NICO
Me: Yo Diva! I need advice. To velvet or not velvet?>
Saint: Bro. Why didn’t you ask me?
Me: Because you think cowboy boots go with everything. This is a classy event. I can’t wear my dusty Lucchese’s.
Saint: You have Lucchese’s? Dude. Those are like a grand.
Me: Yeah. And I live in Texas. I have to fit in.
Saint: Poser. By the way, velvet for sure.
Me: Fuck off. Where the hell is Diva? He’s been awfully quiet lately.
Saint: Guess he thinks he’s better than us becausehe’s in NYC.
Me: Who’s the poser, now? C’mon Soba. Are you gonna leave us hanging? Not cool, bro.
We pull up to a high rise building in the heart of downtown Houston, and my eyes travel up the steel and concrete structure. The sun is starting to sink lower in the sky, and the pink and orange rays cast a kaleidoscope of colors against the tinted windows.
The driver pulls the sleek, black Mercedes up to the entrance, and a valet rushes to the car. Seems like cleaning up peoples fucked up lives pays well. This place has got to cost a grip. More than my rookie contract can pay for.
I’m not getting peanuts, but I highly doubt I could afford a swanky place like this. I’ve got a couple more years to go before I can really ball out.
The door swings open and I step out, straightening my jacket and squaring my shoulders.
“Good evening, sir. How may I help you?” The valet takes one step back and tucks his hands behind his back, waiting for my answer.
“Good evening. I’m here for Valentina San Ramón.”
His bright smile is immediate and for some reason it really bothers me. “Ms. San Ramón. Yes. I will buzz her. You are welcome to wait in our guest lobby.”
I dip my chin and thank him, then strut into the lobby. People are milling about and they all stop to stare at me. It only takes a couple of minutes for a few people to recognize who I am. I shake some hands, sign some autographs and take some pics with my prize-winning smile that I’m sure to see floating around on social media later. Definitely some good press. I’ll be sure to pointthem out to Coach and Monty (I’ve decided that if Valentina can call him Monty, so can I).
I’m shaking hands with one guy who can’t quit talking about my college games when I see a flash of gold from the corner of my eye. Slowly, I turn to face whomever is headed my way and I’m stunned speechless.
Violins play, angels sing, and a spotlight shines down on the beauty walking towards me. Or at least, that’s what it feels like because I honestly think I’ve died and gone to heaven.
Valentina sashays across the lobby like a supermodel walking the runway. She’s poured into a gold strapless gown that shimmers when it catches the light, and the fabric flows to the floor like a waterfall. Her toned and tanned leg sparkles as it steps through the high slit, and I fold my hands in front of me to hide my growing admiration.
I can’t take my eyes off of her. She’s like a mirage to a man dying of thirst in the desert. She can’t possibly be real, yet she is.
My feet finally break free from the concrete blocks they seem to be stuck in, and I meet her halfway. I want to reach out and run my hand over her sleek black hair. It looks wet and slick, pushed back behind her ears and giving way for the real star of the show; her eyes. Hercat-like orbs are lined in black and I feel like she could devour me with just one look.
“Wow. You look…” I shake my head, still unbelieving that I’m in the presence of such beauty. “Stunning.”
I take her hand in mine and kiss the back of it. A warm smile graces her face with lips the color of dusty pink petals.
“Thank you. Already playing the gentleman.” Hertone is coy and it’s quite a change from the usual harshness I’m met with. “You look very handsome this evening, Mr. Loving.”
With her hand still in mine, I smooth the lines of my black jacket. I went with a simple yet classic black suit, but the tailor insisted I needed something to set me apart from the others, so he added a black tie with an ornate gold design. Now I know why he insisted on gold. I added my own black velvety loafers with gold studs because I’m not your average loafer wearing guy.
Side by side, we look like a perfectly paired and styled couple.
“Ready?” I ask, holding out my elbow for her.
Her hand slips into the crook of my arm and I breathe deep. It’s the simplest of touches, but my body ignites and images flash behind my eyes. Never have I reacted so intensely to a woman that wasn’t all about sex. This is sensuality. Not at all like the girls who wear short skirts with their tits popping out of their tops.
