Page 38 of Played
And maybe he knows because, for the first time, the corner of his mouth twitches in an almost smile.
“That’s what your mouth saying, ma, but that dry-ass tone is telling something entirely different.”
“Ooh, Daddy! You saidass,” Khalil points out. And if I’m not mistaken, it’s utter glee that colors his voice.
“Yeah, my bad, li’l man.” He ruffles his son’s curls, but that apology seems more automatic than heartfelt. Why do I get the feeling he apologizes a lot for his language? Because from my experience, “agitated adjectives” are always flying outta that mouth. “Thanks for this,” he says to me, voice softer yet still somehow rough, like calloused fingers sliding over my senses.
“No problem. It’s my pleasure to do this ... for him,” I add pointedly.
Another one of those almost-there smiles, and I redirect my focus to his son. Either that or roll up on my toes and sink my teeth into that corner where his lush bottom lip and slightly thinner top one meet.
Fuck no,my common sense rails.
Fuck yes, sis!my vagina eggs me on.
Since I’m not into self-flagellation, I’m riding with common sense.
“Ready to go, Khalil? I told the other firemen you were stopping by, and they can’t wait to meet you. Then we can check out the fire truck. How does that sound?” I ask, using his term for the engine.
“Yay!” He pumps a fist, lifting his knee to meet his elbow. “Can I slide down the pole too?”
I scoff, then grin. “Uh, yeah. Of course. What’s a visit to a firehouse without sliding down the pole?”
Khalil cheers again and catches me completely off guard when he grabs my hand and swings it between us. I look over at Solomon, who lifts his gaze from our clasped hands to my face. I wait to see if he’s going to object, but when he gives me an almost imperceptible nod, I steer him and Khalil toward the door leading into the firehouse.
Moments later, we enter the common area, where most of the guys are sitting on the couch or at the table, waiting on the lunch that Marco and Paul are in the kitchen preparing for this shift. Almost all gazes swing toward us, and the noise level lowers as we move farther into the rooms.
“Well, who do we have here?” Jared shoves back his chair and approaches us, a wide grin lighting his craggy face. With his arm outstretched toward Solomon, he says, “Solomon Young. Jared Silva.” Solomon clasps my godfather’s hand in his, pumps it up and down. “Damn, it’s good to meet you. Now I can congratulate you in person. Man, that was a fantastic winning shot in the third against the Knights. You and Danver are killing it in the paint.”
Solomon nodded. “’Preciate it.”
“And who’s this?”
Jared bends down to Khalil’s level, as I’d done several minutes ago. He extends his hand to Khalil and shakes the little boy’s. Khalil’s eyes are so round they damn near fill up half his face. The irony. He’s awed by the fireman while the fireman is fanboying over his father. It’s both cute and hilarious.
“I’m Khalil,” he whispers. “And you’re a fireman!”
“I sure am. Want to meet the other firemen?” Jared asks, standing, still holding Khalil’s hand. He jerks his chin toward Solomon. “Is that okay with you?”
“Can I, Daddy? Can I go with Fireman Jared?” Khalil’s practically bouncing up and down, and those big green eyes of his plead with his father.
He’s made of stronger stuff than me if he can resist that.
“Yeah, that’s cool. Remember our rules, li’l man.”
Khalil jerks his head up and down. “Uh-huh. Be nice and don’t get in grown folks’ business.”
A snicker slips free without my permission. If that last one ain’t every Black parent’s number one rule. That, and don’t go over to nobody’s house asking for food. Viviane Wright didn’t play about either one of ’em.
Jared leads Khalil across the room, and soon he’s surrounded by the others, and the boy’s smile is so bright it rivals any sun.
“Well, look who finally decided to show his face around here.” Malcolm saunters up to me and Solomon, holding a cup of coffee, with a scowl riding his face. “My sister’s only been hounded by rabid-ass reporters because of you. Full disclosure? I think she can do better.”
Dammit.
I forgot all about Solomon being my fake boyfriend. Shit. I really should’ve found some time between the outbreak of my sudden celebrity—or infamy—and Solomon’s call to tell them we broke up. Or maybe, I don’t know, something wacky like the truth. But that ship has sailed and is on its way to the Undying Lands. Not only will I look likethe liar I am, but if I ever need to pull the fake-boyfriend ruse again with someone else, no one will fall for it.
Note that I feel not one bit of guilt about being a liar when it will save me from another one of Viviane the Matchmaker’s ill-fated hookups.
