Love T.K.O.

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.” The ugly edge in her voice fell away when she answered the ringing telephone, “The Boxing Institute of Champions.”

Rashawn shook his head. For someone who had a mouth like a trucker, she sure knew how to turn on the charm when it was necessary. Her voice was cheerful and bright. She sounded less like herself and more like the office manager she was paid to be.

Kori finished her call and replaced the receiver. “I thought you were getting out of here. Thought you had things to do.”

“Listening to you gave me an idea.” A crafty expression came over his face as he scratched the stubble on his chin. “Could you do me a favor?”

“Why would I help you?”

Rashawn strolled over to where she was sitting, bent down and wrapped his arms around her. He had known Kori ever since junior high and, though they bickered relentlessly, he loved her like a sister. “Because we’re practically family.”

“It’s gonna cost you.”

“Name your price.”

Typing her password into the computer, she smiled at him over her shoulder. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“I don’t have all day, Kori.”

“All right, fifty bucks.”

He muttered a string of curses. “Fifty bucks to make a phone call? Are you out of your damn mind?”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“Okay, okay, it’s a deal,” he said between clenched teeth. He hated parting ways with his money, especially when his savings account was in the black, but Yasmin was worth it. Rashawn met beautiful women every day, but there was something about her that appealed to him on a personal level. And it didn’t hurt that she had a body that wouldn’t quit. “I’ll bring the money tomorrow.”

“You better. Or I’ll tell my dad you’ve been shaving time off your workouts.” Feeding him a sickly sweet-smile, she patted his cheek with a bony hand. “Now, what do you need me to do, honey?”

“My husband’s an egotistical bastard who only thinks about himself. If it wasn’t for the kids, I’d kill him and bury his body in the backyard.”

Coughing, Yasmin shifted in her chair. Sophie Kolodenko, a Russian-born immigrant with a heavy accent, was by far her most colorful client. The overworked, underappreciated mother of five didn’t mince words when it came to her husband, a sometime plumber, and called him everything from a louse to a freeloader. If Yasmin hadn’t been biting the inside of her lip, she would have laughed.

“Have you told him how his selfishness makes you feel?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t listen to what I have to say.” Sophie wrung her hands in her lap, stress lines forming across her brow. “I’ve even threatened to take the kids and leave but every time I start packing my stuff, he apologizes and promises to change. A week later, he’s back to ordering me around.”

“What can Igor do to make things better?”

“You mean besides die?”

Laughing inwardly but remaining stoic on the outside, Yasmin took off her silver-framed eyeglasses and rested them on the glass table to her right. “Let’s be honest with each other, Sophie. You don’t want your husband to die. You want to know that he appreciates you and values you as a wife and a mother. Isn’t that what this is all about? Validation?”

Staring out the window, Sophie dragged her fingernails through the ends of her ash-blond hair. “I guess so.”

“Have you spoken to Igor about joining our sessions? We’ve been working together for almost three months and I think at this point it would be beneficial for him to join in. How do you feel about him taking part in this discussion?”

“I guess that would be okay.”

“Excellent,” Yasmin said, uncrossing her legs and standing. “That’s our time for today, but don’t forget to book an appointment with Niobie on your way out.”

Shrugging into her lint-infested coat, Sophie stood. “About what I said earlier—”

Yasmin put a comforting hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “What we discuss during our session is private. Don’t worry, I won’t repeat anything you’ve said to me in front of your husband.”

Relief flooded her face. She ambled over to the door, but didn’t open it. “You asked me what Igor could do to make things better. It would be nice if he said thank you. He doesn’t say thank you anymore. He just expects me to do stuff, you know?”

“Maybe you should tell him what you just told me.”

Nodding, Sophie opened the door and exited the room.

Closing her office door, Yasmin returned to her desk and sat down. Plagued by a headache all afternoon, she picked up her remote control, selected disk number five, and sighed softly when the rich, soulful voice of Anthony Hamilton eased the tension flowing through her body. Yasmin couldn’t stop her eyelids from drooping. It was if they had a mind of their own. Kicking off her shoes, she rested back in her leather armchair.

This was very quickly turning out to be the day from hell. Talking with Mrs. Kolodenko had been the only bright spot of the afternoon. First, her sister had called wearing a funky attitude. Imani had been in a mood ever since Yasmin had walked out on her favorite councilman and reminded her every chance she got that Cecil Manning was a terrific catch. Her session with the Fujiyamas had been going well until she suggested Mrs. Fujiyama foster her independence by getting a part-time job. It had taken her ten minutes to calm down her husband and another five to convince him not to cancel their remaining sessions. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the caterer she had hired for the charity fund-raiser had cancelled. It was the first time since Yasmin had arrived at the office that she had had a moment to herself, and it was long overdue.

Yasmin was singing along with Anthony when she heard someone clear his throat. Her eyes shot open. Without her glasses, all Yasmin could make out was the shape of a man. Squinting, she pushed back her chair and sprang to her feet. Where the hell was Niobie? And who was this man in her office, smelling like soap and baby powder?

Rashawn took his time appraising Yasmin. Her twists were pulled up off her face and drew attention to her delicate cheekbones. The charcoal-gray suit gave her an older, more mature look, and though he liked the way it fit her, he wished she was wearing something that showcased her sexy arms and legs. When she ran her fingers through her hair, he caught a breath of her perfume and forced his hands into his pockets. He didn’t know Yasmin well enough to touch her, but hell if the desire wasn’t crushing. “I hope you don’t mind me letting myself in. There was no one out front.”

“It’s no problem at all,” she lied, grabbing the stereo remote. But instead of turning off the CD player, Yasmin increased the volume. The music blared so loud her ears throbbed. Grimacing, she marched over to the bookshelf and jabbed the power button. Smoothing a hand over her blazer, she gave the stranger a shaky smile. “I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s no problem. These things happen, right, Doc?”

Yasmin retrieved her glasses from the end table and slipped them on. Now that the room was in focus, she was able to match the voice with the face, and what a face it was. Heavy eyebrows, sensuous mouth, built-to-last physique. Her usual calm deserted her as she stared at Rashawn. He was more handsome than she had remembered.

He wore large diamond studs in each ear, a wide-link chain on his neck and a platinum watch encrusted in diamonds on his wrist. A large tattoo of a cross with two daggers knitted together covered his arm. Only the strong survive was written in fine, black script. Faded blue jeans hung from his waist and his sneakers were spotless.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Yasmin said, pulling her gaze back up to his face. The man had sleepy, bedroom eyes. Eyes so deep and mysterious a woman could easily get lost in them.

“I’m glad to hear that, because it took a lot of work tracking you down.” His eyes bore down on her, robbing her of speech. “When you didn’t return my calls, I didn’t know what to think. Thought maybe you were avoiding me.”

Yasmin laughed. It was either that or confirm his suspicions.

“Nice setup you got here,” Rashawn said, noticing the framed diplomas, leather furniture and flower-filled vases. A saltwater aquarium filled with vibrantly colored fish and seashells sat against the far wall. The fish tank gave the otherwise ordinary room a much-needed punch of color. “I just bought a house in Clearwater. Maybe you can help me decorate.”

Locking a smile into place, she leaned against her desk. The man had a killer voice. It was heavy with masculinity and touched with just the right amount of sensuality. Getting rid of Rashawn wouldn’t be easy, but her last session of the day was about to start and she wanted to read over Mr. Gallagher’s file. “I wish we could talk further, but I’m expecting my next client any minute now. It’s his first time here and I want to be prepared when he arrives.”

“Cool. Don’t mind me.” Rashawn stepped back, stretched out on the tan-colored couch and crossed his legs at the ankles. “Do what you have to do. I’ll wait right here until you’re ready.”

“You’re not Brody Gallagher.”

“I know, his assistant made the appointment on my behalf.”

“I see.” Yasmin swallowed. She could do this. She was a trained professional, equipped to help clients resolve their personal issues and achieve self-awareness. It didn’t matter that Rashawn had a dreamy voice and rippling muscles. This was business and Yasmin refused to let anything stand in the way of doing her job. “I need a few minutes to get myself together and then we can begin.”

He closed his eyes and folded his hands across his chest. “Like I said, Doc, take as much time as you need.”

Yasmin was behind her desk, gathering assessment forms, when there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” she called, glancing at Rashawn, who was still lounging on the sofa.

Her assistant came in, an apologetic look on her face. Niobie Slade had been with her from the first day she had opened the doors of A Better Way Counseling Services three years earlier, and though the twenty-three-year-old single mom still had a lot to learn, Yasmin could always count on her to be affable and efficient.

“Yes, what is it?” she asked, trying to squelch her frustration. Niobie had a penchant for see-through tops, miniskirts and stilettos and, though Yasmin had spoken to her at length just last week about her wardrobe, she had shown up today in a getup straight out of a music video. If it weren’t for all the work that had to be done for the fund-raiser, Yasmin would have sent her home. The slinky tomato-red dress was a soft, lightweight material but looked very expensive. Yasmin liked it, but not on Niobie. Her assistant was literally busting out of it. Her breasts were on display like a Ferrari in a showroom and the sides bunched up in layers when she walked. The outfit was clearly intended for a woman with height and curves and Niobie was short on one and had too much of the other.

“Sorry to disturb you, but Ms. Dubois called from Pastries and Stuff Catering. They’re booked the first Saturday in June, but when I explained it’s a charity event for inner-city children, she said they could squeeze us in,” Niobie explained, tucking a lock of golden-brown hair behind her ears. “The only catch is they can’t decorate or provide servers. We’ll have to take care of that ourselves.”

“That’s fine. I think it would be a nice touch if we had the kids serve the guests.” Pleased that things were finally starting to fall into place, Yasmin said, “Did she leave a number where I can reach her?”

“Yes. She asked that you call by five and let her know either way.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Niobie turned toward the door but stopped abruptly when she saw the man stretched out on the couch. A pudgy hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God! It’s Rashawn Bishop!” The words came out muffled, but there was no mistaking her excitement. “I’m your biggest fan!”

Rashawn sat up and swung his legs out in front of him. Seven years ago he had been an amateur boxer with only a handful of fights under his belt. Winning the Golden Gloves and then placing well at nationals had catapulted him from obscurity into the local spotlight. And after his record improved to thirty-seven wins, his celebrity had grown and offers started rolling in. Better management, more exposure and a professional debut had soon followed. These days he was recognized more often than not, and he was receiving more and more female attention. Except from Yasmin Ohaji.

“Could you autograph something for my son? He’s only seven but he already has dreams of becoming a boxer. Crazy, huh? I’m saving up so I can send Miles to one of those junior boxing camps. He’s good and I’m not just saying that because I’m his mom.”

Rashawn chuckled. “How about I swing by tomorrow and drop off an autographed picture for your boy?”

“That would be awesome!”

Yasmin cleared her throat, which snapped Niobie out of fan mode and into work mode. “Sorry for the interruption, Ms. Ohaji. If you need anything I’ll be at my desk.”

“Thank you, Niobie. That will be all.”

Waving good-bye at Rashawn, she proceeded through the open door and shut it behind her. They could hear Niobie giggling, then the sound and her footsteps faded.

“I apologize for my assistant’s behavior. It was—”

“No problem. I love meeting fans.”

“You’re a boxer? I don’t watch a lot of sports but you must be pretty popular if people recognize you.”

“I do all right.”

“How long have you been boxing?”

“Since I was fifteen. I got decent grades but I was always getting into trouble at school. My phys ed teacher took pity on me and started letting me hang out at his father’s gym. I’ve been hooked on boxing ever since I threw my first punch.”

Boxing was a violent, barbaric sport and Yasmin would never understand why someone would subject himself to such abuse. Shuffling the papers on her desk, she collected her clipboard and sat in the chair across from Rashawn. He could fill out the assessment sheets later. The clock was ticking and Yasmin didn’t want him to feel short-changed. After all, he was paying a hundred and fifty dollars an hour. “What brings you here today, Mr. Bishop?”

“You, Dr. Ohaji. And please, call me Rashawn.”

Chapter 3

Yasmin shifted in her chair, convinced the man sitting across from her liked making her sweat. Rashawn wasn’t her only male client, but he had a way of looking at her that made her feel nauseated, dizzy and nervous all at the same time. The long, steady looks, the way he wet his lips and the naughty gleam in his eyes troubled her.

Shoving aside her trepidation of being alone in her office with a man with whom she shared a sheer, almost magnetic chemistry, Yasmin made notes on her client assessment sheet. “Our relationship is strictly a patient–doctor one, so let’s stick to what brought you here and the issues you’re dealing with in your life right now.”

“Does that mean I can’t ask you out again?”

Yasmin dodged the question. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

“You first.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Tell me about your educational background.”

No one had ever asked her that before. People from all walks of life came into A Better Way Counseling Services for her help, assuming everything they had heard about her was true. Yasmin didn’t know if she should be impressed or offended by his request. “I graduated from the University of Miami with a degree in psychology, then got my master’s degree in marriage and family therapy the following year.”

“I bet you got good grades. You strike me as someone who wouldn’t settle for anything but a perfect GPA.”

Rashawn was right. Proud that she had coasted through her studies and made the dean’s list four consecutive years, but not wanting to sound arrogant, Yasmin stuck to the facts. “After a brief stint working in a public health clinic, I finished graduate school and received my doctoral degree in clinical psychology.”

“A savvy, young sister with a successful practice? Impressive.”

Uneasy with the way he was staring at her, she said, “Thank you, but I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to discuss my credentials. Let’s talk about you.”

“I’m single. Never been married. No children that I’m aware of. I’m a loving, sensitive brother searching for the right woman to spend my life with.” Rashawn saw her eyes soften and chuckled lightly. Extending his arms along the couch, he said, “I’m just playing, Doc. But women love to hear that sensitive crap, don’t they?”

Yasmin refused to be pulled into the conversation. Regardless of what he thought, this was not a two-way discussion. “Why don’t we discuss your family history?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”

“My mom raised me and my brothers by herself. My dad wasn’t around much, so she shouldered most of the responsibility. I have three loudmouth brothers and I’m the oldest of the brood. They have girlfriends and kids and still live in the old neighborhood.”