Love T.K.O.. Pamela Yaye
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Rashawn glanced out the window. He had almost suffered whiplash when the dark-skinned woman had stormed out of the restaurant a few seconds earlier. When her date returned inside looking dejected, Rashawn excused himself from his table for the second time in minutes. When he got outside, the mystery woman was stepping into a taxicab.
“Let me call you another one,” he said, extending his hand. “The driver looks buzzed.”
Yasmin smiled knowingly. Puzzled, yet intrigued by where this was going, she stepped out of the taxicab and slammed the door. The driver sped off, leaving behind a trail of dust.
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“That’s because I didn’t give it to you.”
He gestured toward the restaurant. “What happened with your man? You break up with him over what happened in there?”
“He’s not my man. He was a blind date.” Yasmin spoke her mind as if she were talking to one of her girlfriends, rather than a man she had known all of ten seconds. “Can you believe he wanted me to ignore them? As loud as they were? My mother raised me to be a strong black woman and I’m not about to let a bunch of knuckleheads disrespect me.”
“I hear you. Looked like you were ready to rumble in there!”
Laughing, she tucked her clutch purse under her arm. “I was. Thank God you stepped in when you did, ah…” She waited for him to volunteer his name.
“Rashawn.”
She repeated his name, liking the way it sounded to her ears. It was unique, unlike anything she had ever heard and fit him perfectly. “I like it.”
“Glad you approve.”
Yasmin flirted back. “I do.”
Chasing down women wasn’t his style, but he had a feeling this Afrocentric sister with the no-nonsense attitude would be worth the chase. She glowed like an angel under the decorative streetlights, and her eyes shimmered with humor. “What’s your name, beautiful?”
“Yasmin Ohaji.”
“You’re South African.”
She didn’t hide her surprise. Very few people were able to surmise where she was from just by the mention of her name. “How did you know?”
“I read a lot about the history of the country before I traveled there.”
“You’ve been to South Africa?”
“Twice.” Rashawn extended his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Yasmin’s heart stood still when he touched her. Her hand slipped easily into his and the heat of his touch warmed her down to her toes. The man had a magazine-worthy smile, a solid physique and he smelled positively divine.
Rashawn wanted to talk to Yasmin some more but he had to get back inside. He had some important business to discuss with a Las Vegas boxing promoter and he couldn’t afford to blow this opportunity. If he could convince Mr. Alvarez to give him a chance, he would be one step closer to a title match and all the perks that came with being a top contender. Rashawn had the drive, the talent and the motivation. He just needed a break. “Maybe we can get together next week for drinks.”
“Won’t your girlfriend, fiancée, wife mind?” she asked, prodding openly. “I don’t want to break up a happy home.”
“I’m as single as they come.”
After the night she’d had, the last thing Yasmin wanted to do was go on another blind date. Rashawn looked good, but so did Cecil. No, she was better off at home planning the charity fund-raiser than wasting another evening with a good-looking man of little substance. A taxicab pulled up and she opened the door. “Sorry, I can’t.”
“Can I at least have your number in case you change your mind?”
Yasmin opened her mouth to decline, but stopped herself. She was drawn to him, and that scared her. The smart thing to do would be to brush him off, but she didn’t feel right shooting him down. After all, he had stood up for her. If it hadn’t been for him defending her, she would still be inside listening to lewd and sexist comments. “I guess that would be okay.” Yasmin opened her purse, retrieved one of her business cards and handed it to him. “Here you go.”
Rashawn took the card. “Hold on, your home number isn’t on here.”
“I know,” she said, wearing a cheeky smile. Before Rashawn could reply, Yasmin was in the backseat of the cab, waving good-bye.
Chapter 2
Curling his body toward the heavy bag, Rashawn threw a swift uppercut punch. The sound of gloved fists pounding against leather mingled with the grunts and groans drifting in from the weight room. Tupac blared from a portable stereo, giving fighters that extra boost of energy when their bodies begged to quit. It was a paltry fifty-eight degrees outside but the high-energy atmosphere, coupled with the overcrowded gym, made Rashawn feel like he was in a sauna.
The stifling air in the Boxing Institute of Champions was inundated with testosterone, and the women sparring in the ring were anything but feminine. Not like the African beauty he had met last week. Yasmin Ohaji. Baby girl had it going on.
He liked that she had none of the vanity or arrogance often associated with beautiful women. She was real, honest, refreshing. And she had one hell of a smile. Rashawn tried not to think about her, tried not to relive their meeting, but he did. Their five-minute conversation had left an indelible impression on him, and she crept into his thoughts during his workouts.
The moment she’d stormed out of the Laurdel Lounge, he knew he had to see her again. Rashawn had always been crazy for sophisticated, elegant chicks. One look at Yasmin and he was sprung. He had been calling her office since Monday, but a week later still hadn’t connected with her. Every time he called, her terse-sounding assistant told him Ms. Ohaji was with clients and would contact him at her earliest convenience. Rashawn was hopeful she would come around because she was too fine for him not to keep trying.
Adrenaline pumping, he completed his set, then tugged off his gloves. Wiping the sweat from his face with a towel, he exited the workout area and went into the back office. Signed photographs of Muhammad Ali, Tommy “The Hit Man” Hearns and Lennox Lewis dressed the walls, papers and invoices obscured the desk and garbage flowed onto the floor. The windows were open, ushering in a healthy mixture of fresh air and sunshine. Guzzling from his ice-cold water bottle, he sunk onto one of the plastic chairs and dropped his elbows on his knees.
“You finished your workout already?”
“Already?” Rashawn didn’t bother to look up. He knew Kori Gallanger was watching him, her thin ruby-painted lips twisted in a scowl. The scent of cheap perfume, nicotine and Listerine engulfed the office like flames. “I’ve been here for six hours. Hell yeah, I’m done.”
“Boss man’s gonna be pissed when he comes back and you’re not here.”
“Oh, well. I’ve got things to do.”
Flopping down on the armchair, she steered it over to the wooden desk. “Suit yourself. It’s your funeral.”
Glancing up at Kori, he slowly began unraveling his hand wraps. “Where’s your old man anyways? He said he’d be right back.”
Shrugging a shoulder, she started cleaning the papers off the desk. “Beats me. He said he had some errands to run. Didn’t say when he’d be back.”
When the last piece of material fell away, Rashawn massaged the tenderness in his hands. He’d run, lifted weights, sparred off and on all afternoon and jumped rope until but his calves ached. Not only were his hands blistered, his feet were tender and his back was stiff. Standing, he stretched his weary arms above his head. “See you tomorrow. Tell Brody to call me.”
“Whatever. I’m not your message girl.”