The low Creole cursing continued and my father only backed away when Ransom stood fully in front of me. For a second everything froze, and despite the tension in the air I caught the rich, soothing hint of Ransom’s cologne and the spicy, delicious smell of his skin. It made me thirsty. It made me hungry.

Then, Ransom stumbled into me as Papa pushed him, but he recovered faster than I ever would have thought, grabbing my father’s arm, twisting the older man around to pin his wrist against his back and his chest cemented to the driver’s door of that old Chevy. I was amazed with how swiftly Ransom had moved—and how his protectiveness made a warmth work inside my chest. It was ridiculous to want someone you just met, but I could not deny what I was feeling.

Papa jerked away from Ransom’s hold, but they had no effect as Ransom just stood there without moving, waiting until the older man finally calmed down. Then he jerked Papa back, opened the truck door and shoved my father inside the cab. As one hand braced on the roof, he leaned in towards my glowering father and snarled, “Leave. Now. And don’t think of coming back. If I have to, I’ll give the cops a head’s up, give them your plate number, tell them you’re trolling around a place where little girls take dance class.”

Papa ignored Ransom and slammed the door shut, but I knew he wanted the last word. He always did. He looked past Ransom and fixed his furious eyes on me. “You’re a stupid little whore, tifi and will starve unless you spread your legs.”

Ransom grabbed his collar, pulling him nearly out of the open window. “That’s enough, asshole. I don’t care if you are her father. You don’t get to talk to her like that. Ever.”

We both stepped back as Papa spun out of the parking lot and I didn’t pull my hands away from my mouth until I saw his taillights disappear two stop signs away.

“Hey,” Ransom said, touching my shoulder. “You alright?”

“I…yeah. I, thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I don’t like bullies,” he said, glancing down the road. “I especially don’t like bullies who try to shove their weight around defenseless women.” When I cocked my eyebrow at him, he laughed. Back again was that warm smile, the genuine one, and the return of the sweet boy I’d met that morning. “Not that you probably couldn’t have held your own. I told you earlier, you’ve got that bad ass vibe. I meant that.”

“Well, that was kind of bad ass too, you muscling around a man whose about forty years older than you.”

Ransom shrugged, disregarding my compliment and then his face became serious. “You sure you’re gonna be okay here on your own?” He nodded toward the staircase behind me then moved his gaze around the empty parking lot. There were no other offices on this lot, just the dance studio and my loft above it but all around us were high-end buildings with new paint and stucco and perfectly manicured landscaping. It was a safe area; still, Ransom didn’t seem able to keep the worry out of his tone.

“I’ll manage,” I told him, wanting to disappear for a little while, to recover from the embarrassment my father’s outburst had caused. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Well,” he said, walking me back to the staircase, “I kind of have a soft spot for bad ass women wanting to make it on their own.” His shrug, that lazy smile, were both relaxed, and I wondered how he could manage to pull off that ‘it’s nothing’ movement and still look so intimidating.

“Mama’s boy?” I teased, knowing that the famous songwriter Keira Riley, Ransom’s mother, was, in fact, a bad ass.

“Yeah. Maybe a little.” Again he shrugged and stepped closer like he didn’t realize he’d moved at all. “I just think it’s cool when a woman knows what she wants.” He looked down at me for a few seconds longer, then blinked as though he’d come back to his senses. “My mom and my uh, girlfriend, they’re both bad asses.”

Girlfriend? Modi. Of course he had a girlfriend. Someone as big and good-looking and sweet as him? What else could I have expected? Still, my heart plunged into my stomach.

But, I managed to hide my disappointment well, brushing past it by stepping up on the stairs. “Whatever it takes, I guess. Thank you though, I really do appreciate it.”

Again Ransom looked around and scowled. “I still worry about you being around here on your own.” He looked up at me. “Don’t forget about the dead bolt and make sure the windows are locked too.” I laughed and Ransom shook his head. “Sorry. It’s not my business, but I can’t seem to help myself.”

“I’ll take care of it, don’t worry,” I told him walking backward up two steps before I turned away from him.

“Um, okay. If you’re sure.” I was almost to the top before he called after me. “I forgot, I can’t get the bed for you until tomorrow. Is it okay if I drop by then?”

I didn’t understand why my heart fluttered a little when he asked that. He’d offered the second-hand bed set that morning and I thought that once he’d delivered it, I’d likely not see him around much. But him coming back, well. That had my hopes higher than they had any business being. Ransom was still in high school. He was a full year younger than me. He was my boss’s cousin and he had a girlfriend. He was just being nice, I knew that.

“Sure. I’ll be around,” I told him, waving him off before I went into my apartment. But as I went inside and moved to the window overlooking the parking lot, I couldn’t make the smile leave my face or keep my heart from racing as I thought of seeing him again.

He’d rescued me when no one ever had before and all I’d thought about watching him pull his Mustang out into the street, was how the hell I’d ever be able to return the favor.

I wouldn’t. Not until over a year later. And when I did, it would change us both. Forever.

1 September, 2015

Shadows have weight. They reach and cover, they devour. Sometimes they seem insurmountable, all consuming. Every failure, every struggle, allows them to grow.

I was covered in shadows. I wore them like a grungy, dirty coat.

But that night, after our third straight win, I didn’t let the shadows overtake me and the only thing devouring me was the hot steam of shower water. It was the day, the worry that I’d fail, the relief that I hadn’t and the overwhelming reality of the clusterfuck my life was turning out to be that had me wanting to never leave that spray.

The hot water hadn’t taken the headache from my skull or lessened the constant bump of the bass line downstairs. Fuck, how I hated being forced to listen to Chris Brown.

After the game and telling my parents I just wanted to decompress at the team house, I’d managed to get away from Ronnie Blanchard and the bullshit music he liked to play by leaving the party. Nearly a month into my first college football season and I’d already learned one thing about Claiborne-Prosper University: these assholes considered partying a God-given right. But then, this was New Orleans. Partying was sort of an expectation.

The bathroom was small, with barely enough room for my big body and a full tub and shower and the hot water fogged up the mirror, filtered the air with heat so thick I hastily wrapped one towel around my waist and grabbed another one for my face, and swung the door open before even attempting to dry off. It didn’t matter. No one would see my naked ass in this room. It was mine, private—large enough for a queen-sized bed, oak dresser and desk—just one of the perks of having a high ACT score and a coaching staff that hoped I’d play as well as my father had when he was on the defensive line. Didn’t hurt that my father was now coaching that defensive line.