Clarence stood there with his hands on his hips, admiring her from head to toe. “Aren’t you the cutest thing with your big hat? Girl, you have got to come back when you’re not packing heat.”
“That will be quite enough, Cee.” A much smaller black man wearing gold-framed glasses appeared next to Clarence in the entry hall. “Resident Trooper Mitry did not come here to lip with you. Pleased to meet you, Trooper. I’m Rondell Grantham. Tyrone is my brother. Half-brother, to be precise. We share the same mother. Neither of us ever knew who our father was. Nor did she. I’m three years younger than Tyrone.”
“ And a midget,” Clarence pointed out.
Not a midget, but Rondell Grantham stood no more than five-feet-eight and was so compactly built Des doubted he weighed more than a buck-forty. He wore a white oxford cloth dress shirt, tan gabardine slacks and polished brown Ferragamo loafers. His hair was trimmed high and tight. “I was informed that Dorset’s resident trooper was a highly competent young woman of color,” he said to her. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. We all have.”
Now a broad shadow fell across the entry hall and the famous Tyrone Grantham stood before her in a tank top and gym shorts, his heavy lidded eyes watchful and curious. The warrior athlete wasn’t nearly as tall as his cousin Clarence. He stood a mere six-feet-three. But he was as wide across as three grown men and it was all muscle. His gleaming shaved head didn’t sit atop his bulging neck so much as it receded into it. His biceps were the size of boulders. His thighs were as big around as an average man’s torso. Tattoos of snarling lions, tigers and attack dogs covered practically every inch of skin that Des could see. So did the battle scars of his brutal profession. His broad, flat nose had been broken countless times. His face scratched and gouged. Jagged surgical scars adorned both knees and both shoulders. His huge knuckles were battered and the index finger of his left hand stuck out at an odd angle.
Tyrone Grantham was an utterly savage-looking man. Yet he seemed totally relaxed and at ease. “Glad to know you, Trooper,” he said, a boyish smile creasing his face. “Did you meet my little brother, Rondell? I’ll bet he didn’t tell you he has a graduate degree in business from Wharton. He isn’t one to brag. I can’t tell you how proud I am of him. When we were coming up I looked out for him. Now he looks out for me. Right, little man?”
Rondell gazed up at his brother worshipfully. “That’s right, big man.”
“Damned right. Little brother manages my investments and various ventures. I’m presently expanding into the music business. We’ve installed a recording studio right here in the house. Cee’s a sound engineer with skills. We got us some big plans. Hey, what are we standing out here for? Come on in.”
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…”