Inappropriate Thoughts (Victoria Wilde #1)

by Ian Dalton

  "I just can’t talk about it now." Turning, she walked quickly away.

  He stood and called after her, "Thanks for coming to my match!"

  Returning to his room, Brian collapsed on the bed. He looked over at the John McEnroe poster on his wall. Brian’s father had given him the poster when he was ten, just after introducing him to tennis. His father was a big McEnroe fan and had shown Brian tapes of the classic Borg–McEnroe matches of the early eighties. McEnroe was the reason Brian played tennis. The poster showed McEnroe simultaneously falling forward and leaning backward with his hands in the air and his fists clenched in celebration of his first Wimbledon championship. Most of Brian’s friends made fun of his 1980 poster, but he didn’t care. McEnroe changed tennis forever, and that image was the one he tried to picture in his head when he was feeling down. McEnroe’s Grand Slam victory after being an unranked amateur only one year before proved that if you work hard enough and really want something, you can achieve just about anything. As he looked at the poster, he thought, Johnny Mac would never put up with this kind of crap from a girl, and he could hear John’s iconic phrase playing over and over in his head:

  "You cannot be serious!"

  He could hear John saying it to him about Natalie. How could he seriously be putting up with her shit? Either she wanted to be with him now or not. It was as simple as that. But Brian was too scared to give her an ultimatum, because he feared what the answer might be. At least this way, he felt there was still a chance.

  10

  Two weeks had passed since the tennis match, and Brian hadn’t spoken to Natalie once. When Rob entered the suite, Brian was standing in front of the window in the living area, staring out at the landscape. Rob walked over. "What the hell are you doing?"

  "Nothing," Brian said as he stood there, pretending to enjoy the scenery and weather on that early spring day. They both watched as students walked quickly by on the sidewalks below.

  Rob glanced at Brian. "Don’t I see you right here when I get back from my ten o’clock class every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday?"

  "I don’t think so," Brian said nervously.

  Below them, Natalie appeared on the sidewalk, wearing one of her standard outfits Her long, blonde hair flowing down to her ass. Brian spotted her right on schedule, and his expression changed to one of confused longing.

  Rob noticed the change, looked down, and spotted Natalie. He looked back at Brian. "Man, you have a serious problem," he said, shaking his head slowly.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "She has a ten o’clock, too, but it’s across campus," Rob said with a knowing look that screamed he had solved the case.

  "Who?" Brian scoffed.

  Rob walked away and then sat on the sofa. "You’re obsessed with her."

  Brian turned toward him, busted.

  "Admit it—you’re stalking her," Rob added.

  "I’m not obsessed," Brian replied defensively. "It’s not like I’m hanging outside her window, watching her change, or anything. And yes, maybe I rush my little sorry ass up here every fucking Monday, Wednesday, and fucking Friday at exactly 10:57 a.m. to watch as she walks by." Brian closed his eyes when he noticed the look of concern in Rob’s eyes and ran his hands nervously through his hair. "The earliest she’s ever walked by was at 10:59 and the latest was 11:07."

  "Oh, well, I take it back then. You are not obsessed," Rob said sarcastically.

  Pulling his hands away from his face, Brian looked to Rob, desperate for understanding. "I think she's just trying to mess with me. She likes me. She doesn't like me. She's got this thing from her past that prevents her from getting close to anyone. Then there's this Greek guy, this high school boyfriend—Poros or Milos or Dildos. One of those freaking oses."

  "Greek boyfriend?" Rob asked, a little too interested.

  "I didn’t tell you?"

  Rob shook his head no.

  "All I saw of him was the back of his big, fat Greek head as he was leading her away from the court."

  Rob stood up and walked to the window. After pausing to think for a moment, he turned back to Brian. "What are you doing for Spring Break?"

  "I’m staying here. I can’t afford to go anywhere."

  "Come home with me," Rob said.

  "I can’t."

  "If you stay here, you’ll pine away for her all week. You’ll be here all alone, you know. Everyone in the suite is leaving. You’ll drive yourself so nuts thinking about her that you’ll stalk the entire campus until you find a girl who looks like her. Then you’ll kidnap her, skin her, and be caught wearing her skin."

  Brian looked at him like he was insane. "Isn’t that from Silence of the Lambs?"

  "Probably. Look, my mom’s place is in Miami. It’s only about ten hours from here. We have a pool and a tennis court and—"

  "You have a tennis court, and you don’t play?"

  "I only play real sports."

  "It's a real sport."

  "I don't consider any activity where a skirt is an appropriate uniform a sport."

  Brian scoffed. "Only the women wear the skirts."

  "Well, the men might as well, with all that skipping around after the ball in their little white shorts. A real sport involves men getting dirty while smashing into each other, and there’s always a good chance of getting hurt while playing. Unless it’s got that—it’s not a real sport."

  "I've seen players get hurt playing tennis," Brian added defensively.

  Rob chuckled. "What, like a guy got hit in the nuts once?"

  "No, I saw a guy sprain his ankle," Brian began but quickly realized how lame it sounded. "It was, uh, really... incredibly swollen."

  Rob exhaled. "Wow, that sounds painful, but unless there's a strong possibility of a compound fracture, I don't want to play, and I certainly don't want to watch."

  "Okay, so it's not as violent and dangerous as your precious rugby."

  "That's right. It's not even close."

  Brian shot Rob a confused look. "Why the hell are we talking about this?"

  Rob shook his head. "I'm not sure."

  "Wait. I remember, so if you're not going to play me, what am I going to do—just stand on the court for hours and practice my serve?"

  "My mother plays—really well, in fact. I’m sure she would play you," Rob said.

  Brian looked at him again like he was crazy. "Dude, there is no way I’m playing tennis with your mother. Maybe we should go to my house instead, and you can go bowling with mine."

  "So, don’t play with her. We’ll go down there. The weather will be warm. The women will be wearing practically nothing. I can get Laura to hook you up with a friend, and if you get the hell out of your funk, maybe you could actually get laid for once."

  "You can get me laid?" Brian said, beginning to warm to the idea.

  "I said maybe. It’s not like I have hookers lined up, or anything. You need to actually have a personality and talk with them about something other than tennis."

  Brian’s mind raced, and he looked Rob in the eye. "The tennis court—what’s the surface?"

  "You see that’s what I’m talking about. Surface? It’s a fucking tennis court."

  "No I mean is it asphalt, Har-tru, concrete, or one of those, uh, awesome Decoturf courts."

  After exhaling deeply, Rob gave Brian a tired look. "If I knew the answer to that question, I’d be dead, because I would have killed myself already. You know, there's more to life than tennis. You really should—"

  "Okay... Jesus," Brian interrupted.

  "So... Miami?" Rob asked as he put his fist out for a bump.

  Brian glanced at him, exhaled, smiled, and gave him one.

  "It’ll be awesome. We’ll talk about the details later. I’ve got to run," Rob said as he headed for the door.

  11

  Rob drove his nearly-new black BMW south with Brian in the passenger seat. As Brian looked out the window, he decided to try to put Natalie out of his mind while on break. He decided he might even
try to talk to women about something other than tennis, as Rob had suggested. He struggled to think of some sample topics.

  Rob looked over at him. "As I said, Laura will want me to stay over with her a couple nights, at least. We haven’t seen each other since Christmas Break, and the last time I spoke to her on the phone, she sounded really freaking horny... like I’ve never heard her before, you know?"

  Brian nodded. "Good for you. I’ll find something to do, and I’ve got schoolwork to catch up on anyway."

  "Oh, we’ll definitely hang out some. I’m not going to dump you down there and take off. Anyway, I cleared it with my mom, and she’s totally cool with it… Look she’s still going through a hard time right now—divorce. My dad’s basically a dick who cheated on her. So, if she’s, like, depressed or just staring at the pool like a zombie or something, it’s because of that."

  As they crossed the state line into Florida, Rob said, "And no thinking about Natalie. You are missing the prime get laid time in your life by waiting for her, and all because she can do that thing with her leg over her head. It’s stupid. You’ll look back in a few years on all the opportunities you missed and hit yourself in the nuts over it."

  Brian shook his head, slightly offended. "It’s not stupid. The leg thing is pretty awesome, dude. Have you pictured in your mind what she’d look like doing that... completely naked? She can hold her leg up there for like thirty minutes." Brian glanced at Rob. Rob wasn’t buying any of it. Brian curled his lip then turned and stared straight out the window and said as he drifted far away, "Wow... She is..." Then he exhaled loudly in an odd, sex-offender sort of way.

  Rob said, "Okay, that was creepy. Yeah, she’s really flexible, and that could have its advantages in certain areas, but if your thing never gets anywhere near the leg thing, then you’re just some douchebag who wasted his best college years pining away over some female version of Gumby."

  "You’re right. I know you’re right."

  12

  As they pulled into the driveway, Brian’s eyes lit up. The house was a huge stucco mansion with a palm tree-lined driveway and beautiful landscaping. They arrived just after four in the afternoon and were a few hours early. The front of the house featured a huge two-story archway that led to double-beveled glass front doors, accented with a large fanlight that stretched nearly to the top of the arch. Large travertine tiles adorned the foyer, and the rest of the house featured 10-foot ceilings, 8-foot doors, large moldings, and built-ins. He thought it must be at least three or four times the size of his family’s modest 2,000-square-foot home.

  Awestruck, Brian walked through the foyer, toward the kitchen, as Rob tossed his duffle bag carelessly on the wide-planked dark hardwood floors of the great room. Rob called for his mother, and when she didn’t answer, he directed Brian through the patio doors for a look at the pool and tennis court while he went upstairs to find her.

  Brian walked out to the backyard. The pool was large and free form in shape, with lagoon-like landscaping and detailed hardscaping. Big, comfortable-looking lounge chairs dotted the patio area, which also featured an outdoor kitchen with a fireplace. To the right of the pool, Brian spotted the tennis court. Smiling, he headed that way.

  As he got closer, Brian stopped in his tracks at the sight of a woman lying face down on one of the lounge chairs. He stood speechless while taking in the scene. She wore a white micro-bikini bottom that must have only provided about four inches of coverage at its widest point, near the top of her perfectly-shaped rear end. Lower down, the suit's coverage quickly dwindled to nearly nothing. The woman's skin was perfectly tanned—not dark and leathery, but lusciously golden. Her dark brown hair fell just past her shoulders. Brian's eyes took one more trip down her supple body, lingering briefly along her trim waist and long, toned legs. Then, as her arm slipped off the chaise to the patio, he noticed the sides of her breasts were showing just enough to reveal that her top was probably just as skimpy as her bikini bottom.

  His first thought was that this was Rob’s girlfriend, but when he remembered that she was supposed to be a blonde, he figured she must be Rob’s sister, although he couldn't remember him ever mentioning he had one. After staring at the woman for about thirty seconds, he said, "Sorry to bother you. I’m Brian." When she didn’t move, he noticed the wires leading up to the woman’s ears and realized she must be listening to music. Rob came up quietly behind him and stood there shaking his head with disapproval.

  "Jesus, Mom," he said loudly.

  Rising up quickly, Jillian looked a little frightened. When she turned her head, she found Rob standing there with an angry look on his face. Smiling, Jillian pushed herself up, turned on her side, stood, and rushed over to hug her son. Brian’s guess about the modesty of the bikini top was right on the money, and Rob’s face confirmed it. Brian tore his eyes away from her chest to avoid being rude and to also see if her face was worthy of that body. He found that it was more than worthy. Jillian looked young; she was in her late thirties or early forties, he thought. Worst case, forty-two.

  Rob asked, "What the hell are you wearing?"

  Jillian ignored the question as she grabbed hold of him and squeezed tightly while he reciprocated halfheartedly. Brian looked on, amazed. This was not your average mother of a college-aged son, he thought. For some reason, he momentarily pictured his mother wearing Jillian’s tiny bikini, but he quickly shook off the image. His mother's bikini days were well behind her.

  "You look good," she said. "Looks like you’re eating."

  "Is that one of Victoria’s bikinis?" Rob asked with a sneer.

  Jillian looked down, noticed that the suit was barely covering her chest, and turned to retrieve a large beach towel from the chair. She proceeded to wrap it around her shoulders so it draped over her breasts and the tiny bikini bottom front.

  "Sorry." She widened her eyes and gave them an embarrassed look. "I forgot I had on my tanning suit. Oh, and it is one of Victoria’s. It’s too conservative for her now, if you can believe that."

  Rob said, "Mom, this is Brian Nash. Brian, this is my mother, Jillian Grayson."

  Looking at Brian, she smiled. "I’ve heard a lot about you. We’re glad to have you here."

  Brian returned the smile. "Nice to meet you, Miss Grayson. Your house is incredible."

  "Thank you. Please, call me Jillian."

  Rob mumbled something to her about her bikini bottoms, since her ass was still showing way too much for his taste; the towel cover-up was only working to shield the front of her.

  Rolling her eyes at her son, she turned away from them both, which re-exposed her perfect ass to Brian. Then she removed the towel and wrapped a sheer sarong around her bikini bottom. Brian’s jaw dropped. She draped the towel around her shoulders and turned back toward them, fully covered. Brian glared secretly at Rob.

  "What time is it?" she asked.

  "About four," Rob replied.

  "You guys are really early. I didn’t expect to be greeting you wearing this. As I said, this is my not-so-family-friendly suit," Jillian said with a smile.

  "I like the bikini," Brian said casually, as he looked back toward the tennis court and began walking toward it.

  "Thanks," she said as she turned to follow his gaze.

  As he approached the court, Brian said, "You’ve got Decoturf."

  When Jillian heard those words, she trailed after him, and they stood at the entrance to the court. Rob walked over to join them.

  Brian looked at her. "Did you put this in or was it here when you bought the house?"

  "I put it in," she replied. "How’d you know it’s called Decoturf?"

  "It’s what they play on at the Open," Brian replied as he kneeled down to touch it.

  "That’s one of the reasons I chose it."

  "What else did you consider?"

  Jillian smiled at Brian as he remained on the ground, touching it and looking back up at her. She said, "It was between the Har-tru or the Decoturf."

  Standing, Brian l
ooked over the court, nodding. "You definitely made the right choice."

  Rob rolled his eyes at the tennis conversation and turned to look toward the pool.

  She said, "I was worried about the fact that it might be harder on your knees."

  Brian looked back at her. "From what I’ve read, I think the only advantage of the Har-tru surface over the Decoturf is that it dries a little faster when it rains. Both provide the player equal cushioning, but the Decoturf wins, hands-down, with its truer bounce and surer footing."

  Jillian gazed at Brian, captivated during his court surface analysis, while Rob turned back and listened to them gape-mouthed.

  "What do you think of the color? I went with the spring green on the inner and the Olympic blue on the outer."

  Rob breathed in deeply. "Excuse me, guys, but I’m going to go in, turn on the gas, wait five minutes, and then light a match."

  Neither Jillian nor Brian looked Rob’s way.

  "All right," Brian said absently toward Rob and looked Jillian in the eye. "I think it looks great, and there’s just enough contrast between the blue and the lines, to make it easier to call those baseline shots. Yet the blue’s not so overpowering, you know?"

  She nodded along with Brian as they continued chatting. Rob was nearing the house with his eyes wide as he could still hear the remnants of their passionate tennis exchange. He thought if this was any indication of what the conversation around the place was going to be like all week, he would be spending more time with Laura than he had initially planned.

  13

  Jillian prepared steaks and baked potatoes on the grill and added a salad for dinner, which she and the guys ate at the outdoor table. She had a glass of wine, and Brian and Rob drank beer. Luckily for Rob, there was no discussion of tennis surfaces at dinner, mainly because that subject had been worked ad nauseam for at least twenty more minutes after he left the tennis-obsessed nerds alone on the court. There was, however, a discussion of the current state of men’s and women’s tennis and how neither Jillian nor Brian cared very much for the Williams sisters. They also discussed how, on the men’s side, the U.S. players had been such a disappointment during the last decade. They agreed that although Sampras dominated the game, he was a dull champion that neither really rooted for. Roddick had some personality, and it appeared that he would be the next great American star, but since winning the U.S. Open in 2003, he’d been a non-factor on the tour. Rob sat through it all looking bored while the two of them eagerly exchanged opinions.