In the Night of the Heat by Blair Underwood

both sat with their legs crossed, their short dresses hiked up high enough to cast shadows between their thighs. They were hookers or porn stars, or maybe both, and they reeked of pheromones. Every sister in fifty feet tightened her grip on her man’s arm.
    T.D.’s crew hovered, too. They were former football players, but that night they were on protection detail. Hard, watchful eyes scanned everyone who came close. For an instant, April locked eyes with the biggest of them, who looked like a younger Jim Brown, and her face made him puff out his chest like a dare. Don’t start no shit, sister . I hoped April had as much common sense as I thought.
    April’s shoulders rose as she steeled herself to approach the Tau president, which meant walking within ten yards of T.D. Jackson. She kept her eyes on Percy Duvall, never glancing at T.D. Truth be told, I think T.D. scared her more than his hulking friends. Smart girl.
    â€œPercy? I was wondering…” she began.
    â€œApril, thank God,” he interrupted. “Did you hear? We need you in South Africa…”
    Suddenly, a hand was on my shoulder. A woman’s feather light touch. “I don’t believe this! Tennyson Hardwick. Speak of the devil!”
    I was trying to eavesdrop on April’s conversation, and suddenly April wanted to listen to mine. April’s eyes dashed away from Percy in time to see a woman rise to her tiptoes and kiss me lightly on the lips. I saw the delicate tip of an ear, long braids, a slender frame, and ochre-colored skin before the woman pulled back far enough for me to take in her face.
    â€œMelanie Wilde,” I said, recognizing her. Another classmate from SoCal State. I hadn’t realized I had been in school long enough to make so many friends. Melanie’s name hadn’t crossed my mind in nearly twenty years, but her face was impossible to forget. She had a high forehead, button nose, and pronounced cheekbones, like a Senegalese princess. Exotic and beautiful. “Long time.”
    I was careful about my distance, opening a chasm between us. Melanie was T.D. Jackson’s older cousin. We had met because she came in and out of the dorm, often carrying loads of T.D.’s laundry. I had asked her about the laundry once, and she only laughed. Success is a family project, she had said, her cousin’s future dancing in her bright eyes. The Church of T.D. Jackson had opened its doors long before he won the Heisman or played in the NFL.
    â€œOh no, you don’t understand,” she said intensely, grabbing my hand. “This is uncanny. God is at work here, Tennyson. I was just speaking your name. Hey, Bumpy!”
    She waved toward T.D. Jackson, and the sound of her voice made his head snap up. His offensive line stepped aside to make a path for her as she pulled me toward him by the hand. April’s eyes burned a hole in the back of my head.
    â€œLook who it is!” Melanie said when T.D. turned to face me. “This is the one. Tennyson Hardwick, remember?”
    T.D.’s crew closed a circle around us, shielding T.D. from the waiting crowd. Anyone who was pissed about the interruption kept it to themselves.
    When he saw me, T.D. Jackson’s face lighted with a grin that no one could refuse to return. “How you been, man?” He leaned in for an embrace, patting my back. For an instant, my head swam. Maybe T.D. and I had been tight all along, like brothers, and I’d forgotten somehow.
    â€œWho’s this?” one of his friends said in a skeptical basso. He was square-jawed, with a deep cleft in his chin.
    â€œHardwick,” Melanie said. “The bodyguard.”
    There were murmurs of recognition, and another pat on the back from T.D. The circle closed in more tightly. They checked me out, jock to jock. They’d seen movies, and knew a glance can’t tell you anything about a man’s skill with a gun, or behind the wheel of a car: two critical