Game Changer

by Stewart, Sylvie

  I reckon New York will take a lot of getting used to.

  I run the back of my hand over my forehead, knowing I’m well past wiping away any makeup that may have lingered. It’s probably time to call it a night. I was a damn fool to think I could just wander down the street and happen upon a casual dance club. This is Manhattan, for cryin’ out loud!

  The waitress is busy with someone else so I drop a five on the counter and slide off my stool, ready to find my way back to Katelyn’s. But when the door of the diner shuts behind me, I realize I have no freakin’ idea where I am. Oops.

  A quick look at my phone’s GPS shows I’m a good two miles from the apartment. How did I go so far? The streets are still lined with cars and a couple taxi drivers are yelling back and forth at each other in a language I can’t identify. I squeeze past a group of laughing women and step out of the way before I’m plowed down by a rogue duo who appear to be late for their scuba lessons. What else could explain the neoprene?

  I know I should get a taxi like I promised Kate, but the walk back will do me good—and save me a few more bucks for my apartment hunt. The map has me walking up four more blocks before turning left at a broad brick building with three closed garage bays and a large darkened window covered in dust. The street traffic here is thinner and the cross-street looks more like an alley to me than the kind of well-lit, overpopulated street a first-timer like me should traverse at night, so I stop at the corner and hesitate. I’m sure I’ve seen this in more than one horror movie. If I go up another couple blocks and cut over, I’ll only add a few more minutes to my route.

  I shove my phone in the back pocket of my jeans, wishing yet again that I’d worn a skirt so I could at least get a breeze up in there. But a deep, stony rumble freezes me before I can take a step.

  “Stop. Right. There.”

  Three

  “Men are essentially animals. It’s up to us to housebreak ‘em.” – Cookie Rutledge

  Why my feet obey, I have no damn clue, except for some possible primal instinct that assumes the voice I heard is that of God. Or Samuel L. Jackson. You know, because they’ve both been known to hang out in dim Manhattan alleyways.

  “Just stop!” The tone shifts from a growl to a bellow and I turn to it before I can think better.

  The breath I’ve been holding whooshes out as I realize the voice is coming from the other side of the dark, dirty window of the building. This guy isn’t talking to me. In fact, considering I know about three people in this city, and the only person who’s deigned to speak to me tonight thought I was the real-life incarnation of Daphne from Scooby Doo, I want to laugh at myself for assuming he was.

  My boot pivots on the pavement to take me back to the sidewalk, but not before the window is flooded with light from inside. A large form steps out behind the glass and I find my back plastered to the brick alleyway wall beside the window. What the hell am I doing?

  “You know I don’t deal with this shit. Talk to Elle.” The voice comes again, and it’s so close I swear I can almost feel this dude’s breath on my neck. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover he just finished dining on a plateful of razor blades with the rough way his words are climbing out of his throat. One thing is for sure. I’m glad I’m not on the other end of that phone call ‘cuz somebody’s got their panties in a serious bunch.

  Sweat runs down the back of my neck and soaks into the fabric of my top. The brick bites into my spine when I push off the wall the tiniest bit so I don’t ruin the silk—okay fine, the polyester blend.

  It’s not like I have any reason to hide in the first place; last I checked this is a free country and I can walk by a damn window if I please. Iris would be rolling her eyes if she saw me now. What ever happened to the badass woman who makes grown men cry? I’ll be damned if I’m gonna cower under the voice of some random guy who’s not even talking to me.

  The figure moves away from the window and I crane my neck as curiosity gets the better of me. The window is one of those old ones with over a dozen individual leaded panes. The top row stands open which explains why the man’s voice feels so close. I briefly question the wisdom of leaving your windows open at night in New York City but dismiss that thought immediately when he speaks again. I’d dare anybody to mess with that voice.

  “Yeah. Fine. I gotta go.”

  His back is to me and I watch as he pulls his phone from his ear and drops it on a nearby table with a crack. He straightens and brings a hand behind his neck to grip his t-shirt and then it’s gone, leaving a huge swath of muscled, inked skin and a dryness in my throat even the hottest of weather couldn’t duplicate.

  The caked-on grime fanning out from the grilles of the window panes impedes my view, but one thing is crystal clear.

  King Kong wasn’t a myth. There is a real live beast living in New York City.

  And I’ve just discovered his lair.

  * * *

  “What’s he doing now?”

  I have officially entered the stalker zone and there is no going back. Iris is literally on the other end of the line eating popcorn and listening to me describe every move this guy makes. I’m doing my best to be subtle, but I’m a bit surprised he hasn’t drawn a crowd, to be honest. If the window faced the main street he could sell tickets.

  What started off as me sneaking a peek to make sure the dude was human sort of… evolved… into a straight-out creeperfest hosted by yours truly. Lord knows what they put in the water up here, but we don’t grow men like that back home. He’s easily six-foot-five with a crown of tangled midnight hair and a finely hewn body of muscle and tattoos. While he’s roughly the size of King Kong, he’s not covered in a fur pelt, thank God. I have yet to get a good look at his face, but there is plenty to feast my eyes on elsewhere.

  “Huh?” I bite my lip as the guy lets out a grunt over the music coming from inside. He’s partial to classic rock if the soundtrack so far is anything to go by.

  “Poppy! Focus!”

  His arms halt their circular movements as he straightens again and takes a few steps closer to the wall in front of him where two heavy ropes are anchored. It was about the time he started doing these battle-rope exercises that my thumbs dialed Iris. And all three of us have been working up quite a sweat over the past twenty minutes as he’s run through his workout and I’ve followed his every move. At first, I had no damn clue what he was doing, but Iris cleared it up once I sent her a picture.

  What? The guy was unfurling these giant ropes the circumference of my biceps and it was within the realm of possibility that he had a nefarious purpose. I’m determined to be a good citizen of my new city.

  Anyway, she told me what the ropes were called, and I’ve been narrating his workout since.

  “Um,” I tilt my head and follow the line of a winding black and red tattoo until it meets with his gym shorts over his left butt cheek. I can’t even begin to examine below his exposed skin just yet or my head might explode. “He’s kind of crossing the ropes back and forth now. Do you think I should get a tattoo?”

  “You’ve been in New York for like five minutes. I’d hold off a few more days.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.” I watch as the hulking man’s muscles bunch and release with every movement. Led Zepplin blares from the speakers and sweat pours over his skin like he’s just risen from the ocean. Good God above, who is this guy?

  The room is some kind of open warehouse space with a few shop tables scattered throughout the part I can see. Maybe an old firehouse or garage? A good portion of the interior is blocked from view, but I’m pretty sure he’s alone.

  I glance around me, but nobody is paying any mind. People continue to pass on the sidewalk, although the crowd here is much sparser than before, and I’m still off to the side where the streetlights don’t quite reach.

  “So, what else have you been doing on your first big night on the town? And where’s Katelyn anyway?”

  We honestly hadn’t gotten past the topic of mysterious muscle-bou
nd hotties.

  “She had to stay in and work, so I went out on my own.”

  “Nice! Good for you, sis.” She crunches another bite of popcorn.

  “Yeah, well, I’m trying.” I shrug and shift my weight to one hip. “Did I tell you Mama called last night to check on me again?”

  “No. Not that it surprises me. Are she and Daddy having fun on their trip?”

  I snicker. “I think she was drunk.”

  Iris snorts out a laugh. Mama’s been known to have a Mimosa now and then but I’ve never once seen her tipsy. Now, Cookie, on the other hand…

  “I guess that’s what an all-inclusive vacation gets you.”

  I’m fixing to give her a recap when the first few notes of the next song hit our ears and Iris starts laughing. “Is your big dude listening to ‘Cherry Pie’?”

  The lyrics of the ridiculous Warrant song blast from the window behind me.

  “Sorry, Popps, but I can’t let you lust after a guy who has this song on his playlist.”

  I gasp. “What are you talkin’ about? This is one of the greatest works of the twentieth century. You should see how hard I’m jamming to this song.”

  A chime sounds in my ear and Iris has switched to FaceTime. I hit accept and start headbanging, my hair flying around me and coming loose from the impromptu ponytail I shoved it in at the diner.

  She starts shouting the lyrics and I’m having trouble properly rocking out while one hand tries to hold the phone steady. I bend my knees and go low, sticking my ass in the air as my shoulders shimmy and my boots rock against the pavement.

  My heart is light as air right now. Who needs a club when I can dance my ass off and act like an idiot with my sister? I don’t even care if anyone is looking anymore. Let them look, because I’m in New York City having a blast and letting my freak flag fly—even if I’m technically by myself. And even if I’m doing it while tethered to home. It’s a start, and I’ll take it.

  “Work it, bitch!” Iris cackles.

  So I toss my head and shoulders back and mouth the words into the phone like a bonafide rock star at Madison Square Garden. My hair clings to my face and neck and sweat beads at my temples but the heat no longer bothers me.

  “Bobby Lee would lose his shit if he saw you like this.”

  I move to a one-hand air guitar and pant. “Bobby Lee can kiss my lily-white Southern ass for all I care!”

  “You best watch your mouth, young lady. God’s listenin’.” Her Cookie impression is spot on.

  “Not now, Cookie. I gotta finish my song.” I resume shredding the bridge and Iris takes over on drums. We’re utterly ridiculous and it’s sublime.

  When we hit the chorus again, I throw my free hand in the air and swing my hips. “I swear, it’s so good to talk face to face.”

  Iris adjusts her phone so she can pull popcorn out of her hair. “Well, I’m glad my face makes you happy.” She sticks her tongue out.

  I shake my ass in appreciation and she spills her drink on herself. “You’d think with the sheer number of people here you couldn’t feel lonely, but they walk around in these self-contained little bubbles.” I scrape back a couple strands of sweaty hair from my cheek. “I guess I’m just gonna have to fight the federation with my mad air-guitar skills.”

  “And your ass shaking,” she adds as the song starts winding down.

  I laugh and smack my own ass, holding the phone out so she doesn’t miss it. “Never underestimate the power of a nice ass to bring people together.”

  Iris opens her mouth to deliver what I’m sure will be a smart-ass reply but instead I just get an, “Oh, shit! Hide!”

  “Wha—” I start, but she’s dropped the phone and all I hear is her cursing.

  That and the creak of what I suspect might be a very old, very dirty window opening behind me. My eyes go wide and I freeze with my palm on my buttcheek.

  “Can I help you?” A familiar growl comes from behind me, followed by the clearing of a few stray razor blades from a throat.

  It’s highly possible King Kong has just gotten an up-close-and-personal view of my ass.

  I rack my brain but cannot think of a single thing to get me out of this, so I lower my phone and run a quick hand over my hair before finally turning around. Genius strikes at the last second and I open my mouth.

  “No hablo ingles.” Ha! Brilliant!

  I try fixing a perplexed expression to my face and hope he thinks I just have a sunburn instead of the serious case of humiliation coloring my face red as… well, a cherry. But as soon as my eyes hit the sweat-soaked t-shirt and travel up—and up—to meet his face, I know I’m not fooling anyone.

  And that’s when I choke on my own saliva.

  Because the most intense set of brown eyes this side of Joe Manganiello are drilling right through me, wiping whatever I had been thinking or planning right from my brain and down to the subway tracks below.

  I try swallowing, but I just cough again. Nope. I got nothin’.

  He’s not smiling, but he’s not frowning either. His lips rest in a naturally sensuous line, like he’s posing for a sculptor who specializes in super-hot Greek gods. Even with the dim light, I can clearly see his full bottom lip and a jaw that hasn’t seen a razor in several days—you know, because he ate them all. Everything on him is damp with sweat, and I’m downright grateful that he thought to throw his shirt back on before speaking to me.

  One thick eyebrow makes an almost imperceptible shift upward and his eyes hold mine. “You sure about that?” Then they drop to do a quick sweep of my body and all my nerve ending snap to attention.

  At this point, I have no idea what he’s even referring to. When I don’t respond, he wets his bottom lip and turns his head to the side, revealing a mean scar on his crooked nose and part of a tattoo climbing into the hair behind his ear.

  I tuck my hair behind my own ears with nervous fingers. I’m not sure whether to turn tail and run or stand my ground and pretend I wasn’t just spying on this giant’s super-human workout. I send up a silent prayer in the hopes he didn’t notice.

  The last few notes of “Cherry Pie” fade from inside and then the music switches to Queen. When I still don’t respond, he reaches to close the window. My heart skitters in my chest, more from our strange encounter than the headbanging session.

  He’s just going to leave without another word? Why did he even open the window in the first place then? Damn, I must be a pretty good actress after all. But there’s no time to congratulate myself.

  “Can’t say I’ve met too many redheaded Latinas.”

  And before I can stop my stupid mouth, it opens and throws me right under the bus. “Guess you need to get around more.”

  There’s no need to face-palm, however. Iris is clearly doing it for us both. “Smooth, Poppy,” her voice comes loud and clear from the phone dangling at my side. “Real smooth.”

  And, if I’m not mistaken, I glimpse a tiny upturn to the corner of King Kong’s mouth before the lock clicks shut and he steps out of view, leaving me alone again in the semi-darkness.

  It’s time to get the hell back to Kate’s place where I can die in privacy. I don’t dare chance another glance in the window, instead hanging up on my sister and letting my boots take me back through the crowds and on to the apartment. But I have to admit, a small part of me wonders if he might have taken even the tiniest glimpse as I retreated. Is it wrong that I kinda wanted him to?

  Four

  “God don’t like ugly, y’all. That’s why He invented karma.”

  – Cookie Rutledge

  “I don’t care what anybody says. Macaroni and cheese is not meant to be low fat, low cal or low anything.”

  Naveed, the feature’s editor who’s been pulled over to work on the new WHL project, grins as he twirls a pen between his well-manicured fingers. Despite my best efforts at ditching my accent and polishing my appearance, I fear I’ve let the façade slip a tad with a couple people this past week—Naveed being one, and a mark
eting executive I referred to as “ma’am” being another. It’s hard holding up this image for eight hours straight, so it was bound to happen at some point.

  I stopped by Naveed’s office on my way to get lunch and got a little sidetracked at the mention of cheese. One of the lifestyle writers emailed a piece on Geoffrey Sang, an up-and-coming new chef in town, and I need to get it into the layout of our prototype. Along with the offensive recipe he included for a healthy weeknight twist on mac and cheese.

  Obviously, I have no say. My job is to make sure the recipe looks good, not tastes good, even if it does feel like sacrilege.

  “Lots of young professionals want healthy options they can whip up in thirty minutes or less. We need to remember our core demographic.” Naveed eyes me. “As you well know.”

  I’ve gotten on with Naveed since our very first meeting. He’s friendly, smart, and works just the right combination of confidence and self-deprecation. And he wears yummy cologne so it’s enjoyable sitting near him.

  “Of course I do, but nobody is going to trust our food section if we push a recipe that doesn’t impress.” Ugh.

  He turns in his chair, the light catching his cropped dark hair and freaking flawless bone structure. “This is Geoffrey Sang we’re talking about. You could be blackballed just for suggesting one of his recipes might not be perfect.”

  I put my hand up. “Okay. But you better believe I’m trying that recipe before it ever goes to print. If it tastes like I think it will, I’ll chain myself to the front doors of this building before I let the first issue run with it.”

  “I’ll have to trust your judgment. I don’t do carbs.” He smooths a hand over his wrinkle-free dress shirt.