Chapter 12
Ilay awake in that suite on the first night I ever shared an intimate space with her. No, we weren’t in the same bed or the same room, but we were in the same suite. Just a few footsteps and closed doors separated us, and well, I had an erection as strong as gas station coffee.
Groaning, I flipped onto my side and stared out the window in my room. All I had on was my underwear and a cloying desire to beg this woman for some pussy, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Could I?
Nah, that would be way out of line. We were friends and something was going on with her. I’d never heard fear in a woman’s voice before in my entire life like the fear I heard in hers when she asked me to stay. It was so evident and sincere that I actually felt the heaviness of it in my heart. So, I stayed, opting to get some clothes from one of the nearby shops in the morning. I didn’t want her folks to go get my luggage because I just didn’t. They didn’t need to know where I was staying.
Anyway, the reason I was lying awake in what had to be an über-expensive space was that fear. What was she afraid of? And why was she afraid of it? Or was it a them? A he or a she? More importantly, why was I ready to fuck what or whoever it was completely up? I barely knew the woman, but her aura was beautiful. She was beautiful.
I groaned again, falling onto my back and staring at the ceiling until sleep eventually overtook me.
* * *
I awoke the next morning just after sunrise to the sound of muted music playing on the other side of my door and lay there trying to recognize the song. I smiled when it hit me, climbing out of the bed and slipping into yesterday’s clothes before I exited the bedroom.
There she sat, a remote control in her hand, her attention on the huge television sitting on a mahogany sideboard. The music video for Lenny Kravitz’s Are You Gonna Go My Way was playing on the screen. I had a side view of her—makeup-free face, hair covered by a silky pink bonnet, no glasses.
Fucking breathtaking.
So, the rapper liked rock?
Nice.
When she noticed me, she smiled and greeted me with, “Hey.”
“Hey. I love this song,” I said, moving to sit in one of the accent chairs, putting me a few feet to her right.
“Me, too. Doesn’t Lenny give you Hendrix vibes in this video?”
I nodded. “He does. You ever met him?”
“Lenny Kravitz? Yes, a quick introduction at a Grammys after party. We didn’t have a real conversation.”
“That’s still cool, though.”
“It was. I like his style.”
“Yeah, so what you doing? Studying the video? You were really into it when I first walked in here.”
She turned her head, giving me my first clear view of her face—pale skin, full lips, button nose, blond eyebrows and eyelashes to match her blond hair. Her eyes? Violet and active. I knew they only appeared purple because of light hitting the blood vessels behind them, but damn were they mesmerizing.
She must’ve realized I was studying her, because her brow furrowed, and she mumbled something before feeling beside her on the sofa. When she lifted her hand, she was holding her signature shades.
Before she could put them on, I said, “Don’t.” She hesitated, her frown deepening, so I added, “Please. We’re friends. Let me see you.”
“But you were staring. I don’t like it when people stare.”
I bit back a smile. “You do know you’re a celebrity, right? Staring kinda comes with the territory.”
“You were staring at my eyes. I could tell.”
“I was staring at your face. The sunglasses hide more than just your eyes. You’re beautiful. I knew that, but right now, I can truly see it. You’re stunning.”
She dropped her eyes. “Thank you. Um, these sunglasses are prescription. All of mine are. Plus, they protect my eyes from the sun. You know, the whole no melanin thing?”
“Ain’t no sun in here.”
“Oh, I beg to differ. I think I’m staring into the sun right now, sir,” she said, her eyes on me.
I chuckled. “Okay, if you need them, put them on.”
She looked down at the glasses and then up at me again. “I’m not ashamed of how I look. I’ve been past that since I got teased as a kid. I wear them because one, I don’t want to have to constantly cuss people out for saying dumb shit, and two, I just don’t want it to overshadow my art. Yes, I have albinism and I’m no conventional beauty. So what? I’m talented. That’s all that should matter.”
“I agree. So, that’s why you wear the makeup, darken your eyebrows and eyelashes?”
“Partially, and also so that all the stage or studio lights don’t wash me out.”
“Gotcha.”
She blew out a breath before setting the shades back on the sofa. “To answer your question, I actually was studying him. You had your mom guiding your education. I’ve had to guide my own.”
“And you obviously do a good job of it. So, what are we doing today? Studying more Kravitz? Another studio tour?”
“No. I was thinking about doing some shopping. That is, unless you think you’ll be bored.”
“I don’t see how anything you do could possibly be boring.”
She smiled, and I just couldn’t get over how different she looked without the makeup. I liked this version of her, too. I suspected she could’ve painted her face green, and I would’ve still found her attractive.
“Good. I’ll have them bring over some things for you, too.”
“Bring?”
“Yep. All I need is your size. But first, breakfast. What do you want?”
Since I was sure she wasn’t on the menu, I asked, “Room service? What they got?”
When she said someone was going to bring some things to her suite so she could shop in private, I thought maybe a personal shopper was coming with pieces from a boutique or something. What I didn’t expect was for the Gia Smalls to arrive directly from her atelier located in NYC’s garment district. The items she brought for me were from her recently launched, inaugural men’s collection of streetwear, really dope stuff. My favorite piece was this graffiti-print puffer jacket. Gia said the artwork was created by an actual graffiti artist, too. I had to have it.
In all, I chose seven pieces.
“I think this is it for me. How much I owe you, Ms. Smalls,” I asked, wallet in hand.
“Oh, I got it. Just add his to my bill,” Ishmia said, and then directed to me, “She has my payment information on file.”
Gia laughed. “Yes, Miss Bambina is a frequent flyer.”
Shaking my head, I pulled my American Express card from my wallet. “Nah, I got it. Your team does pay me, remember?” My eyes were on my new rapper friend.
“I do remember that, but that has to be around…what?” Ishmia looked up from the pile of clothes in her lap to Gia.
“Uh, my rough estimate for those pieces would be…well, the puffer alone is three thousand. So, let’s say his total would be around eight?” Gia informed her.
“Eight thousand? I got it. Here you go,” I said.
I could feel Ishmia’s displeased gaze on me but didn’t look up. It wouldn’t have made a difference anyway since she’d donned those shades shortly before Gia and her crew arrived.
Gia reluctantly took my card and handed it to her assistant, who soon returned it to me along with a receipt. Ishmia’s bill was like thirty-K.
Crazy.
After Gia left, I decided to call and have my luggage brought to me. I needed underwear and wasn’t about to buy new stuff and wear it before it was washed. I had an aversion to underwear that hadn’t seen a drop of fabric softener. When it arrived, that seemed to piss Ishmia off, too.
I was in the process of wheeling the carry-on to my bedroom when she said, “I told you I could have someone go get it for you.”
“I know. I took care of it,” I explained.
“Like you took care of the bill with Gia?”
I stopped moving, turning to face her. The shades were still in place. “You’re mad about that? I could’ve paid for yours, too, if you’d asked. I got mad spending power on my AmEx.”
“No, of course not. I just…you don’t have to prove anything to me by putting yourself in debt. I know you guys don’t exactly make NBA money, and you won’t do endorsements, so you’re not even making what the other players make.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised that she knew about my whole anti-endorsement stance being that she was technically one of my bosses, but I was. Nevertheless, I said, “I’m good. I don’t have a wife or kids, and I’ve been in the league for a minute. My bank account ain’t gonna collapse over that one purchase, and for the record, I wasn’t trying to impress you. I was being a man and paying my own way. I’ma go shower and get ready for lunch. We still going to that restaurant you mentioned?”
After a beat of silence, she softly said, “Yes.”