Wrong Chance (8 page)

Sighing, Yancee flipped the magazine open and plopped down on the empty bed—God, he wished Africa was naked right now—then started to read.

Yancee frowned with the lurch of his stomach.

Leon smiled.

Yancee turned his nose up and glanced at Leon over the magazine.

Leon grinned and rubbed his hands together as if he were absolutely up to no good.

When Yancee finished the article, he looked pale and sick. “Condoms can't preempt this. I gots to be more careful. How would I know to look for something like this?” Yancee questioned himself. “Do they even have a way for us to test for something like this? Like a pregnancy test but for gender?” Yancee let out a confused breath, forgetting all about Africa. “So it's
really
girls out there who are
really
boys?” Yancee was having a hard time wrapping his mind around that.

“I researched it at the library,” Leon said. “It's called Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome. Pussy, ass, tits, and a pretty face on the surface but undescended nuts and XY chromosomes underneath. Genetically, AIS pseudo-females are boys.” Then: “It doesn't have ovaries, grow pubic, or underarm hair. It doesn't menstruate or have kids.”

Yancee said, “I call that nasty. A girl with balls, literally.” He shook his head as if he had no clue what this world was coming to.

“I call it reverse homosexuality.” Leon said that like he was proud of himself. “And now I'm about to pay Chance back for…”

•  •  •

Chance heard the beating of his own heart and excited breathing as he buried the scalpel deep in Yancee's thigh for the third time.
When Yancee finished hollering, Chance said, “You passed out on me. Don't quit. Come on, spit the rest out. What did the shithead wanna get me back for?”

“I'm dying, man, oh, God.”

“No, not God. It's just me, Chance Fox.”

Yancee fought to breathe. “Shit, help me, Chance. Don't let me die like this.”

Chance put his face in Yancee's. “My bet is you'll bleed out before respiratory failure claims you.” Chance wiped the blade clean on Yancee's UPS shirt. “I'm not helping you make it home to your reformed whore and the terrible twosome until you tell me what Leon wanted to get me for.”

“For—” Yancee coughed. “—taking Sahara Lawrence from him.”

“For crying out loud, he could've taken a spin. She was a sperm pit stop.”

“But Leon…he had a real thing for her. You crushed him when you slept with her. He never trusted a woman after that, turned into a cold-blooded misogynist.” Yancee gulped down a breath. “I asked him how he planned to get you. Chance, it was a joke.”

L
eon looked at Yancee like he was a mental midget, like he had ridden the short bus to school growing up. How could he not be catching on? Leon plucked the magazine from where it lay on the bed. He pointed to the cover photo of an androgynous-looking teenager. The left half of a male's photo was perfectly joined to the right half of a female's photo. The caption accompanying the photo read:

IS CASHMAIRE JONES A BOY OR GIRL?

Leon folded the magazine down the center, covering the left side of the teenager, leaving only the female side visible. “She look familiar?”

After studying the girl for a moment, Yancee shrugged a
not really.
“No.”

Leon popped him upside the head with the magazine. “You try to screw her every time you go in the campus bookstore.”

“Cash, the part-time girl?” Yancee's eyes liked to jump out his head. “Get the fuck out of here. Let me see that again.” Yancee really studied the female side of the photo this time.

“She-slash-he is one and the same,” Leon said.

“Damn, I'm glad she ain't give me none.” Then: “She doesn't even date anyone; that girl's self-esteem is shot to hell. She's scared of her own shadow.”

“With a secret like this, do you blame shim?”

“It isn't a secret if you know about it. Who else knows?”

“Nobody. Shim doesn't even know I know. This article is seven years old. I came across it while helping Professor Wolstencroft clean out an office in the administration building.”

“So what does this have to do with you getting Chance back?” No sooner than he posed the question, warning bells went off in Yancee's head, as Leon's intent dawned on him.

“I paid her to go out with Chance on Valentine's Day and to give him a kiss. I mean tongue and all. And I'm gonna be right there with my camcorder. It's gonna be the funniest shit ever.” Leon laughed. “He should have never crossed me.”

Yancee shook his head. “That's not a good idea. If Chance finds out—”

“What's not a good idea?” Anderson Smith said, walking into the room with a gorgeous, tall girl trailing closely behind him.

Yancee took note of the way the predator showed itself in Leon's face when the long-legged queen wearing a Baltimore Ravens skull hat stepped into the room.

•  •  •

“Breathe, shithead.” Chance smacked Yancee across the face. “Who was the bimbo with Anderson?” Then: “I gotta get every prick involved.”

Yancee didn't respond. His pulse was gone. Chance roared into the night like a rabid dog, then he went to work with the scalpel.

H
akeem Eubanks just couldn't shake the cloud of grief that was quite literally smothering him to death. It had been lingering over him like a funky odor for six solid months now, and it wasn't showing signs of letting up any time soon. He shook himself dry, flushed the toilet with the toe of his Prada shoe, then he stepped out the stall to find the full-bodied stunner Aspen Skye standing in front of the mirror, poking her stomach out. He knew she was imagining how she'd look if she were pregnant. Embarrassed, she blushed and leaned against the counter of sinks. God, she's beautiful, he thought. Hakeem tried to keep it professional and not look at her like
that
but it was damn hard, because secretly he loved her.

Aspen was dressed in Yves Saint Laurent from her apple cap, which her curly locks tumbled from and framed her girlish face, to her peep-toe pumps. Her Chanel No5 scented the air, and her diamond tennis bracelet was a nice complement to her pecan complexion. Yes, beautiful, Hakeem thought.

“So what do you say?” she said, flashing her expensive smile that showed off two adorable dimples.

“That I'm getting old.” He bumped her aside and washed his hands. He couldn't help but notice her perfect evocative ass perched on the sink through the mirror. He quickly averted his gaze to his
own image before she caught him looking. It was difficult to ignore his reflection: an impeccably tailored two-button Gianluca Isaia cashmere suit, four-figure cuff links, and a Rolex Explorer sat on an athletic six-foot-one frame. His handsome face was highlighted by hints of worry lines, but Hakeem had the sturdy, relaxed posture of a man who could kick some serious ass. “When I was in my prime, I could take a leak and that stream would dash out like a thoroughbred race horse. That piss hit the water so hard it sounded like thunder, made a whirlpool in the toilet. Now it just drips out. Barely makes a splash.”

“Be serious, Hakeem. Damn. You know I'm sensitive and irritable.”

“And moody and touchy and explosive and volatile and capricious, tell me something I don't know.” He looked into her limpid brandy-colored eyes with striations of hazel streaking through them longer than he intended, longer than what was comfortable. “I'm serious. I'm getting old.”

“You know what, fuck it. Forget I even asked you.” She started for the door.

“Wait a minute, Aspen. Just wait a minute. If you just insist on knowing what I think, I think you should find you a man and start a family. You're a good woman, temperamental, but good. Family means everything. Life isn't even worth living if you can't share it with family.”

She looked at herself in the mirror and poked out her flat belly again. “You know what, you're right. Thanks.”

“And as far as being an organ donor, I used to entertain those thoughts, but I changed my mind.”

“Oh, yeah, why?” She fired up a Newport.

“Came to the conclusion that if they know I'm a donor, the doctors
might not work as hard to save a black man knowing some white man in Kentucky needs a heart.”

“Interesting. I never thought of it like that,” she said. The end of her cigarette glowed red as she puffed.

Hakeem watched her lips form a small
O
as she blew smoke out. He loved her pouty lips. Also he knew that having a baby and deciding whether to become a donor or not were important issues to her. But cigarettes had a harmful effect on both decisions, didn't it? “I thought you gave up nicotine.”

“Weaning myself.” Smoke floated from her lips. “I only smoke every six hours now.”

“Then you didn't quit.”

Her intense gaze sat behind thick, ebony lashes and beautifully arched brows. “That's preparing to quit.”

“Keep it up and your lungs won't be good to anyone.” He held the door open for her.

She paused in the threshold. “About that other thing.”

Hakeem knew the
other thing
was coming. He'd been trying to duck that conversation for the last month.

“She's a nice girl,” Aspen said. “You've been cooped up in that house since—”

“Don't.” Hakeem didn't want that topic in his head. “It seems like I'll never get over what happened or feel normal again. So I really don't care how nice your friend is.”

“I'm worried about you, Hakeem. You've withdrawn from social activities and me. We don't even play chess anymore. Listen, it'll do you some good to get out and start living again.” She found his tired gaze and held it.

A uniformed officer walked past the bathroom and saw them looking goofy at each other. “Black Ken and Barbie, get a room.”

“Kiss my ass, beat-walker.” Aspen flipped the officer the birdie when he glanced over a shoulder. “You switch like you played with dolls growing up.”

“Nice, real nice,” the officer said. “Real ladylike, Detective Skye.”

Smiling a mouthful of white teeth, Aspen said to Hakeem, “So, are you going to go out with her?”

“Right now I'm just not feeling it. I'd much rather pay for a shot of pussy. That way I'm paying for a good time and for her to leave me the hell alone in one transaction.”

“Do that and I might have to bust you for soliciting a prostitute.”

Hakeem said nothing.

“I told her you'd meet her at the View tonight at ten.”

He sighed knowing that she'd keep bugging him until he at least attempt to get on with his life. “Can't do old broads, Aspen. They'll give you the worms.”

“Young women, nowadays, have HIV and herpes…and they come with a lot of drama.”

After a moment of considerable thought, Hakeem said, “On second thought, give me a case of the worms. But she can't be over thirty-five. What are two dead batteries gonna do? She at least has to be young enough to recharge me.”

“Check, younger than thirty-five,” Aspen said as they strolled down the hallway of the Cleveland Homicide Unit. “You'll like her; I'd give her an eight point eight.”

“Round it up, she's a nine.” He yawned, hadn't slept a wink last night. “I'm in love already. Someone that pretty, I might not know how to act. Never had anyone over a three because I've been cursed with ugly-girl energy.”

“You're terrible.” She burst into laughter. “And funny.”

Hakeem said, “She can't be over a hundred twenty-five pounds
either. I draw my line in the sand there when it comes to women—pretty or ugly. If she's heavier than that, she can't do a thing for me but point me in the direction of her slim friend.” He noticed Aspen's facial expression change. “Can't believe you tried to hook me up with a fat girl.”

“She isn't fat and you're not old. Not many thirty-eight-year-old men can stand next to you.”

“Aspen, is she heavier than a buck a quarter?”

She made a small gap between her thumb and index finger. “A wee bit.”

“Forget about it.”

“Hakeem, she's about a hundred twenty-eight.”

“Forget about it.”

“Hakeem, stop acting an ass.”

“Tell her to lose
about
three pounds and we got a date.”

“Detective Eubanks, Detective Skye,” a raspy voice called out from behind them.

They turned and faced Sergeant Morris—nicknamed Urkel because he was skinny and often wore high-water slacks with annoying suspenders and a pair of unfashionable glasses.

“What's up, Urkel?” Hakeem said, glad to be away from the conversation about Aspen's nameless friend.

Sergeant Morris cringed and scowled all at once, proof he still despised his nickname today just as much as he did yesterday. He gave the detectives a serious look. “There's been a murder. The mayor wants you two to personally handle it.”

I
t pissed acid rain on Cleveland in one steady stream. Hakeem rode shotgun in Aspen's latest sex-appeal complement, a BMW 760Li luxury sedan, while she plunged the V-12 toward the scene of the crime. He no longer made comments about the things she bought because it was useless. She changed vehicles like he changed watches, which was every day.

“How about this,” Aspen said with her musical voice. “Muslims are required to shave their pubic and underarm hair. The males and females.”