Chapter 1

      “You should just keep your mouth shut! Nobody wants to hear politics from a ballplayer.”

      From behind the broad back of his bodyguard, Ahmed moved quickly through the vocal crowd of about two dozen people to get to the doors of the radio station. Some were obviously gawking simply because of who he was—rich, retired at thirty and a consistent presence in the Atlanta club scene and on gossip sites across the internet. Others were there because they smelled a scandal or something close to it. And there were some who were present, like the guy who’d just screamed at Ahmed, because they apparently didn’t have anything better to do at ten o’clock on a Wednesday morning.

      “Technically you’re an ex-ballplayer, so you can have opinions on anything you damn well please.” Sam, Ahmed’s bodyguard and cousin, growled the comment as they slid past the radio station’s security guys, just low enough for Ahmed to hear, although if he’d said it at the top of his voice, nobody would have reacted. Guys over six feet tall with muscles stacked on top of muscles could get away with saying just about anything they wanted to, and to whomever.

      Ahmed was built on a more modest but—he liked to think—no less impressive scale with his six and a half feet of lean but defined muscle, a strong jawline and cheekbones that had been accused a time or two of being “chiseled.” And those were just the nice things his sisters said about him.

      Only the memory of the mellow breakfast he’d had with his family—his sisters, Aisha and Devyn, his mother and Sam—kept his annoyance at the heckler to a low-grade ripple. Besides, the hostility of strangers was nothing new to him, especially after twelve years playing professional basketball. He was now retired and having fun being a part-time radio show host. Even if he’d been silent about his politics, people would still find some way to throw insults his way. Plenty of his former teammates were prime examples of that. The people loved you when you were playing well, making them money, entertaining them. But once you fumbled, good luck.

      “Damn, they’re rowdy out there today.” Sam settled the lines of his dark jacket more firmly on his shoulders with a shrug, the custom-made suit easily hiding his gun and somehow minimizing the size, but not the threat, of his big body. Ahmed didn’t know how he could wear it with the crazy-hot January weather currently punishing Atlanta. “What the hell did you do while I was asleep?” His deep voice rumbled in a way that let Ahmed know he was only half joking. Before going their separate ways—Sam to the military and Ahmed to basketball—Sam was forever pulling Ahmed out of the trouble his big mouth got him into. He’d learned to temper his snarkiness but once Sam got out of the army with an honorable discharge, Sam fell back into the role as bodyguard but in a more official capacity.

      “You know it’s because of that tweet I sent last night,” Ahmed said.

      “As if the city didn’t already know how you felt about it closing that downtown high school.” Sam took in the wide and sterile hallway and the half dozen or so people making their way through it with a skilled gaze, taking in details Ahmed took for granted.

      “Just making sure they didn’t miss my opinion,” he said with a scornful twist of his lips.

      Marcus Garvey High was a school Ahmed had poured a lot of money and time into to support its STEM program that worked to give city kids an equal chance at tech, engineering and science jobs once they graduated. Although Ahmed had been born into a middle-class family and hadn’t faced the challenges many of those kids at the high school did, he knew betting on an elusive sports career or going into the armed forces shouldn’t be the only options they saw in their future.

      Ahmed was sick of urban kids’ education being a low priority. Something had to be done about securing their future. He may not be a politician or even a “real activist,” by some standards but he was doing what he could while he had the platform.

      “Don’t forget we’re going to that town hall meeting on Monday morning,” Ahmed said.

      “Good,” Sam said, nodding.

      As they made their way toward the studio Ahmed would occupy for the next three hours, Sam walked just behind and to the right of Ahmed, keeping an eye out for whatever possible dangers lurked nearby. Not that Ahmed had stumbled into any hazards after being at the station for his new gig for nearly two months now. The weekly midmorning show was still enjoyable. It gave him a chance to interact with fans—and haters—in a personal way he’d never had the chance to try before. And it was something for him to do after retirement that didn’t involve groupies, the successful string of restaurant franchises he’d bought or the various “investment people” he’d had to hire once his money began multiplying even faster than he’d planned.

      Sam stepped ahead to push open the door of the studio, and Ahmed moved to step through it when a flash of pink caught his eye, something unusual in his established Wednesday-morning routine. He stopped in his tracks and damn near caught his breath at the vision of femininity floating toward him from down the hallway.

      High heels, a pink floral dress swirling around slender legs and hips, a narrow waist he could easily measure with both of his hands. The woman’s breasts were small, barely a handful, but like most Black men he socialized with, Ahmed had never been caught up in breast size. Big, small, barely there at all—it didn’t matter to him. The rear view was what made him decide whether or not a woman was worth a second look or even a second date.

      The Pink Lady sauntered toward him, her hips swaying and high heels loudly kissing the tile floors, making his heart beat faster as she came close. She wore her hair straight and pinned up in some sort of topknot with curly wisps floating around her face.

      “Don’t swallow your tongue.” Sam, still holding the door open, was making a visible effort not to roll his eyes.