Page 68 of Anything Necessary for Her (Crenshaw Kings #9)

ONE WEEK LATER . . .

“Even my fingers are sore,” Kailey groaned, swiping on her iPhone as we lay out by the pool at my parents’ house.

Ballet had been grueling lately because Carolyn was clearly going through something and being a stickler for every little mistake we made.

“Stop playing with your pussy every night and it probably wouldn’t,” I jested as we both chortled.

“Bitch, please. I may not have a man, but I don’t need to play with myself to get off,” she assured me.

“I’m already knowing. I thought you and Taye were something though.”

“We are.” She flipped onto her stomach, smirking. “Fuck buddies.”

“Goodness.” I chuckled, texting Low back.

“Oh shit,” she murmured, clearly reading something on her phone from behind her shades. “You seen this?” She angled her phone screen so that I could read the article headline.

Former USC Baseball Star’s Physical Assault Could Mean Contract Rescinded

“Is that Trayvon?” I took her phone to scan read until I ran into his name.

Reading the article told me he’d been beaten badly, his bones crushed in several places all over his body and that when questioned, Trayvon claimed all he could remember was that a masked man had assaulted him and that he believed it was someone from a rival school’s baseball team due to the nature of the beating.

As for security footage, there was none because the cameras hadn’t caught anything due to the electricity going out just before.

“Trayvon must’ve pissed somebody off ’cause damn. Told you he was gon’ get enough of talking so much shit during his games.” Kailey shook her head, taking her phone back and moving on.

“Right,” I said absentmindedly, wondering if Low was behind such a thing, which I’d hoped wasn’t the case.

THE NEXT DAY . . . PROLIFIC POINTE . . .

I was on edge waiting for Low to pull up to get Waverley.

We hadn’t seen one another yesterday since he was working so late, and I hadn’t wanted to ask him about Trayvon via text.

I couldn’t say much while here either since he had a packed day, and so did I, but it was better than sending it through a message.

I stood by the opened door as the little girls packed their stuff up, ate small snacks, and jumped around the large room as they awaited their rides.

When I spotted Low’s beloved Maybach pull up into the lot, I started out, hoping to take advantage of it being just us in the parking lot.

“Sup, Peep.” He smiled brightly as he hopped out of his car, extending three roses surrounded by baby’s breath to me.

“Thank you.” I poked my bottom lip out, loving the random gesture.

We kissed, and he started to walk toward the door of the studio to retrieve his sister, so I stopped him.

“What’s up?” He turned to me, brows furrowed.

“I need to ask you something.” I moved closer to him to conceal my voice some, though the parking lot was vacant. “Did you do something to Trayvon?”

“What happened to him?” he asked stoically.

“Someone beat his ass badly with something, broke a lot of his bones in his limbs with the exception of one hand.”

“Sucks.”

“Willow.” I cocked my head, trying to get a read on him, but I couldn’t.

I should’ve known better since the game he was in required one to have a hell of a poker face and an impenetrable veneer.

“Low!” Waverley came darting out into the parking lot, ceasing all conversation at that point much to my chagrin.

I immediately changed my tenor, smiling down at her as she hugged her brother tightly.

“I’ll get up with you later, Peep.” He kissed me slowly, then rounded his vehicle to help her inside.

“Can we get sushi?” I heard her little voice beg as I started back toward the ballet studio entrance in order to get ready for practice.

Once all the kids were picked up and claimed, practice ensued, but I could barely focus. I felt like shit for some reason, thinking about Trayvon’s career possibly being over.

For as long as I’d known him, he’d been dreaming of going to the MLB and playing for the Los Angeles Bandanas. And according to his parents during an afternoon lunch I had with them long ago, he’d been playing the game since he was two years old.

The thought of him not making it and it being indirectly my fault had thrown me off my square. By saying that, I was more than happy when Carolyn and Douglas announced that we could go home.

Immediately, I went home to shower and clean up, before slipping into some clothes. I texted Trayvon’s mother, Della, and she got back to me promptly to disclose what hospital and room her son was in.

I went straight there, stopping in the hospital flower shop for a bouquet and a small Get Well Soon balloon because I just didn’t know what to get a man who was laid up in the hospital.

As I rode up to his floor, I wondered if Trayvon was actually unaware of who did it or if he knew the culprit and was too afraid to snitch. If it was the latter, then I was positive it was Low.

Stepping off the elevator, I paid close attention to the room numbers until finally arriving at Trayvon’s. The door was slightly cracked, but I still knocked to alert that I was entering. As soon as I did, I spotted Trayvon and his cousin Felicia, who brightened up at the sight of me.

“I haven’t seen you in forever.” She rushed up to me, embracing me tightly.

“I know. Trayvon and I aren’t . . .” I let my words trail off when she nodded to say she already knew.

I stepped in closer to see him and how terrible he looked. His face was still intact, but his eyes held a defeat I didn’t recognize, causing my stomach to sink.

For the first time in my life, I saw the downside of dating a hood nigga. I thought of all the times Asif called Low reckless and complained about how he moved.

“Oh, nah, you gotta leave,” Trayvon said as soon as his eyes landed on me.

“Trayvon—”

“She gotta go!” he bellowed, cutting his cousin’s sentence off. “Nurse!” He began assaulting the button with his good hand. “Leave!” He growled at me so fiercely it almost made me jump back.

“Trayvon, what is wrong?—”

“Mr. Gainer? Is everything alright?” The nurse barged in, rushing to his bed.

“No. Get this woman out of my room. I don’t want any visits outside of family!” He pointed at me like he was Celie and I was Mister in The Color Purple .

“Trayvon—”

“No, it’s fine,” I said to Felicia, shaking my head so she wouldn’t continue to go to bat for me.

I was 90 percent sure Low was behind it on the way here, but seeing Trayvon’s reaction sealed the deal for me. Trayvon was frightened, and I knew that fright had only been inserted by way of Willow Harris.

I turned to leave, hurrying to the elevator because not only did I feel bad, but I was slightly ashamed at how Trayvon was yelling at me in front of his cousin and nurse.

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, power walking off the elevator and then out of the hospital. The recognizable Maybach parked right up front in the space meant for women in labor caused me to freeze mid-step.

“Get in the car, Peep.” Low rolled the window down as I tried to act as if I didn’t notice his car and bypass it.

“I drove myself,” I almost sputtered, a little scared at the moment. How did he even find me here? And what the fuck would he think about me being here for another man? I needed time to think of a good excuse, and I couldn’t do that riding in his car.

Low said nothing, popping the locks before he gulped down some of his pineapple Fanta, staring straight ahead. His tattoos danced along his brown, muscled arms as he did so, while I glanced around wondering if I could run to my damn car.

Low climbed out, rounded the back, then opened his passenger door for me. He was standing there looking like a tall glass of milk chocolate in a wife beater, joggers, socks, and corduroy slippers, his cologne dancing in the air.

Realizing there was no way out of this, I walked gingerly to the car and slid inside.

He hopped in on the driver’s side, then sped out straightaway.

“Fuck you doing up here visiting that nigga for, Banks?” Banks? Yeah, he was pissed. “Like you this nigga wife or some shit?” He was speeding through the streets.

“Because I feel bad, Low. You did that to him even after I said to leave him alone and that he was harmless.” I spoke as collectedly as I could, even though I was pissed and shaken up by the look on Trayvon’s face.

“You said not to kill him, and I didn’t.”

“You might as well have! Look what you did to him! His whole life is baseball, and now he may lose his contract with the Bandanas!” I yelled.

“I warned him.” He shook his head, eyes on the road, seat leaned back too far for safety, and his hand gripping the wheel.

“Told him to leave you the fuck alone and that if he didn’t, I was gon’ ruin his fucking life.

I made it clear that I wasn’t a nigga to say shit twice and that if I had to see him again, it would only be to make good on my fucking threat.

Nigga lucky I ain’t put him down for hitting ya line, but shit,” Low looked to me and added, “maybe I should.”

“You better not!”

“Or what? Huh?” His attention kept oscillating between me and the road. “Fuck you gon’ do, leave? You ain’t no fucking snitch—I know that much—so that’s the only thing I’m thinking.”

“Maybe I will leave your reckless ass.” I looked out the window, unable to stop shaking my head.

“Yeah, well, I’m yo’ reckless nigga, and you knew that shit before you started fucking with me. So nah, you not .” He finished off his soda at the red light.

“You can’t tell me what the fuck to do, nigga!” I turned a little in my seat, ready to turn the steering wheel again.

“I said no the fuck you not! You letting me raw dog you and got me memorizing fucking Luther Vandross and shit that would have me losing street credit! You ain’t going no fucking where!” he thundered, driving slightly crazy and sending me back into my seat like a coward.