“Hm.” I scoff.
“Should I keep going?” Blake asks.
I stare ahead at the dancing lights on Westheimer while I speed underneath them. The reds mix with the greens and yellows.
“Don’t act like you don’t already know what my answer is. That’s your job, ain’t it? To know all the fucked up things about me?”
“I guess that’s a yes.” He laughs, looking back at his phone. “‘Suddenly, that tweet with no context wasn’t so mysterious once we ventured to the timelines of the three new accounts on his following list—two of his new teammates and a freshman girl at Lockwood State who goes by the handle @babyphat04. To the average Twitter user, it may appear the former five star recruit has been talking to himself in cheeky riddles and spouting Dough lyrics now and then over the past six weeks, but us Twitter sleuths think otherwise...’”
He stops and presses the side of the phone, but I need to hear all the ways those reporters bumrushed their way into me and Phat’s world. It was invasive and too reminiscent of my past life where everything about me was newsworthy—even my prom date.
I drop the empty cup in the cup holder, gnawing on my bottom lip and pulling into a shopping center parking lot.
“I’ll ask you one more time, Kid. What all does she know about you?”
His question takes the excitement and heart pumping adrenaline out of pushing a 911. Now, it’s the same as driving a Honda.
“Everything.”
“Don’t lie to me. I did you two solids for free.”
“Yeah, that I didn’t fucking ask for.”
“Come on, you’ll thank meandrepay me for this later when I rehab your image. Now tell me…” He tears the plastic from the Dum-Dum. “Does she know how pervasive sugar cravings are for an alcoholic trying to kick their habit?”
He turns to me, biting into the sucker, and humming to himself.
“Or is that something AW still ignoring? I mean, shit, I can’t blame the man. He’s already one scandal in the hole. I don’t think he can afford another one with you being all PR-less and what not. What would the headline for this one be? I’m not as clever as thatTimeswriter, but shit, I know it’s a word out there that rhymes with alcoholic.” He bunches his eyebrows together while chewing.
I swallow an even more bitter taste than Cheyenne.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I read the leaked sheriff’s report, my guy. Not the part they released to the public with Cheyenne’s description and the vague details of what she says you did…butall of it. And at the end of it, all those rumors rumbling in the sports world about your little habit didn’t sound so much like rumors anymore.” He glances at my empty cup.
“I’m telling you, you don’t know what the fuck you talking about.”
If he did, he’d understand why. How else was I supposed to slow down Doctor Lee’s words when they came pummeling out of his mouth in riddles filled with medical jargon? Only a shot of 1942 could help me decipher what metastatic meant and what it had to do with Mom.
“At least tell me this—does she know what happened the night y’all celebrated Angie’s birthday on that yacht in Malibu? Did you explain if Cheyenne happened before or after you told Dough all the inspiring shit a nineteen-year-old kid could tell a grown man? Did you tell her if your Pops paid Cheyenne and her family off like everyone believes and then had her sign an NDA just in case she came knocking back at your door asking for more to help soothe her wounds? Or does none of this encompass theeverythingyou’re talking about?”
“This what you wanted?” I ask. “To get all the answers to the questions those fuck ass reporters been asking for the past two years? You wanna use my answers to blackmail me even more?”
“No, no, no. You have this all wrong. I’m trying to show you the way—lead you to greener pastures. There are two very apparent things you want in this lifetime and that’s playing in the NBA like your Pops and to be the man you were before. Let’s face it...” He holds up his phone. “This will no doubt come with its own mess. You think they crucified you before? Well, wait until this hits the blogs without me cleaning it up for public consumption. The redemption is always harder than the condemnation but if you fuck with a guy like me, I can make redemption as easy as dribbling that ball you love so much. Or I can sweep this right under the rug where it belongs, so it doesn’t see the light of day because you and I both know she’s not ready for it. She’s unpolished, inexperienced, and young. I can talk to her though—show her how good life can be when you’re always ten steps ahead of the rest of the world. Because, let’s be honest, what do you think she would do if she woke up with the world at her front door without warning, asking why she’s entertaining an accused rapist? Babygirl ain’t ready for that. Life with you ain’t no walk in the park, brother.”
PART2
THE FIRST DAYS OF FALL
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
Lourdes
Chelsea found the location to the interest meeting for the sorority she’s obsessed with and I can’t pretend to care because I keep tasting Ace’s tongue. I want to tell her it tastes like the sweet stuff he likes and the bitter liquor he drinks, but I can’t. I can’t even tell her what happened at Splashtown every time she stops babbling to break through my thoughts and remind me I went to my first party with a boy and not her.
Getting blackout wasted is a mind-fuck. I don’t know why anyone would purposely do something so confusing to themselves. Parts of that night come back to me in inconsistent chunks. The worst parts are the moments I can’t understand, like Bryson’s faceless teammates tugging at my swimsuit and his hot breath in my ear. They make me analyze and re-analyze Ace’s words from the day after:“You should ask him how he talks about you in a room full of men.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” Chelsea blurts, taking a breath and shoving her sunglasses up.
