Page 9 of Grown

Korey seems much taller in his music videos, towering over every girl he dances on. But in person, he’s regular. Not that he’s short or nothing, just not the LeBron James I thought he’d be. More Steph Curry.

“You have a voice,” he says. “You take lessons?”

“Kinda.” I don’t think YouTube counts. “But I practice all the time! And write my own songs.”

“Hm. Well, you should take some. Professional ones.”

I blink. “Ouch. Was I that bad?”

“Oh, nah. Not like that!” He chuckles. “But even naturals need some coaching. Like sports. You get better the more you train. You feel me?”

I think of Coach Wilson and smile. “Yeah, I think I know exactly what you mean.”

Korey searches my face.

“Here, let me show you something real quick.”

I gasp as he steps toward me, laying one hand flat on my stomach, then the other on the middle of my back. I tense up, frantically searching the room.

Does ANYONE see this? Korey Fields... is touching ME!

But there’s only bodyguards. And they all seem to be standing away from us, backs turned, pretending they’re invisible.

“Relax, ma, it’s OK. You’re safe with me,” he says with a wink, voice raspy. “See, you gotta breathe from your diaphragm. Do it with me, ready?”

I breathe in deep, my belly expanding as he caresses my back.

“Now release a note as you exhale.”

I do as he says, and the note comes out smooth and effortless.

“See? Better?”

“Yeah.” I giggle. “Better.”

I look up into his eyes and... I can’t look away... so I don’t because he doesn’t either. His lips, pressed into a hard line, part.

“Damn. You got some beautiful eyes.”

My heart beats hard against my ribs, hands rested on his like they’ve always belonged there, rubbing the rough patches on his knuckles. Then it hits me... I’m touching Korey Fields. THE Korey Fields... and Mom could come back here any moment. It’d be sixth grade all over again, when I got caught in the closet kissing Jose Torres.

Except Korey isn’t a regular boy like Jose. He’s... so much more.

“I, um, I gotta go. My... mom is probably wondering where I’m at.”

A flash of confusion sweeps across his face. He hesitates before unattaching himself.

“How old are you?”

I gulp. “Seventeen.”

For a long moment, his face is expressionless. Then he offers a smile.

“You’re gonna come to my show next Saturday,” he says. “I’ll hook you and your parents up with some VIP tickets.”

The last contestant jogs backstage with a face-splitting smile. She was picked. Of course.

“Um, OK,” I say.