Hook Shot (Hoops 3)

She doesn’t get it. No one gets it. I hate people seeing her like that. I hate that he has seen her like that. She told me they used to fuck. I know that with my rational mind, but that photo flaunts an intimacy he never deserved with a woman he’s not worthy of.

“Ken, I need to, uh . . . I got something to do,” I tell her, dropping a kiss on her forehead. “That alright?”

“Yeah,” she says, concern on her face. “But get your shit under control before you talk to her.”

Kenya’s right. If I see Lotus now, like this, I’ll screw something up. But seeing her displayed like that, hearing Chase gloat over her, having him deny me like that . . . how can I not?

22

Lotus

“Oh, so you just out here living your best life and shit, huh?”

Yari’s joking question draws my attention away from the sample I’m consulting on with one of our seamstresses.

“Gimme a sec,” I tell her, grinning and turning back to the seamstress. “So the embroidery will go all along here.” I run my fingernail around the waistband of the skirt.

“But won’t see?” she asks, her English broken and her face puzzled.

“Short shirt.” I draw an imaginary line under my breasts. “You’ll see the embroidery on the skirt because the shirt will be so short.”

“Ahhh.” She offers a beatific smile of understanding and walks back over to the Juke sewing machines that are standard issue in this studio. I prefer my old Singer at home.

“What are you talking about, Ri?” I ask, propping my butt against one of the sewing tables.

“Jetsetting off to Milan.” She waves her hand in front of me. “Fly outfit. Face beat.”

“The makeup and dress were for a CFDA luncheon JP asked me to attend with him.” I tug the clingy silk away from my body and let it pop back. “Believe me, I’m about to slip into something more comfortable so I can get my work done.”

“Ooooh, love that dress,” Billie says, crossing the work room toward us. “Last year spring?”

I nod. It was one of my favorites. Burnt orange silk, strapless, A-line, it streams over my body from breast to knee, flaring out at the hem. We finished the look with gold rhinestone-studded ankle-strap stilettos, which are killing me.

“And the hair, too,” Yari chimes in. “I haven’t seen you wear it platinum without the braids.”

I touch the huge cloud of curls the humidity will only make huge-er. I took the braids out, but kept the color. “JP’s brilliant idea,” I say dryly. “Experimenting, he calls it.”

“So now that you’re back,” Yari says, “Billie and I are thinking we need some BFF time. What do you say to movie night at our place? I’m thinking we’re long overdue for Black Panther.”

“Again?” Billie asks faintly.

“Wakanda forever,” Yari says, crossing her chest in the Black Panther salute.

I repeat the salute and laugh. “But Wakanda will have to wait because I have plans.”

With Kenan, I singsong in my head.

I don’t mean to smile, but even thinking his name has me all up in my feelings. When I got home from the airport last night, I had mail. No return address, but I knew immediately who sent it. I recognized that nearly barely readable scrawl and my heartbeat quickened when I slid it open.

“There is no one else but you, my friend, my equal.”

--Song of Solomon 5:2

I stowed the card in the clutch I carried today, and have probably read it twenty times.

“Wha

t plans?” Billie leans one hip on a sewing table. “These plans wouldn’t happen to be with Kenan Ross?”