Love T.K.O.

“Damn, girl! Why didn’t you tell me?” Imani asked, smacking her sister’s leg. “I wouldn’t be pushing Cecil on you if I knew you were interested in someone else.”

“I’m not interested in Rashawn. I just want him to emcee the fund-raiser.”

“You guys aren’t going out?”

Yasmin shook her head. “I can’t think about dating anyone until I’m over Eric.”

“When does this self-imposed grief period end? It’s been over two years and you’ve turned down every single guy who’s asked you out. You need to jump-start your love life and maybe this Rashawn guy is the one to help you do it.”

“Leave it alone, Imani. I’m not ready.” Her eyes watered and everything went out of focus. “I need more time.”

“Yassie, I know you loved Eric but who’s to say there isn’t someone else out there for you?”

When silence settled over the patio, Imani put the bottle of wine on the table, stood and headed back into the house. Returning with her laptop under her arm and a can of tuna and a spoon in the other, she said, “I know how much you like to look people up on Google, so let’s check out this Rashawn guy together.” While she waited for the computer to load, she opened the tuna and ate it straight out of the can.

Light flooded the patio as the computer came to life. Yasmin watched her sister type Rashawn’s name into the search bar, convinced this late-night investigation wouldn’t garner any useful information.

“Imani, don’t waste your time. I’m not ready to start dating, and even if I was, it wouldn’t be with someone like Rashawn Bishop. He’s pierced and tattooed and he’s a boxer, for God’s sake! He doesn’t even have his college degree.” Shifting in her chair, she averted her gaze. He was all wrong for her. He looked like a player, like the kind of man who lied, cheated and dogged women out. But, Yasmin knew that wasn’t true. Rashawn had stood up for her and only a gentleman would do that.

“Bingo!” A picture of Rashawn, bare-chested and glistening, filled the eighteen-inch screen. His Web site was loaded with pictures, newspaper articles and had expensive, high-powered graphics. Imani leaned forward, her nose practically touching the monitor. She read his bio out loud and shared any information she thought would interest her. “I’d go ten rounds with him any day!”

Yasmin didn’t doubt the truth of her sister’s words. Imani was in a committed, long-term relationship, but her gutsy style and carefree spirit attracted men in droves. “And what about Dean? What would you tell him?”

“Please, he’d probably ask if he could watch!”

Yasmin laughed, her narrow shoulders shuddering. Imani and Dean took spontaneity to a whole new level. They’d tried it all, strip clubs, bondage, threesomes, and still managed to maintain a healthy, committed relationship. Yasmin would never advise a female client to fulfill her man’s every wish or sexual fantasy, but Imani and Dean’s arrangement worked for them, period.

Imani tapped a manicured nail on the screen. “According to his bio, he just turned twenty-seven. You found yourself a hot young boxer! Way to go, Sis!”

“I didn’t know. I thought he was my age,” she protested, peering at the computer screen. Yasmin never would have guessed he was five years younger. He was mature, responsible and had an air of authority about him. Definitely not the average twenty-something guy. “I don’t care how old he is. Like I said, he’s not my type.”

“Don’t be so quick to write him off, Yassie. You know my motto. Keep an open mind and jump at every opportunity that comes your way. Before meeting Dean, I went out with anyone who asked. Why not? It’s a free meal, a chance to get dressed up, and half the time, decent conversation.”

“I’ve never looked at it that way,” Yasmin admitted. As usual, her sister had given her something to think about. No one said she had to marry the guy.

Imani turned away from the computer screen, the expression on her face a serious one. “Give it some thought, Yassie. You never know when love may come knocking.”

Chapter 4

Parkland Community Center was located in downtown Tampa. Drug addicts and prostitutes frequented the area, often scoring crack across the street from where toddlers played. At-risk youth under eighteen enjoyed computer classes, tutoring, group and individual counseling and job-readiness training. The center consisted of conference rooms, learning centers, a cafeteria and a full-size gymnasium. Parkland Community Center was an integral part of the neighborhood, but the twenty-five-year old building was falling apart. The roof had pot-size cracks, concrete crumbled from the walls and the floors were colored with stains.

“It’s huge in here,” Rashawn commented, as he followed Niobie through the lobby. Staff and volunteers milled about, talking to kids and answering phones, and a group of people were watching Judge Mathias on the thirty-two-inch TV in the lounge area.

“Thanks for giving me a ride down here.”

“No sweat.” As promised, Rashawn had dropped by the office with an autographed picture for Niobie’s son. Yasmin had left for the day, so when Niobie had suggested they go by the community center, where Miles was playing, Rashawn had agreed. He’d left the gym early and wasn’t anxious to return.

“The kids are going to flip when they see you!”

Rashawn could hear laughter, children’s voices and the sound of chairs scraping against the floor. They entered the learning center and found teens arm wrestling, a handful of kids playing board games and girls braiding hair.

“Mom!” A chunky boy ran across the room and threw himself into Niobie’s arms. “Did you bring me something?”

“You know I did, baby.” Niobie smoothed a hand over his plump face before reaching into her purse and pulling out a king-size chocolate bar.

“Thanks, Mom!” He ripped off the wrapping paper and took a bite. Chewing, he bobbed his head to the beat of his swallows.

The last thing the child needed was candy, but Rashawn kept his observations to himself. He wasn’t a single parent and he didn’t want Niobie to think he was judging her. As a young mother, she probably got her fair share of criticism. Her son was cute, in a Nutty Professor kind of way, but it was obvious he needed more exercise and less junk food. To his amazement, the seven-year-old demolished the candy bar in three bites.

It wasn’t until Miles was finished eating that he noticed the man standing beside his mom. “Who are you?”

Yanking her son to her chest, Niobie cupped a hand over his mouth. “Miles, don’t be silly. You know who that is. It’s Rashawn “the Glove” Bishop.”

Squirming out of his mom’s arms, he said, “Are you a basketball player? Do you know T-Mac? He’s my favorite.”

“No, I’m a boxer. Your mom told me you want to be a boxer, too.”

“No way! I’m going to be a race-car driver!”

Niobie’s laugh was tinged with anxiety. “Kids. One day he wants to be a boxer, the next day he wants to be a race car driver.”

Rashawn had a feeling this trip to the community center had little to do with Miles and everything to do with Niobie. This wasn’t the first time a woman had feigned interest in his career to get close to him. Most of the time he was flattered, but what Niobie had done cool wasn’t cool.

“Hey, it’s the Glove!” shouted a squeaky voice.

Within seconds, Rashawn had a group of children around him, asking for handshakes, autographs and money. Laughing, he opened his wallet and handed a fifty-dollar bill to the tallest kid in the group. “Run up the block and get everyone a fruit smoothie.”

“Yay!”

“Thanks, champ!”

“You’re the best!”

Children raced out of the room behind the boy with the money.

“That was a nice thing to do,” Niobie said, flashing a toothy smile. She coiled a hand around his arm like a python. “Why don’t I give you a quick tour while we wait for Miles and the others to come back?”

“Sure, why not?”

Niobie showed Rashawn the facility, introduced him to staff, volunteers and parents and told him interesting pieces of information about the people who worked there, the counseling sessions Yasmin oversaw and why the fund-raiser was so important to the families who frequented the community center.

“How much do you guys need to raise?”

“I don’t know the exact figure, but I’d guess about twenty-five thousand. The center receives support from local churches and other outreach programs, but we never have enough volunteers or supplies. Not to mention the extensive renovations that need to be done. The planning committee is hoping we raise enough to…”

Boisterous applause drowned out the rest of her sentence.

“Sounds like something’s going on in the gym.”