Free Wrong Chance by E. L. Myrieckes

popped him upside the head with the magazine. “You try to screw her every time you go in the campus bookstore.”
    â€œCash, the part-time girl?” Yancee’s eyes liked to jump out his head. “Get the fuck out of here. Let me see that again.” Yancee really studied the female side of the photo this time.
    â€œShe-slash-he is one and the same,” Leon said.
    â€œDamn, I’m glad she ain’t give me none.” Then: “She doesn’t even date anyone; that girl’s self-esteem is shot to hell. She’s scared of her own shadow.”
    â€œWith a secret like this, do you blame shim?”
    â€œIt isn’t a secret if you know about it. Who else knows?”
    â€œNobody. Shim doesn’t even know I know. This article is seven years old. I came across it while helping Professor Wolstencroft clean out an office in the administration building.”
    â€œSo what does this have to do with you getting Chance back?” No sooner than he posed the question, warning bells went off in Yancee’s head, as Leon’s intent dawned on him.
    â€œI paid her to go out with Chance on Valentine’s Day and to give him a kiss. I mean tongue and all. And I’m gonna be right there with my camcorder. It’s gonna be the funniest shit ever.” Leon laughed. “He should have never crossed me.”
    Yancee shook his head. “That’s not a good idea. If Chance finds out—”
    â€œWhat’s not a good idea?” Anderson Smith said, walking into the room with a gorgeous, tall girl trailing closely behind him.
    Yancee took note of the way the predator showed itself in Leon’s face when the long-legged queen wearing a Baltimore Ravens skull hat stepped into the room.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    â€œBreathe, shithead.” Chance smacked Yancee across the face. “Who was the bimbo with Anderson?” Then: “I gotta get every prick involved.”
    Yancee didn’t respond. His pulse was gone. Chance roared into the night like a rabid dog, then he went to work with the scalpel.

TWENTY-ONE
    H akeem Eubanks just couldn’t shake the cloud of grief that was quite literally smothering him to death. It had been lingering over him like a funky odor for six solid months now, and it wasn’t showing signs of letting up any time soon. He shook himself dry, flushed the toilet with the toe of his Prada shoe, then he stepped out the stall to find the full-bodied stunner Aspen Skye standing in front of the mirror, poking her stomach out. He knew she was imagining how she’d look if she were pregnant. Embarrassed, she blushed and leaned against the counter of sinks. God, she’s beautiful, he thought. Hakeem tried to keep it professional and not look at her like that but it was damn hard, because secretly he loved her.
    Aspen was dressed in Yves Saint Laurent from her apple cap, which her curly locks tumbled from and framed her girlish face, to her peep-toe pumps. Her Chanel No5 scented the air, and her diamond tennis bracelet was a nice complement to her pecan complexion. Yes, beautiful, Hakeem thought.
    â€œSo what do you say?” she said, flashing her expensive smile that showed off two adorable dimples.
    â€œThat I’m getting old.” He bumped her aside and washed his hands. He couldn’t help but notice her perfect evocative ass perched on the sink through the mirror. He quickly averted his gaze to hisown image before she caught him looking. It was difficult to ignore his reflection: an impeccably tailored two-button Gianluca Isaia cashmere suit, four-figure cuff links, and a Rolex Explorer sat on an athletic six-foot-one frame. His handsome face was highlighted by hints of worry lines, but Hakeem had the sturdy, relaxed posture of a man who could kick some serious ass. “When I was in my prime, I could take a leak and that stream would dash out like a thoroughbred race horse. That piss hit the water so