Ryan Kennedy

“That phone-just-got-turned-off dick,” Lo continues, warming to her subject. “Gimme a man who grew up on food stamps and never knew where the next meal was coming from. The rich ones fuck like they’re entitled to your pussy. Fuck me like I’m survival. Like your life depends on my shit. That’s some grateful dick, right there.”

There were those who stayed too long. Remained when they should have fled.

They did not live to regret it.

Now, I’m making the same mistake. I’ve remained when I should have fled.

I witness the exact moment when this monster loses all restraint. His fury, his rage rush at me like a wall of water. Like a gale-force wind, he blows over me.

I am the devastation left in his wake.

As the world goes black, I see stars. A flash of brilliance. A light I should have acknowledged long ago. As the stars dim and the darkness encroaches, I understand I’m like those who stayed too long, blindly assuming their survival.

I fear that I, like them, will not live to regret it.

I’m almost at the door when an outburst from the far end of the bar stops me.

“Bullshit!” a husky, feminine voice booms. “You know good and damn well that’s a shit call.”

Just shy of the threshold, I turn to see the woman who’s cussing like a sailor. Curves punctuate her lean, tight body: the indentation of her waist in a fitted T-shirt, the rounded hips poured into her jeans. She jumps from her stool and leans forward, her body taut with outrage, her fists balled on the bar, and her eyes narrowed at the flat screen. She must be a good seven inches over five feet. A guy my height gets used to towering over everyone else, but I like a woman with a little height. Her hair, dark and dense as midnight, is an adventure, roaming wild and untamed around her face in every direction, drifting past her shoulders. She looks pissed, her wide, full mouth tight, and the sleek line of her jaw bunched.

The beautiful face paired with all that attitude has me intrigued. Even if I’m not getting laid tonight, I can at least get distracted from the pressure that’s been crushing me all day. Hell, crushing me for the last few weeks, if I’m honest. I want to shake off the melancholy thoughts my father’s death always wrap around me—thoughts of what we missed. What we lost. Seeing her all fired up and cussing at the television, swearing at the refs, lightens some of the load I’ve been carrying.

She finally deigns to look at me. Her heart-shaped face is arresting, a contrast of fierce and delicate. She has high cheekbones and dark brows that slash over a button nose and hazel eyes. Hazel is too flat a word to describe all the shades of green and brown and gold. I’ve never seen eyes quite like these. Several colors at once. Several things at once. I wonder if the girl behind them is as multi-dimensional.

“So, you come here often?” I can’t believe that just came out of my mouth.

The face she makes says she can’t believe it either.

“Next you’ll ask what’s a nice girl like me doing in a place like this.” The humor in her eyes removes some of the sting.

“You think my game is that weak?”

She side-eyes me, extending both brows as high as they’ll go. “We talking on the court or off?”

“Ouch.” I wince and tilt my head to consider her. “And here I thought you’d be a sweet distraction until curfew.”

“I’m not anyone’s distraction,” she says. “Especially not some player looking to let off testosterone.”

“Assumptions and judgments.” I shake my head in mock disappointment. “Didn’t they tell you not to judge a book by its cover? You can’t possibly know—”

“August West, six foot six, Piermont College starting point guard, deadly from behind the arc, off-the-charts basketball IQ, and Naismith finalist. Six-foot-ten-inch wingspan and forty-inch vertical.” Her sharp eyes slice over me from the brim of my cap all the way down to the Nikes on my feet, before returning to the game onscreen.

“Your hops may be Jordan-esque, but your D could use some work.” A laugh slips past her lips. “And that’s not an assumption. I know that for a fact.”

I have to laugh because Coach Mannard has been after me all season—for the last four years, actually—to improve on defense. My three-pointers make the highlight reel, but he’s just as concerned with the fundamentals that will make me a better all-around player. Apparently, so is she.

“So they keep telling me.” I turn my back to the bar, propping my elbows on its edge, and consider her with new respect.

She turns her attention back to the screen like she couldn’t care less that she just impressed the hell out of me. Guys, we talk shit, and never more so than when it’s about sports. A woman who can talk sports and talk trash? A fucking sparkling unicorn. She gives as good as she gets, this one. Hell, she may give better than she gets. There’s a spark to her, a confidence I want to see more of.

A lot of girls just reflect. They figure out what you like so they can get in with a baller. This one has her own views, stands her own ground and doesn’t give a damn if I like it.

I like it.

I think the ambiguity of her beauty is part of her appeal. Something elusive and indefinable. I would never have guessed the ethnicities that coalesced to make a face like hers—the wide, full lips, copper skin and striking bone structure. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone like her. Hers is not a face you would soon forget. Maybe never.

Like there’s some magnetic center, our bodies have turned in toward each other. Our confidences enshroud us, blocking out the ribald conversation, the impromptu karaoke across the room, the wild response to the games on the flat screens. It’s just us two misfits. A few minutes with a complete stranger, and I suddenly feel understood in a way that’s always been hard to find.

“I’m a mix of everything the bayou could come up with,” she continues, taking a sip of her drink. “So my cousin says I had more ingredients than—”

“Gumbo,” I finish with her. We share a smile, and she nods. “So you’re a mutt like me.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything.” Her eyes run over my face and hair, my looks almost as ambiguous as hers. “But now that you mention it . . .”

“Lemme show you something.” I pull out my phone, flipping through the photos until I land on a picture of my family from a camping trip a few years ago. “Here.”

She takes the phone, her smile fading at the corners. I know what she sees. My mother smiles into the camera, her auburn hair a fiery halo around her pale face in the winter sun. My stepfather and stepbrother stand at her shoulder, both tall blondes.

And then there’s me.

My hair cut close to tame the dark curls that can never decide which way to grow. My skin is the color of aged dark honey, and my eyes are gray as slate. I couldn’t look less like a part of the family if I tried.

“One of these things is not like the others.” I grin over the rim of my glass, sipping my ginger ale. “I guess I’m gumbo, too.”

I can’t remember my mother ever holding down a job for more than a few weeks.”

“How’d you guys get by?”

“She’s a beautiful woman.” She raises cautious eyes, like she expects me to judge. “She used to say there’s always some man willing to take care of a beautiful woman.”

I don’t know what to say to that. My mom is a beautiful woman, too, but I can’t imagine her living that way—relying on just the physical—because she started teaching when my dad died and has worked hard ever since.

“You’re a beautiful woman.” I nudge her knee lightly with mine. “And I bet you can take care of yourself.”

A smile starts in her eyes and eventually spreads to her lips. “Thank you.”

I don’t have to ask which compliment she’s thanking me for.