11. Joey
11
Joey
P ublic transportation on a Sunday schedule is a nightmare, but I’m not sure if being alone in a car with Brent is any better. Though I am thankful for his offer of a ride to Manhattan with him, I’m too nervous to appreciate the luxurious seats or the smooth, powerful ride of his new Phantom.
Rap music plays at a low volume, yet loud enough to fill the silence between us. Brent makes several attempts at small talk, but I can’t manage more than one-word responses. I’m in sensory overload at being in an enclosed space with him. He begins to tap his fingers on the steering wheel.
“So, a virgin, Joey?”
I jolt at the sudden question and whip my head around to him, staring at him wide-eyed. I’m not sure I heard correctly. “Wh-what?”
“Now I have your attention.” He flashes me a grin. “And you heard me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I pretend ignorance and turn back to gaze out the window. My attention, as it always is when he’s around, is hyper-focused on him, even as I wish for a hole to open up and swallow me.
“Really? Is that why your face is on fire?”
“Can we please not talk about it?” Crap. I’ve just made it worse by admitting I remember and know what he’s referring to. My brain has shut down in the face of my humiliation, and I can’t think my way out of this conversation.
“About what? That you’re a virgin or that you asked me to take care of that for you?”
“I was obviously drunk and didn’t know what I was saying. Please forget it.” My voice is thick with embarrassment.
“Sorry, Joey. I’ve tried, but no can do. Having a woman ask you to take her virginity is not something a guy can just forget. And I can’t understand how you’re still a virgin. Not for lack of offers, I’m sure.”
I stare blindly out the darkly tinted window next to me, wishing he’d drop the subject. And what does his assumption of offers mean?
“There haven’t been as many as you think.” I’m aware my shyness sometimes makes me come off as aloof and maybe rude. I’ve been called stuck-up more than once. While it hurt that other women think that of me, I don’t mind that it puts off most guys. It avoids uncomfortable situations with them.
“I find that hard to comprehend, a woman as beautiful as you.”
The casual compliment warms me inside out, even if I don’t completely believe it.
“I’m not anywhere near beautiful, not like the women you…that you hang out with. Besides—”
“You are fucking gorgeous, Joey.”
Oh my heart. His words this time almost convince me, but I continue without directly acknowledging them. “Appearance has nothing to do with…virginity.” I practically choke on the word. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with Brent. “I just never connected with a guy enough to…” I trail off, unable to finish the sentence.
Am I the only person my age who’s this uncomfortable with the topic of sex? My mother only discussed it with me once.
“Besides, my mum warned me not to do it before the wedding,” I say. I was born seven months after my parents married, so I understood her bitter warning. It also explained how two completely different people ended up in a disastrous marriage. “In which case,” I continue, “I might be waiting forever, since I’m not sure I ever want to get married.”
“Really?”
I shrug, not wanting to delve into the reasons why.
“So why now? Why me?”
Where’s a nice big hole to swallow you up when you need one? I adjust the vent so the cold air blows on my overheated face.
“I didn’t plan to ask you or anyone else,” I answer, avoiding his gaze. “I was having a little bit of a crisis after my birthday and was trying to make some changes in my life. All I needed was a good dose of humiliation to get over it.” I ignore the question of why him.
He doesn’t respond, and I wonder what he’s thinking. I’m relieved he’s decided on a different topic when he speaks again.
“Thanks for helping out this weekend with everything.”
I lift one shoulder in dismissal. “I’m always happy to help. I only knew your father and brother for that one week when I first met you guys, but I’ll never forget them. They left quite an impression.”
I smile, remembering, and turn away from the window to face the front. “I remember your father’s big laugh and the way he played with all of you, including the girls. And I thought RJ looked like a movie star, so tall and handsome. You were the perfect family, the kind you only saw on TV.” My voice is wistful, recalling how much I’d wanted to be a part of it.
Brent’s fingers start tapping on the steering wheel again. His eyes are hidden behind the sunglasses, but his mouth is tight and his jaw is flexing.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He’s probably had enough after a weekend of hearing people share their memories. It was probably as much comfort as it was sad to remember them as they were. I wish I could reach over and take his hand to comfort him, but that kind of gesture is always awkward for me, and more so with Brent.
I change the subject. “How’s your knee? I wish you’d iced it before we left.” I’d treated him twice more this weekend, sticking to the massage on Saturday. This morning had been a short session, but I’d put him through his paces with the exercises.
“It’s fine.” But he puts a hand on it and rubs absently.
My fingers itch to reach over and relieve the pain for him.
“Charlie said you fast-tracked through your degrees,” he says, changing the topic again, “and you were always taking classes. That’s why you weren’t able to come to San Diego with them when they visited.”
I nod, wondering where he’s going with this line of conversation. “I took the max number of classes and enrolled in winter and summer sessions when I could. And it would have been hard to take time off from work to go.”
I couldn’t have afforded the flight out anyway, though he likely would have paid for me as well. But accepting that kind of generosity didn’t seem right. I’d learned to take care of myself from a young age, the support from the Hutchinson women more emotional than financial. I avoid relying on anyone, especially a man, if I can help it.
“When the hell did you have time for a social life?”
“I didn’t,” I say.
“Didn’t any of your boyfriends mind?”
I’m not about to admit to him I’ve never had a boyfriend, only infrequent casual dates. It’s flattering he assumes I’ve had boyfriends. I don’t say anything in response, just shrug.
“What about now? Dating anyone?”
My heart leaps at the thought that he wants to know if I’m available. I scoff at my idiocy when I remember he’s an NFL star, a mega-rich, mega-hot star, one who has a very busy social—and sex—life. He’s just making conversation.
I shake my head. “No one at the moment. I have other priorities right now, and they don’t leave time for that kind of commitment.” Not that I have any desire for any kind of commitment, not after watching my mother fall apart because of her dependence on one man for her happiness. She’d never been the same after my father left.
I’ve never been the same either. My lack of trust in men is thanks to him. He’d abandoned his family to marry another woman who would give him the sons he longed for. I shake off the dark thoughts before they can take hold of me.
“What priorities?” Brent asks, bringing me back to the present.
“My goal is to open a performance and wellness center of my own someday.”
“I suspect you’ll achieve that in no time with your determination. I’m impressed.”
His sincere words are like a balm to my damaged self-esteem. Someone with his level of success is impressed with my own meager ones? I watch him drive confidently with one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on the console between us. His mirrored aviator sunglasses amp up his sexiness. I look back at the hand on the wheel and lose my focus as images of those long fingers on m—
“And I know firsthand how talented you are.”
“Hmm? What?” I’m suddenly having trouble following the conversation.
“I know how talented you are with those hands of yours. I can’t wait to have them on me again.” Is that a hint of another double entendre in his voice? It seems like almost everything he said to me this weekend had hidden meanings. I glance up at him, but the sunglasses hide his expression. He flashes a sexy smile.
“I bet your hands are talented too,” I blurt out. Oh God, I can’t believe I said that. The sun coming in through the window must have fried my brain to think I could play his game.
The car jerks the tiniest bit as Brent whips his head around to me. I stare straight ahead, thankful when his attention is forced back to the road, which is filling up with traffic as we near the Bronx.
“Excuse me?” he practically sputters.
I backtrack, pretending innocence, and gesture to his hands. “You need large hands to handle the football. They measure your hand width as part of your stats, right? I bet yours are over ten inches.”
There’s a slight pause before he answers. “Yes, I measure almost eleven inches, actually.”
Something in his voice makes me raise my gaze from his hands to his face. He’s smirking. The sunglasses keep his eyes hidden as he faces me. Then he lowers his glasses a bit and peers over the rims at me and winks.
As I go over our exchange in my head, it hits me. Good God! My face bursts into flames, and I duck my head, using my hair to hide from him. I wish I knew how to laugh it off with a flirty comeback or change the topic, but I’m unable to think of any kind of response. The longer I stay quiet, the more uncomfortable the silence becomes, at least for me.
But when I finally think of something to say, I only make it worse. “I was thinking…working on your knee won’t take that much of my time. Is there…is there anything else bothering you…that’s tight?”