“She’s doing pretty well, actually.”
Bobby’s eyebrows shot up toward what was left of his hairline. “Yeah?” He set down a half-eaten kosher dill and pulled his beer closer.
“Yeah. They’ve got her on a different schedule with a new cocktail, and it’s not just letting her function, but come damn close to feeling human. It’s why I’m even here, man. This guy could’ve been the second coming of Luc Robitaille, but if Kath hadn’t been doing better, one of the other guys would’ve had to check him out.”
“Figured things had to be going better seeing as you’re out here among the living—shit. Sorry, Nick.”
Now, there was something I hadn’t seen often in over fifteen years of friendship with Bobby Horowitz—a genuine blush, red all the way to his ears. I didn’t think the guy was even capable of shame after so many years as an agent. I waved it off with a laugh. “Hell, Bobby, you didn’t mean anything.” And Kath was living.
Right now, that’s all that mattered.
• • •
I was tired as hell. I had the beginnings of a nasty headache. I was fighting I-95 rush hour traffic.
And I felt tremendous.
The trip had been great. I’d scouted some promising young studs in addition to the big dog who’d been my primary assignment and got to see our team play a couple kick-ass games. Got to hang with players and coaches and talk shop for the better part of three days. Had dinner with Bobby, that asshole. And hell, I wasn’t so stupid that I didn’t know what the source of the good mood really was—Kath was doing better, and, little by little, we were easing back into a routine that could almost pass for normal. Normal enough for me to go on a business trip. Go for our customary dinner out the night before a trip: sushi at her favorite place with her looking as elegant and striking as ever—with a twist. I mean, how many women would have the balls to shave their heads, then wear scarves in the wildest prints and colors, forcing people to look? I know I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.
Man, she had a pretty skull. Who knew? She’d gotten sick of releasing—that’s what her nurse called it, Kath just called it shedding—and decided she was going to take control. The day she shaved it, she’d let me run my hands over the smooth, alien surface. Laughed when she saw the hard-on tenting my shorts and stroked it gently, laughing some more over what she called my previously undiscovered kinks and if she’d known about this before…. And even though it hadn't gone any further than that, it was at least progress—baby steps. Just like I’d told Libby.
God, Libby. I tapped the steering wheel as I waited for a chance to switch lanes. She'd seemed a lot better in the immediate aftermath of her breakdown—like it had been the catharsis she needed—but I was onto her now. Knew she clearly had the fake out down to an art form that put my ass to shame. So for close to two weeks, I’d been wanting to call, but hadn’t. Because in a twisted, altruistic sort of way, I didn’t want to remind her of her meltdown. She was so fucking independent and strong, and I knew that while she realized that in the long run letting loose the way she had was probably good for her, she was also likely kind of embarrassed by it. I mean, yeah, we were friends, but even so, I got the impression even that wouldn’t be enough for Libby to let herself off the hook for losing her shit so completely.
Admittedly, I could’ve called Nan and asked how Libby was doing. But what ultimately kept me from doing that was that Nan might have asked why. And I just didn’t feel right talking about what had gone down between us. Would’ve felt like…I don’t know, a betrayal, I guess. So I was left with hoping I’d run into her when we went back to Miami next week. But if I didn’t, I’d ask Nan then. Definitely. Libby didn’t need to close herself off that way—not when there were people around to help.
Lost in thought, I pretty much drove the rest of the way home on autopilot, only snapping out of my head as I turned into the driveway of the Mediterranean-style townhouse Kath and I shared. The pink Mediterranean-style townhouse. As always, I couldn’t help but laugh and think, Jesus, if the guys back in Jersey could see me now. But Kath glommed onto it right away—said it was perfect for the next stage of our lives together. And it had been—at least until the next stage of our lives took this crazy-ass detour. Even so…maybe it was the pink or the red-tile roof or the white shutters, but it did seem homier. More welcoming. A better place to be going through all of this crap.
Short-cutting through the garage into the kitchen, I dropped my bags on the floor and went in search of Kath. Only three days, but it was the longest I’d been away since her diagnosis and while I’d called home every day and I knew she was doing well enough that I hadn’t really worried, I’d missed the hell out of her.
“Babe?” I kept the volume fairly low in case she was sleeping.
“Office, Nicky.”
I followed her voice into the small, glass-walled room overlooking the courtyard—another thing that had totally sold her on the house. And while I’d sort of grunted and said, “Yeah, it’s okay,” in a futile attempt to keep the real estate agent from totally raking us over the coals, I had to admit, I really dug the courtyard too. The lush, tropical plant-filled place was like our own private oasis.
While Kath finished with her phone conversation, I stretched out on the couch, kicked off my shoes, and took a swig from the beer I’d snagged on my way through the kitchen.
“So what’s it going to take to get them, Jorge?” She stopped and scribbled a note on the pad in front of her. “Oh, you have got to be kidding—they don’t do ‘sick people parties?’ That self-absorbed little twat. How dare he? This is for little kids, for God’s sake. No, no…I’ll call their booking agent myself. Lead singer’s mother dealt with this last year—very hush, hush, and she’s doing better now, but he’s such a mama’s boy, it totally wrecked him. It was the ‘personal issue’ they canceled a bunch of dates for on their last tour. No, wasn’t rehab. For once. Anyhow, trust me. I will guilt their asses into performing if that’s what it comes to.”
I studied her bent head, smiling as I sipped my beer. A bright pink scarf today, wild swirls with some blue thrown in. Pucci. Her favorite because the designs were so bold. I’d bought her a new one in Atlanta—all shades of green for my tough Irish girl.
“Sweetheart, I make it my business to know this shit. It’s how we organize the best events on the Gold Coast. Look, hang tight. I’ll talk to you after I’ve cornered their agent and made him beg for mercy. Ciao.”
I grinned as she dropped the phone into the cradle, scribbled some more notes, and tapped on her keyboard, muttering the entire time about selfish little twerps with overindulged senses of entitlement and that she’d make him perform at the benefit if she had to drag his ass there herself.
It was good to be home.
“And this is why you’re the best event planner on the Gold Coast.”
She glanced up from writing some more notes on her pad and smiled, her eyes narrowed with the look that indicated she was on the hunt. God, it was good to see that look again—to see her eyes going dark the way they did when she was excited. Growing up in a house full of brown-eyed Cuban girls, I’d always been a complete sucker for light eyes. Every girlfriend from ninth grade on had had blue or green eyes; there’d even been one with a really freaky-light pair of gray eyes, but Kath’s weren’t light at all. Best way to describe them was navy—a dark, intense blue that seemed even darker against her pale skin. One guy in our dorm had called her an alien freak, with the eyes and the pale skin and the dark red hair. I'd thought she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Still did.
Leaving her desk, she came over and nudged at my legs until I lifted them far enough for her to slide under. Taking the beer from me, she took a small sip. “Just the Gold Coast?” she asked with a lift of her eyebrows.
“East coast?” I took the beer back, running my tongue along the mouth of the bottle and imagining I could taste her there.
Her eyes following my movements, she smiled. “Well, part of me wou
ld love to agree, but taking into account New York and D.C., maybe not.”
“So how about we settle for the Southeast, then?”
“I can live with that.” We laughed together for a second before I drained what was left of the beer and turned away to set the bottle on the tile floor, using the motion to mask my sigh. God, not only had it been too long since I’d seen her look so good, it had been too long since I’d heard her sound so good. So like herself. For the first time in a long time, everything felt…normal.
I glanced up to find her studying me, her head tilted. “Miss me?”
“You have no idea.” Out of sheer habit, I started to reach for her, to pull her on top of me, but at the last second, froze. Her glance moved from my face, to my hand, still hovering between us, and back again. After a long few seconds, she took my hand in hers and lifted it to her lips, kissing the palm before stretching out and lowering herself over me.
“You have no idea,” I repeated, wrapping both arms around her. We stayed like that for a while, her breath warm against my neck as I watched the sun set and the room go dark around us until the only light left came from the desk lamp. The entire time I did nothing more than caress her back—small circles between her shoulder blades, delicate lines traced along each side of her spine—all the intimate caresses learned over the years finally blending into smooth deliberate strokes that traveled the length of her back with a few tentative detours over the firm curves of her ass.
Christ, I hadn’t been this cautious on our first date. Of course, back then I’d been eighteen, perpetually horny, and trying like hell to get into her pants. Of course, back then, she’d been eighteen, just as horny, and just as anxious to get into my pants, so we had a nice mutual thing going—nothing to be cautious about. This was new territory. I didn’t know what she wanted. Didn’t know how far she’d let me go. And because I’d never really had to before, didn’t know how to ask.
“You asleep?”
I tried to keep my laugh quiet—not break the mood. “I do this in my sleep?” I asked as I rubbed gentle circles in the small of her back.
Her own laugh was light, but in some undefined way, the mood had shifted. “Among other things.”
Oh. Well, then. No need to guess what she meant about that. Carefully, I lifted her far enough away so I could ease my legs out from under her and turn to sit up, though I made sure to keep one of her hands in mine, keep her close. Last thing I wanted was for her to feel rejected, because that feeling—it sucked beyond redemption.
“Nicky…”
“No, I’m sorry, Kath. I didn’t realize.”
Bullshit. Just…bullshit. Of course, I realized. How could I not? Woke up nearly every morning with my dick so hard, I could pound nails through a two-by-four. I’d try to ease away, quick and discreet, before making a break for the bathroom and the shower. Some mornings it was a really, really fucking cold shower. Then there were the days I just couldn’t take it anymore and it would be the hottest water I could stand, a lot of Kath's fancy shower gel, and my hand.
Those were the times I had to remind myself—wasn’t about me, and I could goddamn well deal. But sitting next to her, so close, physically and emotionally, yet feeling her pull away on both counts, I realized—again—this wasn’t just about the physical. I missed her. I missed what we were together. These little bits and pieces we were getting back—they were good. And at the same time, they were so fucking painful it made my chest burn.
“I just…can’t. Not yet.”
“How much longer?”
I cringed as soon as the words left my mouth, harsh and raw and as completely selfish as I felt in that second. She slid to the far end of the couch, a cold silence dropping between us as thick as any wall.
“I didn’t realize we were on a schedule.” Her voice was as cold as the silence had been. Colder maybe.
“We’re not, it’s just—”
“Why can’t you be happy with what I can give you for right now, Nick?”
“I am—”
Liar.
“No, you’re not. You want more. You always want more.”
“No, Kath…it’s not that, it’s just—you act like you don’t miss me, that you don’t miss being together.”
She shook her head. “You’re unbelievable, Nick. Are you really that anxious to fuck?”
My head spun as her voice went from cold to pleading to angry and all of a sudden, I was angry too. “Yes, Kath, I am!” Jerking my head up I met her startled gaze. Good. She maybe needed to be at least a little startled. “Of course I’m anxious to fuck, to make love, but it’s more than that and it’s what you don’t seem to understand. I want to hold you, whether you’re sleeping or puking your guts out. I want to talk to you and laugh with you and not be afraid to touch you or worry that I might go too far. I want to know that you want me to be with you—in whatever way you want. Why don’t you get that I want to be part of you again? Be us, again, even if it’s different?”
“Why don’t you get that I don’t want you to?”
I stared at her, my chest throbbing as if I'd been slammed with a hockey puck.
“I’m too fucking busy trying to stay alive to worry about us. And what we were? Isn’t going to magically come right back just because I’m having a good day or a good week.” She lurched to her feet, her hands curled into fists. “Jesus, Nick, get out of your own goddamn head for once in your spoiled life. I’m trying to give you what I can, trying to want to be with you, but even lying there with you hurts, because I don’t have a place on my body that doesn’t ache, nowhere that’s not altered in some way. Is that what you’re so anxious to see? Fine,”
Who knew that fabric tearing was so loud? That buttons popping could sting so hard as they hit skin? Sound so loud as they scattered across a tile floor? I sat, frozen, as she jerked first shirt, then bra, off and stood in front of me, breathing hard, the two lines across her chest a dark, angry pink.
“It hurts, Nick, like you would not believe. They’ve started pumping saline to expand my skin and it’s so cold and I can feel it stretching and it’s like nothing I can even begin to describe. I just want to claw out of my body to get away from the sensation.”
Even though I felt as if I should, I couldn’t look away. God, they were bigger. I hadn’t noticed at first, but they were definitely larger. How could I have missed that? Why hadn’t she said anything before now?
“Or maybe this is what you want to see?” She turned her forearms up exposing the undersides. I breathed hard through my nose, trying to quell the sudden nausea at the sight. She watched my reaction, a faint, mocking smile on her face.
“Isn't that ironic? The way my veins are turning black just like the junkies I’ve organized countless benefits for? Or wait—how about this?” She pushed her loose-fitting pants down to her ankles and stepped free, flinging her arms wide as she did. “There you go, baby. All of me. Just like you’ve wanted. All nice and bloated, my skin green, from all the wonder drugs—and oh—you haven’t seen this—” She paused, hands on her waist, and hit me with a narrow stare. “Well, not unless you’ve pulled some more of your hidden camera shenanigans.”
Jesus Christ, no. Never again. But before I could even shake my head, she'd already pushed her underwear down and kicked them my direction, where they landed at my feet. Numb, I reached down and picked them up. Plain, white cotton—loose, practical—not at all what I was accustomed to seeing her wear.
When had that changed?
My voice was gone—trapped somewhere between my head and my throat, silently yelling at her to please, stop this—it was insane and not necessary. She needed more time, more space—okay, I got that. I was a selfish, stupid prick for not having realized just how much more time and space she needed, but please, please, Katharine, for the love of God, stop.
Not that it would have any effect. This was full-bore fury—a rage that made her blow up from a few weeks back look like a kindergartner’s tantrum by comparison. Rage that
had clearly been wanting out. And I’d started it. This was completely on me. Because I couldn’t leave well enough alone.
“Well, lookee there,” she said in this foreign, mocking voice as the fingers of one hand stroked a teasing pattern between her legs. “Looks like the ‘releasing’ wasn’t just restricted to my head.” She glanced back up, her eyes dark—darker than I’d ever seen them. “Your baldness kink extend to my cunt, Nicky? You like it all bare and smooth? I hear that’s how strippers and porn stars keep their pussies. Is that true, sweetheart?”
Hearing words coming out of her mouth that I’d never once heard her use in the nearly twenty years we’d known each other—along with the vicious implications—was what finally freed my voice.
“Kath, please…stop.”
“Fuck you, Nick,” she shot back in a low, gritty voice. “This is what you wanted. Who you wanted. Or is it?” She leaned down and reached between my legs, squeezing and kneading the mass that had gone soft and nonresponsive. She let loose with a harsh, bitter laugh. “That’s what I thought.”
She spun away and took off, her feet pounding up the stairs. A few seconds later, the sound of our bedroom door slamming echoed through the house and straight through my chest.
• • •
Stroke…stroke…stroke.
My blades rhythmically cut into the ice, my lungs burning with each cold, damp inhale. That same intense burn streaked down my thighs and across my shoulders as I raised the stick high then brought it down in the smooth, fast sweep perfected over the more than thirty years since my first PeeWee game. Solid and sure, wood hit rubber, sending jarring vibrations up both arms even as my eyes followed the path of the puck landing square in the net.
Over and over, I’d been doing this, for God knows how long.
Long enough that I’d played through a pickup game, welcoming the hits I’d taken, and taking too much joy in the ones I’d dished out. Long enough that after the session was over and the rink closed to the public for the night, I'd stayed and hung with a few of the employees, continuing to practice, to skate, to hit—each other, our sticks, the puck. Especially the puck. And even after the last diehards had called it a night, I’d wanted to keep going. They knew me—it was the big club’s practice facility—so the manager just tossed me a set of keys and told me to turn the lights out when I was done.
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