Page 13 of Played
“Okay.” At my dry response, Noni laughs again, then lets me go.
Minutes later, I park and climb out of my car, and my hand brushes against the hard piece of plastic still clipped to my shirt. The way I rolled up out of that arena, I completely forgot to return the visitor’s pass to security. With more force than necessary, I tug the pass off and toss it onto the passenger seat. If I had a trash can nearby, I’d dump it in there. And maybe toss a match in for good measure. I don’t need any more reminders of my ill-advised visit to the Pirates’ headquarters or the hockey player with the pretty eyes and chain saw for a mouth.
Being in his presence had stirred something I wasn’t prepared to encounter. Wasn’t prepared to feel again. Guilt and shock twisted in thatsomethinglike threads in a tightly woven rope. I draw to a halt in front of my car’s hood, briefly closing my eyes.
For a second, I’d been Icarus, flying too close to the beauty and sensuality of that stern face, the power practically humming from that huge strong body. But then, the glint in those eyes, the anger and, yes, pain that he wore like that long-sleeved black shirt and those joggers he never should be allowed to wear in public sent me plummeting toward an emotional sea of my own.
Like Maya Angelou said, people might forget what you said, but they’ll never forget how you made them feel. I’m paraphrasing, but still ... it’s true.
The exact words Solomon and I exchanged might eventually fade from my memory. But I’ll never forget the hurt, shame, anger, and, God help me, lust that bubbled and seethed inside me.
I’ll never forget that, for just a few moments, he made me feel alive. So painfully alive.
That, more than anything, makes me thankful I won’t see him again.
Chapter Four
ADINA
“No, Ma. I didn’t forget the wine.” I push my car door open, stepping out with my cell phone pressed to my ear. With my free hand, I stretch across the driver’s seat and grab the grocery store bag with the aforementioned wine.
“It’s not that boxed wine you drink, is it?” Her disdain couldn’t be clearer if she waved a hand in front of her nose and told me my alcohol choices were shit.
“No, Ma,” I repeated, rolling my eyes. “Although I don’t know why you’re acting all bougie. I’ve seen you knock back some twelve-dollar wine before.”
“All right, Adina. Don’t get your li’l feelings hurt right before dinner. I’ve heard it’s bad for the digestion,” she says sweetly.
I snort. All my teasing aside, Dr. Viviane Wright might be a professor of history and African studies at Brown University, but it would be a mistake for someone to think the title and prestigious college meant she wouldn’t verbally flay anyone who dared to play in her face. And she’d do it with a smile.
I love her to death.
“Fine.” I huff out a laugh. “Can I get off the phone now since I’m right outside your door? This fifteen-dollar wine needs to breathe at least two minutes before we eat.”
“Adina Joy Wright—”
“Joking. Just joking.” I laugh, holding up a hand in surrender, even though she can’t see the gesture. “I’m on my way in the house.”
“Bye, girl.”
She hangs up on me, and a grin spreads across my face as I shake my head. Bumping my hip against the car door, I shut it and glance around the neighborhood I grew up in. It’s one of many in Providence yet unique unto itself. Just one of the many reasons I love my city.
What started as a port city that saw a healthy importation of sugar, molasses, and firearms as well as a brisk slave trade evolved and matured into a liberal, incredibly diverse place filled with universities, art, music, great food, and culture. A person can walk down a street and glimpse gorgeous murals, take a ghost tour through the city’s east side, or catch a play at Rites and Reason Theatre at Brown University, one of the longest-running Black theaters in the country. The people themselves are an integral part of Providence’s fabric. Loud, sometimes a little rough around the edges, colorful and self-deprecating, we are a community that thrives on our pride and ingenuity.
It’s as much home as the colonial I grew up in.
I start up the walkway, and glancing down at my phone, I check my messages. Today and tomorrow are my days off, and Noni and I were supposed to get together for a girls’ night. Since Noni suggested it, that could mean anything from binging Hulu and Chinese food to drinks at a strip club.
Nope. No message yet. Maybe I should—
“Adina.”
I freeze. Every muscle locks up. I know that voice.
I know thatfuckingvoice.
I slowly turn around, hand clutching the phone so tight my fingers throb in protest.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Solomon Young.
