can’t avoid the subject forever.
“You’re doing pretty good for a backup,” she says, her tone one of forced lightness.
“And how’s Cliff doing?” I ask, watching her face closely. “How’s he been?”
“He’s better.” She lowers her arms, the little wand she was using on my brows dangling from her fingers. “He’s actually doing really well. He just got a job coaching at my old high school.”
“That’s fantastic.” The granule of guilt I always feel when I think about Cliff scratches inside me for a second. “I’m really glad to hear that.”
“He’s, um…” She turns back to the mirror, stowing the tools she used. “He’s been clean for a while now. I assume you know about his struggles.”
In the mirror, I watch her plump lips pull into a flat line.
“After Sportsco did that disgusting exposé on him and other ‘flops,’” she says, bitterness woven into her words, “it triggered a relapse, but he’s better now.”
Her eyes find mine in the mirror.
“The reporter said you’d been contacted and asked to comment on all the trouble Cliff’s had since the championship game.” Her expression softens. “Thank you for not giving them anything more than they already had.”
They had a lot. The two-hour special documented in painstaking detail why Cliff and several other high school and college basketball phenoms ultimately failed to realize their potential. It was damning, and I wanted nothing to do with it.
“I would never talk about him to the press, or anyone, for that matter,” I say, my voice quiet, subdued. “I never have.”
“I know.”
Our eyes hold, and the space separating us heats, shrinks until even though she’s more than a foot away, it feels like there’s only a breath between us.
Her chest rises and falls on a deep inhale.
She licks her lips, almost nervously, and I can’t help myself.
My eyes greedily track the movement, how she wets her bottom lip with her little pink tongue.
Before my brain can wander to all the places I’d like that tongue to be, someone breaks the spell we’re under. Or at least, I am under.
“Are you Takira?” a tall girl with pink hair asks, stepping into our space. “Catalina sent me over for makeup.”
“Um, yeah.” Takira nods briskly. “I was just finishing up with someone.”
Pink Hair’s eyes wander to me, over me, and her grin goes wicked. “Well, hello, Mr. Armstrong. Ballers, ballers, everywhere. I’ll be at the after-party later if you’re looking for company.”
“I’ll be there.” I stand, removing the little smock tied around my neck to cover my clothes, and look down into Takira’s guarded eyes. “But I hope I’ll be busy catching up with an old friend.”
Takira doesn’t respond, but that’s okay. I don’t need her to. She gets started on Pink Hair’s makeup. If Takira doesn’t show up for the after-party, I’ll find her. After all these years and all that’s happened, we owe ourselves that.