Chapter eight Damon #2
“Ha,” she laughs shakily. “We have that in common, though I rarely have to deal with my claustrophobia on the runway. A friend of mine used to work at a club where the dancers were in these plexiglass tubes before she got signed with Ford. I could never do that.”
I ease my hands off her, trying to give her space to process without my support, but she leans further into me, tucking herself into the fold between my arm and my side. I try to ignore how perfectly we fit together. This is not a date. This is not a date.
I clear my throat.
“I think I’ve been to that club. Was it Mythos? Down on Mercer?”
She nods against my side, her nose grazing my nipple. Oh God, please. I’m trying to be a good guy, and you keep testing my resolve! Her perfume, some exotic blend of lemon verbena and vanilla, wafts up to my nose, and I stifle a groan.
“That’s the one. On one hand, I get it. They can’t just dance on top of columns six feet off the ground with no safety precautions. On the other hand, dancing six feet off the ground in a clear plastic tube is the stuff of nightmares for me.”
I chuckle.
“Did anything specific trigger your fear, like getting stuck in an elevator? Or maybe caught down a mineshaft?” She giggles at my ridiculous hypothetical.
“Nothing that dramatic,” she murmurs. Her tone sounds breezy, but there’s an edge to it. “Just got locked in a trailer for about an hour.”
“Locked in a trailer?” I turn to her. “That sounds pretty dramatic to me. How did that happen? Why didn’t anyone let you out?”
She shifts away from me for the first time since we got on the train, and my body misses hers immediately.
“Oh, it’s a long, boring story. Anyway, tell me more about you. What’s it like to play overseas? Did you ever have nerves so bad you couldn’t play?”
The abrupt shift in topics has alarm bells going off in my head.
She was locked in a trailer for almost an hour.
It was so bad, it gave her claustrophobia, and now she doesn’t want to talk about it?
Something’s fishy, but I’m trying to calm her down, and pushing her about something she obviously doesn’t want to talk about is the opposite of that.
“It’s hard to describe. Some days, it was like being a rock star. People held up signs, painted their faces with my number—the whole deal. We made it to the finals a couple times, and my brothers were even there to see me get my own chant.”
I can’t help but preen; after winning the championship for Barca, that chant was my crowning achievement.
“It was also a little lonely. My family was back home and usually only visited during the season when it was a really big game. I stayed in a lot of tiny efficiencies watching TV with subtitles, ate a lot of boiled chicken breast to maintain my strict nutritional regimen, ran five miles a day, and didn’t make friends with team members because you never knew who would be traded and when.
“I honestly think the glory makes up for all that, but it takes a toll after a while. I was already considering leaving when I got the call that they would be building the next phase of the team around a new, younger player.”
“Ouch. That must’ve sucked. How much younger?” she asks.
“The kid is twenty-one. Twenty-one!” I practically whimper. “He skipped his senior year of college to turn pro. Barca was his best offer, and he followed the money. I can’t blame him; I remember when I was him.”
Kendra sighs.
“Modeling isn’t exactly a long-term career path either. I’ve been more successful than most, but there are already some brands I can’t work with because they’re focused on the new, hot thing.
“And,” she continues, “it gets pretty lonely, too. I’ve been to shoots on six of the seven continents, but most of the time, I was alone.
I flew in, got picked up by a P.A., slept off the jet lag until it was time to shoot, then flew to the next location.
Meanwhile, my husband’s back home doing his own tour…
and several groupies too,” she adds bitterly.
I read all about that dirtbag, Andre Gibbs. A pretty boy R&B singer who thought he could do better than Kendra Fucking Gray. Thank God he fumbled her, though, because now she’s coming home with me. Well, technically, I’m going home with her, but the point still stands.
“I was sorry to read about what happened,” I lie. She snorts in response.
“You were?”
I chuckle and shake my head, glad I’m just a silhouette.
“I mean, I’m sorry you had to go through that. I’m obviously glad you’re single.”
“Fuck yeah, I am,” she says. “All thanks to your brother.”
There’s no DJ around, but I hear the record scratch all the same. My brother?
“What do you mean by that?” I ask, trying not to raise my voice. What the hell do any of my brothers have to do with Kendra?
“Henry was my lawyer. You didn’t know?”
“Nah,” I frown. “He takes attorney-client privilege pretty seriously. I must’ve missed his name in the articles.”
“Oh, right. Well, thanks to Henry, we settled out of court and I got the apartment on East 9th.”
“Thank you, Henry,” I mutter. Before I can fully process that bombshell, the lights are back on, and we’re moving again.
Kendra looks haunted, still recovering from her attack, and I resign myself to the fact that we’re probably not going to hook up tonight. Even so, there’s an easiness to our conversation, and she snuggles back into me, taking my arm once more as we exit the G train and transfer to the L.
Outside her building, we both pause, looking at each other. Something silent passes between us, and we both grin. This wasn’t a date, but…it was something.
“Thanks for walking me home even though we—”
I wave her off.
“Please. What gentleman would let a beautiful woman walk home alone, especially after what we went through?”
She smirks that dazzling smirk that reveals the dimple in her left cheek and makes her eyes sparkle.
“I didn’t realize you were a gentleman,” she teases, pushing me lightly on the arm, “but I’m glad you are. I know we can’t…you know. At least not tonight.” She averts her eyes. “Just take my number. Next time I go to 787, you can meet me.”
I hand her my phone. Meanwhile, I’m jumping up and down inside. She gave me her number!
“I’ll definitely call you.”
My smile remains long after I watch her enter her building. Long after the elevator doors close on her lingering grin. Long after I float home past tourists with ice cream and kids setting off fireworks in the street. All the way until I close my eyes and dream of her.