Just Too Good to Be True (20 page)

CHAPTER
24

Carmyn Gets a Clue

W
hat do you think of this?” Zander asked as he held out a beautiful chocolate-brown silk wrap dress with a geometric print.

“Is that for me?” I asked.

“So you like it,” Zander said. His freshly shaved head looked like it had been polished with Wesson oil, and he was dressed stylishly himself in black form-fitting slacks and a black silk shirt. I guess I saw what some of his clients were seeing.

“Is that for Maybelline?”

“You think she’ll wear it? It’s not a miniskirt.” Zander laughed.

“If she won’t, I will. When are you going to let her try it on?”

“Let’s call her now. I got some beige heels and a lovely scarf to go with it,” Zander said.

“That’ll look nice. It may be a little formal for a football game, but it’s lovely for a press conference or a nice lunch with the ladies,” I said.

“I’m going to put her on speakerphone so we can both talk to her,”

Zander said.

“Okay,” I said as I looked over a Carol’s Daughter order form. A few moments later, I heard Maybelline’s voice: “
If this is a bill collector, I rebuke you in the name of Jesus. All others leave a message. This is May-Jean, unless you are a bill collector.”

I started laughing so hard I couldn’t talk, and so did Zander for a second, but he quickly pulled himself together and said, “May-Jean, this is the new man in your life. Give me a call. I got a few things I want you to try on. Have a great day, darling. But you got to pay your bills, sweetheart. ’Bye.”

Zander went to the
back of the shop to get fresh towels when the phone rang. I thought for a moment of waiting for Zander to pick up with the strong, sexy voice my customers loved, but then I decided to answer.

“Back to My Roots, Carmyn speaking,” I said.

“Mrs. Bledsoe?”

“Yes.”

“This is Basil Henderson from XJI. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, Mr. Henderson. How are you doing?”

“Great. I just called to see how things were going and if you and Brady have decided when you’re coming to New York.”

“We haven’t. I want there to be as few distractions as possible until the season is over. I know you understand,” I said.

“Sure I do. Is Brady ready for this week’s game? Every game is a big game for him,” Basil said.

“Brady’s always game ready,” I said.

“Ms. Bledsoe, I hope I’m not getting into uncharted territory here, but I hope you know I have Brady’s best interest in mind,” Basil said.

“I know that, Mr. Henderson,” I said, wondering where this was leading.

“Does Brady have a new girlfriend?”

“I wouldn’t call her a girlfriend,” I said quickly.

“Well, I only mention it because I know that a concerned mother such as yourself is very much aware that some girls will do anything to hook up with a potential NFL star like Brady. I had a client whose girlfriend took a used condom and conveniently wound up pregnant right after he signed his contract,” Basil said.

I wanted to say that was just plain nasty, but instead I said, “Mr. Henderson, I appreciate your concern, but Brady was raised with the highest standards. He’s saving himself for marriage and won’t fall for a trick like that.”

“Yes, I’ve read that Brady is celibate, but I wanted to warn you. Sometimes college athletes have to be as wary of their fellow students as they do agents,” Basil said.

“Yes, but as soon as the season is over, Brady and I will sit down and map out a plan for his future,” I said.

“Okay. I just hope my firm and I are a part of those plans,” Basil responded.

“I think you’ve put yourself in a position to do just that.”

“Thanks, Ms. Bledsoe. You have a good day.”

“I will, and you do the same. Good-bye.”

CHAPTER
25

Brady’s Thrown for a Loss

I
parked my SUV in the garage of my childhood home, turned off the engine, and without pulling the keys from the ignition, slumped in the driver’s seat.

Earlier, after a brief conversation with Coach, I had walked silently out of the locker room through a kaleidoscope of tattooed biceps and body parts. As I walked outside toward my truck in the parking lot, the clouds dissipated and the sun came down from a dirty sky.

During my drive back to Atlanta, I kept telling myself that what Barrett had told me could not be true. I thought of calling my mother on my cell phone during the drive, confronting her with the story, but decided I needed to wait until I could stand face-to-face with her, read her eyes to see if she was being honest with me.

But what if she wasn’t?

What if she tried to lie to me? Or tell me she didn’t know what Barrett was talking about, that my father was dead and this was just Barrett’s way of coming between the two of us.

I pulled the keys from the ignition and dragged myself from the car, walking up the stairs and using my key to open the door. I opened it cautiously, trying not to make a sound.

Once inside, I called out to my mother. When no answer came, I walked in and closed the door behind me.

I walked through the living room, then into the dining room, stopping at the table, resting my hand on back of one of the chairs. I remembered all the holiday dinners we would have there together, just me and my mother. Sometimes Kellis, Ramon, or Lowell would drop by after dinner for desserts and eggnog.

I remembered one Christmas when I was eight years old, sitting here and asking my mother why I didn’t have a father like Ramon.

My mother would always avoid the question, putting me off by saying things like “Why, I’m not good enough for you?” or “All you’ll ever need is me, baby.”

I stepped back from the dining room table, making my way through the house again. I went into the study, where my mother did her reading, had her favorite chair, and shelves loaded with her favorite books.

On those shelves were also photos of me and my mother. I lifted one, an old framed snapshot of me in a Pee Wee league uniform. Staring at the photo of me with a huge smile on my face and holding a football, I remembered how happy I was that day.

I set the old photo down and glanced at another, one of me and my mother. My mother was squeezing me tight, planting a kiss on my cheek as I laughed and squirmed in her embrace. I felt a smile try to come to my face now, like it usually did when I saw this picture, but this time the smile did not surface.

My mother had deceived me. She’d lied to me.

But how did I know that? There was no proof. There was only what Barrett said. I reminded myself that I had only known Barrett for three months, but I also believed she had no reason to lie to me.

I turned and left the room, shaking my head, trying to rid myself of my negative thoughts. It wasn’t fair to my mother, who had loved me as much as any mother could love her child. I felt ashamed of myself for already convicting her without giving her a chance to deny it. I needed to stop myself from doing that.

I ran up to my old bedroom, threw myself onto the bed, grabbed my pillow, covered my face with it, wrapped both my arms around it, and squeezed, trying to stop the thoughts from entering.

But I couldn’t.

I ripped the pillow from my face, slung it across the room, where it hit the frame of the door and landed on the floor just in front of my mother’s feet.

She was standing there, looking at me oddly. I wasn’t sure for just how long she had been there.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked. “What are you doing home?”

“Coach let me off. I had some things to work out,” I said as I got up from the bed and gave my mother a half-hug.

She looked at me like she knew there was something heavy on my mind.

She pushed me back from her and looked deep in my eyes and said, “Brady, what’s wrong?”

“Mom, I need to ask you something and I need you to tell me the truth,” I said, my voice cracking with emotion.

“Baby, I always tell you the truth.”

“Even if it means telling me the real story about my father?” I asked as I eyed my mother with suspicion.

My mother looked numb. She was shocked that I had asked her such a thing.

“Let’s go downstairs to the kitchen. You look like you need something to drink,” she said.

I nodded, and we walked downstairs in silence. When we reached the kitchen, my mother pulled out two bottles of water from the refrigerator and gave one to me.

“Tell me what’s the matter, baby, you’ve got me really worried,” my mother said.

“Is my father really dead?” I asked.

There was a long silence, and my mother seemed to have trouble forming her words. “I don’t know, Brady,” she finally said. “Why are you asking me questions like this?”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Either he’s dead or he’s not,” I said very slowly, trying not to raise my voice.

“Can you answer my question first?” my mother demanded.

“Somebody told me my father might be alive. They told me that you went to the University of Texas. Is that true, Mom?”

“Who is this somebody? Who told you that?” my mother asked. I wanted to tell her to stop asking me questions and just tell me the damn truth.

“Barrett told me,” I said.

“Barrett? What does that girl know about me or my life?”

“So it’s true?”

“Yes, Brady, I went to Texas my freshman year,” Mom said.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“It wasn’t important, Brady. I was only there less than a year.”

“So my dad could be alive?”

“I don’t know, Brady,” she said, looking away from me like she was searching for answers and avoiding my eyes.

“You told me he was dead,” I said. “What’s the truth?”

“Brady, baby, I’ve lied all these years because I don’t know who your father is,” my mother said. She looked away and took her index finger to dab at her watering eyes.

“What do you mean you don’t know who he is? You told me he was killed in an accident on the way to the hospital when I was born. What kind of woman are you to do this to me?” I said. My heart was beating fast, adrenaline was flowing like a sprinter on the verge of winning a race, and yet it felt like something was collapsing inside me.

“Brady, let’s go into the dining room and talk. Let me explain,” my mother said, her eyes pleading with me to understand.

“Explain what? How you lied to me all my life? Told me my father was dead and now you tell me you don’t know who he is? Why should I believe you? Why should I listen to anything you have to say?”

My mother took a long gulp of water, looking as though she was trying to sort this all out in her head. “Brady, I need to take a nap. Can we talk about this later?”

“We don’t have to ever talk about it,” I said as tears started to stab at my eyes.

“Brady, come back,” my mother screamed. She rushed toward me and tried to hold me, but I pulled away.

“I’m going back to school.”

“Brady, talk to me, baby,” she cried.

But now it was me who couldn’t look at her, and so I bolted for the back door and raced for my truck.

CHAPTER
26

Barrett’s Ballet

Dear Diary,

If Paris Hilton ever decides to do a sequel to that little sex tape of hers, the bitch needs to come and take a master class from me.

Brady came to see me after he returned from seeing his mother. When I opened the door, he stood there, his eyes red-rimmed and his body slumped over as if he carried a dead body the size of himself on his shoulders. His eyes were blank. Without a word, he dragged into my apartment and collapsed onto the couch.

When I took his hand and asked what happened, it took him a moment to look at me. He told me I was right and that his mother wasn’t perfect like he thought she was all these years and that maybe she was just too good to be true. Then tears fell down the length of his face. When I brushed them away, I was surprised at how warm they felt.

I didn’t expect the lump that filled my throat and the ache that grabbed my heart. I knew Brady was in a lot of pain and there was nothing I could do to soothe it. I had to once again remind myself that this is business. Any feelings had to be put on hold.

When Brady stopped crying and used his sleeve to wipe his face, I told him to take off his shirt and offered to get him a warm towel. Brady didn’t say a word. He just stood up in front of the couch and removed his pullover with one swoop. His upper body glistened with sweat.

When I returned with the towel, I couldn’t help but admire his six-pack abs and broad shoulders. Despite his grief, Brady was oozing masculinity and the alluring smell of sexual promise that young men have without knowing it.

I wrapped my arms around him, and when he responded by squeezing me tighter than I’d ever been held before, I closed my eyes, knowing now was the time.

Pressing into him, I held Brady like a baby, letting him release his emotions into my chest. After a little while I began to plant delicate, wet kisses on his flat stomach and then up toward his chest, shoulders, and finally his lips. My tongue met his, gently at first, but then he started kissing me hungrily.

I told him to stand up, and he obeyed and stood directly in front of me, and I took my hands and touched his already stiff manhood through his sweatpants. I was cautious, remembering the times he had pushed me away. But this time was different, and I became aggressive with my strokes.

Brady’s eyes seemed to track my every move like he was a wild animal. I slipped his sweats from his waist, removed his boxer briefs, and took his full manhood into my hands. It was so big and beautiful.

When he whispered he needed me, I reached up and placed my finger over his lips and then I kissed the head of his manhood. I took it whole into my mouth. Brady’s sigh was full of pleasure, and I was afraid he’d explode before I could take it out.

I knew the rolling movement of my tongue gave Brady a sensation that was beyond his belief, and I could almost feel every muscle in his body quivering. Then suddenly I stopped.

I took his hand and led him toward my bedroom. The seduction I had originally planned included candles, new lingerie, and perfume, but my maroon silk pajamas and pink thong underwear would have to do.

Inside my bedroom, I leaned into him and pushed him playfully onto the bed and spoke the words he needed to hear: “I’m going to make everything better,” I said softly.

I removed my pajama top and his eyes admired my beautiful, firm breasts. He told me how beautiful I was as I dropped my pajama bottoms and climbed on top of him. When I put my arms around his neck, he took one of my breasts into his mouth and sucked it like it was fresh fruit. I felt his snake of a dick flop against my thigh, totally hard, and felt the taste of his mouth, the touch of his hands.

He positioned himself on top of me and pressed his body into mine. When we kissed, I turned so that I was on top. I needed total control, and I saw surrender in his face. His eyes told me that he wanted me more than words could ever say. Holding his stare, I slid onto him and relished the sound of his moan. Slowly, I began to move in a circular motion, staring at him and controlling him with my eyes and hips.

His moans became whimpers, and I rode him faster and deeper until suddenly I felt a piercing jolt of warmth as he screamed out, “Barrett, Barrett. Oh, my God!”

I wanted to tell him the good Lord couldn’t help him now.

That stupid little boy didn’t even ask for a condom.

Got him.

Game over.

Time to move on and collect my prize.