Page 78 of Scoring the Player
Sid grins. “K, where you at?”
“In here.”
I whip around, searching for the source of the voice, when there’s a thump behind the laddered wall of built-in bookshelves with color-arranged books, artworks, and photos. A panel opens, and Kieran, Sid’s cousin, whom I recognize from Sid and Ty’s barbecue, emerges, balancing bottles of wine in his arms.
I jet over to help him.
“Thanks, hon!” he says as I lighten his load. “I’m glad you could join us.”
“Thanks for having me.”
“Feeling this ’fit,” Sid says, taking the remaining bottles from Kieran. High cheekbones and chestnut eyes are family features, and Kieran’s eyes are highlighted by black eyeliner and a dusting of gold shimmer. Both men have the sides of their heads shaved low, but where Sid has short coils, Kieran has golden-brown dreadlocks piled intricately high.
“This old thing”—Kieran twirls, voice almost as deep as Sid’s—“is what some might call the result of having exquisite taste. On the bottom, the gentleman is wearing a pleated paper bag, ultra-high-rise waist, with a leather belt tied into a bow. The hem is hemmin’”—he points to his leg for emphasis, making Sid chuckle and me grin—“at a precise four inches below the knee.And up top, we have a mint-green, silk-tie crop shirt with a front concealed button placket and?—”
“Hey, where’d you put the Cajun seasoning?” Tommy, their childhood best friend, enters from the kitchen, wearing an apron over his jeans and T-shirt that’s stretched around his massive build.
“Bae-bee!” Kieran huffs. “I’m serving these lewks like a gracious host.”
Sid and I laugh as Sid wraps his arms around his cousin, pulling him into a hug.
“My bad. You’re gorgeous as always, babe.” Tommy smiles. “What’s good?” He nods to me. “Thanks for coming thru.” Then he greets Sid. “Sup, bro?”
“Sup, T,” Sid replies.
“Thanks for having me,” I repeat.
“It’s in the fridge,” Kieran replies to Tommy, referring to the seasoning.
Tommy turns and disappears back into the kitchen.
“Dried seasonings don’t go in the fridge, K,” Sid teases.
Kieran sighs. “The man knows I’m hopeless in the kitchen, yet he still lets me unpack the groceries.”
We’re following him to the bar to transfer the bottles of wine when the doorbell rings.
“I got it,” Sid calls out, heading toward the door.
“There’s beer there.” Kieran points to a silver beverage tub. “And lots of reds and whites. What can I get you?”
I flinch at the sound of laughter coming from the entryway—Salem’s laughter.
“Whoa. Your face,” Kieran says.
My heart pounds. “What’d your cousin do?”
“You didn’t know he was invited?” Kieran touches my elbow, his brows furrowed.
I shake my head.
At the light thump of their footsteps, a surge of electricity makes me want to break for the window.
“You like him, yes?” He frowns. “Wait, no. I’m reading terror.” His nose scrunches.“Aww, you really like him.”
The hell?
Is the whole reading-people thing genetic?
