Read Online Sexual Healing by Cairo, Allison Hobbs - Free Book Online

Naylor. In his day, Marquan had been an electrifying and controversial player who had achieved popularity for injecting his hip-hop style into basketball. And he was equally infamous for his many skirmishes with the law.
    Though Cruze was inwardly excited to be chitchatting with thegreat Marquan Naylor, he didn’t let it show—at least not for the first half hour. But as he grew more comfortable, he let his feelings of idol worship slip out. “People probably tell you this all the time, but on some real shit, me and my friends used to rock your sneakers and your jerseys when we were kids.”
    â€œOh, yeah? That’s cool. Thanks, man.” Marquan sort of chuckled and tossed back a long sip of tequila.
    Cruze suddenly felt stupid. He’d made it seem like he and his boys were unique in wearing Marquan Naylor apparel, when actually the whole world rocked the former player’s gear during the peak years of his career.
    He was about to clarify his statement when an extremely tall white dude with a big belly and a head full of snow-white hair approached their table. Marquan stood up and embraced the man. “Dusty McDowell,” Marquan greeted with a wide smile. “Good to see you, my dude.”
    The rivalry between Marquan and Dusty had been as heated as the rivalry between Magic Johnson and Larry Byrd, back in the day. Cameras began to flash as members of the press enthusiastically captured the moment.
    As much as Cruze would have enjoyed having a bird’s-eye view of the historic reunion of the two basketball titans, he couldn’t risk being caught in any photographs. Pushing his plate back, Cruze vacated his seat and strode to the rear area where the bar was set up.
    â€œRemy on the rocks,” he told the bartender. With his back no longer facing the door, Cruze was able to keep an eye out for anyone who might have tried to come for him. Away from the flashing lights, Cruze relaxed in the cut and watched as Dusty and Marquan were joined in the photo op by Bret Hollis and two other former NBA players, whose faces were familiar, but whose names he couldn’t recall.
    Time could be cruel, Cruze thought, taking in Dusty’s white hair and inflated gut. He glanced at the other two players and noticed that one walked with the assistance of a blinged-out cane, and the other had gone completely bald. Out of the group of former players, Marquan and Bret were the only two who still closely resembled the way they’d looked during their playing days. Good genes, he supposed.
    â€œIf it weren’t for his height, I wouldn’t have recognized Dusty McDowell,” said a scholarly-looking, cinnamon-skinned woman who had sidled next to Cruze. Looking her over, he guessed her to be in her early to mid-twenties. She was petite, no more than five-four, give or take a few inches.
    Her light-brown locs were styled in a braided bun, and her oversized, geek glasses were intended to downplay her looks. But she was clearly a cutie despite her subdued attire and understated makeup. She wore a plain black pantsuit and had opted for kitten heels instead of the five-inch stilettos that adorned the feet of most of the other women in attendance at the glitzy affair.
    â€œWe all gotta grow old one day,” Cruze responded to her comment. “But cats like Dusty will be immortalized. He was a hella player in his day.”
    â€œTrue. They used to call him Dunkin’ Dusty. The way he used to drive the ball down the court and then dunk on his opponents, he rightfully earned that nickname. But I’m not so sure he deserves his spot in the hall of fame.”
    Cruze tilted his head. “You know a lot about b-ball . . . for a girl.”
    â€œI’m a Harvard grad, and I know a lot about a many things,” she countered with a smug smile. “Dunkin was the man, but Marquan Naylor was an exceptional player, and to be honest, I’m personally offended that the white