Page 37 of Played
Nope, Solomon wasn’t the only person who sought out help. But while he’s still seeing his, I stopped after about two months of sessions.
Call it surrendering to toxic thinking, but the fear of someone discovering I couldn’t handle Keshaun’s death on my own rose above my own concerns of mental health. Women in my field already face enough prejudices and biases, and I couldn’t voluntarily pin a target on my back that marked me as weak or not tough enough to handle the loss. Even Dad and my brothers ... they would never admit aloud or probably even to themselves that they doubt my strength, but the way they’re so careful around me speaks volumes.
So yeah, I quit therapy, but some of what I learned manage to stick.
And now, as I stand in the firehouse bay filled with engines, I pray that the slight calming of the chaos whirling inside my head stays thatway. Calm. Quiet. Because if I glance down at the text I received just a couple of minutes ago, the disquiet, the doubt ... the fucking excitement ... might send me running.
I could’ve said no when Solomon called and asked if he could swing by with his son. Hell, Ishould’vesaid no. It’s not like we’ve had any communication since that first night Graham followed me home as a bodyguard. But hearing Solomon’s deep, crushed-velvet timbre for the first time in nearly two weeks—and throw in the sweet sound of a child’s voice—and I caved. With not even a respectable fight.
I fucking suck.
“Oooh, Daddy! A fire truck!” The high-pitched voice I’d heard over the phone jerks my attention to the driveway and the small boy and huge man walking toward me.
Heat fills me like a swollen flood, and though I try to dam it up, my ovaries aren’t trying to hear it and throw themselves on the floor of the bay like the thirsty bitches they are.
It’s been nearly two weeks since I last saw him, but the way my cheeks prickle even as my pussy clenches around aching emptiness, it might as well as have been two days. Two hours. Mortification mingles with lust as I stare at Solomon, taking in that beautiful face cloaked in a frown that I’m coming to think is his default position, and his tall, big body clothed in a navy cable-knit sweater, dark-blue jeans that hug his powerful, thick thighs, and brown Timbs.
My breath stutters in my lungs, lodging in my throat before softly wheezing out between my lips. Apparently, my mouth, nipples, and all other erogenous zones vividly remember that the last time I saw this man, our lips and tongues were wrestling for domination. And he was winning. And so was I. God, so was I.
Too bad my mind possesses an equally detailed account of his rejection, of the humiliation afterward. Of how I let down my carefully fortified defenses and allowed myself to be vulnerable, only for him to show me why trusting people is overrated.
As Solomon draws closer, I jerk my way-too-infatuated gaze from his hooded green eyes and drop my attention to the mini-me at his side. And no matter how I feel about the larger version of this boy, there’s no way in hell I can contain the smile that slowly stretches my lips.
He’s as beautiful as his father.
The tight curls that grace his head might be a mixture of his father’s sandy brown and a darker shade, and his skin may be a couple of shades darker than Solomon’s. But everything else? The bright-green eyes, the strong facial structure, and his sturdy little body ... they’re all his father. But it’s that huge carefree smile that has my heart giving an Olympic-gold-worthy flip in my chest. God. In another decade or so, he’s going to be hell on the female population.
Sliding my hands into the front pockets of my uniform pants, I smile, and when the little boy’s eyes land on me, I fight back a laugh at how round they go. He looks like a life-size anime character, with those big eyes and bigger grin.
“Daddy!” he yells, tugging on Solomon’s hand with both of his. “It’s a fireman! See?”
Chuckling, I approach them, squatting down to his level when they reach the edge of the bay.
Holding out my hand, I can’t ignore or deny the nerves that grip and have a good ol’ drunken time in my belly. This is Solomon’s son.Kendra’sson. And though this will most likely be my first and last time meeting him, I want him to ... like me.
God, I need to chill. Attempting to read too much into his and Solomon’s presence here at my firehouse would be a mistake of monumental proportions. Like, Pac-hooking-up-with-Suge-Knight monumental proportions.
“See? That’s where you’re wrong. I’m no man.”
Damn. I mentally wince. There I go again. Impossibly, the boy’s grin seems to brighten even more, and I’m thankful he didn’t catch thatLord of the Ringsslip. Flicking a glance up at a silent Solomon, I catchhis slight frown, and my stomach goes haywire again, my nerves joining in for shits and giggles.
Yeah, I’ll be keeping my attention focused on the son, not the father. The child is safest, between the two of them.
“You’re a firelady!” He slides his hand into mine and, tiny grip firm, shakes it back and forth. And he might as well have reached right into my chest, grabbed my heart, and yelled “Mine!” like it’s his newest and most favorite toy. Because it’s now his. “Hi, firelady!”
Laughing, I slip my hand free of his and squeeze his shoulder.
“How ’bout, since we’re going to be friends, you call me Adina. And what’s your name?”
“Khalil.” He turns to his father. “Daddy, Dina’s my friend. She said so! I’m friends with a firelady!”
This kid.
Forget a decade, he’s hell on the female population now. Me being that population of one.
Standing, I force myself to look at Solomon again.
“Hey. Good to see you again,” I lie.
