CHAPTER 11
Antonio wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to go out with DiMaggio and other guys from the office. Actually, he knew why. He didn’t want to be alone. The long-term rental where he was staying was sterile and cold; it didn’t feel like home. He didn’t have many friends in Atlanta either. If he spent the evening alone with his thoughts, all he’d do was worry about people who weren’t thinking about him. Namely, PJ and Jackie. Especially Jackie. So, he’d decided to go to an overpriced bar at an even more overpriced private cigar club in Buckhead.
Antonio looked at his phone every few minutes. He wasn’t sure why; maybe he hoped Jackie would call and let him know about PeeWee. He’d held her so close today, for the first time in ages. And she’d let him. He scrolled through his contact list. He couldn’t find her underJfor Jackie, orLfor Lucky. Did he even have her current number? Did she have his? He recalled that last time he’d tried to call her cell, the phone was disconnected. He’d had to go through Elite to get in touch. Now, he felt entirely stupid.
“Hey Antonio, you interested in another round? It’s on me.” Donny leaned across the table. He was already pretty plastered, slurring his words and spitting a little too much.
Antonio looked at his nearly full glass of Château de Montifaud. “I’m good. I think I’m going to head out. It’s getting kind of late.”
“Late?” teased Monty Perkins, who Antonio had learned was a new agent at Elite. “We’re just getting started. We’re thinking of hitting up Blue Flame. You know, for the wings.”
“More like chickenheads,” chimed in Kurt Lauger, a junior agent from AMW. He was the lowest-earning agent among them, hence his not paying for a single round of drinks.
Antonio wasn’t amused. The six other men erupted into laughter, slapping each other on the arms. Antonio had long outgrown the strip club scene and the crude jokes that went along with it. He could think of better uses of his money and time. He had nothing against stripping as a profession. It was honest work. But these dudes were about to treat one of Atlanta’s landmark adult establishments like a petting zoo, and he wasn’t down for that.
“Good one, Kurt,” said Donny. “Be glad The Viper didn’t hear you say that. She’d probably tell you to go fuck yourself.”
Antonio paused, drink midair. He’d overheard them refer to Jackie as “The Viper” a time or two in the office. Their disdain for her seemed highly unwarranted. But Antonio wasn’t completely obtuse. He understood that Jackie outworked, outhustled, and outmaneuvered these men at every turn. She got the big deals, the premiere athletes, and had even raised the profile of some smaller names to mega-star status. She was good. Damn good. It didn’t help that she was a woman. The only person who came close to Jackie’s work ethic was, well, him. Yet, despite his towering presence, somehow, these clowns didn’t feel threatened by him. He wondered why.
“The Viper isn’t here to tell you off because she thinks she’s too good for us,” Donny continued, shaking a finger in Kurt’s face. “She’d rather be with her lady friends. Like that hot reporter. Ryan, I think’s her name? Or maybe Jackie’s home alone with that pampered pooch. Have you seen her office? She has pictures of him all over like he’s her kid or something.”
“Jackie has a dog?” asked Monty. “I didn’t take her for a dog person.”
“Right! I thought she had a thing for pussies. The tall, WNBA kind, to be exact,” snorted Kurt, looking proud of his biphobic joke.
Antonio had heard about the whole Katrice Nixon fiasco shortly before he met Jackie in Vegas. Katrice was a player on an epic level—both on and off the court. He wasn’t one to listen to rumors, but it was hard to ignore the talk about the messes she made, dating her teammates’ girlfriends and screwing over folks—including Jackie Miles, who, at the time, Antonio had only known from afar as a talented, no-nonsense agent. At one point, AMW had been eying Katrice—despite the drama, she was a catch, one of the biggest superstars in the women’s league. Knowing her history with Jackie, Antonio had convinced the agency to pass on her. Anyone who’d sent Jackie into a rage like that wasn’t worth the headache. After spending an entire weekend with Jackie in Vegas, he’d felt he had a pretty good read on her. She was reserved to a fault—but when she opened up, it became clear: There was a sweetheart buried beneath the tough exterior. He didn’t need to know the entire story to get that Katrice was probably the one who was wrong.
“Maybe if she got a little dog in her, Jackie wouldn’t be such a bitch herself,” Donny retorted, slamming his empty glass on the table.
Laughter erupted around the table. Antonio abruptly got out of his seat, his chair making a loud scrape across the floor. “Or,” he said, “Maybe if you had less bitch inyou, you’d be half as good an agent as Jackie.”
The entire table went silent. Donny began to stammer out a weak apology, but Antonio raised his hand.
“Save it. By the way, Jackie’s dog had to go to the hospital today. You all could have a little compassion.” Antonio threw a couple hundred-dollar bills on the table, which far exceeded what he’d drank. He looked at the time on his Rolex. He’d wasted half his night.
By the time Antonio made it back to his apartment, he was exhausted. He peeled out of his jacket and dress shoes, loosened his tie, and made his way to the fridge. He had an assortment of takeout containers to choose from. He’d much rather cook for himself, but he hadn’t had time to shop. He opted for leftover Chicken piccata and linguine from one of his favorite Italian spots. He grabbed a beer and plopped down on the sofa, ready to dig into his meal, listen to the latest audiobook by Attica Locke, and forget this night with the guys had even happened.
Just as he was about to crank up his Spotify, his FaceTime rang. He smiled, seeing his parents’ names on the screen. They were on an extended trip across the African continent, enjoying their retirement. Last time he talked to them, they were in Cape Town.
“Hey, world travelers,” Antonio answered cheerily. “How are you? Where are you all now?”
“Hey baby! Horace! Ant is on the phone now!” Antonio’s mother, Annette, didn’t bother to mute herself as she yelled. After a few seconds, his father—a grayer version of Antonio—appeared on-screen, looking sleepy. “I had to wake him up anyway, otherwise he’s going to miss our safari,” Annette said.
“And where are you again?” repeated Antonio. He tried to scan the background for clues, but he had no idea. Then again, he wouldn’t have recognized much. He’d only been to one country in Africa, and it was a layover in Accra.
“We’re in Kenya,” Horace replied. “And it’s early as hell. The sun isn’t even out, and your Mama is waking me up!”
