Chapter Thirty-Five （Dwayne）
Chapter Thirty-Five (Dwayne)
I couldn’t even look at Jake in the locker room, and no way was I going to let him sidle up to me with a drink and try to smooth everything over. Nope, it wasn’t happening. I scanned the bar, knowing it was fruitless. Jaxton wouldn’t even attempt to join the team tonight. Damn you, Jake! After the last two games, Jaxton had come out to celebrate with us, which I’d seen as a huge breakthrough. The kid had not tried to join the team for anything off the field. When I’d asked him about it in a roundabout way, he plainly replied, “I hate drunk people.” Okay? What the hell was I supposed to say to that? But I got it when I remembered Coach Easton saying Jaxton’s dad had beat up on him and his mom regularly, probably when he drank. I thought it must have been bad. Well, it was bad enough for his mom to have blown his dad’s brains across the dining room wall, remembering the stuff Jake had mentioned when he’d tried to get me to review Jaxton’s psych report.
After we won three games in a row, Jake had thrown to him twice, once resulting in a touchdown against the Seattle Seahawks—that made Jake especially giddy since he’d been their backup quarterback before moving to the Condors. Rakell had been in the stands with Jake’s parents, Melissa, and my sister Eva. Jake was practically kissing Jaxton after that touchdown. I felt a little pride about that, knowing Jake had been watching him like a hawk since our training week in Tahoe. I caught him several times, staring at the kid, eyes narrowing as if studying like there was something evil behind his icy gray eyes, and of course, Jake Skyler was going to figure it out.
Like when Jaxton had helped Rakell when she slipped on the Catamaran, the way Jake’s blue eyes steeled on Jaxton, his fingers flexing into fists. I clapped Jake’s shoulder and said, “Chill, Skyler. He’s just trying to help.”
“Yeah?” Jake had said, practically lunging across the deck, thinking he was fucking rescuing her from Jaxton. When I confronted him a few days later, he said, “I don’t want his hands on her for any reason. I don’t know, something about him…he doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Because he wasn’t raised in upper-middle-class suburbia, that’s what doesn’t sit right with you,” I’d barked back at him, walking along the beach, the dark waves lapping in, then yanking back before stealthily easing against the rocky perimeter again. Like a burglar, I thought, watching how the waves seemed to inch closer with each round, like they were sneaking up on us, going to swallow us whole with no one the wiser. Yep, I have an imagination, and I didn’t like nature in the dark. It freaked me out when you could hear shit at night but not see it. No, thank you! Even hanging out at Jake’s parents’ ranch, listening to all the bugs. The cicadas ruled the daylight, and I was okay with that, but once the sun went down, the hissing of the katydids and crickets was like a chorus for the other creatures lurking in the foliage. I heard leaves rustling from some furry-assed animals scurrying around in the brush or the hoot of an owl—yikes, it was like some horror movie. I always told that to Jake and his sisters. Melissa would agree with me, she’d laugh, then start telling me creepy-ass stories…until I would beg Jake to take me home or call his mom to get me. Ms. Annette always told me, “Dwayne, I’m your second mom, so if the kids give you a hard time about being afraid of the dark, I’ll come get you.” I explained it wasn’t the dark; it was not being able to see all the ‘nature’ going on in the shrouded night. I didn’t trust that at all.
Jake had picked up a rock and threw it in the lake. “Dee, cut the shit about suburbia. Just look at this team. It’s not made up of a bunch of boys who played Little League with their dads coaching on the sidelines and moms at home baking fucking cookies.” Suddenly, he craned his neck toward the sky as if stopping the protest on my lips. “Damn, look at that moon,” he said, pointing to the illuminated crescent hanging suspiciously close to the lake, creating shadows that intertwined with the light shimmering on the surface of the water. It looked haunted.
I almost laughed because this was Jake and me in the middle of an intense conversation, then he’d point out something like that, both of us diverting our attention for a second or two before we moved right back to the tough shit. We were brothers, yet our growing-up stories differed; no matter how many experiences we shared, I knew our lenses for how we saw the world would always have a divergent focus.
“Yeah, you're right on that, lotta these guys are here because of their mamas and their mamas alone—that’s all Jaxton had, but then he’d lost her, too. Sure, he visits her in jail, but it had to eat that kid up knowing that his dad had deserved what he got, his mom killing him because of Jaxton’s dog. I mean, that would tear me up. Like there’s no way…I couldn’t keep going, knowing my mom was in jail because she’d stood up for me that way.”
“I guess,” Jake murmured, looking at the moon before asking, “It’s haunting, isn’t it?”
“Sort of,” I’d said.
“That sense…” His hand gestured toward the shadows skipping across the lake. “The tingling feeling that makes my spine alert, wondering what’s going to jump out and get us, like some kind of monster’s going to all of a sudden burst through the lake’s surface and come for us—well, that’s the same signal I get from Jaxton, like what the hell is lurking in there…what are we not seeing?”
“Come on, bro,” I’d scoffed, “we all feel that way when we don’t understand something or someone. Using your same bullshit analogy, see the lake? During the day, you can see pretty far into its depths but not all the way, and it’s that part, the unknown, the unseen, that makes all of us leery. That’s human nature, but we have to push that aside to learn about the things that are unseen.
“That’s different. I don’t even have a starting point with Jaxton. Like, he gives nothing. I mean look at you and me, completely different backgrounds, but we both love football, our moms…and…”
I chuckled. “And women. We bonded because we’d happened to be young guys who got to have a couple of nights we’ll both never forget. I mean, that’s not typical.” I laughed. “Damn those two…Julia directing us to take her friend together. Us, like slap happy pups not knowing what to do.” I shuddered, adding, “Shit, that’s forever imprinted.”
“Yep, when I’m an old man, that one will not fade away with the rest of my memories. I may not remember my kids' names, but I will never forget those two women. Flavia and Julia… Flavia’s husky accented voice: ‘I want both of you in me.’ She’d tempted us with something like that; we’ve shared some pretty hot women.” Jake hesitated, stopped walking, shook his head, then said, “Do you think it’s obvious that other women can tell we, well, that we’ve shared, I mean...”
I snorted. “Like, I think Rakell knows I’m a possibility. I can only hope…”
“Damn it, no. This is my forever girl, and we’re going to be uncles to each other’s kids and shit. We ain’t sharing our wives.”
“Damn dude, spoken like a guy who knows his future. To make myself clear, like I said to you before, I have no desire for the kid stuff. Not getting married, not doing that American dream shit. So just drop it.”
“Got it, but you need to drop any mention of Rakell and us all together. I have to know that…”
“I would never go there unless you asked. That’s how we’d always worked it. That’s our understanding, part of the bond, the trust…” I emphasized that last word, ensuring Jake’s spun-up head remembered it. I won’t deny that in the beginning, when I thought it was just an Austin summer fling, I didn’t picture getting after that booty. Goddamn, who wouldn’t? All high and meaty. Yeah sure, I pictured Jake inviting me over with Rakell in a fucking swimsuit, those big tits spilling out the sides, the bottom barely covering her plump ass. It was perfectly juicy, fleshy, and muscular…that girl had a fucking bum, as she calls it, but then she was doing that model thing. Not eating, flesh melting off her. I wanted to tell her not to let that happen, but Jakesaid she was already going down that path, following the Hollywood skinny-girl trend. She was already thin enough, but I could tell from the shit Jake said that she was self-conscious. I’m sure all the comments on social media now would be tripping up her brain. Damn shame. But yeah, I had pictured us both taking her in his backyard. I knew he loved anal, and I’d have given it up to have those big tits bouncing up and down above me, while I sat on the outdoor couch, the fire going, flickering light all over her beautiful face, as she rode my cock, Jake swatting her ass, asking her if she liked my thick cock inside her…her yelping yes, yes repeatedly, then me gently asking her if she was ready to take her man’s dick in her ass, as I’d reach around, getting a handful of that butt in my grip, spreading her open, Jake slipping his lubed-up fingers in and out of her tight bum, her pussy leaking all over my dick, her little mewls, anxious but desperately wanting to take us both as he’d move two fingers in, then three, absolutely sure she was ready. Jake would have asked her the same way I’d heard him do it before: “Tell me baby, tell me you want my cock in your ass, that you really, really need both of us in you at the same time.” He was fucking skilled at making chicks beg for it. He talked so much I always thought I was going to blow before he got in the girl. He made consent an art, a dirty talking art, that seemed to melt the fucking panties off any woman he got with. Yet there were some important lessons I’d learned from Jake—one being, if you can’t talk about what goes on in the bedroom, totally sober, clear-headed, it shouldn’t happen. He’d said he had a few drunk nights he regretted, mostly because he always wanted to know that all people involved would have done it sober. I didn’t see him and I ever being with Rakell, though. She had grown on me like a sister, and it would seem weird.
Then Jake had broken into my thoughts. “Yeah, so we bonded over that, but I get you, I feel like I know what’s beneath the surface.” His words came out slow and thoughtful, wrapped in a low, deep voice as if he were trying to figure out how he knew me so well.
But I knew already. I’d touched his arm and said, “Jake, it’s been time. We’ve known each other for most of our twenties, and we know how to trust each other because of all the time we’ve had together. You’ve tried to understand me, put yourself in my shoes, and in turn…” I shook my head. “I have tried to understand how it would feel to be a privileged white boy like you. Fuck, it seems like a dream to me.” I guffawed, the deep rumble echoing off the water.
“Huh? What the hell?” His words were swallowed in a laugh. “Yeah, I guess it has been a pretty easy ride.”
“You think?” I’d retorted. “Then throw in those fucking penetrating blue eyes that make women’s clothes fall off. Oh, let’s not forget athletic as hell, then mix in a little Southern charm. Forget being nervous about Jaxton; folks can see him coming a mile away. It’s you they never see coming…that makes you more dangerous.” I finished by trying to get him to see that he had the advantage in this situation. Jaxton looked like an ex-con, all tatted up, a fixed scowl on his face, his shoulders and arms always flexed, like he was ready for a fight. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I could see how women would find him attractive in that dark mafia sort of way, as in, this guy will either kill me or rock my world sort of way. Or both.
Women had twisted themselves around for Jake, literally dissolving into pieces when he reiterated that he wasn’t interested in the long-term. He’d repeatedly tell them but then treat them so well they couldn’t help but dream of a future. I got stuck on the phone with more sobbing women than I care to think about after Jake had moved on, and if they got wise and dumped him first, he just shrugged before dipping into the next honey pot. Women usually believed me when I said we were just having a summer fling…somehow, I just wasn’t quite as charming as Jake.
Jake and I had learned from Jordan to make our intentions known upfront, not lead women on, and above all, be seen with them in public a few times before sex. I was more of a dog than Jake, maybe kinkier, but I also waited longer and stayed back on my heels until they jumped me, not just sort-of sober, completely sober, and I preferred two women at a time. Not just because it’s super-hot but because there’s a witness with two. We were all in this together, and I couldn’t overtake either. Like Jordon used to say, ‘Jake needs to stay one step in front of his stupid, but as a Black professional athlete, hell, just a Black dude, you best stay two steps in front of your stupid.’ I thought about that kinda shit all the fucking time. Only on rare drinking nights did I let Jake into that side, ‘cause he’d grimace and show sympathy, but in no way could Jake ever empathize. I appreciated him so much. He’d stood up over and over again. He’d fucking go to battle in a heartbeat for something that didn’t affect him, and that’s about the most you can hope for from a white boy who was raised with a big high net—not just the money but family and friends who went back to grade school. They didn’t have to escape a life, then try to build a new one. Guys like that just got to return and be the hero of the same life they’d always known. The truth is, Jake pulled my whole family and me into his life, and his family welcomed us with open arms, but that couldn’t erase the fact that our memories and understanding of ourselves in this world would always be completely different. Even my brother, Damien, who’d graduated from the University of Chicago and was now getting his MBA at Yale, felt the need for caution, always putting forth an overly polite demeanor. That’s why I liked women to be the aggressors—I never wanted anyone to think I forced anything on anybody.
I purposefully diverted my eyes from Jake’s puppy dog sulk, blowing him off in the locker room. What he did on the field in front of the world tonight had gutted me. The way he’d approached me with his begging eyes, like he thought I was going to shrug off the humiliation, made me want to throttle him after the game. I had come so close to screaming, You fucking pansy-ass wuss, you gonna act like a jackass every time she doesn’t show up for a game? She was supposed to be in the stands tonight but missed again after she couldn’t make it to the last three. Rakell had called him two nights ago, saying she was staying in Georgia. They were filming on Saturday, and there just wasn’t time.
No way was I going to move past this. I wasn’t being a jerk. I knew Skyler was fuming after I blew off his attempted apology, but he was the one who fucked this one up. “Jaking it” isn’t always the answer. Even if he begged for me to move on and accept his bullshit version of “I’m sorry.” I didn’t care that he was pissed at Jaxton and meant well by confronting him. Jake didn’t get it. He couldn’t understand how badly he’d undermined me out there and further alienated Jaxton—just when I felt like the kid’s eyes seemed to brighten with a trace of trust. It was fleeting, but I noticed a flickering smile when Jake congratulated him after the Seattle game a few weeks back. Those moments of connection made Jaxton easier to coach as if he sensed we were on his side—but that just blew up, thanks to my best friend.
I stepped out of the Sternewirth, the Hotel Ema’s main bar; the place used to be an old brewery. When they converted the brewery into a hotel, they kept the structure of the original building intact. Drink in hand, I just wanted to walk around, get my head on, and maybe find Jaxton. I thought there was a chance he might be at the ice cream joint right outside the hotel. The whole area was called the Pearl after the old brewery, and there were several shops and restaurants in the complex. The team planned to stay the night and fly back to Sacramento in the morning. Jaxton’s only vice seemed to be ice cream, so he’d usually find some after a game when the rest of us went to the bar.
As I walked toward the front door, I was distracted by a massive two-story library in the hotel lobby. Whiskey in hand, I opened one of the large glass doors, my eyes scanning the expansive room lined with bookshelves, a staircase leading up to a second story filled with books as well. I heard footsteps on the second level but ignored them, sinking into an oversized cowhide couch, my gaze catching on all the travel books covering a wooden coffee table. Pictures of places I wanted to visit but hadn’t yet, some exotic, others historical. Someday, someday, I told myself .
“Sir,” a young man’s voice called out. I raised my gaze to a smiling guy pointing toward a portable bar in the corner. “We offer complimentary drinks if you're staying here. Are you staying with us, sir?”
“Yep, yes, sir. I am.” That’s something you learned when you moved to Texas, to call people sir and ma'am, especially anyone older than you. It had become a habit, and I addressed everyone that way. It made them look at me differently, like I was a respectful dude. It seemed like a small thing to do to get people to want to help you.
“Well, tonight we’re offering spicy margaritas, but I can leave out the jalapeno juice if you don’t like the spice, or if you prefer, we also have White Linens.”
“White Linens?” I recognized that the drink came from a bar in downtown Sacramento—Ella’s.
“Yes sir, that’s gin, elderflower liqueur, and cucumber, but I recommend the spicy margarita since the Lone Stars won tonight. We have the White Linen because the Condors are…” I raised my eyebrows, letting a smug grin take over my face. This kid, probably in his early twenties, made me smile for the first time tonight.
He halted, cheeks flushing, realization washing across his face. “Shoot, sorry sir, you’re the wide receiver, Sticky Fingers Bradshaw. Yeah,” he said, taking a bouncy step back, staring at me, “it’s you! I can whip you up an amazing White Linen. The main bartenders taught us this afternoon, in case…”
“We won,” I chimed in.
“Yeah, sorry,” he said, the cocktail napkin in his hand shaking as though a flutter of wind had just whisked by.
“Actually,” I said, tipping the whiskey back, chugging the whole thing, “I’ll take one of those spicy margaritas if you double the tequila.” Shifting my ass on the couch, I reached for my wallet.
“Yes, of course, it’s on the house.”
“Well, I’m fishing out a tip 'cause you made me smile for the first time tonight.”
“That’s not necessary, sir,”
“Yes, it is,” I assured.
“But what I really want is an autograph.”
“I’ll give you that, too.” Then I asked him, “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go? Just asking because I haven’t traveled a lot.”
“Well, my parents like to travel, so I’ve been all over, but I think my two favorite places are Dublin and Mexico City.” As he said the last piece, a hushed intake of breath sounding decidedly female filtered from the second floor that overlooked the area where I was sitting. We both looked up but couldn’t see whoever it was. There were massive, round concrete columns that someone could have been standing behind, and the truth was, even if Beyonce herself were up there, I wasn’t interested. Okay, maybe that was bullshit. But really, I wasn’t in the mood.
“Why those two cities?” I asked, genuinely wanting to know. I had traveled to France, once, with Jake, to visit his grandparents.
“Simple, the people,” he chirped confidently.
“Okay, I like that…the people.”
“Be right back with that margarita,” he said, walking away.
He returned with my drink and a book. I took one sip, the tequila making its presence known in my mouth. “Whoa, nice job. Take this, please,” I said, handing him a hundred-dollar bill. That’s the part about having money I like the most, besides taking beautiful women out to dinner—being able to hand people who are working every day an excellent tip. I had dreamed about that when I didn’t have anything. I wanted to be the guy who took good care of the people who made me smile, especially the folks who might not dig the job they have but made an effort.
“Thank you, sir, or Mr. Bradshaw,” he stammered.
“It’s Dwayne to you, mister?” I stood, extending my hand to his and offering him a big smile.
“Ben here, not as cool as ‘sticky fingers’ but…”
“Cool enough, Ben.” I sat back down as he asked me to sign his wallet, then said every time he took it out, he’d remember my ball skills, but mostly my generosity. Damn, this kid was making my day. Then he handed me a book—the front cover had a green, white, and red flag in the forefront with foliage-covered mountains in the background.
“That’s for you. I just bought it because I was thinking about taking a couple of months off to travel through Mexico, but I can get another one easily. My friend works at the local bookshop. It’s an awesome book about Mexico’s history and culture. Also, there are several feature articles about locally owned businesses. I highly recommend skipping all the resorts Americans usually go to and head to Mexico City. You would seriously love it. It’s the oldest capital in the Americas, and it’s pretty safe. There may be some petty crime, but in general the people are so hospitable. I wrote my Insta on the inside cover. I mostly post pictures from my travels, best places to eat on a budget, where the hot people hang out…that kind of thing.”
I chuckled. “Kind of a road map for single guys traveling?”
A big grin spread across his red cheeks. “Well, I highlight where the hot guys hang out, too. I’m kind of an equal opportunity fun guy,” he added, his eyes on me as if waiting for a reaction.
I shrugged my shoulders just a bit. "Makes it easier, whoever you click with. Thanks for this. I’ll look it over, but are you sure?”
“Oh yeah, I’ll follow you on Instagram, and if you ever need travel advice, contact me. I usually focus on the cheap places, but my mom’s one of those high-end travel agents, so I can hook you up.”
“Thanks.”
“I have to close down the bar now. Are you good, or can I get you another one for later?”
“That would be great.” As he stepped away, I opened the book, expecting it to be filled with pictures, but it was almost all print, some maps and a few photos. Fuck, nothing but words, pretty much useless to me. He set a second double tequila margarita down on the table, I thanked him again, shook his hand, and watched him pack up the portable bar, rolling it through the back door.
Then, I heard the clicking of heels from above me. Curious, I looked up to see a woman wearing a pencil skirt, suit jacket, and high heels with shiny black hair fixed in one of those old-fashioned up-dos, I guess I would call it a chignon. Her back was to me, and she shifted her hips back and forth like she was trying to steady herself. I thought she must have been leaning against the wrought iron railing. I was pretty sure, because of the shuffling of her feet and the way she was breathing, that she had been spying on me, listening to my conversation with Ben. When I’d twisted to look up to her, she must have turned away so that I wouldn’t be able to see her face. From behind, she looked like a woman from a different era, like a proper schoolteacher or secretary you would see in an old movie.
“What are you reading?” I shouted, my head back against the couch, eyes focused upward. I saw her back stiffen, and she turned just slightly enough for me to see she was holding a large book, one that looked like some kind of encyclopedia. This place had a bunch of old-fashioned, leather-bound books stacking the shelves. When she didn’t turn around, I yelled up again, “So, did you learn anything interesting while you were eavesdropping?” I let a huge-ass grin take over my face, waiting for her to turn around. “Yeah, you, pretty librarian.” I was taking out my edginess on a woman I’d never met.
“No, no, I, I…” Her words spit out wrapped in the most adorable accent—something Latin, but I had no idea where it was from. Swirling around with that big book in her hand, holding it over the rail as she peered down, she replied: “No, no, I wasn’t spying, no, I just overheard.” Her bold red lips were forming into an O as she frantically tried to explain.
I tugged on the collar of my leather jacket, staring up at her. Man, she was one hot secretary in that super buttoned-up way. I wanted to unbutton it. “I get it. My dashing good looks distracted you from your evening reading. It happens.” I chuckled, my head still bent back, staring up at her.
She giggled. I swear even her soft laugh had an accent. Then she let out a shriek, “Oh no,” but before I could see why, that damn big-ass book dropped from her hands, landing smack on my face. My face!
“Shit, shit,” I yelled, the clickety-clack of her heels running down the steps mixing with her screaming, “No, no, no, no.”
The book's spine hit my nose, bouncing off my face to the floor. I felt the warm liquid on my lip, my tongue touching it, tasting blood, my freaking blood, making me bend forward. Shit, did I just get a bloody nose from a goddamn book? I hate books. I cupped my hand over my nose, then tipped my head back. I’d had enough bloody noses in my life to know what to do. Could this day get any worse?
Then I heard her panting, “Oh no, oh no, I’ll be right back.”
“Just get me a napkin. It’s fine, I’ve had a million bloody noses, I play football…”
I heard the shuffling of her shoes as if she were scurrying away, probably grossed out. If I weren’t so pissed at Jake, I’d have texted him. His last text to me had been, going upstairs to call Rakell, open to chat anytime. I almost picked up my phone and wrote, get your ass off the phone with your love, and help my damn ass, but I wasn’t sure if I could stomach his humor right now.
I needed to figure out what to do. How was I going to get the hell out of here and walk through the lobby with blood running down my fucking face without folks noticing? “Thanks, bunches, Chica,” I grumbled, my eyes shut, putting pressure on my nose.
“That’s not appropriate. Do not call me Chica,” she said flatly with an air to her tone that sounded like perhaps she thought I was a buffoon, which further sparked a bit of irritation in me since, essentially, she’d just slung a huge book directly at my face.
I kept my hand over my nose, peeking open my eyes as she knelt on the couch beside me, bracing herself with one hand leaning toward my face. Her large, round, black eyes were between shock and concern, her full lips pursed, her expression tight and pained. “You are injured,” she stated, placing wet brownish paper towels, the kind you find in a school bathroom, over my nose, between my eyes.
“I have a bloody nose. I need to use these.”
“No,” she whispered as if she were talking to a young child. I felt her hand cup my knee. “You are injured. The book cut open your nose, and you may need stitches.” She spoke slowly, articulating every syllable precisely, each dipped in her seductive accent. If I weren’t bleeding profusely, I would definitely have been into this girl.
“What?” I muttered, “no, I have…” But as I processed where the point of pain was coming from—on top of my nose, almost between my eyes—I faltered, “Oh, great. Are you sure it’s that deep? I mean, I can handle it.”
“No, you need to get to a doctor, to the hospital.”
I wanted to get to the bathroom so I could look in a mirror. It was a book. How could a book do that much damage? Damn, that was definitely a rhetorical question in my case. I was trying to figure out how the hell I could get up to my room without folks seeing my face and pictures being snapped. Shit!
“Here, look, look,” she hushed, her hand moving from my leg as she dug into her purse and came out with a compact mirror. She removed the wet paper towels. I had a good look at my face. Fuck, a deep gash was painted across the bridge of my nose. Taking in the damage, I felt lucky it hadn’t hit my eyes. “Damn it,” I groaned, “I can’t let anybody see me with my face covered in blood like this.” My head was spinning with images of me all over social media, with a gashed nose and red streaking down my face…after being visibly jacked up on the field and then in the locker room. The coaches would blow a gasket.
“I know, I understand. I heard you’re famous. Let me clean you up. I have a car here. I will take you to the hospital. The medical center is very close,” she explained.
Damn, that accent makes me wish she could spend the night nursing me. She held up the wet paper towel, then leaned in from her kneeling position. She moved one knee to the side of my thigh, then lifted the other over, straddling my lap as she gently wiped my chin, cheeks, and, more carefully, my nose. Her warm breath wisped across my neck, and when she inched a little closer to inspect my face, I took in the smell of sweet cocoa emanating from her small mouth with its plump red lips. “Lo siento,” rushed from her mouth, her lips pursed in concern, “sorry.”
Focus on her face , I told myself, not the pencil skirt she had jacked up over her knees after she’d positioned herself close enough for her face to examine mine, her sensual lips only a whisper from my cheek. If I just turned my head slightly, my lips would touch hers—that thought was blaring in my head, but then I remembered I had a gash on my nose that needed to be stitched.
Her delicate pointer finger lifted my chin slightly. “There’s a little blood here,” she said before wiping the underside of my chin. As she did, she started to lose her balance, and I felt her falling backward onto my legs. My hand flew out, catching her at the small of her back, pulling her into my chest so she wouldn’t fall to the floor. She gasped for air. “Oh, so sorry,” she hushed out.
Both of our breathing seemed labored. I turned my face toward hers, wanting to look at her again and drink in this exquisite, gentle woman who’d come out of nowhere, just as she murmured, “Thank you.” Cautiously, I slid my hand up her back to the nape of her neck. I had the distinct feeling that one fast move and this beautiful creature would flit back into hiding.
I let my eyes take her in. She was strikingly beautiful, put-together, and intelligent, yet I saw a timidity in her eyes and heard it in her voice, as if unsure where to step in this world . Do I make her nervous?
Two of my fingers touched her delicate wrist near my face as she resumed her examination of me. “Hey, I know you didn’t purposely chuck a book at my head,” I whispered, smiling. Her dark eyes, outlined in thick black eyelashes, widened into saucers as she studied me, obviously curious while simultaneously ruffled. Internally, I thought I could not be more vulnerable right now. I was not giving off any threatening or powerful vibes. But every word I uttered seemed to have a direct impact on her breathing, her chest rising and falling as if she were running, her eyes on my lips. Damn, I thought, just kiss me .
She ran her pointer finger with its long fingernail over my bottom lip repeatedly as if studying my mouth, my breath trapped in my chest, waiting to see what would happen next like I was watching a movie. Then, she rubbed the pad of her finger to her mouth as if absorbing me like we were engaged in some ritualistic exchange. But our lips hadn’t touched. Damn, I need to kiss this girl, lose myself in those lips.
She cleared her throat with an imperceptible shake of her head, as if it had just occurred to her where she was, what she was doing, and with whom. I glimpsed the lines of concern etching around her mouth as she pushed herself up. She scooted back slowly before giving me clear instructions on where to meet her outside the hotel, saying she would pull her car up to the side so no one would see us.
As a matter of fact, she explained that she would drop me at the emergency room door but would not go in with me. As she pulled up in front of the hospital, I started to get out but then asked her name, and she unceremoniously lifted her left hand, showcasing a large square cut diamond blinking from it, then dropped it to her side. “I get it,” I said, shocked. I hadn’t noticed that, and she didn’t strike me as the kind of person who would dance so close to possibly kissing a man if she were engaged. She was promised to someone, yet, I was sure I hadn’t mistaken the vulnerable hunger radiating from her. I felt the resistance pulling her back from stepping out of the shadows. Something was holding this woman back. I was pretty sure she knew who I was, but I had no idea who she was.
Just then, I remembered that I still had a gash on my nose that probably needed stitches.
To my surprise, the emergency room was quiet, with only a few people in the waiting area. When I showed the attendant my nose, she immediately escorted me back to a room and told me she recognized me from the game earlier. Her puzzled look said it all. I had to explain that I had not gotten hurt in the game, nor had I been involved in some post-game brawl. I had to tell her that a book had fallen on my head. Yeah, I really needed a fun story to tell instead of the truth because I felt like I was in for a long road of people shaking their heads in disbelief, the way this woman just did.
As I was sitting in the small examination room, contemplating calling our team doctor, a man in a white coat walked in, introducing himself as the attending physician. He explained that he would be getting plastics down here to stitch it up to prevent any scarring. He looked to be in his early forties, with brownish blond hair, though very thin on the top. He had an affable smile that grew wider when I told him what had happened. There was a question in his eyes, and I could see that he wasn’t completely buying my truth, which was irritating as hell. I definitely needed to conjure up something that would sound more plausible. As he went over how they would stitch me up to leave minimal scarring, there was a knock at the door. I assumed that the surgeon had arrived. When the doctor and I turned toward the door, he said to the beautiful black-haired woman standing there, “Sorry, ma’am, this is a medical examination room.”
“Yes, yes, I know. I was just checking on my fiancé,” she said, holding up her ring finger. The doctor nodded, a puzzled expression creasing the corners of his eyes. “Will he be all right? No permanent damage?” she asked. “I did not mean to throw a book at him.” Her voice sounded thin, her accent softening the edges of her words as if she were begging for forgiveness.
The doctor’s head spun back to me, his eyes wide with concern. “Is this a domestic dispute?” he asked, grimacing at me, turning his gaze back to her. I watched as he inspected her appearance as if doing an examination, noting that there was no blood on her, and nothing seemed out of place. If anything, she looked like she’d just walked out of a business meeting, and I looked like I’d just crawled out of a bar.
“No, no, it was an accident,” she said, wringing her hands together nervously.
“Yeah, she didn’t mean to. She wasn’t mad or anything. It just happened,” I spouted out, then swallowed the thick ball that was forming in my throat as I registered the doctor’s features scrunching—as if he didn’t believe either one of us. Still, I didn’t want to say, “She’s not my fiancé. I don’t even know this chick.”
In a jerky motion, his hand shot up like he was about to make a declaration. “Okay, plastics are on the way, but I should call in a social worker. They handle these situations,” he stated firmly, eyes lingering a little too long on my powerful biceps before shifting back to her petite frame and timid, innocent expression.
Well, just when I wondered if this day could get any worse, here I was in this crazy situation. I didn’t know my so-called “fiancé’s” name, and the doctor seemed to be suspicious of me—like I’d ever lay a hand on a woman, hell no —he was picking up on the weird vibe and attributing that to some story that was taking shape in his head.