Page 24 of Scoring the Player
“Welcome to Brooklyn! Come on in,”he says, widening his glass front door. The video plays a montage of shots from the foyer, kitchen, dining room, wine cellar, and movie theater.
My mother would trade in her overpriced decorator if she saw this.
“This is Simba, my best friend,”he says, bending down to pet a large, brown, shaggy-haired dog with a foggy gray eye.“We rescued each other three years ago.”
Simba limps over to the camera and offers his toy.
“We’ll play later.”Salem pets him.
Simba’s probably rented to capture the perfect thirst trap shot.
He climbs up and offers his forelimbs for a hug. Salem pulls him in, accepting a neck lick.
Okay, maybe they are best friends.
The camera pans the forest-green foyer as he talks about designing the place with intention, honing in on function, blah blah, textures, blah blah.
“My parents on their wedding day,”he says before a large black and white portrait of a couple.
His dad’s don’t-fuck-with-me stature radiates from the photo.
His kind—or whatever—eyes and high cheekbones are from his mom.
Deduct ten points for unearned good looks.
He blah blahs about imported Congolese grass pendant lights that remind me of a sculpture Anaïs broke once. Mom was brutal about it. Listening when Anaïs yelled for me to get back in the room still litters the room of my regrets.
I fast-forward past the exposed brick in the living room, large float sofa, fancy art, blah blah.
I rewind. “…reclaimed terracotta tile, a 1,200-pound carved-stone sink…”
Damn.That smile.
So, the kitchen is his favorite place in the house.
I should’ve chipped those perfect teeth during our last rumble.
I fast forward, then pause on a room with a leather Eames-style chair.
The blue, almost-black walls are intensified by the glow from the metal and glass chandelier.
Simba stretches out across a midnight-blue rug in front of the fireplace as Salem crosses his arms and leans against the side post of the canopy bed with serial-killer crisp bedding in burnt gold.
I’m not fooled by the cream fur throw strewn across it. This dark sophistication can’t belong to someone with vanilla fantasies.
And, damn, those pants are tight.
Heat skitters down my chest. I stare at the swell forming in my briefs.
Fuck, no.
I slam the laptop shut and blow out a breath.
Ain’t enough meds in the world to make that make sense.
Scrubbing my face with my hands, I then reach for the half-burnt joint on the nightstand and light up. Plucking up my acoustic guitar, I return to the piece I’ve been struggling with for weeks. Leaving form and structure behind, the song’ll find itself in the chaos.
The night air breezes in, mixing with the vapors.
