There was an immense fieldstone fireplace in the glass living room and a sunken seating area of white leather sofas. A very pretty, very pregnant young black woman was plopped on one of the sofas watching CNN on a sixty-inch flat screen TV-a live report on what was going on right now outside this very house. Which was, Des decided, a tiny bit surreal. The focal point of the living room was the hugest home aquarium she’d ever seen. Half a dozen pale gray sharks were swimming around in a water world of brightly colored coral reef.
“It’s two thousand gallons,” Tyrone said, following her gaze. “Saw a tank just like it one night at a club in Tribeca and said I’ve got to have me one. An outfit in the city designs them, installs them, everything. Those are black tip reef sharks you’re looking at. I can watch them for hours. Always want to make sure you have six. It’s all about team. Fewer than six and they prey on each other. More than six and you’ve got a jailbreak. Turn off that TV, will you, Cee? We have a guest. Trooper Mitry, say hello to my lovely wife, Jamella.”
Jamella eyed Des with a gaze that was anything but friendly. It was guarded, streetwise and extremely protective of who and what was hers. “Hey,” she said.
“Glad to know you,” said Des, who’d read all about Da Beast’s twenty-three-year-old bride. Jamella Jameson was a professional dancer out of Houston who’d toured with Beyonce before she’d snagged the NFL’s biggest, baddest star. She was a natural beauty with smooth skin and sculpted lips. Her strong jaw and high hard cheekbones gave her a distinctly Native American look. She wore her hair long and braided. The maternity shift she wore was an unusual, brightly patterned patchwork design that was quite lovely.
Tyrone settled himself on the sofa next to Jamella and took her slim hand in his big, battered one. “Sit, sit, Trooper. Can I get you anything to drink? You hungry? Moms just got back from the store. She can fix you anything.”
“I’m good, thanks.” Des perched on the edge of a sofa, big hat on her knee. Somewhere in the house someone was still playing a piano.
Rondell sat directly across from her, watching her alertly. Clarence sprawled his long self out next to him.
“Take your big feet off my sofa,” Jamella scolded him.
He obeyed her at once. “Sorry.”
“Let me take a wild guess,” Tyrone said to Des. “The powers that be sent you here to tell me to behave myself, am I right?”
“No, you are not.”
He frowned at her. “Then what are you doing here?”
“Trying to head off trouble.”
“You can’t,” he stated flatly. “Trouble’s going to find you. It always finds me. Like that clown Plotka out there. The man’s nothing but a lying shakedown artist looking for a cheap payday.”
“Our attorney calls it nothing more than civil extortion,” Rondell said. “A thorough criminal investigation was conducted. Tyrone was cleared of any and all criminal assault charges.”
“Damned right,” Tyrone agreed. “Plotka intruded on my private space, okay? Came up to me in that Dave amp; Buster’s when I was having lunch with Jamella after practice. Started claiming that I done this and that to his fiancee. Who, I swear, I’ve never met in my life. He got very abusive. His language was inappropriate. It’s a family restaurant. Our fans bring their young kids there. He was way out of line. Jamella can tell you.”
She nodded. “He called my man ghetto trash. And me a skanky ho.”
“He got in my face,” Tyrone continued. “I simply tried to excuse him from my face. Did I put my hand on his chest? Yes. Did I shove him? No. The man slipped and fell. Did he suffer any injuries as a result of falling? No. I guarantee you he has a perfectly healthy eyeball under that patch he’s sporting.”
“That so-called doctor of his is a quack,” Rondell said. “When an independent physician examines Mr. Plotka as part of the civil proceedings the man’s injuries will be revealed as utterly bogus. That’s why we’re refusing to settle with him. He won’t get one nickel out of us.”
“But the damage is already done,” Tyrone said regretfully. “The Players Union wanted me to fight my suspension. I’m accepting my punishment. Never should have put my hand on the bastard. A man my size has to learn how to control himself. Mind you, that’s easier said than done. I don’t know how to dial down. I get paid to never dial down.”
“But he’s learning how,” Jamella pointed out. “When we’re together he’s just a gentle teddy bear. And he has never once put his hands on me without it being about our love for each other. The Tyrone Grantham I know is a good man.”
“And I intend to be a good father to our baby. I haven’t been to my other babies. Truth? I don’t even know what it means to be a father.”
“But he’s going to learn that, too,” Jamella said. “That’s what this time off is all about-learning.”
“It’s been a wake-up call for me, no question. I let my family down, my teammates down. I miss the game like you wouldn’t believe. But everything happens for a reason. This is my opportunity to change how I go about my business. I’m all done being bad Hercules. I’m not looking to get in any more fights. Not looking to rip any more pub. No more trash talking…”
“I make sure he drinks his glass of shut up every day,” Jamella said.
“No more clubbing. No more partying. No more drama. That’s why I rented out my place in Glen Cove and moved us here. It’s quiet here and that suits me just fine. I’m happy. My priorities are straight now. We’ll have us our baby. And I’ll walk the walk. Represent my family the right way.”
“What about the way you play the game?” Des asked him. “Aren’t you afraid Da Beast will lose his edge?”
“Da Beast is never afraid. Next season I’ll be a stronger, more dependable leader.” He studied her from across the coffee table. The piano that someone was playing fell silent. There was only the gentle gurgle of the shark tank now. “So why are you here?”
“To inform you that you’ve got some rich neighbors who are used to getting their way.”
He let out a laugh. “Hey, I know that. Justy Bond, right? I haven’t met him. Only know him from the pissed- off letters and phone messages he keeps leaving me. But it would appear he has himself a problem with a brother taking up residence next door. I pay him no mind. I’m not looking for trouble. Or attention. That’s why I said no to the reality show they wanted me to film.”
“We had two offers,” Rondell put in proudly. “Firm offers.”
“That whole media circus out front is Plotka’s doing, not mine. I’m strictly looking for peace and quiet, like I said. No muss, no fuss. And for damned sure no parties.”
“That’s probably a wise thing,” Des said.
“You telling us we can’t have a few friends over?” Clarence demanded.
“I’m not ‘telling’ you anything. Just advising you to be smart. Otherwise, I can guarantee you that we’ll have a situation. You know how to reach me if there’s trouble. How do I reach you?”
“I’ll give you our unlisted number.” Rondell reached for a notepad and pen on the coffee table and wrote it down for her.
Tyrone shook his shaved head. “These folks out here are terrified of me. I’m their worst nightmare. Your worst nightmare, too, right, girl?”
Des shoved her heavy horn-rims up her nose. “I don’t think I understand.”
“Sure you do. You’re one of those nice, polite girls. Did your homework every night. Stayed away from bad boys like me. Where’d you go to college?”
“West Point.”
He raised his eyebrows, impressed. “You saw action?”
“I saw action.”
“The real kind, too. Not a game like I play, hunh?”
“It was no game,” Des said, hearing footsteps approach them on the hardwood floor.
Rondell’s face lit up. “Resident Trooper Mitry, this is Jamella’s sister Kinitra.”
“Hey,” Kinitra said shyly. She was seventeen, maybe eighteen, and real cute in a baby-faced, dimply sort of way. Big, doe eyes. A soft young mouth. Actually, her face looked soft all over, as if it were constructed out of marshmallows. Kinitra wore her orange-streaked hair in a short, punky updo. She was petite, no more than five- feet-four, but she had a lovely, curvy figure. The brightly patterned top and shorts she had on were of the same patchwork design as her older sister’s shift.
