Page 15 of Heated
Doesn’t mean I’m not going to give it one hell of a try.
CHAPTER FOUR
CYRUS
“So word on the street is you got dumped.”
My hand freezes while crossing out a ridiculously restrictive exclusivity obligations clause in this endorsement contract. A cold snap crackles inside me, spidering out through my gut and chest and climbing up my throat so that for a long moment, I can’t do anything but lift my head and mutely stare at Jordan Ransom.
And as my best friend jabs a forkful of gravy-covered waffle at me, I mentally run through the list of about five Denny Crane–esque attorneys who can easily get me off for first-degree murder. Never lost a case.
“Well, it’s about time, bruh. Ding-dong, the bitch is dead,” he continues, waving the fork, sending gravy to the left and right of his plate before stabbing the food in his mouth. “And don’t look at me like that. I said what I said.”
Not uttering a word, I swipe my napkin from my lap and dot wayward gravy from the top of the contract. Irritation flares, but like a comet sweeping across a dark night, it’s there, bright and hot, then gone. There’s no point being angry with Jordan. The man makes Honest Abe look like a pathological liar in need of meds. And if anyone takesissue with it, there’s a fallow field somewhere south of the city where he daily buries all the fucks he has to give.
There’s also the fact that he’s a professional basketball player, a three-time NBA champion, and, at thirty, one of an elite few to win NBA MVP, All-Star Game MVP, and Finals MVP awards in the same year. Those facts make a lot of the shit he does and says forgivable in people’s eyes.
Not for me.
There is the not-so-small detail that under the mohawk, miles of tattoos, piercings, and blunt-to-the-point-of-pain honesty, Jordan possesses an unbreakable, stubborn loyalty for those he calls friends. And I’m one of those people.
For me, that’s as precious as the gold settlers once mined these hills for.
Even more so.
Still ...
“Don’t call her a bitch.”
Jordan arches a brow, cutting into his fried chicken breast. “Oh, so you saying she’s not? That one’s so cold I had shrinkage just from being in the same room with her. Which wasn’t often since she saw me as the riffraff.”
He’s not wrong. Val couldn’t stand that I was friends with a man she considered a foulmouthed, ignorant thug, millionaire or not. Her words. And I defended him then just like I did her with him. Neither Jordan nor I had it easy growing up. Both of us had to fend for ourselves, damn near raise ourselves, and forge our own paths and futures. I did it with a college education. He did it with basketball. We both did it with sheer will and by any means necessary.
She could never understand why we bonded so quickly. Resented that I didn’t acquiesce to her demands to relegate our relationship to just attorney and client. But Jordan and I had been friends before she’d come along. And surprise, surprise, he’s here after she’s gone.
Not so surprising, really.
“So what, bruh? Is it true? She dump you? You two done?” He cocks his head, squinting at me. “Cause I gotta tell you. My boy was at this fashion show and charity fundraiser this past weekend and saw your girl—well, yourex-girl—there with another man. And according to him, they looked five minutes from fucking. That tells me either she moved on pretty damn quickly or she was already smashing homeboy when you were still together. Both shady as fuck. And I don’t care what zip code her daddy lives in, so is she.”
I should be shocked by this news. Shocked and enraged.
But I’m not.
Hell yeah, my pride is stung, and that chafes like a motherfucker. Because I should’ve seen the cheating coming, should’ve recognized that she had someone else as her plan B so, one, I could’ve stopped fucking her and having an unwilling ménage à trois with some guy I didn’t know. And two, I could’ve ended the relationship before she did. At least then I wouldn’t have had a stranger show up on my doorstep, robbing me of the satisfaction of facing Val.
That’s what stings most out of this, even more than my battered and bruised dignity.
She stole my control.
And for a man who has tasted, fucking feasted on the bitterness of powerlessness for too many years to count, that’s hard to stomach. It’s unforgivable.
“You don’t seem the least bit shocked by what I’m telling you.” Jordan sets his fork down and leans back in his chair, crossing his inked arms over his chest. “You don’t care, do you?”
Sighing, I set my pen down and pick up my own fork. After pressing it down into a corner of my garden omelet, I scoop up the egg and bring it to my mouth. The flavors of the spinach, mushrooms, and goat cheese explode on my tongue, and I take another bite. Jordan always chooses the Bacon Social House to meet for the chicken and wafflesand boozy french toast, and I grudgingly agree. Still, I have to confess their food is on point—
“You’re stalling, and that doesn’t work on me.”
Yeah, I am, and no, it doesn’t.
