“Who was the lucky winner?”
Marcela puckers her lips toward a woman with a crowd gathered around her. She’s easily over six feet tall, in black-strap stilettos that show off even, painted toes—professionally done and not a rushed hack job while hopping to the door in open-toed shoes that are too tight.
She’s slimmer than me, with perky breasts on display in a V-neck evening gown with silver sequins. Crystals, maybe, judging by the diamonds dripping from her ears.
“That’s Kenya,” my sister supplies. “Former cheerleader for Buffalo who does some type of TV work. I don’t remember what she said. She’s in town as an ambassador for the children’s hospital.”
Charitable and looks like Rihanna.
“She mentioned she and Antonio are friends. Sounded like they were close a few years ago, before she moved away.” Marcela tilts her head. “Didn’t he tell you about tonight?”
“No,” I mutter. He’s been quiet all day, with a one-word response here and an “I’m good” there.
It shouldn’t surprise me that his “friend” is here, dropping thousands for a date and possibly recording an R&B album later. She’s gorgeous.
Out-of-your-league, I-laser-off-every-ounce-of-body-hair beautiful. Of course they would be familiar.
A night with Knight.
“I’m going to go.”
Marcela frowns. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nope. Just tired.” I offer a quick smile and steal a final glance at Kenya. Even her teeth are pretty. “The farm tours are this weekend, so I better pack. Congrats on a successful fundraiser.”
I need a distraction, far away from the feelings I can’t shake.
Chapter 33
Antonio
“Right there! Don’t stop!”
“Shit!”
“Oh!”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Give me that pussy juice!”
“Ahh!”
“Give me that pussy JUICE!”
The art hanging feet above shakes at the force of the headboard colliding with the wall. It clangs three times before a high-pitched squeal threatens to rupture my eardrums.
Fucking should be an Olympic sport, but not the night before a game.
“He better not pull a damn thing,” I mumble from under my forearm.
I warned Bread countless times to save it for after we play. If he wants to drizzle chocolate syrup all over his body and bedazzle his dick hole in sequins, I’ll support him.Afterthe game.
“Who are you calling?” I ask Kendrick.
“The front desk.” He sucks his teeth and rubs the sleep out of his eyes with the hotel phone pressed against his ear. “I’m no snitch, but I’ve had enough of him and the hyena. Ain’t no way that’s the same woman from earlier, hollering like she got shot.”
I toss a pillow over my face to keep from cracking up. He’s dead serious.
