Long Shot

“I get my name from the bayou,” I say with a slight smile. “Well, Mama told me that once. Who knows if it’s true. She said MiMi’s house is off the bayou, not far from the water, and all along the water’s edge these flowers called Louisiana irises grow.”

“She told you?” he asks. “You’ve never seen for yourself?”

I frown, feeling loss again, but for something I’ve never really had. “I haven’t been. Not that I remember, at least.” I grimace. “Mama took me when I was a baby so MiMi could see me, but that was it. MiMi visited us a few times in the city. Lotus knows her a lot better, since she lived with her.”

“Iris, Lotus,” he says with a smile. “I see a flower theme. Are you two a lot alike?”

My laugh is self-deprecating, scoffing at my own weakness compared to Lotus’s fearlessness. “I wish.” I take the ball and step behind the three-point line. “I’m nowhere near as strong as Lotus.”

“You’re probably stronger than you think.” He raises a dark brow at the ball in my hands. “But not strong enough to make that three.”

“Oh yeah? You think you’re the only one who can make a long shot?”

I turn to the goal and train every bit of strength and focus I have into the ball in my hands and its trajectory to the goal. When I release it, I close my eyes and don’t open them until I hear the “swoosh” of the net.

“I made it?” I ask with an incredulous laugh.

“You didn’t even look? Yeah, you made it. How can you not look?”

“Woohooo!” I lift my arms Rocky-style and face him. “Am I ready for the pros?”

The look he gives me alternates between affection and indulgence. “You can be on my team.”

“Oh.” I lob a smile up at him, much too close to flirting. “And what position will I play on your team?”

His smile melts a little around the edges, and his eyes lose some of their humor. “At the five-spot,” he says softly.

The five-spot? His position is the point guard, or the one-spot. Shooting guard is the two. The three is small forward, and the four is power forward. The five is . . .

“Center,” he says, linking our fingers and toying with the hair hanging on my shoulder. “If you were mine, Iris, there would be no doubt what position you’d hold in my life. You’d be center. I’d play you at the five.”

I want to laugh. I want to cry. I want to sing hallelujah that a man like this exists and that I know him. A deep-seeded longing springs up inside of me, and I’m not sure when I’ll be able to give in to it. I long to let him hold me. To let myself hold him, have him. I drop my forehead to his chest and take in his scent and the intoxicating nearness of him. He strokes my hair, and I feel his lips ghost the top of my head.

The door swinging open startles us apart. Sylvia stands at the gym entrance, looking between us before settling on me.

“Sorry to, um, interrupt,” she says. “But there’s a man looking for you, Iris. Quite insistently actually. He—”

She stops when Ramone appears at her side, as unyielding and intimidating as a brick wall. Panic rushes the air from my body and pounds the blood in my ears.

“I have to go.” I take two steps toward the door, but August’s hand gently restrains me.

“Who is that guy?” he demands.

I can practically feel Ramone’s narrow gaze lasered in on August’s hand touching me. Damning information for his report to Caleb, no doubt. This is only making things worse. What an idiot I’ve been, playing games in here with August and forgetting that I live in a war zone. That I’m fighting for my life, and Sarai’s.

“He’s my driver, August.” I jerk my arm away and walk swiftly across the gym floor, not looking back.

When I reach the door, Ramone stares at August for a few seconds before following me into the hall. I run to the daycare to get Sarai.

I’m pushing the stroller to the exit when August appears. His confusion, displeasure, and concern are all soldered together into one stare that burns holes in my back. I don’t acknowledge him, but walk past with my baby and my watchdog. I walk past with indifference, as if we didn’t just share the best afternoon I’ve had in as long as I can remember—as if he hadn’t gotten past the guard I’d erected around my heart for my own protection.

I don’t even say goodbye.

28

August

It doesn’t make sense. Yesterday was like the first night Iris and I met all over again—laughing, teasing, opening up. The attraction sometimes lurking just beneath the skin of our conversation, sometimes shivering across its surface. And then Muscle Head showed up, and she shut down and rushed from the building without a word.

And today? Still no words. She hasn’t looked at me. Hasn’t spoken or even acknowledged that I exist.

By all rights, I shouldn’t even be here for the community center beautification project. Sylvia told me I wasn’t needed. The students are painting the rec room, and Torrie, Shelia, and Iris are helping. Iris paints a wall across the room and wears dark denim overalls and Chuck Taylors. Her hair is in a messy bun, and the work lends a glow to the soft curve of her cheeks. She looks like a little girl.

She bends, stretching the denim across the fullness of her ass.

Maybe not a little girl.

I’m a guy. I can’t be expected to ignore how good her ass looks in those jeans. But it’s not the most important thing. We only have two days left, and after spending even the little time with her that I’ve had, I know things can’t go back to the way they were. Us having no contact. Her living with Caleb, sleeping with Caleb. Her staying with Caleb is not an option anymore, and I need to hear her say that, promise that. I need her to explain what the problem is, so I can fix it.

How hard can it be to leave him? How complicated can it be to choose me over him? To throw his damn ring in his face and walk away?

She said she wasn’t with him for the money. Or not the way I might think, whatever the hell that means.

And I believe that. I may not know everything about her, but she’s no gold digger.

I know she sees him clearly. She said herself it was a dirty play.

She says she’s not marrying him, but she’s wearing his ring.

What the fuck is going on?

I’m not leaving today without answers. I won’t get them with her avoiding me, so I walk over to the wall the three women are painting.

“Iris, can I talk to you for a minute?” I pitch my voice low so we don’t draw more attention than I already do here.

She jumps like a bullet whizzed past her ear instead of a whisper. A wide, quick glance is all she offers before training her eyes back on the wall.

“I’m really trying to get this wall done,” she says. “I . . . um, maybe later.”

I sneak a look at Torrie and Shelia. They roll their painting pins over the wall, but they’re watching us.

“It’ll only take a few minutes.” I cover her hand to stop the rolling motion, and she looks at me with a frown. “Please.”

Her eyes dart from Shelia and Torrie to Sylvia in the corner before she sighs and places the paint roller in the pan at her feet. Wordlessly, she heads toward the door, not checking to see if I’m behind her. Of course, I am.

In the hall, she leans against the wall and folds her arms, still not looking at me. “What do you need to talk abo—”

Her words disintegrate when I grab her hand and pull her behind me down the hall and around the corner.

“What are you doing?” Her voice climbs an octave, and she tries to wriggle free. “I can’t do this. I need to get back in there.”

We reach a utility closet. Fortunately, the knob turns easily, and the door swings open. I gently shove her inside and follow, turning on the light. I lean my back against the door and fold my arms across my chest. We aren’t leaving until I get some answers. Not the cryptic ones she’s been giving me, but the straight kind that tell me what the hell is actually going on.

“I need to get back, August.” She reaches around me for the knob, but I shift so my back covers it. Her irritated eyes latch onto mine. “This isn’t funny. You have to let me out.”

“No, you have to talk to me. You’ve been avoiding me ever since that goon showed up yesterday.” I take her arm, extended toward the knob, and pull her into me. The whisper of our bodies together, that simple contact, even through our clothes, is a match lit in gasoline-soaked air. It’s a sweet singe—a rapid-burning brush fire spreading across my whole body, consuming everything in its path—my reservations, my good sense, and my patience.

“You feel that, Iris.” I bend to float my words over her ear, rustling the fine strands of hair escaping around her neck. “Please tell me you feel this, too. Tell me I’m not fooling myself that we’ll be good together.”

A sigh mists her pouty lips. Lashes, thick and midnight-dark, hide her eyes from me. Defeat marks the slumped line of her shoulders.

“You’re not fooling yourself,” she admits, her voice shaking.

“I know I’m not.” My hand slides over her arm, and her skin prickles with goosebumps. I stroke her palm with my fingertips, and she inhales sharply. Her lips tremble. Slowly, I twist the ring, working it off her finger and slipping it into the front pocket of her overalls.

“What are you doing?” She breathes the question, her eyelids heavy over the cloudy passion hazing her eyes.

I frame her face, tracing the striking framework of high, sculpted cheekbones.

“I’ll be damned if you’ll be wearing his ring the first time I kiss you.”

I stroke her lips with my thumbs until her mouth falls open on a needy gasp. I dip so our mouths are mere inches apart, our ragged breaths twining in the tight space. My fingers spear into her hair, my palm cupping the base of her skull.

“I should have done this the night we met,” I whisper into her mouth, my head spinning from breathing her air. “It should have been me, Iris.”     PrevNextTip: You can use left and right keyboard keys to browse between pages.

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