The humid air of the compound felt heavy as Cherry peered through the window, her heart giving a nervous thud. A cream Corolla—glinting with a fresh wax job—pulled into the drive. The sight should have been a celebration, but the knowledge that Amole had been the one to deliver it sent a wave of panic through her.
Cherry hurried downstairs, her mind a whirlwind of questions. She found Sam leaning against the car, radiating a mix of pride and something else—something softer and more dangerous. There was no time for tea or pleasantries; the energy between them was too electric.
They shared a quick, tight hug before sliding into the interior. The smell of rich leather and new plastic filled the cabin. The console was immaculate, polished to a mirror finish.
"It's a fairly used car my mom got me earlier today," Sam explained, her hand lingering on the steering wheel. "Amole decided to get some work done on it."
Cherry stared at her best friend, a frown deepening. "Amole knows about this baby and I don't?"
"He works as a salesperson in the dealership," Sam countered, a blush creeping up her neck. "According to him, he goes every weekend. Trust me, the car was trash until he got his hands on it."
"And what's the price?" Cherry asked, her fingers making air quotes. Sam hadn't even turned the ignition yet.
"Nothing," Sam shrugged, the keys jingling in her hand.
"C'mon, Sam. Nothing for Amole? We know he's a jerk. He'll want something in return."
Sam didn't flinch. She owned the reality with a chilling bluntness. "Trust me, if he needed a hand job or a blow job, I'd gladly give it to him."
"After everything he puts you through?" Cherry's voice rose in disbelief.
"That was in the past," Sam snapped back. "He's not the only guy who made my life a living hell. Green did—but you still went ahead and dated him."
The reminder hit Cherry like a physical blow. She exhaled sharply, the air leaving her lungs in a hiss.
"I didn't mean to rub it in your face," Sam softened, her voice dropping an octave. "I really, really like Amole. Even if he doesn't see it now, maybe he will in the future. I'm not in a rush. Honestly, you need some patience lessons from me—let nature take control for once."
Cherry shook her head, leaning back against the headrest. "If the patience lecture is about Travis, I'm telling you, I'm not attracted to him—"
"Who says you were?" Sam teased, finally turning the key.
The drive to the street courts was filled with the kind of restless chatter only high schoolers can sustain. Cherry was feeling "cheesy" about the whole situation. Travis was a walking contradiction. He was good-looking enough to be at a private school in Banana Island, yet here he was, at Victoria High, a school for athletes. Why the sudden shift?
She checked her schedule on her phone. After her "Travis Analysis," she needed to hit the books.
"Jeez, you look so hot in those biker shorts and that crop hoodie," Sam noted during a lull in the conversation. "On a mission?"
"I'm not the one looking like the wicked hot stepmother," Cherry joked, raising her notebook in defense. Sam was dressed to kill—a revealing gown with a deep V-cut and Hermès slippers.
As they pulled into the lot near the courts, the atmosphere changed. The bass of trap music thudded in the distance, and the screams of a crowd echoed off the concrete walls.
"Jesus, why are all the cute guys in the NBA?" Sam mused, hopping out of the car with her camera swinging from her neck. "Now I'm thinking of a threesome."
They moved toward the court, hand in hand, carving a path through the throng. The air was thick with sweat, excitement, and the smell of asphalt. Cherry scanned the area for Travis. According to his Instagram, this was his sanctuary.
In the center of the court, a player with tattoos snaking across his bare chest was dominating the game. He moved like liquid, scoring four times in a row.
"He's sure good," Sam yelled over the music, snapping photos.
Then, the name echoed through the crowd like a war cry.
"TRAVIS!"
The cheers were deafening. Cherry's heart skipped a beat as she turned. Travis was there, looking directly at her. He wasn't smiling. His eyes held daggers, a coldness that made her skin crawl. It was as if he wanted to strangle her just for being there.
The game was a blur of high-stakes motion. Travis was a god on the concrete. He dunked, he stole the ball, he hit three-pointers from the midline. When the whistle blew and he collected his money, girls swarmed him for selfies.
Cherry waited until the crowd thinned, then approached him. He was standing with his "homies," the sweat glistening on his skin.
"Hi," she muttered, trying to ignore the predatory stares of his friends.
"Hi," Travis responded, his voice as dry as bone.
"Can we have a word? Privately?"
Travis let out a sharp giggle, sparking a wave of laughter from his crew. "That was a little authoritative. You don't command me. Anything you want to say... say it here."
Cherry felt her throat tighten. The red flags were waving, but her ambition—and perhaps a spark of something else—pushed her forward.
"Ask nicely next time," Travis said, turning his back on her. "See you at school tomorrow."
The night spiraled from there. They ended up at Amole's apartment for an impromptu party. The air was heavy with the scent of cheap vodka and bad decisions. Cherry watched as the social lines were drawn: Angela sitting on Green's lap, looking fierce; Louisa suddenly claiming Amole as her boyfriend.
The tension broke during a game of Truth or Dare.
"I dare you to walk up to that science dude and French kiss him," Angela challenged Sam.
Sam, fueled by spite and vodka, didn't hesitate. She lunged into the crowd and did it, her eyes darting to Amole to see if he cared. He didn't. He was too busy pinning Louisa against the wall.
When Travis finally arrived, carrying takeout and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, the party was already dying. A crash in the living room and a warning from Amole about "his nana" sent everyone scrambling to their cars.
In the parking lot, the final blow fell. Sam, drunk and heartbroken after seeing Amole with Louisa, turned her vitriol on Cherry.
"You don't care about me! You just came here for the new boy!" Sam screamed.
"I'm driving you home, give me the keys," Cherry demanded.
"Book a cab! You're not coming with me!" Sam roared, slamming her door and peeling out of the lot, leaving Cherry standing alone in the midnight cold.
"You okay?"
The voice came from the shadows. Travis was standing there, his black G-Wagon chirping as he unlocked it.
"What do you care?" Cherry snapped, shivering.
"I can take you home. Seems like your ride left you." He didn't wait for an answer. He took off his expensive leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders. The warmth was unexpected.
Hours later, Cherry was sprawled on the floor of Detective Monalisa's living room, surrounded by books and the smell of stale alcohol. Monalisa, returning from a late shift, covered her with a blanket, her eyes lingering on the laptop screen where Travis's face was frozen in a digital frame.
When Cherry finally woke, the house was quiet except for the hum of Monalisa's MacBook.
"Travis brought me home last night," Cherry admitted over a cup of coffee.
"The jerk from the school?" Monalisa asked without looking up.
"He's a mystery. He rescues me at night and ignores me at dawn."
The conversation was interrupted by the chime of Cherry's phone. A voicemail from Sam. A sobbing, drunken apology. Cherry hit the call button. Sam picked up on the first ring.
"I'm sorry," Sam whispered. "I'm so sorry."
"I know," Cherry said, looking at the draft of her article. "We'll work it out. We always do."