Chapter 29 #3
“You think she’ll be ashamed in the morning?”
I nuzzle her ear. “No. But do we really care?”
She giggles when I lick her ear. “No. Keep that up, and I won’t care about anything.” Her whisper is like a caress, the kind that, like a snowflake, snowballs into a whole mountain of irresistible desires. The kind I can’t ignore.
When was the last time I reacted like this to a woman?
When the answer pops into my head unbidden, I pull away from Brooks reflexively.
The last time was with Nora.
“What’s the matter? Why are you frowning?”
“Shit. Sorry.” I brush a tendril of hair from her temple, trying not to let my confusion show. Brooks is nothing like Nora, and this is nothing like when I was a freshman in high school. I’m no fool. Not anymore. I’m just here enjoying the ride while it’s running.
Oh, man. My gut tightens because she’s looking at me that way again.
“Maybe we should leave,” she says, her smile soft and vulnerable.
I nod.
“Let me visit the lady’s room first.”
I watch her go while the place buzzes around me, and Ax challenges Jason to a chugging contest and invites everyone to put money on it.
Pulling a twenty from my pocket, I slap it on the table. “I’m with Ax.”
Ax slaps me on the back, and Jason flips me his middle finger. As the twenties on both sides pile up, I don’t notice that Nora moved around the table until she’s standing next to me, up close and personal, in Brooks’ spot.
“I admire your moxy, kid,” she says. I can see the alcohol haze in her eyes and back away a step. She follows me, and I hold out an arm to keep her from falling against me.
“I don’t admire your moxy, Nora. Where’s your keeper?” I look around for Kara and don’t see her. Shit.
She laughs. “Same old kid looking for your big sister.”
“You need your eyes checked, and maybe your head too, if you think I’m the same in any way as I was back then.”
“Hmm. Maybe you’re right.” She pushes forward, skirting my raised elbow, trying to stop her like she’s a defenseman on my flank.
“Maybe we ought to give it another go now that you’re all grown up. What do you say, Brody baby?”
“You need to go home.” Tension and anger grip me, and I control the urge to let loose and humiliate her as she leans into me.
When the betting flurry ends and the chugging starts, with the guys yelling chug, chug, chug and banging their fists, somehow the sound of Brooks clearing her throat penetrates. I turn to see her standing with her arms on her hips, staring down Nora. I can’t help grinning at her.
“Back off, Nora. You’re embarrassing yourself,” she says in her stern imitation-librarian voice.
Nora turns, and her mouth forms a snarling smile. I fist my hands, ready to drag her out of this place physically if she makes the wrong move—any move or word against Brooks.
Stepping closer to Brooks, Nora says in a loud drunk voice, “You’re not going to slap me again, are you?”
Her words get the attention of everyone at our table, diverting them from the chugging contest, creating a sudden hush. Others in the small bar turn our way, sensing the tension. I move between Brooks and Nora when I see the look of outrage and potential violence on Brooks’ face.
“What the hell,” Ax says, moving in. Several other patrons close in around us. A couple of them raise their phones to video the scene in anticipation of some fireworks.
“Nothing to see here,” I say, hoping I’m right as I wrap my arms around Brooks.
Nora laughs and keeps laughing, clearly past tipsy and well past reason.
A man I recognize as a contributing reporter for Bar Stool Sports shoves his way through our growing audience, phone at the ready.
He asks Nora, “What’s your name? How do you know Brody Holden?”
She seems to pull herself together as I try to extricate Brooks from the gathering crowd.
“I’m Nora Shade, the old flame.”
She points at me and Brooks, trapping us in place. “Apparently Mrs. Holden can’t stand the heat.”
That statement causes gasping and a flurry of activity from the crowd. I step forward and take Nora by the arm. “You’re leaving.”
“I’ll go wherever you want—”
“Not with me.” I say it loud enough for everyone’s mobile phones to pick it up.
“I’ll escort her.” Kara shows up, white-faced.
“I think Nora might be a little tipsy.” She looks around at the crowd of people and tugs at Nora’s arm, moving her.
Kara’s very strong, and I wouldn’t want to be woman-handled by her.
The throng around us separates, clearing a path for her to lead Nora toward the door.
The Bar Stool reporter follows—or tries to. I catch him by the shoulder, stopping him.
“Leave it alone.”
“It’s a free press.”
“What’s your name?”
“Gary Edwin. I write for Bar Stool—”
“How about an exclusive interview with me and my bride instead?” Holding onto Brooks, I grin, but the sincerity is missing. I hold my breath waiting for the reporter to answer as he considers the offer and pray that Kara gets a good head start in the meantime.
“Alright. I’ll take it.” Gary nods, handing over his card. “You’re a stand-up guy, Holden. Call me tomorrow.”
We arrive home at midnight after a silent car ride.
Trying to concentrate on the short drive barely keeps the chaos of emotions and turmoil of figuring out what to do about this predicament with Brooks from churning in an endless loop.
I know very well clips of the scene with Nora and Brooks will be all over social media before morning.
The idea of those clips reflecting poorly on Brooks bothers the hell out of me. I refuse to speculate why that is besides ordinary decency. Because of course that’s the only reason. Never mind that I’m not bothered in the least how the social media gossip will reflect on me.
Walking through my front door, two things become clear.
First, I need to get a fake divorce from Brooks sooner than later.
Second, I somehow don’t feel good about that.
So I’m less clear than ever about what’s going on in my life—except when it comes to hockey. That’s where I know exactly what to do and what I want.
“Hockey is what I need to stick to.” I say the words out loud, and I don’t blame Brooks for her confused expression, but then she nods, her face clearing as she sheds her coat, revealing my jersey stretched across her generous chest.
“I get it,” she says. And I believe her.
“I’m fucking starving.” I head to the kitchen, ignoring the pull I feel toward her. She follows me as if she feels the same pull, like there’s some magnetic connection between us that defies free will.
“Good,” she says, trying to sound cheerful. “Because I cooked earlier. Let me heat it up for you.”
“Really? You cook?”
She laughs. “I won’t hold that rude comment against you, but only because you’ve been through a rough night.
” She gives me a look that somehow encompasses acknowledging the whole rollercoaster of events of the night, from the hat trick to winning to getting benched to dealing with Nora and the reporter and the crowd at The Hole in the Wall.
My tension snaps as if she’s taken a bolt-cutter to the heavy chains of confusion, discontent, and guilt constraining me.
“Yeah.” I reach out and touch her, caressing her shoulder, feeling her soft warmth. “Guess we’ll need to find a new bar to hang out at. We’ve burned our bridges at The Hole in the Wall. We’ll never be left alone there again now that everyone in social media land will be onto it.”
“Right,” she says, breaking away from my hold to open the refrigerator. “That’s the toughest part of all. Where will you find a new bar to hang out?”
I smack her generous rear, liking the sound and the feel, and especially her squeak and giggle.
“I don’t know. I think the problem is right up there with someone leaving the cake out in the rain.”
She spins around. “Of McArthur Park fame?” I don’t miss the light in her eyes, her delight at my reference, and deep inside me there’s an answering zing of excitement that she got it.
A stupid, small connection out of nowhere, but piled onto the many small connections and moments, it feels weighty.
I feel foolish for thinking these thoughts. And the last thing I want to be when it comes to a woman is a fool.
“Let’s talk about our divorce.” My voice is too bright for the context, like divorce is a vacation to Tahiti.
She almost drops the dish as she’s taking it from the microwave, and I lunge to take it from her, saving our meal.
“What is this?”
“Beef stroganoff. Jett thinks we should wait until next season, but I told him he’s crazy.” She snorts, but she all but twitches with nerves.
“You’re right. That is crazy. We were only planning for a few weeks, right? Until the Cavallaro Motors ad campaign gets off the ground.”
She nods vigorously. “Absolutely.” She brushes past me with two steaming plates of a noodle dish with gravy and meat that smells intoxicating.
Naturally, I follow her, forgetting what I meant to talk about. Pavlov’s dogs have nothing on me.
We sit at the corner of the island where she places the dishes diagonally from each other, and I dig in like a starved man, regardless of the steam rising from the food.
“Watch out—”
“That’s hot.” I smile at the alarm on her face. “Don’t worry about me, honey pants. I’m used to eating hot stuff.” And just like that, my lizard brain shifts from food to sex. You would think they just let me out of a zoo last week.
But when she laughs, the sound does something entirely different to me, and warm syrup comes to mind. I clear my throat.
“About the divorce…”
Her laugh stops so abruptly, my reflex is to apologize and say something funny, but to prove to myself I’m not a slave to my animal instincts, I stay on topic and forge on.
“It’s getting dicey with social media and the press continuing to pay too much attention to us. I’m starting to be more than annoyed by it.”
“I know. Last night didn’t help.”
I grunt and shovel more food into my mouth because the smell reminds me it’s delicious and incredibly satisfying. “This is good, Brooks.”