Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(25)

“Okay.” I don’t look away from the rack in front of me. “You go tell JP you refused my help.”

Everyone knows JP respects my opinion. If he were a teacher, I’d be his pet.

Amanda huffs and walks past me. “Well good luck,” she says sharply. “I’ll meet you out there. See how well you do on your own.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I answer absently, taking a mint green shirt from the rack. “What do you think of this one?”

I direct the question to Kenan since Amada has apparently run and left her toys behind.

He steps into the space beside me and leans against a nearby wall, staring at my profile. “I think it’s beautiful,” he says, laughing when I send him a wry look. “The shirt, I mean, of course.”

“Panda” by Desiigner starts thumping through the room’s sound system.

“Is that for the shoot?” Kenan asks.

“Yeah, the photographer puts on music to make the model more comfortable,” I reply, setting the shirt aside. “To feel more relaxed so we get better shots.”

“This is not the music to make me feel more relaxed,” he says. “And I doubt it’ll get you better shots since I’ll be rolling my eyes the whole time.”

“You don’t like this song?”

“You’re using ‘song’ loosely to describe what this is.” Disdain scrunches his handsome face. “I mean, what’s he even saying?”

“Panda,” I reply immediately.

“What else?” Kenan asks. “Mumble, mumble, mumble.”

“Oh, my God.” I laugh. “You sound like somebody’s granddaddy.”

He stills and lifts one imperious brow. “And you sound like a millennial.”

“I am a millennial,” I fire back, thoroughly enjoying myself. “Aren’t you?”

“Uh . . . barely. Technically, yes, but my mom calls me an old soul. I identify older, I think.” He tilts his head, considering me through a veil of long, thick lashes. “How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? A little older than August?”

He nods, assessing me. I know without make-up and with my hair in these two braids, I look about fifteen.

“And how old are you?” he asks.

“Twenty-five.”

“Shit.” He slips his hands into his pockets and frowns, biting one corner of his mouth. “I’m thirty-six.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” he says. “Eleven years.”

“Does it really matter?” I grin and bite my thumbnail. “I mean we are just friends.”

After a few moments, he relinquishes an answering smile. “Right,” he replies. “And friends don’t let friends listen to crap music.”

“Here we go.” I put my hands on my hips and throw my head back. “Hit me with all your oldies but goodies.”

“You little . . .” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Mumble rap is not music, Lotus.”

“It totally is,” I defend on principle more than because I actually like mumble rap. I just enjoy a good debate. “It’s an emerging subgenre.”

“Did you read that in Vibe magazine?”

“Who in hip-hop do you consider great?”

“I grew up during the renaissance of hip-hop. Take your pick. Biggie and Pac are given, so we won’t even go there. Nas. Jay-Z, Rakim. I’ll even give props to millennial rappers.”

“From my generation, you mean?” I mock.

“You’re having too much fun with this. Sure. From your generation. Kendrick. Lil Wayne, Drake.”

“Do not say Kanye,” I interject. “He’s in the sunken place.”

“I did see that on Twitter.”

“Twitter?” I scratch my chin. “Hmmmm. I think I remember Twitter. The little blue bird?”

“So you’re strictly Instagram, I assume? Thousands of people who have no idea who you are, but who follow your perfectly filtered life? Little snapchat birds flying around your head and shit?”

“Oh, you are old,” I say with a pitying shake of my head. “And cynical with it, but Twitter has made a comeback.”

“Don’t get me started on social media.”

“We’ll save that for another day. Finish schooling me, or should I say, old schooling me, on my ratchet music choices and how millennials are ruining the whole world.”

“Not the whole world,” he says, patting my head condescendingly. “Just most of it. Definitely music.”

“We probably like some of the same music,” I counter. “What’s your favorite song to listen to when you want to unwind?”

“It never entered my mind.”

“Well, let it enter your mind. Think about it and then tell me—”

“Lotus, stop,” he says, squeezing his eyes closed. “Say you’re joking.”

“What? I’m asking which song you like to—”

“And I told you.” He laughs and tugs on one of my braids. “’It Never Entered My Mind’ by Miles Davis. It’s my favorite song of all time.”