Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
I should give her somewhere else to be.
CHAPTER 16
HENDRIX
I’m not really a basketball fan.
I’m here for the vibes and the exposure. That moment displaying Chapel on the jumbotron at the biggest game of the playoffs so far? That’s why we came. Millions of people just saw her in the best seats in the house. That clip will circulate all over social media for days. The sports pundits on TV probably identified her as the current “it” girl who won the model competition Lewks. They’re sharing her backstory, commenting on the “unlikely” victory of a woman with vitiligo winning a beauty competition. All going according to plan.
In my peripheral vision, Chapel blows a kiss to the camera, clouds of pink champagne spilled across her brown skin. Her hair has been cropped close and dyed strawberry blond. On-screen she is a tableau of vibrant colors and contrasts, a bird of paradise in full bloom. All eyes on her tonight could translate to my phone ringing off the hook tomorrow. We haven’t landed a cosmetic contract yet. That’s my personal goal; for a makeup company to want her, not to cover up her vitiligo, or to say she’s beautiful in spite of it, but to look for ways to highlight that she’s beautiful because of it. One of them could see her tonight on the biggest stage in sports, not just holding her own, but holding the world rapt.
So I endure two hours of a game I’m not particularly interested in.
I’m playing on my phone when the text message comes over.
Maverick: Wordle? Animal Crossing? What’s so good on that phone you couldn’t be bothered to smile for the cameras?
I look up, glancing around the arena, but I don’t see Maverick anywhere. Realistically, it’s a sold-out crowd of thousands, so no surprise there.
Maverick: Look higher.
I let my gaze roam until I find the luxury boxes that ring the upper level of the arena. In one of them, I barely make out Maverick standing beside his assistant, Bolt, and a man taller than the two of them.
Me: Candy Crush actually.
Maverick: I have a box.
Me: I see that.
Maverick: Come up.
He’s really saying come see me, which I definitely should not do.
Me: I think we’re fine down here with the common folks.
Maverick: Common folks, my ass. Your seats are $25,000 a pop. Probably cost more than this box.
My brows stretch to my hairline, shock freezing my fingers over the keypad for a second. I knew these were fantastic seats when Imani offered them, but I didn’t realize they were that good. She probably didn’t either since they were gifted to her.
Me: Nothing but the best for my girls
Maverick: I think you should come up here if only so we can observe my assistant and yours insult each other for thirty seconds before sneaking off to fuck like wildebeests in some dark corner.
Bolt didn’t call Skipper and she didn’t call him. Though it was a strange encounter, I could tell she was disappointed he never reached out at all.
“Ladies, one of my friends has a box,” I say, leaning forward to look at Chapel and Skipper. “And invited us to come up. You interested?”
“Hell, yeah.” Chapel grabs her small YSL bag. “I know they got better food and superior liquor.”
“You’re probably right.” I laugh.
Me: Tell me how to get there. We’re on our way.
Maverick: I was hoping you’d say that.
Ten minutes later, I’m asking if this was a good idea. Putting myself in closer proximity to one of the most charismatic, intelligent, successful… and dammit fiiiine men I’ve ever met makes no sense when he’s strictly off-limits. When indulging the attraction could derail my goals. I’m still reciting this mantra to myself when the elevator arrives at the box floor and the doors open.
“Who’s this friend, by the way?” Skipper asks. “I didn’t bother to…”
Her words trail into astonished silence when we come face-to-face with Bolt as soon as we step off the elevator. A muscle ticks in his jaw and his posture is stiff—shoulders tight and hands shoved into pockets of flawlessly tailored slacks. Tonight’s bow tie is pin-striped. Skipper’s steps halt beside me and she growls under her breath.
“Ms. Barry,” Bolt addresses me, not looking at Skipper. “This way. Mr. Bell is waiting for you.”
Skipper grabs my elbow and hisses in my ear. “I’m gonna piss in your coffee tomorrow. You coulda told me.”
“And miss this reaction?” My chuckle is low, my amusement is high. “No way.”
When we step into the luxury box, Maverick’s back is to me. He and the other man I spotted from the floor face the plexiglass. Even though the man stands a few inches taller than Maverick, I recognize the legacy of his strong shoulders and the proud set of his head in who I presume to be his son. They’re deep in conversation, and when they turn their heads to speak to each other, their profiles are so similarly stark and strong and raw-boned, I’ll eat my Louis Vuitton sneaker if they aren’t father and son.