Chapter 4
RANSOM
My friends are competitive assholes.
That’s a fact I accept. Embrace, really, since I’m one of them.
We compete over everything.
And fine, maybe I need to extend my definition of “friends” past my paintball-karaoke-darts-playing group. Maybe my competitors on the Yankees are friends.
But I need to keep them mentally in the frenemy zone so I can win the big prize—their money.
Plus bragging rights, of course.
That Saturday, after I get dressed and button up my tuxedo shirt, I text the dickheads on the Yankees, starting with Martinez, the closer.
Ransom: Marty Boy, did you convince your sister to bid on you yet?
Martinez: No, I convinced your sister. Last night.
I stare, narrow-eyed, at the text. Yeah, I walked into that.
But there is no way he could ever score with Tempest. I toss a glance behind me at my younger sister—electric-blue glasses, hair twisted into a bun and held with a pencil as she chews the corner of her lip and taps away on her laptop in my living room.
She’s been hanging here for the last couple of hours, since it’s a Saturday and she works both Hamilton shows.
“Temp, you don’t think Martinez is hot, do you?”
She crinkles her nose and scrunches her brow, her face doing a hula dance of confusion. “Who’s that? One of those one-name actors? Is he on Scrubs?”
“Scrubs has been off the air for years. Good job, Ms. Anti Pop Culture.”
“I know Broadway.”
“That does not count as pop culture.”
“Millions of Hamilton fans would beg to differ.”
“Fine,” I concede. “Hamilton is pop culture.”
“Is he one of your teammates? Because Martinez isn’t ringing a bell.”
I snort. “Marty Boy wishes he were talented enough to play hockey.”
“Now I’m curious about this guy. Marty Boy, you say?”
“That’s only what I call him because it drives him bananas.”
“What’s his first name?”
“Adrian. Adrian Martinez.”
Something shifts in her expression, like her brain unlocked with a click. “Wait. The guy you’ve been calling Marty Boy is really Adrian Martinez? As in Adrian Martinez of the Yankees?”
“So you do know him?”
“He’s definitely not on Scrubs. But let me just make sure he’s who I’m thinking of.”
She cracks her knuckles above the keys before she taps away, mouthing, Who is Adrian Martinez?
I groan. Why did I say his name? Now she’ll look him up, and I know what she’ll see—the guy who’s numero uno on a bunch of lists of hottest single athletes in New York.
Yes, I follow that sort of shit. The Dating Pool, BuzzFeed, City Post. Because then I can give my asshole friends a hard time.
Grabbing my bow tie, I return to the text thread, since the smack talk force is strong in me.
Ransom: I see you’re still taking hallucinogenic drugs. Keep it up, Martinez. I cannot wait to beat your sorry ass tonight when I take home the grand prize as the top fundraising athlete.
Martinez: Understandable. You couldn’t nab top honors on the City Post list, so you gotta try for them where you can.
He sends a photo of his face, so naturally I have to respond like this.
Ransom: Awesome. Gonna go put this on a mug now, along with a cartoon bubble caption that says “Ransom North is my idol.”
Martinez: You do that. Then let me know how it feels to constantly come in third place to Carnale and me. Want me to send some tissues for your tears? Or should I make it some towels because you’re probably drowning in a pool?
Ransom: Be sure to bring blankets to sop up your waterworks tonight, dickhead, when I win all your money.
Martinez: A few too many hits on the ice has made your head too big, North. Or is it that your dick is small, since you play a sport less popular?
Ransom: My dick is double digits. And my contract has plenty of zeros. Case in point: I do believe that’s my face I walked past earlier today in Times Square, advertising watches. Take that.
Martinez: Was it beneath my underwear ad?
I groan, dragging a hand through my hair. I forgot about his billboard too. His fucking billboard, which is right above mine. Dammit.
My sister snaps her fingers. “Why didn’t you tell me your Martinez was Adrian Alejandro Martinez from the Gigante underwear ad in Times Square?”
I hang my head. “I should never have mentioned his name,” I mutter.
“Oh, you should have. Believe me, you should have. God bless you, big brother. I didn’t connect the dots.
But now I’d like to play connect the dots on him.
And Battleship. And Chutes and Ladders. I mean, look at those abs,” she says, spinning her laptop around and shoving it at me.
It’s open to a full-screen image of the Yankees closer dressed only in a pair of royal-blue briefs and a smirk.
“I have no interest in athletes, but I think I might make this my new wallpaper.”
I stare at the ceiling. “What have I done?”
“You’ve introduced me to my new eye candy, so thank you very much.” She eyes my phone. “Is he the one you’re trash-talking to?”
“No,” I scoff.
Setting her computer down, she rises and makes grabby hands. “Liar.”
I raise my phone above my head. She’s not short, but I’m six foot three, so lifting the device out of her reach is no sweat. “How do you know I was trash-talking?”
She rolls her eyes as she tries to snag the phone, a futile but amusing attempt.
“It’s only your favorite hobby of all time,” she says, finally giving up and lowering her arms. Returning to the couch, she closes her computer and slides it into her black messenger bag.
She’s a financial whiz and a brilliant writer, so she pens columns for various money magazines, as well as authoring personal finance books, a gig that frees her up to do what she truly loves—interpreting Broadway shows and other performances for the deaf and hard of hearing.
I tuck my phone into my pocket and finish with my bow tie, conceding she’s right. “Look. I only trash-talk Carnale and Martinez because they deserve it. That’s why I have to take them down tonight.”
“Why do they deserve trash talk and a takedown?” she asks with a furrowed brow.
“Duh. Because they’re Yankees,” I say. Isn’t it obvious?
“And that’s the only reason?” She slings her bag across her chest as I grab my keys, tossing them high in the air and catching them easily.
“What other reason do I need?”
She arches a brow. “Is it because of the lists they’re on?”
“What lists?” I ask, like I have no clue what she means.
She shakes her head as she rolls her eyes. “You’re so see-through. You’re like a cellophane brother,” she says as we exit my corner apartment.
“And what do you see when you look through the Saran Wrap of me, Temp?”
She frames her eyes with her hands. “You’re jealous because those two guys are jockeying for one and two on the hot lists and you’re a consistent three.”
I dismiss that crazy notion. “As if I care about those lists.”
“You always care, and I know why.” Her tone is a little softer, a little gentler.
“Because they care,” I blurt. But that’s not all of it, and she does know the rest.
“Ransom.”
“Whatever. It’s just a game.”
As we wait for the elevator, she sets a hand on my arm. “It’s because of Edie.”
I cringe. “No.”
“Ransom.”
I sigh heavily. “Whatever. I don’t care about her.”
“You didn’t care about those lists until she left.”
“Because I wasn’t on them when I was with her. Because I was involved,” I bite out.
“I know,” she says softly. “But really, what difference does it make if you’re one, two, or three? Any woman with her head on straight would be thrilled to have you, regardless of the number. Edie didn’t see what was in front of her, and she lost out.”
“Well, I don’t want to be had,” I say as the elevator arrives, the doors sliding open. “This guy is happy to be single.”
“Maybe someday you’ll want a relationship again.”
“Maybe never. And until then, it’s way more fun to bust my buddies’ chops on these single-in-the-city lists, because being single means I can do whatever I want.”
It also means no one can ever again hurt me like Edie did the night I proposed to her two years ago.
The night she told me she’d fallen in love with another man.
For four years, I was devoted to her.
Four years flushed down the drain in a single night, along with a ring I never gave her.
“You really don’t ever want to get involved again?” Tempest asks.
As the doors shut and I press the button for the lobby, I shoot her a warning look. She knows the answer. She’s asked me the question often enough.
“I don’t,” I say quietly. “It’s not worth it. I don’t want to go through that ever again.”
Tempest squeezes my shoulder. “I get that it doesn’t feel worth it. She really did a number on you.”
I shrug it off. “Nah. I’m all good. And you know what else is good and fun?” I wiggle my brows. “Trash talk.”
Rolling her eyes, she sighs in loud exasperation. “Boys. Can you please explain why trash talk is so singularly motivating to your gender?”
I shrug. “Why is it you come here between shows again?”
“Your place is closer to the theater district. Also, now that I’ve seen Adrian’s picture, I’m worried you’re not hot enough to win tonight. Do you want me to grab a mask for you at the party supply store? Maybe a clown or an ex-president?”
I’m relieved she’s moved on from the subject of Edie and returned to our brother-sister banter.
I arch a brow. “You do know where I learned to smack-talk?”
“From the best of them.” With a twinkle in her eye, she points her thumb at herself. “Me.”
“Exactly. Mouth of vitriol. And speaking of your acid tongue, you can take all those remarks back about Martinez. You’re not allowed to think he’s hot,” I hiss as we pass the doorman. I take a second to nod hello though. “Hey, Oscar. How’s it going? How did Melissa do in her lacrosse tournament?”
“Came in first place, sir. Thanks for asking.”
“Awesome news.” I smile and wave as we head onto Park Avenue.
When we hit the street, Tempest jumps back into it. “I take it back. Martinez isn’t hot.”
I grin, nice and satisfied. “Exactly.”
She smirks at me, satisfied as a cat, then she whispers, “He’s smoking hot.”
I groan. “You have no taste.”
“I have amazing taste. Maybe I should go to the auction tonight?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I wouldn’t dare bid on him?” She cocks a brow.
“You wouldn’t dare miss Hamilton.”
“Oh, I might miss Hamilton to bid on a guy that smoking hot, and there’s nothing you could do to stop me.”
She’s right. There is nada I could do to stop her. Because that’s not how I roll. She’s free to do what she wants, date who she wants, and see who she wants.
Obviously.
Still, the ribbing I would endure in that scenario would be immeasurable.
“Just promise me if you go out with him that—”
“I say nice things about you?”
I roll my eyes. “Sisters. Pretend I never said a word.”
“That’s generally my MO.” She blows me a kiss. “Love you.”
“Love you too, Temp.”
“Also, I would never skip a show to bid on a guy, so you don’t have to worry,” she adds.
I breathe a genuine sigh of relief. “Good to know.”
As I grab my phone to call a Lyft, she raises her hands and signs rapidly in ASL, “But say hi to Adrian tonight from me.”
I growl, sneering at her as I stuff my phone into my pocket with one hand and sign with the other. “Never.”
“I’ll meet him on my own, then.” Words fly from her hands. “I’d totally do him.”
I sign again. “You are the pig now.”
She laughs, tossing her head back, speaking this time. “Good luck, Ransom. I need to get to the theater.”
“Spoiler. Hamilton dies. Burr kills him.”
She lifts her hands and signs once more. “Oh my God, I had no idea, dickhead.”
I grab her and wrap her in a hug. “See you tomorrow. Luna’s house? I won’t tell her you’ve been swearing and casting aspersions in ASL.”
Tempest laughs. “She’s the one who taught us those words.”
We say goodbye as my Lyft arrives, and I head to Teagan’s place in the East Eighties, bounding up the steps to her brownstone, one of those gorgeous homes with red brick and polished white shutters. It’s like a set from a movie, the house where the well-heeled New Yorker lives.
Which is fitting, since I know she comes from money. Old money.
I call to let her know I’m here. I half want to head upstairs to gawk at whatever her pad looks like, but once the door opens, all thoughts free-fall from my brain and land on the sidewalk.