Love T.K.O. Page 13

  Lowering the microphone, he said, “I know. Just shaking things up a bit. Anything for the center, right, Doc?”

  Rashawn was working her nerves to the bone. If everyone hadn’t been watching them, Yasmin would have smacked the grin off his face. Digging her fingernails into his flesh made her feel better, but didn’t draw blood. In her line of work, she had to be a quick thinker and although she had been caught off guard by his sudden announcement, it was nothing she couldn’t handle. Once they reached the podium, she took the microphone from his hands and faced the mostly female crowd. “Isn’t our emcee handsome, ladies?”

  Women shrieked and applauded.

  “Not only has Mr. Bishop graciously donated his time to this event, he’s also agreed to be auctioned off!”

  Rashawn’s face crumpled in embarrassment. He coughed, fear flashing in his eyes. His cool demeanor slid away under the bright lights. Smiling ruefully, he pleaded silently for forgiveness. Yasmin felt a pang of guilt, but that didn’t stop her from saying, “I know some of you guys were hoping to bid, but this offer is strictly for the ladies.”

  Groans and cheers mingled.

  Yasmin subdued her laughter. No one messed with her and got away with it! Why didn’t I think of this sooner? she thought. Rashawn did everything with a smoothness that heightened his appeal, and tonight his celebrity would benefit the community center.

  Shifting his weight, Rashawn tugged impatiently at his silver cuff links. Yasmin took great delight in watching him squirm. She would get rid of him once and for all and make a pile of money for the center. It was a win-win situation for everybody. Well, everyone except Rashawn.

  Feeling jovial, she rested a hand on his back and led him to the middle of the wide, open stage. “For those of you who don’t know much about boxing, let me tell you about Rashawn ‘The Glove’ Bishop. He’s single, he’s never been married and he has no children that he’s aware of.”

  Laughter rang out.

  “Only women serious about dating this star athlete are invited to bid. The package includes—” she paused, imagining the perfect date “—his and her massages at the Aqua Beauty Spa, followed by dinner and dancing at the Grand Hyatt. At midnight, you’ll be whisked away for a romantic carriage ride to…”

  One by one, women abandoned their seats and gathered in front of the stage. Jockeying for position, they stared up at Rashawn as if he were a four-carat diamond in the Tiffany store window.

  Yasmin examined Rashawn’s admirers. Swathed in furs, gold and designer gowns, they waved their checkbooks in the air. A few hundred dollars? From the looks of things, they were set to make thousands. “Keep in mind, ladies, that this is for a good cause. Parkland Community Center has been an integral part of this neighborhood for over thirty years and we have to expand the facility. To do that, we need to raise a substantial amount of money tonight.” Pleased that the audience was nodding in agreement, she extended a hand toward Rashawn. “Now, on with the auction! We’re going to start the bidding at five hundred dollars…”

  “Looks like I’m going to have to introduce myself.”

  Goose bumps shot up Yasmin’s arm. What was Rashawn doing at her table and why was he shaking hands with her parents? Turning away as if she hadn’t heard him speak, she asked Julius if he was enjoying his meal. It took some effort, but she managed to split her attention between her date and the conversation Rashawn was having with her mom and dad.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Ohaji. It’s an honor to finally meet you.” He shifted his gaze to Yasmin. “I’ve been dying to meet the couple who raised such a remarkable woman.”

  Zadie smiled politely. “I wish I could say the same, Rashawn, but it seems our daughter has been keeping you under wraps.”

  Silas’s laugh was a throaty chuckle. “Don’t mind my wife, son. She’s a former district attorney and likes to use her training to interrogate the kids. But I know all about you. I’ve been following your career for years. I’m a huge fan and I think you have what it takes to be the next WBC champion.”

  “You think so?” he asked, taking the empty seat beside the dark-skinned man.

  “You remind me of young Joe Frazier. You’re light on your feet, you can bob and weave with the best of them and you have a lethal right hook.”

  “I’m working hard to get to the next level, but it hasn’t been easy.”

  “Just hang in there, son,” Silas said, wearing a hearty smile. “They say luck is the residue of design, so keep doing what you’re doing and you’ll reap the rewards.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Ohaji.”

  “Call me Silas. Any friend of my daughter is a friend of mine.”

  Rashawn winked at Yasmin; she rolled her eyes.

  Sweeping her gaze around the room, she searched the crowd for the rest of her family. Eli had excused himself to answer his cell phone and was nowhere to be found; Imani and Niobie were chatting with Cecil Manning, and Katherine was flirting with a guy who looked a decade younger.

  The sound of Rashawn’s voice made her snap to attention.

  “You didn’t tell me your father was a fan.”

  “It must have slipped my mind.”

  Drawing eye-level with her, he smiled sagaciously. “I wonder what other secrets you’ve been keeping.”

  Yasmin wished Rashawn would go back to his table. He was spending too much time with her parents. Her father chuckled at his jokes and even her mother, who had a quiet, refined laugh, had burst out laughing a few times.

  Yasmin kept her eyes on Julius, but she was secretly listening to Rashawn. He spoke with reverence as he shared memories of his trip to South Africa. His infinite knowledge of her beloved homeland was sure to impress her parents.

  “I have plans to go back next year. I’d love to take my family, especially my nieces and nephews. They’ve never been outside of Florida and I think they’re at the age where they can fully appreciate the experience. I’d like them to have a tour of the shantytowns and maybe arrange for them to help serve meals at an orphanage.”

  “Rashawn, you’re absolutely right. It’s never too early to show children the power of service, sacrifice and giving.” Punctuating her words with a smile, Yasmin’s mother regarded him carefully. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are your parents from?”

  He told her, then said, “My family’s here. Maybe you can meet them later.”

  Silas nodded enthusiastically. “That would be great. I would love to meet the woman who raised the next heavyweight champion of the world!”

  The trio laughed.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt,” Rashawn said, turning to Yasmin, “but it’s time to announce the winners of the silent auction.”

  Yasmin swallowed the food in her mouth. They were going where? It wasn’t easy keeping up with two very different conversations. “Pardon me?”

  “It’s time to return to the stage.”

  “It is?”

  A quick glance at her watch confirmed it was eight o’clock. Despite her impromptu raffle, the program was running smoothly and she had made up for the time she had lost during the bidding by shortening the mayor’s speech. “I didn’t realize it was so late,” she said, standing. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  They walked toward the stage, pausing to meet guests and shake hands with Rashawn’s supporters. As they neared the podium, he gently took her arm and steered her to the right. Instead of pulling away, Yasmin shot him a scathing look. He had been calling the shots all night and she was sick of it. And auctioning him off to the highest bidder hadn’t been the payback she had imagined it would be. She had hoped to raise money for the center and pawn off the boxer on some rich, lonely spinster.

  The former had been accomplished to the tune of ten thousand dollars, but his date, Cheyenne Whitmore, was a leggy TV news anchor with an energetic personality. The Princeton graduate had the highest-rated entertainment program in the state. Cheyenne was the exact replica of Teagan, except she was taller. Rashawn was obviously attracted to thin, Barbie-
doll types with curly hair, so why was he pursuing her? Yasmin pretended not to care, but deep down she hated seeing Rashawn with Cheyenne. And when the news reporter wrapped her arms around him and insisted they pose for pictures, Yasmin wanted to push her off the stage. Instead, she smiled and thanked her for supporting the community center.

  “My mom wants to meet you,” Rashawn said. “I hope that’s okay.”

  As they crossed the room, Yasmin noticed that everyone at table nine was watching them. Unnerved by the attention, she focused her gaze on the forty-something woman with the round, pleasant face. Rashawn’s mom. They shared the same intense eyes, thin nose and rich smile. Even from a distance, she radiated warmth. Her evening gown accentuated the rose in her cheeks and her dark hair was done in an elegant bun.

  Johanna stood and gave Rashawn a brief, motherly kiss. “Hijo, I’m so proud of you! You’re a natural onstage! Maybe you should talk to that Cheyenne woman about being on her TV show.”

  Calm and confidant, Yasmin waited patiently to be introduced. They weren’t a couple and this meeting had no bearing on their future, but Yasmin wanted his mom to accept her just as her parents had accepted him. Accepted? Hell, her father had welcomed him into the family with open arms.

  “Ma, this is the woman I was telling you about, Dr. Yasmin Ohaji.”

  “Yasmin, what a pretty name.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’ve made quite the impression on my son,” Johanna confessed, reaching out and squeezing her hand. “Last week he told me you’re a modern-day Mother Teresa, but with long legs and a pretty smile.”

  Yasmin laughed. “I don’t know about that, but I do love working with the kids. They give far more than I ever could.”

  “That’s good to hear. I hope you raise a lot of money tonight.”

  “I do, too.”

  “You have to meet everyone else.” Rashawn went around the table, introducing his brothers and their significant others. The chatty, fresh-faced women greeted her warmly, but the men wore plastic smiles.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the servers exiting the kitchen. Chaz and Marquise, the youngest of the waiters, had loose ties, untucked shirts and saggy pants. The seventh-graders wore hostile expressions on their faces, but they were just another pair of headstrong teens. They had protested about wearing formal attire and only agreed to work after Rashawn had spoken to them privately. “If you’ll excuse me,” Yasmin said, smiling at Ms. Bishop, “there’s something I have to do before the program resumes.”

  Rashawn took her hand. “I’ll come with you.”

  “There’s no need. Why don’t we meet backstage in ten minutes?”

  “Deal.”

  Johanna sat down.

  “What do you think, Ma?” he asked, watching Yasmin disappear behind the kitchen doors. “Think she’d make a nice addition to the family?”

  Johanna scowled, angry creases deepening her face. “Don’t tease me, Hijo. You know how desperate I am for more grandbabies.”

  “All in good time, Ma. I’m young. I’ll get married when I’m old and gray and not a second sooner.”

  “Spoken like a true Bishop man.”

  Chuckling, he gave her a one-arm hug. “Ma, you know you’re my number-one girl. What would I do without you?”

  “Only God knows,” she answered, patting his cheek. “Why don’t you invite Yasmin over next Saturday? Your father is coming and we’ll have more time to get to know each other.”

  “I’ll ask her but she probably won’t come. She’s mad at me.”

  “What did you do, Hijo? I didn’t raise you to mistreat women and…”

  Rashawn spotted Yasmin backstage. “Ma, I gotta go. We’ll talk later, okay?”

  As he turned away, Armondo seized his arm. “I want those Pro Bowl tickets, bro. Do whatever you gotta do. I’m counting on you.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he mumbled, stalking away.

  Chapter 14

  Yasmin dusted the flour off her hands, her gaze drifting to the open window. Her uncles were in the backyard playing horseshoes, her cousins were sitting on the picnic table chatting and a group of kids were kicking around a soccer ball. Most of the women were in the house, putting the finishing touches on dinner.

  Once a month, the Ohaji clan crammed into Silas and Zadie’s home for a traditional South African meal. It had been a family practice for as long as Yasmin could remember. She had fond memories of her childhood. Sitting by the fire, perched on her grandfather’s lap, listening to tales about her ancestors. Dressing in tribal outfits and posing for pictures. Her family kept her grounded and she credited her parents for making her the woman she was today.

  Yasmin tugged the husk off the corn and dumped it into the pot of boiling water. Thoughts of Rashawn—his smile, his lips, his kiss—flooded her mind. They hadn’t spoken in a couple of weeks, but he was never far from her thoughts. Voices swirled around the kitchen and mingled with the sounds floating in through the window. Her head spun like a plate when she heard a loud, booming laugh. Had she imagined it? Yasmin pulled back the curtains. No, she wasn’t dreaming. Strolling into the backyard, dressed in a baseball cap, T-shirt and shorts, was Rashawn. And following close behind him were her dad and brother. It staggered her to see him here, at her parents’ house, shaking hands with her uncles, laughing at their stale jokes.

  Imani stood beside Yasmin. “Great, they’re here. Now we can eat.”

  “Did you know Rashawn was coming?”

  “No, why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “Have you guys spoken since the fund-raiser?”

  Shaking her head, Yasmin untied her apron and dropped it on the kitchen counter. “Melba said her niece had a great time on their date. According to Cheyenne, he was worth every penny.”

  “I’m not surprised. Ten grand is chump change for a TV news anchor.”

  “I wouldn’t spend that kind of money.”

  “You don’t need to. Rashawn likes you.”

  “Too bad I’m not interested.”

  “God, Yassie. You can be so bullheaded sometimes! You and I both know Rashawn doesn’t do drugs. He’s strong and healthy and there’s nothing artificial about him. Look at him,” she ordered, motioning with her head. “Does he look like someone who does drugs?”

  “Well, no, but I’ve counseled people who—”

  “Please, don’t compare him to one of your drug-addicted clients. He’s a cool guy with good taste. He likes you, right?” Winking mischievously, she bumped Yasmin with her hips. “Give the brother a chance.”

  Imani made a valid argument. He had a natural, open manner and didn’t fit the profile of a drug addict. Could she have been wrong about him? Had her stubbornness blinded her to the truth? Inching past her Aunt Fayola, who was bent over taking casserole dishes out of the oven, she shook her twists free from their ponytail.

  “Where are you going?” Imani asked, dipping a corn fritter into the frying pan. “I thought you were going to help me make the lemon tarts.”

  “I can’t. I have to go freshen up.”

  “Why? I thought you didn’t care about him?”

  Yasmin shrugged. “I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t look my best.” With that, she pushed open the kitchen door and escaped down the hall.

  Hours later, Yasmin opened the fridge, grabbed two wine coolers and slipped out the back door. She had spent the afternoon in the kitchen and wasn’t in the mood to scrub pots. Besides, she wanted to talk to Rashawn before he left.

  Spotting him leaning against the fence, she headed across the lawn. Like the teens at the community center, her dad and brother had given Rashawn the star treatment. He had sat in her father’s spot at the head of the table, had the last helping of tomato stew and, in honor of his arrival, a vintage bottle of Shiraz, an expensive South African wine, had been opened. Yasmin didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Rashawn didn’t deserve special attention. And if her parents knew he used ste
roids, their smiles would dry up faster than water in the Sahara.

  Yasmin was going to rise above her feelings and do what was right. She owed Rashawn her heartfelt thanks. He had helped raise thousands of dollars for the center and she suspected he was behind a very large anonymous donation.

  The scent of her floral perfume carried on the warm, moist summer air. Rashawn recognized the fragrance, but didn’t see Yasmin until she was a step away.

  “I thought you might be thirsty.”

  Rashawn straightened and looked at her, open-mouthed. Her presence threw him off. After a terse greeting, she had disappeared into the kitchen and didn’t surface until it had been time to eat. They’d sat on opposite ends of the room, but that hadn’t stopped him from watching her during dinner. He hadn’t expected to see her for the rest of the night and now she was standing in front of him, smiling. Collecting himself, he took the bottle she offered and unscrewed the top. “Thanks.”

  “I was, ah, hoping we could go for a walk.”

  It seemed like minutes, but it was probably only seconds before he said, “Sure, that’s cool. Lead the way.”

  They exited the yard and strolled up the block. It was a picture-perfect night and Arbor Lake Lane was alive with activity. Teenage boys whizzed by on skateboards, girls played double Dutch in the street and a band of silver-haired women reclined on a porch, sipping a sweet-smelling tea.

  “I wanted to thank you again for hosting the fund-raiser. You did an amazing job, and I’ve been fielding calls from other organizations who could use your support.”

  “No problem, partner.” Rashawn stuck out his hand and they clinked bottles. “We make a good team, don’t we?”

  “I’d say so. Between ticket sales, the silent auction and the raffle we raised almost fifty thousand dollars!”

  “That’s crazy.”

  Yasmin tasted her cooler. In the silence that followed, she couldn’t help wondering if he was dating Cheyenne now. It had only been a couple of weeks since the fund-raiser, but anything was possible. “I, ah, heard you and Cheyenne had fun on your date. Melba said she has stars in her eyes and has been talking about you nonstop.”