Game On (3 page)

There was no way Xavier could compete. Samantha was gone and it was what it was.

Xavier excused himself and led London through the side door and downstairs into a nice, cool den in the basement. The furnishings were pretty basic, except the size of the flat screen. An enormous eighty-inch Samsung television sat on a sturdy entertainment system surrounded by an earth-tone leather sofa, love seat, and armchair.

“So what's so private that my friends couldn't hear?” Xavier asked her as the two took a seat on the sofa.

She smiled. “Must be cool to have a new ride. When are you going to take me for a ride in it?”

Xavier shook his head. “Is that all you wanted to ask me?”

“I wanted to ask you if you have your license yet.”

Xavier knew the game. Had played it enough times to know that she was nervous about being alone with him. So he played along.

“Went to a private driver school in June—right after class let out at Coleman for the summer.” Xavier pulled out his wallet, removed a small rectangular card, and shoved it up to baby girl's face. “Bam—my learner's permit. In three months I'll be able to get a driver's license, you dig?”

London looked around the room. “So you live here with your father, huh?”

“My father and my little brother Alfonso.”

“Where's your little brother? I'd love to meet him.”

“ 'Fonso's over his homie's crib. Knuckleheads are probably playing PlayStation or some crap.”

“So, you're ready to go back to school?”

“Yeah. I think I'm ready to get this school year over so I graduate and get the hell away from Coleman.”

Having a conversation with this chick was like talking to a brick wall. London might've been a dime in the face, but she was a straight-up dud in the conversation department. She was no Samantha and that was for damn sure.

Xavier decided it was time to kick things up a notch by scooting right next to her and reaching for her hands.

London watched as Xavier ran the tip of an index finger across the French-manicured nails on her right hand. She nervously swallowed and her breathing became labored.

“So is it true that you used to be a Zulu shot caller?” she asked.

Xavier said flat out, “London, are you a virgin?”

The question caught London by surprise and a silly look registered on her face.

“What makes you say that?” she asked in a firm voice, obviously frontin'.

Xavier became a little frustrated with her. “Be truthful with me. Why did you want to talk to me in private?”

London looked like she was about to lie but thought better of it. Xavier had a way about him, and it seemed like his eyes were peering through her soul.

She smiled nervously. “To tell you the truth, I've never been with anybody before, especially nobody like you. But”—she started kicking off her sandals and pulling her top up—“I think I'm ready.”

Xavier might've been a lot of things, but a bastard he wasn't. London was clearly not ready to give up the goods and he wasn't going to let her play herself. He was too much of a man for that. Besides, his heart still belonged to Samantha.

He stopped her. “Listen, you don't have to do that.”

“But I am ready,” she protested.

“London, look me in my eyes and tell me you're ready.”

She tried to do just that, but she couldn't.

To make her feel more comfortable, Xavier tried to make her laugh and crossed his eyes. London started cracking up. “Xavier, you are so silly. That's why I like you. You make me feel so safe.”

That last line jarred his memory. Sent it back to a time where Samantha had told him that very same thing. How being around him made her feel secure. Damn. How he'd missed her. Stood to reason why he wasn't trying to push up on London.

London slid back into her sandals and kissed Xavier on the cheek.

“I feel like such a fool,” she confessed. “My friends told me to give you some and that way I would have a chance to be your new girlfriend.”

“London, don't let anybody fill your head with any nonsense like that. You seem like such a cool girl, and those are the ones I like hanging around.”

“You know you have a fan base of girls at that school that would go out with you in a heartbeat. Every girl wants a piece of Mr. Fabulous. You know, everybody at Coleman says you're a thug and take stuff from nobody. But what you just did for me makes you special in my book. Thank you for not”—she looked down at her lap—“you know, taking advantage of me.”

“I don't get down like that. Those lames at school that are hard-pressed for girls might get it in like that, but definitely not me, you feel me?”

Relief relaxed her face. “Can you still take me for a ride?”

Xavier said, smiling, “I don't see any reason why I couldn't.”

2

SAMANTHA

 

M
r. Fox, Samantha's father, was dressed in an expensive black Armani business suit. He entered the exquisitely furnished grand dining room, the hard soles of his Gucci plain-toe oxfords clacking across the granite tile floor. Pulling and making last-minute adjustments to his tie, the man of the house approached his wife and daughter sitting at an exquisite, one-of-a-kind marble dining room table that had been set for breakfast.

Mr. Fox stopped and kissed his wife on the cheek.

“Sweetie,” he said to her, “what's for breakfast? I'm starving.” He sat and surveyed the beautifully decorated table—bowls of fruit, a gorgeous flowery centerpiece, extravagant dishware, and fine Blossom sterling silverware were placed before them. He took his place at the head of the table.

Mrs. Fox was dressed like she'd just stepped out of bed, a colorful floral print headscarf over her hair, a housecoat adorned with unique shapes and colors, and comfortable slippers on her feet.

She smiled. “Bentley said it was a surprise,” Mrs. Fox told her husband. “Said he'd be done shortly.”

Mr. Fox noticed his daughter staring absently out at the tennis court through one of the three enormous Roman patio doors overlooking an immaculate deck into the rich green acreage that made up their backyard.

As he picked up the
Wall Street Journal
, Mr. Fox asked his daughter concernedly, “Samantha, pumpkin, what's wrong with my baby?”

Samantha set her napkin on her lap and looked awkwardly at her father before returning her gaze back to the lush greenery offered by the backyard.

Mr. Fox turned his head away from his daughter and said to his wife, “I slept like a baby last night. Dear, how did you sleep?”

Mrs. Fox offered her husband a smile. “Sweetie, you didn't sleep like a baby, you slept and snored like some old drunken bum in an alley behind a Dumpster.”

Mr. Fox chuckled. “Are you snapping on me? You have some nerve. As violently as you sleep sometimes, throwing elbows and closed fists, I could use a couple of stiff drinks before going to bed. That way I won't feel any pain in my sleep.”

“Funny. Fitzgerald, why are you in such a good mood today?”

Mr. Fox opened his paper to the business section. “My partners and I have managed to acquire some prime riverfront real estate downtown. And with all of the big businesses buying up property down there to set up shop, our investment can be worth millions.”

“Fitzgerald, you know we don't have business discussions during family time.”

Mr. Fox winked at his wife and smiled. He then looked at Samantha. The girl was still staring out at the backyard.

Mr. Fox already knew what was wrong with his daughter. “If it's that boy Xavier, sweetie, give it time, you'll be over him soon. Besides, Sean admires you. He treats you real nice—”

“You mean he's rich, Daddy, and could possibly be rookie of the year, not to mention the direct access to the team you'll have with him as your son-in-law,” Samantha explained sarcastically.

“Fitzgerald,” Mrs. Fox said, “stop being insensitive. Leave her alone.”

Mr. Fox watched as their butler, a dark, average-size English fellow impeccably dressed in black servant's attire, wheeled out a cart of breakfast foods.

“Great, Bentley,” said Mr. Fox, rubbing his hands pleasurably as the butler started serving the family. “Just in time because I'm famished. My favorites—buttermilk pancakes with fresh strawberries, turkey sausage and scrambled eggs.”

After Bentley finished serving, he asked in a heavy English accent, “Sir, might there be anything else?”

Mr. Fox was placing a napkin in his lap when he said, “No, Bentley, that should be all.” He waited on the butler to leave. “Pumpkin,” he said to Samantha, “I'm sorry for being so insensitive, but I'm your father and I want what's best for you. Surely you can understand that.”

Samantha wasn't hungry. Didn't even bother with her food. Just kept staring out at the tennis court with her arms folded, like an answer to her problem would magically appear out of thin air.

Her father smeared butter over the top of his pancakes before pouring on deliciously thick and rich syrup. “My God, can you imagine what it would be like marrying into Xavier's family, a family full of convicts?”

This was the week for counting calories, so Mrs. Fox left off the butter and sparingly applied the syrup. “Enough, Fitzgerald. Can we eat in peace, please?”

Mr. Fox was chewing his food when he told his wife, “You said yourself you feared for your daughter's safety in Xavier's company.”

Mrs. Fox was a little thrown off by her husband blatantly tossing her underneath the bus. “That's not the way I put it, Fitzgerald,” she said uncomfortably, shifting her gaze to Samantha. “Yes, I—because I did fear for your safety. Samantha, honey, his crazy mother and her uneducated boyfriend tried to kidnap you—”

“To say nothing about that deranged Heather Larkin girl that he was messing around with trying to kick you down the stairs,” Mr. Fox interjected.

Samantha looked surprised. Shocked. She hadn't told her parents about that little situation with Xavier's crazy psycho ex Heather Larkin.

Mr. Fox swallowed some food and chased it with a little orange juice. “What? You didn't think that one would get back to us, huh?”

Samantha slowly unfolded her arms with a look of concern on her face. “How long have you guys known?”

Mr. Fox asked candidly, “Does it matter?”

“Fitzgerald,” Mrs. Fox intervened. She said to Samantha, “Honey, don't you think you should've told us about the incident?”

Samantha just sat there, pouting like a five-year-old—something she'd done millions of times when put on blast by her parents.

Mr. Fox poured more syrup over what was left of his pancakes. “If this wasn't your last year I'd snatch you right out of that little ex-con-producing public high school penitentiary. I should've had my head examined for letting my precious baby girl attend such a polluted, crime-infested dump.”

“Gee, Dad, tell us how you really feel,” Samantha said sarcastically.

“That will be enough out of you, young lady,” Mrs. Fox interrupted. “We should have punished you for telling Principal Skinner not to inform us of the incident. But we let it go because you weren't harmed.”

“Stands to reason we don't want you hanging out with Xavier,” Mr. Fox said sternly.

Samantha looked at both of her parents. “I'll be seventeen next month—you can't keep running my life forever. Next year I'm off to college—I can't believe that you guys are still treating me like a little kid.” She zeroed in on her mother. “Mom, of all people I can't believe that you don't understand.”

Samantha stood up from her chair, letting the napkin fall from her lap to the floor.

Mrs. Fox looked confused. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“My first day of school is about to begin in an hour and I don't want to be late, so may I be excused?” Samantha politely asked with a straight face.

Mr. Fox said through a mouthful of food, “Stay away from that Xavier boy. I don't want you to blow your chance with Sean Desmond.”

“Oh, Daddy,” Samantha huffed, as she turned on the balls of her feet to leave. “You will never understand.”

Samantha had made it through the expensively decorated great room and passed the exquisitely hand-carved railing of the double staircase underneath a stained-glass dome ceiling that suspended a beautiful chandelier over a marble foyer. She had opened one of two huge front doors when she heard her father's voice echo:

“Sean Desmond is a good thing for you. Please don't blow it.”

Don't blow it
, she thought. Right now, the only thing Samantha wished would blow away was her dad's meddling behind—right out of her life.

She saw her driver, black Lurch, standing at the back of the Cadillac Escalade with the door open in the circular driveway.

“Morning, young lady,” he said to Samantha.

Samantha knew it was rude, but she slid into the backseat without offering a word. She was pissed and didn't feel like talking. Why didn't everybody just leave her alone? She'd given her parents what they wanted, especially her father. The stormy relationship she'd had with Xavier was over. And as far as she was concerned, he'd moved on. The boy had totally flipped after she'd told him about her parents inviting Sean Desmond to Disney World with them. Xavier had acted like it was all her fault, like she had personally extended Sean an invitation.

As the driver circled and started down the long driveway, snaking through a dense, tropical oasis of freshly manicured grass, tons of shrubbery, and Mrs. Fox's prized rosebush gardens, Samantha was trying to picture her life without Xavier. He hadn't called her since hearing about the trip. Didn't answer the birthday wish she'd sent via text message. Had his little birthday party Saturday and didn't even have the common decency to include her. But from what she gathered Xavier had had his hands full with London Curry, some dizzy little nobody who was apparently trying to become the new Samantha.

Oh well,
Samantha thought.

She had come too far, and had gone through too much junk, to worry about something she couldn't control. This was her senior year, the last year of high school, and she wasn't going to let anything stop her from enjoying it . . . even if it wasn't going to be in the company of the one that she still held mad love for.

Samantha could tell that the day was shaping up to be a hot one. It wasn't even close to eight o'clock and the sun was a fireball in the clear blue morning sky. She went into her Louis Vuitton tote bag and removed a pair of Prada sunglasses. With them on her face, Samantha made herself comfortable on the supple leather and stared out at the world through the dark tint of the windows. Despite not having the only boy she'd ever cared about in her life this school year, Samantha had to find a way to push through it. Shake it off. She would be just fine. Besides, her two crazy BFFs were still riding with her. Tracy McIntyre and Jennifer Haywood were her road dogs and they would never bounce on her. They were the Three Musketeers—one for all and all for one.

Yeah,
she thought, as she looked out into the face of morning rush hour.
My senior year is going to be a lot of fun.