Chapter 6 #3
I can’t resist teasing her. “Hmm . . . And here I thought maybe you were afraid I’d back off once I heard ‘Cocks and Cocktails.’”
The corner of her mouth quirks. “Well, maybe not the cocktails part.”
“It’s okay, Chester.” The urge to touch the soft curve of her cheek has me gripping my beer. “Thanks for inviting me.”
Chess fiddles with the strand of pearls around her neck. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to Malcolm, our host. He’s an antiques
dealer.”
“That explains the decor. I thought I’d fallen into the nineteenth century.”
Her eyes gleam. “Wait till you meet him. The man talks as though he lived here five decades ago, when I know he grew up in
Cleveland.”
Malcolm turns out to be a middle-aged man sporting a thin black mustache. He’s wearing a white suit with a black bow tie,
and tells me he’s going for a Clark Gable Gone with the Wind look, but the image that comes to mind is Colonel Sanders. I keep that to myself as I shake his hand.
“You look familiar, Mr. Mannus,” he says, peering at my face. “Are you a model, perchance?”
The Colonel image gets stronger, and I have the sudden urge to eat fried chicken. “No, sir, I’m a quarterback.”
He gives me a blank look. “I could have sworn you were one of Chess’s boys.”
Chess’s boys? I glance at her, and she makes a face. “I don’t have boys, Mal.”
He waves a hand. “You know what I mean. Your model friends.” He stares at me again. “A quarterback, you say?”
James cuts in. “Christ on a cracker. He’s a pro football player. And the reason he looks familiar to you is because there
is a massive billboard of his smiling face on Canal Street.”
I cringe. That freaking ad. I hate driving by it. I see myself in the mirror every time I shave; I don’t need a fifty-foot
reminder of what I look like haunting me every time I drive around town.
Recognition dawns over Malcolm, and it’s clear that billboard has haunted him, too. “Football. Ugh.” His mustache twitches.
“I loathe football. All that grunting and sweating, and no actual sex involved.”
“Hits a little too close to home, does it?” a man at his side quips.
“You should know, Robert.” Malcolm rolls his eyes then zeroes in on me again. “Please tell me you have other interests, Mr.
Mannus.”
Chess gives me a quick, worried look. But I don’t mind. I’m around sycophants enough as it is, and there’s no malice in his
tone.
“Oh, sure,” I say lightly. “I like baseball and basketball, too.”
He stares back at me, and I return his look with a bland smile. His lip twitches. “You’re cute.”
“I try.”
Purple Dress joins us. “I thought he was a stripper.”
I’m beginning to think this chick has a one-track mind.
“Strippers wear a costume, Trish,” Robert says with an exasperated drawl. “If he’d shown up in a football uniform, I’d give you that. Otherwise, it’s just wishful thinking on your part.”
Trish glares, but then gives a lazy shrug. “I wasn’t too far off, though. If he’s a football player, then he has been stripping
for Chess.”
“Jesus, Trish,” Chess mutters.
Malcolm and Robert both perk up.
“We’re doing a charity calendar,” she explains, not at all flustered but clearly annoyed at Trish.
“I saw the photo of that big guy with all the arm ink on the news,” Trish says. “Too bad he didn’t show up. So freaking hot.”
Dex wouldn’t have made it through the front door of this place before turning tail and running.
Chess shoots me a hesitant look. “Did you see the photos?”
I take a sip of beer. It’s getting warm and flat. “No. But I heard about them.”
Why didn’t I hear about them from you? It shouldn’t bother me that Chess didn’t say anything, but it does. It seems like something a friend would definitely tell
a friend.
But you aren’t friends, are you? One lunch and a couple of conversations makes you little more than brief acquaintances.
“They came out well, I think.” Chess is babbling now. “Meghan wants to use Dexter’s photo for December.”
“You gonna put a Santa hat on him?” I quip.
Her body jerks, and instantly, I feel like a shit. But she doesn’t reply. A woman bumps into her, and they start chatting.
I’m left to my beer and the curious stares of people circulating the room.
I’m starving. Smoke stings my eyes and fills my mouth. My feet hurt from standing, and I’m starting to feel like an old man
because all I want to do is sit down where it’s quiet and comfortable. When yet another person bumps into me, giving me a
double take, I excuse myself and head to the bathroom.
“Use the one upstairs, darling,” a pretty, older woman tells me when I discover the downstairs one is occupied. “Malcolm won’t mind.”
I find the bathroom with ease, but I don’t really need to use it. It had been an excuse to get away.
At the end of the hall, a set of French doors leads out to the upstairs gallery—a wide porch that runs the width of the back
of the house. I step outside, closing the door behind me, and draw in a deep breath. Light from two wall sconces illuminate
the space. It’s quiet here, the sounds of the party dim. I take a seat on a wooden porch swing and let it slowly rock.
I shouldn’t be up here. I should find Chess and . . .go? Stick it out? I don’t know if I’m just feeling off tonight or if
I imagined things about her that were never there.
The door opens, and I stiffen. But it’s Chess. It isn’t a fluke, the way my pulse kicks up whenever I see her, because it
does it again. All my senses attune themselves to her as if she’s my true north.
“There you are,” she says, stepping onto the gallery. “I was wondering if you’d run away screaming.”
Almost did.
I stand. “Just getting some fresh air.”
“I don’t blame you. Sometimes I forget how much people smoke at these things.” Chess comes close, and I see that she’s holding
a plate covered with a napkin. “Makes my throat hurt.”
Her skirt rustles and froths as she sits on the swing. “Here,” she says, handing me the plate. “I brought you some food.”
Surprise makes my movements shaky as I take it from her. “You didn’t have to do that.”
But I am so fucking grateful she did, I’ll eat every damn bite, no matter what it is.
“Of course I did,” she says as I lift the napkin. “I dragged you out here. I’m not going to let you starve.” She leans in.
“It’s a sandwich.”
“I see that.” Actually, it’s several sections of what looks to be a muffuletta. I eat one section in two bites. Yep, definitely a muffuletta.
A small groan of appreciation escapes me.
Chess smiles. “Oh, wait.” She stands, and plunges her hands into the folds of her wide skirt, which obviously has hidden pockets
because she pulls out a can of soda and something wrapped in another napkin. “A Coke, and a brownie for dessert,” she says
proudly.
I nearly propose right there.
She sits quietly as I eat, and shakes her head when I offer her a sandwich section. Because I’m hungry, and because I don’t
like the idea of her having to wait for me to eat, I wolf down my food. The brownie follows with a few, quick bites. I wash
it down with the Coke.
Wiping my hands on a napkin, I set the plate and empty can on a side table, and then let out a contented sigh. “Thanks. I
needed that.”
Her smile is small and quick. “I should have fed you as soon as you got here.”
“I’m good now.”
Chess braces her hands on the seat and leans forward to watch her feet as we slowly rock the swing. Silence descends, thick
and awkward, and for the first time in her presence, I’m at a loss for words.
I don’t know this girl. Not really, and yet I’ve inserted myself into her life with a determination I usually reserve for
winning games. Except I have no endgame here. I told her I want to be friends, but how does that work for us?
Our friends and lives couldn’t be any more different.
Parties for me are self-congratulatory events, filled with people whose sole focus seems to be bolstering my ego, followed by me searching for a quick hookup.
My friends are all part of football in some way.
We talk football or sports. It’s a narrow focus life, but it’s my comfort zone.
That chafes too, knowing I live a life that seems wild and free to outsiders but is small and structured on the inside.
The silence has stretched too long. I should go, but I don’t move. If I go, I know it will be the end of whatever this is.
Embarrassment will have me avoiding seeking her out again. Likely, she’ll do the same and that will be that.
The knowledge sits like a stone on my chest.
“I’m sorry about my friends,” Chess says. “They can be uncomfortably brazen.”
“So can mine.” I shrug. “Your friends are . . . fun.”
Her lips pull tight. “They can be. But they were definitely giving me—and by extension you—shit tonight.” She bites her bottom
lip. “I don’t think they know what to make of you.”
“So I wasn’t imagining things.”
“’Fraid not.”
The novel sensation of being a fish tossed into the wrong pond grows. I’ve taken away Chess’s fun by coming here, and I’m
sorry for it.
“I shouldn’t have asked you to come here,” Chess says in a low voice.
She’s only echoing my thoughts, but the stone sitting on my chest pushes harder against my ribs.
Chess makes a small sound, as if she’s trying to laugh but can’t. “Parties suck when you arrive halfway through and don’t
know anyone.”
“I know you,” I point out quietly.
She turns and the porch light illuminates her face. Green eyes meet mine and hold, as a slow, true smile curls over her cherry
lips. Something inside of me shifts and slides. I want to kiss Chester Copper. Haul her onto my lap and make out with her
like we’re teenagers hiding at our parents’ party. But that’s not what she invited me here for.
“I wanted to see you,” she confesses in that husky morning voice that goes straight to my cock. She turns away and stares out into the darkness. “It’s weird, you know? But hanging out with you was so unexpected it kind of felt like I imagined the whole thing.”
I know exactly what she means. My hand settles next to hers, close enough that our pinkies touch. That small point of contact
sparks along my skin, makes me want to move closer. I hold steady because I don’t trust myself not to act.
“I wanted to see you, too,” I tell her. “It’s been a long, fucking day.” I hadn’t planned to admit that, but it feels good
to confide in her.
Chess eases back against the seat and then curls her fingers over mine with a light squeeze. The unexpected touch holds all
my attention. It’s nothing more than a simple offer of comfort, and here I am twitching in my seat as if she’d cupped my dick
instead. I’m in so much trouble here because this woman is getting to me in ways I don’t know how to navigate. But I don’t
pull away. Not one fucking chance of that.
Chess speaks, pulling my attention back to our conversation. “So tell me about it.”
I can’t remember the last time anyone asked me to tell them about my day. Likely, no one ever has.
So I do. And with every word that leaves my mouth, a little bit more of my stress eases. No, I don’t yet truly know Chess.
Yes, our lives are different, but there’s no way I’m ending this. Because when it’s just her and me, everything else falls
away. I’m not going to let myself forget that again.