44. Brent
44
Brent
I blink in annoyance as another burst of light explodes in my face. Wearing sunglasses at night is so pretentious, but I could have used them to protect my eyes from all the flashing cameras.
By arriving more than fashionably late, I’d hoped to avoid all this hoopla. I hate the stupid red-carpet paparazzi sessions, answering the same questions multiple times from the various media and posing for photos while trying not to look annoyed. It’s only for the publicity the charities get from all this that I put up with it.
Joey would never feel as jaded as I do, no matter how many of these events she attended. But she might feel self-conscious every time and hate them for that reason.
Not for the first time, I wish I hadn’t waited to ask her to go with me to this high-profile event as my date. No, I correct myself. As my girlfriend.
I was going to ask her during the romantic date I’d planned—the very public date that would have shown the world exactly what she meant to me, and shown her that I was committed to the relationship, to her. I wanted her to know I was proud to be seen with her, that I wasn’t hiding her like a dirty secret or embarrassed by her. I still can’t believe she thought that.
Instead I drove her away by not confiding in her about Caitlyn and her threats. She loved and trusted me, and I should have trusted her enough to tell her the truth. Somehow I will find a way to make her listen.
But how can I when she won’t answer the damn phone? Frustration fills me again at her refusal to answer my numerous calls all day. I received the paternity test results this morning, and I’m ready to tell her everything, but it’s not the type of thing I can leave as a voicemail.
I even stopped by her old apartment in Jersey City before coming here, which is why I’m so late. Aunty told me she left the day after I tried to talk to her at the wedding festivities. I have no idea if she found a new job or moved to a new apartment. Or moved on with the man who’d put his hand on her like she belonged to him. My heart clenches at the thought.
Charlie has been avoiding my calls too. She texted me, telling me to give Joey time and to be ready to get on my knees the next time I see her. I hope to hell that means Charlie thinks Joey will take me back, after a little begging. Fuck it. I’ll beg as much as she wants.
But for now I have to make it through a tedious evening. As much as I believe in contributing to charities, I wish it was enough to write a check and be done with it. I would have skipped the event altogether, but a major donor is a sports company whose products I endorse. It’s part of the deal that I have to attend tonight and show my face.
I prefer to do things in a more personal setting with the actual beneficiaries, like visiting firehouses and hospitals or giving directly to families. It feels more meaningful without the cameras, and I try to do at least one every couple of weeks. Joey came with me to those, which made them all the more enjoyable.
Once inside the venue, I engage in small talk, keeping a smile plastered on my face, as I slowly navigate my way to my table.
“Brent!”
I turn at the sound of my sister’s voice. My smile turns genuine. “Charlie. You look almost beautiful,” I tease and lean in to give her a kiss on the cheek.
“Ha. And you look almost human. How’s the wound?”
I’d gotten nine stitches from the deep cut I somehow got in the last game. Thank fuck there was no muscle or tendon damage. But knowing Charlie talks to Joey, I word my response carefully.
“It was pretty bad. Still hurts.” Not exactly true, but I’m hoping Joey’s concern for my well-being will soften her up enough to talk to me again. I posted a picture of it on Instagram, hoping to get a reaction out of her and possibly a visit. No such luck.
“Poor baby,” Charlie says with a lack of sympathy. She sees right through my ploy.
“Have you talked to Joey?” I cut to the chase. “She won’t—”
“Oh, she’s here,” she says with such nonchalance it doesn’t sink in right away.
“What? What do you mean, she’s here?”
“Yeah. You haven’t seen her yet?” Charlie cranes her head, scanning the room until she spots Joey. “There she is.” She points discreetly to a group of people several yards away. “With Lucien Saint.”
What the fuck? I swivel sharply in the direction Charlie is looking and find my QB, but no Joey. The woman next to Saint turns to respond to someone next to her. It takes a few long seconds for me to realize that the woman is Joey. Dressed as she is, in a gown that shows a lot of skin, with glamourous makeup and her hair piled on top of her head…
My eyes narrow. Why is she dressed like that, and why is she with Saint? As my gaze passes over her form again, I notice this time that his arm is around her, his hand resting on her hip, perilously close to bare skin.
What the actual fuck?
He leans in to whisper something against her ear, making her laugh. Their mouths are inches apart, and I realize she’s wearing heels, making her eye to eye—and mouth to mouth—with Saint.
This is not my sweet, shy Josie. This is a confident, sexy seductress, a siren, the type of woman I used to spend the night with—before Joey. The type that Saint is often seen with. Women who want to be noticed by men with money and fame so that those things can rub off on them.
My Joey isn’t like that.
Except she apparently is. I can attest to it with my own eyes as she comes closer. Eyes that narrow when she reaches down to hold Saint’s hand. At the sight of their fingers entwined, a faint red mist enters my vision. Or is it green?
“Hutch. Looking sharp, my man.” My teammate slaps me on the shoulder as if it’s not strange at all for him to be holding hands with the woman who was living with me until two weeks ago. I’m wallowing in misery and she’s moved the fuck on already?
I don’t respond to him, my gaze never leaving Joey’s face. Her chin tilts boldly, and her eyes meet mine, defiance in every gesture.
“Joey,” Charlie exclaims, filling in the awkward silence. She gives Joey an air-kiss, careful to avoid getting lipstick on her cheek. “You are stealing the spotlight tonight. Doesn’t she look fabulous, Brent?”
“Stunning.” I want to lean in and kiss Joey too, on the mouth, but I refrain. Kissing her senseless while she holds another man’s hand won’t make a pretty picture in the tabloids. Instead I pick up her free hand and kiss the back of it. A soft gasp escapes from her parted lips and the pulse in her neck jumps as I slowly release her fingers. Satisfied with her involuntary physical response, I smile knowingly at her. She looks away with indifference, but the flush in her cheeks gives her away.
“Hello, Charlotte.”
Charlie nods back at Saint politely. “Hello. Nice to see you again.”
The lights flicker briefly to let the attendees know they should go to their tables.
“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” Charlie says, heading off to wherever her colleagues are.
Saint guides Joey to their assigned table, set at the outside perimeter of the large ballroom, and pulls out a chair for her. I follow since we are seated at the same table. Saint sits on Joey’s left. I quickly grab the seat to her right before someone else can.
I sit in my chair, nodding to the others at the table. I recognize some athletes from other sports, but since I’ve never met them before, I feel no obligation to talk to them beyond a polite greeting. I angle myself to face Joey, rudely putting my back to the person on my right, only to find Joey has done the same to me.
Deciding to play the long game, I turn to the other guests and play my part while dinner is served and a jazz band performs. When the plates are cleared and the lights dimmed, the lineup of speakers begins. I glance at Joey, who’s forced to face slightly toward me in order to look at the stage. I lean in and murmur, “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
“A little late for that, don’t you think?”
“Please, Josie. It’s important.”
A couple of people at the table eye us curiously.
“Not now,” she hisses. “Maybe after. Now shh.”
Pretending to be engrossed in the speaker’s words, I reach down as if to scratch my calf. We’re packed in like sardines, so I’m practically leaning into her. As I straighten, I brush the back of my hand over her bare skin, exposed by the slit in her dress, from her calf to her thigh.
She shifts her leg without looking at me, and I sit up again. “Sorry,” I whisper. “My stitches are bothering me.”
I catch a glimpse of concern when she glances toward my leg, but she doesn’t say anything. When she focuses her attention on the stage again, I lean back and rest my left arm at the top of her chair, careful not to touch her. Easy to do since she’s sitting ramrod straight. After a few moments, I “restlessly” move my leg under the tablecloth until our thighs touch. I consider it progress when she doesn’t immediately jerk away.
I wait patiently until she once again leans back in the chair, either because she’s tired from sitting stiffly upright or forgot about my arm being there. Knowing I can’t touch her as I want to without someone around us noticing, I let my thumb drift over her skin in the slightest of motions, barely touching her. She shivers, and I’m satisfied to notice her breathing change.
“Stop it,” she hisses.
I turn to her and lean over as if to hear her better. My mouth is almost against her cheek. “Stop what?” I whisper.
“Take your hand away.” She continues to focus on the stage. A pity because if she swiveled her head even an inch, our lips would be a breath apart.
“Okay.” I remove my arm from the back of her chair and place my hand on my thigh, which is still pressed against hers.
I slide a finger along her exposed thigh. As expected, she shifts. Unexpectedly, she uncrosses her legs, allowing me to slip my fingers under the dress and between her thighs. She closes them tightly, trapping my hand. Did she mean for that to happen? The pulse at her neck is going crazy. She may have hardened her heart against me, but her body is not immune to my touch.
I’m confident nobody can see my hand trapped at the juncture of her thighs. The long black tablecloth and the shadows hide whatever our bodies don’t. The chairs are placed so close together, we’re sitting practically shoulder to shoulder. Since we’re seated at the far side of the room, there is only a wall at our backs.
I extend my little finger to skim over the edge of her panties. Her breath catches and her muscles loosen for a fleeting moment before they tighten again. It does nothing to prevent me from brushing my finger back and forth over the lace fabric.
When the crowd applauds and waits for the next speaker, I avoid clapping by taking a drink of my water with my free hand. My other hand stays busy, slipping a finger under the panties to find smooth skin. I brush over her with small movements until I reach my goal, already swollen and slick.
Her breath catches and she reaches for my arm but aborts the movement when Saint glances our way. Instead, she puts her hand on her lap, under the tablecloth, and grabs my wrist. I expect her to try pull it away, but to my relief, she tightens her grip.
She leans toward me without looking my way. “Brent, please,” she begs.
Is she asking me to stop or to finish her off? I scan her face, searching for clues as to what she wants. I watch her eyes flutter closed briefly when I circle her clit. She bites her lip and her left hand fists on the table as her breathing becomes shallow.
Those appear to be the perfect clues to me.
“Don’t worry, baby,” I whisper in her ear. “I intend to please you.” I deliberately repeat the word she used over the phone when I practically begged her to come back. It ticked me when she said that my lovemaking had pleased her. I fucking rocked her world, and I’ll do it again, right here.
The tip of my finger works its magic, and she melts for me, like I knew she would. I worry for a second that the evidence of her arousal might be visible when she stands, but I dismiss it. Her dress is black and the lights are low. I’ll stand behind her for the rest of the night if I need to.
I keep my gaze on the stage, but the focus of my entire being is on the heat between her legs. Careful not to move a muscle above the tablecloth, I let my finger glide over her. The position prevents me from doing anything more, so I focus on the spot that will drive her to completion, using just the right pressure. When her fingers dig into my hand, I’m glad she has to keep her fingernails short for work, or I’d be sporting some deep grooves for the rest of the night.
I take a quick glance at her and note she’s pressing her lips together, as if holding in a moan. I’d bet her cheeks are flushed and her pupils dilated. She’s close. I know the look well. I feel a perverse satisfaction that I’m able to do this to her, here in the middle of a crowded ballroom. This is her punishment for leaving me, for not giving us another chance, for not trusting me more despite her words of love. For being here with another man.
Or am I punishing myself? Because it’s taking every bit of control I have not to drag her out of the room and fuck her. No. To make love to her, as I hold her and kiss her and watch her come apart in my arms.
I feel her tense. Just as she’s about to come, I belatedly come to my senses.
Fuck me, what the hell am I doing?
But it’s too late. She pulses against my finger right as the crowd erupts in applause and the lights slowly brighten. I quickly pull my hand away and turn to her, leaning in to protect her from anyone who might have noticed her reaction.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“Joey, are you okay?” Saint asks with concern from her other side.
Joey keeps her head down; her face is flushed. No doubt embarrassment adds to the color. I’m a bastard. What the hell was I thinking?
“Joey?” Saint leans forward to peer at her.
“I don’t feel good.” It kills me when she turns to the other man. “Could you take me outside, please? I need some air.”
He immediately stands and helps her out of her seat. I’m trapped in mine until Joey moves. By the time I’m able to shove Joey’s empty chair aside and get around people from the next table who have stood, Saint is leading her swiftly away.
I’m halfway across the ballroom when I’m waylaid by a hand on my arm belonging to the last person I want to talk to right now—or ever. I’d keep going, but she’s grabbed on to a piece of my sleeve.
“What do you want, Caitlyn?”
She keeps her smile and voice intimate, but there’s no doubting the venom in her words. “I’m tired of you asking me that every time we speak. I’ve already told you what I want. And you know what’s going to happen if you don’t agree.”
“I guess you haven’t heard the news yet.” I lower my voice and lean close to her ear. “The test result came back. Go find some other sucker to sink your claws into. I’ve got more important things to do. Contact me again and I’ll make you sorry.” Wanting nothing more to do with her, I stalk away, my gaze searching for Joey.
I guess Charlie was right. I should have been on my knees when I saw Joey again. It would have saved me from the shitload more of groveling I’m going to have to do.