Fat Girl (12 page)

Juliette texted that she’d just gotten back from a modeling gig in Italy and wanted to see me tonight. So why the hell did I sit around waiting for Dee to get home? A question I’d rather not contemplate. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I check for my phone to call her back even though it’s almost eleven, and discover I left it at the condo.

Lowering the bill of my cap, I jog back at a steady, even pace, calming my head if not my body.

The affluent Gold Coast neighborhood soon comes into view. Originally built by Chicago’s elite in the 1880s, today, Gold Coast, one of the richest areas of the city, is a mixture of old-world wealth and modern age luxury.

I slow as I approach the entrance to the sixty-story glass tower where I’ve lived since relocating here two years ago.

“Good evening, Mr. Peters.” George, the doorman who works the late shift, greets me, tipping his hat. “Nice weather for a jog.”

“Yes,” I acknowledge, gathering my breath.

“Though nowhere near as warm as Florida,” he says of my days with the Miami Heat.

“I always preferred the change of seasons.”

“Spoken like a true Illinoisan.” The doorman smiles. “It was good to have you playing at home, sir.”

“Thanks, George,” I say, unzipping my blue windbreaker. “The Bulls were a great team.”

“Indeed. Although this season won’t be the same without you. Do you suppose you’ll miss it?” the older man asks as he holds the door open for me.

“No,” I admit. “It was time.”
Past time.

“Ah. Very good, then, sir. I am certain your next endeavor will be as successful.”

“I appreciate that.”

I cross the marble lobby, bordered by waterfalls, to take the private elevator up to the top floor, wishing I shared George’s confidence in me. It’s true that the decision to retire was long overdue, especially if you consider that I’d joined the NBA for all the wrong reasons.

Looking through the cylindrical
glass enclosure as it climbs the sixty floors to my penthouse, I’m provided with a spectacular view of Chicago’s skyline. The lights from the city wink in the darkened sky like stars, reminding me of when I was young and had stars in my eyes. I was so sure of my life then…of the future I’d planned. When I think of how far I’ve veered away from my dreams, the disappointment nearly chokes me.

And those dreams are all tangled and twisted up in Deeana Rae Chase.

Loving her was incredible. Losing her unbearable.

Coping was a bottle of whiskey. It was making more money than I could spend. It was drowning the memories in fame and women.

Life is too short and precious to waste, Mick.

I shrugged off Papa T’s wisdom for years. Until he got sick.

Cayo Torres died in March. In June, right after the season ended, I quit.

The grief hit me hard. How could he be gone? The man I loved like a father was indestructible. So full of vitality. Papa T loved life and never wasted a second of it. He threw himself into everything, from the garage he built from the ground up to his family. He didn’t go through the motions of living. He lived. His life had been unfairly cut short, and there I was wasting mine.

In Cayo’s honor, I set up a foundation called Papa’s Kids to fund housing, counseling, and educational services for homeless youth. It’s been four months since its inception, and now I have a director and eight counselors on staff at the House. And that’s just the beginning. What started out of grief has become a labor of love. Building something that matters and spending time with those kids—seeing even the smallest progress—has been one of the most rewarding experiences.

But there’s still a deep void. My agent’s been on me about offers to coach pro ball or to host sports on TV. I’ve declined them all. Being in the public eye is not the life I want anymore. Not that it stops my agent from trying.

I miss writing. My stories were my lifeline. Like food and air, I needed them for survival. A couple of months ago, I equipped my home office with state-of-the-art equipment, thinking that I would start writing again. I had this brainstorm to develop
Princess Dionna and the Dark Shadow
into a series. But the idea’s gone nowhere. And yet it’s stuck in my head and won’t let go. Not unlike the woman who inspired it.

The curved panels slide apart and as I step out into the hall, the sound of another door opening interrupts my brooding. “Hi, Micky.”

Lisa Manning and I share the top floor. She owns the only other penthouse, won in her divorce settlement from a business tycoon who made his megamillions by replicating the Playboy Bunny concept, called Knaughty Kittens. Lisa, a former Kitten herself, hasn’t been coy about her interest in getting horizontal with me. She fits the criteria of no strings, but I live by the motto “Don’t fuck where you sleep.” But tonight a warm, willing body beckons me to forget. And Lisa’s right here. Must be fate.

I turn with my camera-ready smile. “Hey, Lisa.”

Encouraged, she slinks toward me in her short satin kimono, revealing thighs that look firm enough to crack a walnut.

“I was watching for you,” she says.

“Oh yeah?”

Her French manicured nails crawl up my damp T-shirt. “You were gone a long time.”

“I needed to get rid of some pent-up energy,” I say, waiting for a lick of fire to spark low in my belly and burn behind my fly.

She lifts herself up on the feathered toes of her high-heeled slippers and breathes in my ear. “I can take care of that for you, Micky.” The nickname annoys me, but once we get naked, conversation won’t be on the menu. Lisa lowers her heels back to the floor and gazes up with wicked promises. “Invite me in,” she purrs.

I don’t invite women into my private space for sex. But that’s a detail I’ll sort out in a minute. Right now, I’ve got Lisa rubbing against me like a frisky cat while her fingers teasingly trail down my abs to the waistband of my shorts.

“How about a little sample first?” she says, giving her painted lips a teasing lick.

I should be as hard as granite, but all I feel is an instinctual semi at best. I look at Lisa, willing my cock to muster up more. She’s attractive with big tits. Fake but so what? I’ve slept with women before who had boob jobs, and that’s never been a problem. But I’m thinking way too much, and nothing’s happening for me.

Her fingers tug on my drawstring, and I know that in a matter of seconds she’s going to drop to her knees and suck me off in the hall as incentive. And fuck, I need that. I close my lids in anticipation, but all I can see behind them are beautiful amber eyes, silky, dark curls, and soft, golden curves.

And that’s the problem.

I don’t want Lisa.

Or Juliette.

Or any other woman.

I want Dee.

And only when I imagine her sweet, strawberry-tinted mouth on me do I start to rise in a hearty salute. Christ. I have an intense moment of déjà vu, and I know I’m not going to be able to do this now. Lisa might be willing to blow me here without a care for what’s going on in my head, but my conscience won’t let me use her as Dee’s stand-in.

I open my eyes and grab Lisa’s wrist. “Your offer is tempting,” I say by way of a polite brush-off. “But we’re neighbors and that makes anything between us potentially complicated.”

Her baby blues flicker in confusion. “You’re turning me down because we’re neighbors?”

“Afraid so.”

“What’s the real issue here, Micky?” Lisa snatches her hand back and sneers, going from sex kitten to woman spurned in a nanosecond. “Can’t get it up?”

No man appreciates a hit below the belt. “Good night, Lisa.”

“Go to hell!”

I’m still lusting over the last woman in the world I should want. My best friend of thirty years is barely speaking to me for hiring her, and now my neighbor thinks I’m impotent—and I’ll probably read all about it on Twitter tomorrow.

With the sudden direction my life has taken in the past day and a half, hell doesn’t seem as though it’s too far a trip.

I SLEEP THROUGH MY ALARM and wake up an hour late, vowing never to drink again, or let Mick loosen the threads of my carefully woven control.

After taking two aspirin and a long, hot shower, I quickly dress and tackle the thirty-minute commute to the office. On my way, I stop at Starbucks and pick up a macchiato for Lena and a strong Italian roast for myself. It’s just after nine thirty when I push through the office door. “I come bearing gifts.”

Lena’s gray eyes, dramatically outlined in purple kohl today, brighten. “Thanks, Dee.” She takes the cup and removes the lid for an appreciative sip. “I was beginning to think my workaholic boss was going to play hooky this morning.”

“Nope, too much to do,” I reply offhandedly and flip through the pink stack of messages. “Did Thomas Jackson return my call?” I ask, hoping to speak to the Franklins’ attorney before I meet with Dwayde at four o’clock.

“Not yet,” Lena says. She takes another sip. “But something arrived for you ten minutes ago.”

Her Cheshire grin makes me wary. “What is it?”

“You’ll see,” Lena croons. “It’s on your desk.”

The instant I set foot in my office, my jaw drops. Seated in a tall crystal vase, sparkling like diamonds beneath the light, are at least three dozen red orchids and golden calla lilies.

“I’d say your
old friend
is on a mission. And you’re the target. That’s Baccarat crystal. It looked expensive, so I Googled it.” Lena lightly flicks the vase with her black-painted nail and smiles at the resounding ping. “See? The real thing.”

I feel my face warm. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“I’m going,” Lena says, raising her palms in mock surrender. “But just for the record, Dee, you’re blushing.”

“Out!” I point at the door, and Lena, chuckling, beats a hasty retreat.

Once alone, I breathe in the bouquet’s fragrant scent and lift the white envelope from among the vibrant blooms. It takes me a full minute to open the flap and remove the silk parchment card. In the loose, relaxed script I recognize as his, he’s written:

Mick had given me the same flowers, tied with a red ribbon, the day after we’d first made love. We’d told my foster parents it was because I’d helped him ace a math test, but it was an acknowledgment of the evening I’d gladly given myself to him—heart, body and soul.

I stuff the card inside my tote bag to keep Lena from seeing it, but unable to resist, I lean in for another sniff. God, I’m so weak. How many other details from our past has Mick filed away in his memory bank that he can whip out on a whim, using them to break down my defenses and seduce me…why? As payback? Or just because he knows he can?

It’s after three o’clock when Thomas Jackson calls. Before Lena put him through I was gazing at the flowers, my pattern off and on throughout the day.

“Ms. Chase,” he booms. “I’ve heard good things about you. It would be a shame if we ended up adversaries.”

“We shouldn’t if your clients have Dwayde’s best interests at heart. I’m open to discussing visitation under the right conditions. But threatening my client with a court order is going to put us on opposite sides of the fence.” Though I haven’t ever been up against Jackson, his reputation precedes him. If there’s one thing he supposedly can’t stand, it’s being bested by anyone—let alone a woman twenty years his junior. But my work is the one area in which I feel total confidence. “Might we start this conversation with all thoughts of a court order off the table?” I suggest.

“Ms. Chase,” he says with a trace of condescension, “my clients are eager to see their grandson.”

“I presume that they don’t wish to do this by force,” I rebut. In Illinois, grandparents don’t have automatic visitation rights. But according to Isabelle, she and Victor are in support of Dwayde seeing the Franklins in a supervised environment. It’s apparently Dwayde who refuses contact. “Given the circumstances, a court order—assuming you’d even be successful—would be inadvisable. Mr. and Mrs. Franklin might end up with visitation, but it would be under duress. Is that the way they want their reunion with their grandson to begin?” I ask, calling his bluff.

Dull tapping, like a pen striking a notepad, echoes through the telephone line.