The Makeover_A Modern Love Story Read online

  the makeover

  A MODERN LOVE STORY

  Nia Forrester

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  Copyright © 2018 Stiletto Press, LLC

  Philadelphia, PA

  All rights reserved.

  ~ One ~

  “Are you gonna come?”

  “I can’t. I’m about to go meet … I have something to do. Why you couldn’t call me earlier, Sam?”

  “I told you.” Samantha dragged each word out, obviously trying to make herself sound as pitiful as possible. “I didn’t know it was this serious. I thought it was just a little maintenance issue. And then it kept getting worse and worse.”

  “When it comes to toilets, there’s no such thing as just a little maintenance issue,” Colton said. “Because when they don’t work, next thing you know there’s shit all over the floor.” He paused. “There isn’t shit all over the floor, is there?”

  “Colton, no, okay? Would I call you over here to clean up my … dookie off the floor?”

  Colt smiled. Sam never cussed. Little Miss Prim-and-Proper would probably rather cut out her tongue than say the word ‘shit’ aloud. In fact, he would guess she couldn’t even allow herself to think it.

  “I don’t see why not. I’ve been smelling your stink-butt since we were three-years-old.”

  “Well, this won’t be one of those times. I don’t want to make you late for … whatever, but if you could just swing by …”

  “I’m already way past your neighborhood. I’d have to turn around and come all the way back.”

  “Okay.” This time Sam’s voice sounded genuinely pitiful. “I understand.”

  Colton issued a silent sigh and listened to the silence on the other end of the line.

  It was Friday, and the weather was finally decent again, after a long spell of rain. Everyone was out in the cafes, bars and restaurants of Washington DC, and Colton intended to join them. Janelle, a chick from the gym who’d been pretending for weeks not to be checking him out when he was doing free-weights had finally come through. They were doing that thing, that post-modern thing folks did now when they wanted to initiate a connection with other humans.

  Instead of committing to an actual date, Colton asked her where she was hanging out this weekend. In turn, Janelle coyly suggested that she might be at Bar One, that new chi-chi pub on Capitol Hill around nine-ish. And, equally noncommittal, Colton suggested that he might stop through, maybe. Janelle smiled, said that it would be ‘cool’ if he did, and then went sashaying off in the direction of the elliptical machines, trying to look indifferent.

  She might have played it cool, but Colt knew he would be taking Janelle home. If not tonight, very soon.

  Glancing at the dashboard display, he saw that it was just after eight. He could spare some time. Because to get there early was a definite no-no; to make her wait a little could only work to his advantage. She was probably bringing a girlfriend anyway—someone who would be there to check him out and give their stamp of approval. They would have some drinks, talk to some folks and in all likelihood, still be there even if Colt showed up around ten.

  “What’s it doin’ exactly?” he asked Sam.

  “What’s what doing?”

  “The toilet, Samantha. What’s it doing?”

  “It flushes fine, but it’s rocking on the base and there’s …” She hesitated. “A little water escapes from underneath it.”

  “So there is shit on the floor. Just liquid shit.”

  “No, I told you. There’s not. Anyway, I don’t do number two in that bathroom. It’s for guests. I only ever use it when I run in from the car and have to take a pee immediately when I get in.”

  “A’ight,” Colt said, smiling at the phrase, ‘do number two.’

  “Alright what?” Sam sounded upbeat again.

  Like she didn’t know. When was the last time he’d ever told her ‘no’ for anything?

  “I’m coming over. Be there in fifteen. Just make sure there’s no …”

  “Thank you! I love you!”

  Before he could say anything more, she hung up.

  Colton shook his head and couldn’t help but smile. At the next intersection, he hooked a left and made a U-turn, heading back toward Sam’s townhouse. He was in jeans and boots, but they were the good boots. And his shirt wasn’t what he wanted to be wearing when he kneeled in front of the latrine.

  He shook his head again. Only for Sam would he do this. Friday night, and his one certain date was with a white porcelain throne.

  “Where’s the toolbox?”

  Colton stepped inside the threshold without greeting, his handsome face twisted into a scowl. Sam shut the door behind him, nudging him once in the side.

  “Dang. Why d’you have to look so mean? You’re making me feel terrible about asking you a simple little favor.”

  “How’s it simple? It’s Friday night, and I’m on my way someplace. Then you call me to fix your toilet?”

  “I would have asked you to come tomorrow, but you know you’ll be going to your sacred Saturday morning appointment to get your hair done, and I have spin class, so …”

  “I don’t get my hair done,” he said. “I get it shaped up.”

  Sam rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Anyway, I’ll get the toolbox. Before you get to work, you might want to take off that ugly shirt.”

  She turned to head for her utility closet, pretending not to notice his fleeting crestfallen expression at her calling his shirt ugly.

  Over the course of their more than twenty-four-year friendship, that had always been one of her roles—to cut the Mighty Colton Green down to size. Especially since they’d known each other long before he became ‘Mighty’. Sometimes it still caught her by surprise when she turned a corner in her townhome and saw him sitting in her living-room, long legs stretched out in front of him, arms spread along the expanse of the back of her sofa.

  ‘Ohmigod,’ she’d think. ‘That’s Colton. When did he turn into such a … man?’

  Because in her head he was a lanky, almost too-thin boy, whose height was way ahead of the rest of him; and who always had a basketball in his hand. And she was the quiet girl who trailed behind him, head always in a book.

  They’d grown up together in a small town just south of Arlington, Virginia. Gone to elementary, middle, and high school together; and then on to Georgetown. Sam had an academic scholarship, and Colt had one for basketball. For most of their time there, they remained almost inseparable. And even now that he was in the NBA and she was a policy analyst in a political consultancy firm, they spent as much time together as they could, because that was what they had almost always done.

  Though Colton played for Philadelphia, he still had a home in the DC area, where he spent most of the off-season. This time around, his team had been knocked out pretty early on in the playoffs, so he had been home for a while. During the work-week, Sam saw him two or three nights and sometimes more often.

  But on Fridays, he was always scarce. She didn’t need to ask what he was doing. He was scooping up the women who always fell at his feet, that was what.

  Though Sam knew the women were meaningless to him, she still found herself
wondering far too often, and with considerable discomfort, what Colton did with those women, and how he did it.

  “The big toolbox,” he called to her from the front room. “Not that small girly one you got at that useless workshop.”

  Samantha rolled her eyes.

  He was the one who had urged her to take ‘that useless workshop’ in the first place. Once, when he had a three-day break, he’d come over to find that her front storm-door was practically off the hinges. A strong wind had wrenched it almost completely free of the frame.

  And when she explained that she’d been waiting for him to come fix it, Colton had lectured her on the need for a single woman living alone to know the basics of home repair and car maintenance.

  ‘What if I didn’t come home for months?’ he asked her. ‘You’d have your door just wide open asking for your house to get robbed?’

  A complete exaggeration, Sam pointed out. She had the other door as a barrier against robbers. And a home alarm system as well.

  ‘You need to take a class,’ Colt said. ‘I won’t always be around to take care of this stuff.’

  She didn’t ask why he wouldn’t be around. That was when he was dating that slinky sports reporter, Alexa somebody. The dating had gone on long enough that Sam had to face the fact that one day, he might acquire a legitimate, long-term girlfriend. Or even a wife. Someone who might not take well to the idea of Colt playing big brother to a woman who was not actually his little sister.

  So, Sam enrolled in an adult learning class for women who needed to know how to do some of the things Colt insisted she needed to know. It was called 'Honey-Do for Yo'self'. Aside from the dumb name, the course was expensive, and Sam didn’t have aptitude for any of what they tried to teach her. The ‘graduation gift’ for every woman who completed the full, six-week course was a pink toolbox, complete with so-called gender-appropriate tools, that had smaller handles and grips. Putting aside the ridiculousness of the tools being pink, despite her graduation, Sam didn’t know how to use them any more proficiently at the end of the six weeks than she had at the beginning.

  And Colt had laughed non-stop for a full three minutes when he saw them.

  In the end, he continued helping her with repairs, and bought his own tools to leave at her place. Oh, and he stopped seeing that Alexa person, telling Sam that it had just been casual, and that anyway, Alexa lived all the way in Connecticut somewhere.

  By the time Sam got the tools and brought them back to the front, Colt had removed not only his shirt, but his boots and socks as well. He was on his knees in her guest bathroom, inspecting something at the base of the toilet.

  Sam tried to keep her eyes off his broad back, the lateral muscles fanned from his narrow waist and his biceps rippling as he shook the toilet back and forth. Seeing him shirtless had stopped happening with regularity right around the time they were sixteen, so it was difficult not to stare.

  “These bolts are loose,” he said without looking back at her. “No washers on them. And it looks like you might need a new wax ring. Is this toilet the original from when you bought the house?”

  “I don’t remember,” Sam said, resting the toolbox next to him. “Is it?”

  Colt had helped her find the townhome, going to every viewing with her, on the theory that realtors were less likely to con her into stuff with a man along. She had scooped this place up for just under market because it needed some cosmetic changes and a new heating system. Colt had even loaned her some of the down-payment, though he had yet to accept the check Sam kept trying to give him to pay him back.

  Whenever she handed him one, he always took it, and stuffed it in the back pocket of his jeans or pants. And then later, Sam would find it in strange places—in her underwear drawer, the freezer. And once, affixed to her bathroom mirror with four little globs of hair gel. Sam doubted he would ever deposit the check, but she kept giving them to him, at least once a month.

  “I think it’s the original,” Colt said. “Look …” He reached for his wrench and loosened the base even further. Underneath, was an almost gooey orange-brownish mess.

  Sam stepped back. “Ew.”

  “That’s what’s left of your wax ring.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “Yeah, but we’ll need to buy a new wax ring. Right now, all I can do is bolt it down tighter. But I’d rather just leave it as is, so long as you don’t use it.”

  “Where would I get a wax ring?”

  “Lowe’s. Home Depot. But don’t worry ‘bout that. I’ll get one, and swing by tomorrow to replace it.” He looked over his shoulder and up at her.

  “Thank you,” Sam said, heaving a sigh.

  Pushing himself up to a standing position, Colt turned and washed his hands with Sam’s flowery-smelling hand soap, then turned to face her, leaning against the sink.

  The powder room suddenly felt very small.

  “I turned off the water, and the bowl is drained, so don’t mess around and forget and come in here and take a …”

  “Shut up,” Sam said, cutting off the crude comment she knew he was about to make.

  Colt laughed. “Anyway. Am I free to go now, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes. You are.” Sam said. “Have fun at your … whatever.”

  Colt hesitated. “Why don’t you come with me?”

  Sam’s eyes widened for a moment. He never took her on his Friday night prowls. And she never wanted to go, because she could only imagine what it would be like. Him hitting on women who would shoulder Sam to the side to claim all his attention. Men so busy shooting Colt looks of resentment for being the NBA baller who was hogging all the chicks that they wouldn’t even give Sam the time of day.

  “Where to?”

  “Bar One.”

  “I won’t cramp your style?” Sam asked. “Are you meeting someone there?”

  “Sort of. But hey …” Colt shrugged. “She ain’t nobody more important than you.”

  Sam smiled. “I don’t need you to feel sorry for me because I’m not going out tonight, Colton,” she said. “I have a really great book I was planning on finishing.”

  “Okay.” He shrugged again. “Let’s see it.”

  “See what?”

  “The ‘great book’ that’ll be more fun than hanging out with me.”

  Sam rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

  “No, for real. You want to stay in and read? You do that every night, Sam. So, lemme see what has you so sure you’d rather do that again, than come out with me.”

  “Fine.”

  They turned and headed toward Sam’s kitchen where she had already laid out her wineglass, taken some pinot from the fridge and set her book on the kitchen counter.

  “Damn,” Colt said. “So this is what it looks like over here on a Friday night?” He picked up the book and flipped it over to the back cover. “And you doin’ it old school too, huh? Reading an actual paperback.”

  “I like paperbacks. And also, if I put a reading app on my tablet, I’d never get any work done on it ever again.”

  “So, get one of those e-readers that’s just an e-reader.”

  Sam found her corkscrew and began struggling with the bottle. Without looking up, Colt reached for it and took it out of her hands, putting it back on the granite countertop.

  “You comin’ with me, you don’t need to open that,” he said.

  “Who said I’m …”

  “Gabby is stuck in a rut,” he read from the back cover of her book with over-exaggerated sweetness. “Spending her days working as a pet-groomer, and her nights taking care of her ailing father, she has given up all hope of the exciting romantic life she dreamed of as a girl … Wait, is this a story about your life, with details changed to protect the innocent? Sam. For real, this is just … sad.”

  “Give me that.” Samantha snatched the book out of his hands, feeling her face grow warm. “I never dreamed of a romantic life as a girl, for your information.”

  Colt looked at her and nodded, in conf
irmation of some unspoken thought. “You’re comin’ with me,” he said again. “I’ll wait for you to get dressed.”

  Sam exhaled. “Do I have to?”

  “Yeah.” He took the book back and looked down at the cover, grimacing. “You really, really have to.” He tossed the book toward the living room where it landed on, and skittered across, the hardwood floor.

  ~ Two ~

  Heads turned when they entered Bar One. Colt was used to this. At six-foot-six, he was often the tallest person around. Except when he was on the court. There, he was just average.

  The turning heads made it easy for him to spot Janelle. Among the sea of faces, hers was one of a few that did not turn toward him, but her companion’s did. As he expected, she was with a girlfriend who not-so-discreetly grabbed Janelle by the arm the moment Colt darkened the door. At that, Janelle turned and looked toward him, and their eyes met. She gave him a small, almost-smile and returned her attention to her friend.

  ‘Ah,’ Colt thought. ‘It’s gon’ be like that?’

  But, no worries. He enjoyed a little bit of a chase, even if the outcome was never really in doubt.

  “Oh my god,” Sam said from next to him. “This place is trying way too hard. Is this where you hang out? It’s so freakin’ corny.”

  Colt turned and looked down at her. “No cornier than that book you were about to spend the night with.”

  He steered her toward the bar with a hand on the small of her back, keeping his eye on Janelle.

  “D’you see your date?” Sam asked.

  “It’s not a date.”

  “Oh sorry. D’you see your prey?”

  At the bar, Colt elbowed his way to the front then pulled Sam around so that she was in front of him and out of the fray. She was about a foot shorter than he was, but Colt could smell the summery scent of her hair. He knew her habit was to wash it every Friday just after work and to painstakingly twist it into little knots, then dry it. She generally kept the knots in all weekend, then released them again on Monday mornings, so that her hair framed her face in chin-length, kinky coils.