Deadly Dreams by Kylie Brant Page B

bought her mother was modest but it was in a safe neighborhood, and Hannah felt comfortable here. The others she’d shown her had been pronounced “too grand,” although they were anything but. Life had long since stripped Hannah Blanchette of pretensions.
    Just like a series of poor choices in male companions had robbed her of illusions.
    Shaking off the mantle of melancholy that threatened to overtake her, Risa strode to her bedroom. She thought Eduardo had been as surprised as she at Nate’s awkward explanation that he had to get home because of “family matters.” It had appeared as if he knew little more about the man’s personal life than she did. Nate had promised to call her if he were able to make it back to the station house later, but she’d known even as he’d made the promise that no call would be forthcoming. And once the captain had left, there had been nothing keeping her downtown.
    Stripping off her clothes, she changed into a pair of shorts and a tee. The house next door had been unoccupied since last winter, when Hannah’s neighbor and friend who’d lived there had died. But it had a basketball hoop, and she’d spent many an hour rehabbing her shoulder by taking shot after shot at the ancient rim. She grabbed the worn ball from her closet and headed out the door.
    Thirty minutes later, her shirt was drenched with perspiration, her muscles weeping from exertion, but her head was clear. Her mood more cheerful. There was nothing as happily mindless as the grueling drill of three-point practice, midrange shots, grab the rebound, lay-up, and repeat. She lost track of time. Lost track of thoughts. Just focused on muscle, movement, and response. Over and over again.
    Finally weary, she bent over, resting her hands on her knees, lungs heaving, and a wave of contentment settling over her. Exercise had always been able to bring her peace.
    And with it, escape.
    Applause sounding nearby had her rearing straight, jerking around in the direction of the noise. A short, stout man, grinning hugely, stood between the cracked driveway and the house. “That was amazing. Absolutely incredible. Like . . .” His eyes rolled upward as he seemed to search for description. “Like watching Xena the Warrior Princess practice for battle. Knife, sword, hand-to-hand, bow and . . .”
    Risa dribbled the ball rhythmically with her left hand while she surveyed him. “It’s basketball,” she reminded him, and wondered if there was a nearby mental facility he might have wandered away from. He looked like an eighties porn star, with the heavy gold chains and rings and his shirt opened halfway down the front, showing a thicket of curly chest hair. The vest he sported was meant to be fashionable. Probably. But it was too tight for his portly frame and instead managed to make him look like a sausage breaking free of its casing. “No weapons in sight.” Although she’d once broken a guy’s nose by slamming a basketball to his face, she’d matured since then. And learned far more effective ways to take down a man who was intent on changing her very emphatic no to a yes.
    “Chandler the Handler, right? Watching you just now, I knew it had to be you. Penn State hasn’t had a player since who could match you with the basketball.”
    She winced a little at the old nickname. “That was a long time ago.” Turning, she released a hook shot. Jogged over to scoop up the rebound. “Another lifetime.”
    “I remember going to the Penn State–Ohio game.” His dreamy tone was the sort some men reserved for their cars. “Usually I just watched on TV, but I was taking film classes and it was my turn to videotape the game. That Mokey Hollis from Ohio. Tall hillbilly-looking gal with shoulders like a linebacker? She’d been fouling you hard the whole game, and they weren’t calling anything. Hooked you around the throat when you were going for a lay-up and laid you flat. Ref couldn’t find his whistle. The home crowd was screaming