Game Changer

by Stewart, Sylvie

  “Um, just through the weekend.” Why? Do you want to check out my bed? I tack on silently.

  “Wanted to see you again. Will she mind if I borrow you?” His voice is like a shot of liquor without the benefit of ice.

  I can’t exactly tell him that if she had her way I reckon Iris would personally deliver me to him with a big red bow.

  “Um, I don’t think so.” I peer back into the bar. Iris is laughing at something Naveed is saying and a nagging feeling pulls at my stomach. “Are you… sure this is a good idea?”

  “Absolutely. Why?”

  “I just…” I just don’t know if I can handle how intense you are and I’m afraid you’ll ravish me and then ditch me for the next supermodel who happens by. Oh, and I’m being an idiot and mixing business with pleasure.

  “You don’t want to see me?” He manages to make it sound completely inconsequential.

  “No!” I jump in to reassure, not that he needs it. “I do. I’m just…” I sigh in frustration. “Has anybody ever told you that you’re intense?”

  I hear an amused chuffing sound. “Maybe.”

  “Well, you’re kind of a lot, Mac. I’m just not used to that, I guess.” I decide to go for broke. “And, frankly, I’m a bit worried about my job.”

  I can feel the change in him, even over the phone.

  “Explain.”

  “Gee, Poppy, that’s a bummer. Do you mind telling me about it?” I mimic his voice because I’ve clearly lost my mind.

  I hear the gravelly humming again but he doesn’t say anything.

  “Look, you know I’m new to this job. I can’t afford to do anything to jeopardize it and I’m afraid developing a… personal connection to the subject of a feature might be frowned upon.” Not to mention, my heart has an aversion to bulldozers.

  “I’m gonna be straight up with you.”

  I bite my lip to keep myself from laughing hysterically. Like the guy could ever be accused of sugar-coating anything.

  “There wouldn’t be an article without the personal connection part.” He says the words like he’s making air quotes that offend him somehow. “The only reason they got their interview is because I’m into you and, as far as I’m concerned, it’s none of their business if I want to take you out, kiss your fuckin’ perfect mouth, or do any of the hundred other things I’ve got planned. So the only question that really matters is, do you want to see me?”

  My jaw is unhinged by this point so it’s a damn miracle I manage to form intelligible speech, not that my strangled “Uh-huh” is all that impressive.

  Fifteen

  “Handsome men have the power to make women stupid. That’s why you should only marry a homely one.”

  – Cookie Rutledge

  It’s safe to say Bobby Lee has been sulking, something I’m both annoyed by and feeling the teensiest bit guilty about. He hasn’t so much as sent me a text since we hung up last weekend after my Angus McKinley mic drop. Regardless, I have no doubt he and Bunny have been strategizing about how to get me to ditch my fake boyfriend and fancy new job and run on home to marry Bobby Lee before things get out of hand and/or I grow a year older into spinsterhood.

  The part I refuse to let myself consider is the possibility that, up to this point, one or both of them have been operating under the assumption I wouldn’t cut it at the new job and it was only a matter of time before I’d come running back home.

  Just the notion gives me worse heartburn than my normal Bobby Lee indigestion, especially since I won’t know for a couple weeks yet if the magazine is a go or not. If Athena Lennox gets turned down, then anyone who doubted me may be proven right. I need all the cheerleaders I can gather in my corner, and the naysayers can skedaddle.

  And, even though Bobby Lee hasn’t reached out, I’d bet my turquoise-stitched boots Bunny’s care package was sent off with his blessing. They’re not giving up, regardless of the state of my job or my made-up love life.

  Which, it turns out, may not be so made up after all. Well, the love part, yeah, but it’s looking like I may be on the brink of my first honest-to-goodness affair. It sounds so damn cosmopolitan, something New York Poppy would most definitely approve of.

  I pull my brush through my hair even harder at the thought of said affair, ripping out a couple tangles in the wet mass around my shoulders and hardly even noticing as the pain stings my nose.

  Iris is still asleep on her side of my new bed and I’m scrambling to get ready because Mac will be here to pick me up in twenty minutes. It’s only ten after seven on Saturday morning, which is apparently a perfectly logical time for a date in his world.

  He didn’t say what we were doing, except to suggest I dress comfortably and wear closed-toed shoes (as only a man could ask). I didn’t think to press him because his declaration about doing “any of the hundred other things” to me was still swirling in my brain with all the possibilities it suggested. Possibilities I’m now very eager to explore. Magazine, schmagazine. Bulldozer, schmulldozer. I dare any woman with a working clitoris and legs to walk away from that speech with a “Meh, no thanks.”

  The one thing I did manage to insist on, however, was that I be back in time to hang out with Iris this afternoon and evening. I haven’t lost my mind completely.

  After a few rounds with the blow dryer and a light dusting of make-up, I slip into my shoes and face the full-length mirror resting against the wall. I’m wearing a couple layered tank tops tied in a knot at my waist paired with cut-offs and my red Converse. I considered going with something nicer, but I really have no idea what Mac’s definition of comfortable is, and if we’re lighting things on fire, the last thing I want is excess material floating about waiting to light me up like a campfire marshmallow. Thank the good lord Iris is still asleep or she’d never let me out of the house in this.

  With that in mind, I decide to meet Mac downstairs and slip out my apartment door.

  My apartment. It feels so good to say that.

  Leaving Katelyn’s last night was bittersweet, but I think she’s secretly gonna be happy to have her own space back. Three women sharing one and a half baths, even for thirty-six hours, was getting old. Not to mention I’m guessing she’s dying to bring Zach home without having to worry about the red-headed third wheel hanging around and cramping her style.

  I bound down the stairs, looking forward to the morning air and trying to calm the swarm of butterflies in my stomach. As soon as I fling the building’s door open, the butterflies morph into a flock of miniature parrots flapping their wings while they discuss the sight before me.

  If I had to imagine the conversation, it would probably go something like this:

  Mini Parrot #1: “Damn, girl, you better jump on that.”

  Mini Parrot #2: “No joke! Ask him to do a little twirl so I can see that tailfeather.”

  Mini Parrot #3: “Get out of my way! I’m gonna sit on that man’s shoulder.”

  Mini Parrot #4: “Screw that! I’m gonna sit on that man’s face!”

  Apparently, parrots are pervs, not that I can really argue. But, honestly, how am I not used to this by now?

  Mac is jaywalking toward me, a pair of dark sunglasses pushed up into his mess of black hair and his uniform of work boots, denim, and t-shirt—this one army green—hugging his hard body like they don’t ever want to let go. Not that I blame them. He practically glides as he walks without a trace of self-consciousness or pretense, the fabric of his clothes straining with each movement. I want to straddle his thigh and ride it like a circus pony. I mean, this dude is ridiculous with his degree of absolute solidity, not to mention his towering height.

  I’m so busy checking out his body that I don’t notice until too late that he’s been tracking my eyes, something I know by the slight upward tilt of the left side of his mouth and the set of parentheses etched between his lush eyebrows.

  My teeth sink into my bottom lip and I don’t even try to pretend he hasn’t struck me stupid.

  “Morning,” he sa
ys, not slowing his stride until he’s right up in my business where he ducks his head down and lands a quick kiss on my mouth, causing me to gasp and my teeth to release my lip at the warm contact.

  His mouth leaves mine before the kiss can fully register, but he remains close enough that I can smell soap and leather and feel his innate energy vibrating off his skin and jumping the small gap between us.

  Instead of responding to his greeting, I let out a little sigh and consider burrowing into his chest just to see how it would feel.

  “You eat yet?” His voice rumbles at the question and I want to sigh again as I realize this is very much a part of who Mac is—making sure I’m taken care of. I don’t really know how to feel about that. Do people in torrid sexual affairs worry themselves about those things?

  I nod, choosing not to reveal that my breakfast consisted of a handful of Teddy Grahams and a hastily chugged cup of coffee. I’m guessing he wouldn’t consider that a meal.

  “Absolutely. I’m fully nourished and ready to go.”

  He eyes me for a second, as if gauging how truthful I’m being, before returning my nod and taking my hand just like he did the other night.

  “Where are we going anyway?” I ask as I let him lead me up the sidewalk.

  “Been thinking about that article and I want to show you something.”

  This surprises me. The article is completely out of my hands now and Naveed has taken over. He did a bit of grumbling after reading what I’d compiled, but said he’d be able to round it out when he met Mac for the photo shoot. Technically, as the creative director, I can be there too, but Naveed and the photographer will have it well in hand.

  “Oh.” I pause and then continue, “You remember the part about me not being a writer, right?”

  He dips his chin.

  “So, my part of the interview is over. I mean, I can tell Naveed about whatever it is you want me to see but it might be better for you to show him yourself.”

  Now, why in heavens am I trying to end this date before it’s even begun? Coward!

  “Nah.” He steers me south at the next intersection.

  “Nah?” My tennis shoes slap the sidewalk as I try to keep up. “Hey, can we slow down a bit?”

  Mac stops short. “Sorry. I’m not used to…”

  I nod and squeeze his hand. “It’s okay. I could probably use the exercise, but it’s Saturday and all.”

  His nose scrunches up a little, making the scar pucker even more than usual. It’s a face I haven’t seen on him yet—it’s so expressive and almost silly—and it makes me want to smile, so I do.

  “What does the day of the week have to do with not exercising?”

  I shrug. “It’s the weekend, not to mention the Sabbath.”

  “You Jewish?”

  “No.”

  His head cocks a tiny bit before he shakes it and starts us moving again at a slower pace.

  “Anyway, what did you mean by ‘nah’? You don’t want Naveed to see this… whatever it is?” I admit I’m more than a little curious.

  “You’ll see.”

  And that’s all I get until we reach the Lexington Avenue/53rd Street station. We’re about to descend the stairs when Mac’s eye catches on something and he veers to the side, pushing my back up against the half wall of the station entrance.

  “Wait here.”

  I do as he asks, not quite sure why I don’t just follow, yet allowing him space to do whatever he’s got in mind. He crosses the street and disappears into a building where I lose sight of his butt in those jeans. Damn.

  My eyes wander the early-morning crowds full of a mix of casually-dressed groups and yummy mummies and daddies strolling the sidewalks. Just about everyone carries some version of a Starbucks coffee cup and my stomach groans at me about the cookies I scarfed back at my apartment.

  Just as I’m considering crossing the street after Mac to try hunting down a bottle of water, he emerges carrying a large plastic cup with a straw poking out the top. This surprises me for two reasons. First, it seems unlike him to grab a drink for himself without asking me if I want one. And, second, I never would have pegged Mac as a coke guy.

  The mystery is solved, however, when he reaches me, eyes traveling my body like he’s doing a safety check, and holds the drink out to me.

  My eyes pop. “For me?”

  “Yeah.” He extends his other hand and I see a small bag of almonds caught between his fingers.

  I take the cup in both hands—the damn thing is so ginormous it takes both to keep my grip—and smile up at him.

  “Thanks.” I bring the straw to my mouth and he watches intently as I draw the liquid up the plastic tube.

  “I remember you mentioning iced tea.”

  His words register at the same time the cold wetness hits my tongue and every part of me locks up.

  Mac bought me iced tea.

  He remembered me talking about how I loved it, he didn’t believe that I had a good breakfast, and he interrupted our outing to take care of me.

  By buying me a bag of nuts and some tea.

  A King Kong sized portion of tea without a lick of sugar in it and no polite way for me do anything but smile and choke that shit down.

  It’s simultaneously horrendous and so freaking romantic I want to cry.

  Mac McKinley is sweet.

  Unlike this awful tea, but who the hell cares?

  I smile up at him like he’s Paul McCartney and I’m a sixteen-year-old virgin. Which is ridiculous for many reasons, not the least of which being that dude’s an old man now and ew. Mac tosses his chin toward the subway station stairs.

  * * *

  “What is this place?”

  I’ve managed to ditch my tea after feigning a full stomach and pretending the caffeine is too much for me. Mac has my hand again and is leading me through the double wood doors of what appears to be an old garage.

  He doesn’t respond because there’s no need when we cross the threshold and I see that it is indeed just that. And it’s full of guys dressed in blue coveralls, t-shirts, and a varying assortment of colored snapbacks or bandanas. Most of them have their heads ducked under the hoods of one of the six or so cars parked in the space while a few others are gathered around an older gray-haired man talking and gesturing to a laptop screen on a cart.

  Mac starts toward the older man whose face lights up in a huge grin when he catches sight of him. Well, I’ll be darned.

  He snatches up a red shop towel and makes a half-hearted attempt at wiping up his hands before he tucks it in his back pocket and extends a hand to Mac.

  “Long time no see, Mac.”

  Mac drops my hand and accepts the man’s handshake. “Javier.” Then he tips his head my way. “This is Poppy James. She’s writing an article for a magazine.”

  Javier’s eyes widen and his smile falters just a touch before he readjusts his expression and holds his hand in the air like he’s surrendering. “I would shake your hand, sweetheart, but I don’t want you getting grease all over you.”

  I nod. “It’s nice to meet you, Javier.” I still don’t know what we’re doing here or why Javier’s giving off a wary vibe, but I can roll with it.

  “You got a minute to show her around the shop?”

  Javier’s bushy eyebrows shoot for his hairline and a hopefulness lights his blue eyes, eradicating any trace of hesitance. “You writing about the shop?”

  I open my mouth, no doubt wearing a panicked look, but Mac steps in. “Haven’t told her anything about it yet.”

  Javier nods, still grinning, and I grit my teeth in a forced version of my smile. What the hell is Mac doing? Why is he telling this guy I’m writing an article about his shop when he knows quite clearly I’m not? And furthermore, who the hell does an interview wearing cutoffs and Converse freaking tennis shoes? Talk about another blow to my professional image. I’m gonna kill him.

  But manners dictate I play along since Javier seems so damn happy about the whole situation. He turns
and gestures excitedly to the men, many of whom have stopped their work and trained curious eyes on me and Mac. It’s only then I realize they’re not men at all. Well, some of them are, but I spot a few who can’t be older than fifteen, with the oldest one maybe just under twenty or so.

  “We have visitors, gentlemen. Say hello to Ms. James and Mr. McKinley.”

  We get a few Mac-style nods, hand flicks, and a couple “hey”s. I even rate one whistle and a drawn-out “Helloooo there” which Javier nips in the bud with a, “Cut the shit, Robinson,” to the grinning Romeo. I can’t help smiling back. He’s awfully cute but he’s also about sixteen. I have no doubt the kid has teenage girls lined up around the block.

  Javier walks us between two cars while the boys get back to work. “The program takes applicants between fourteen and nineteen, most of whom have been referred by teachers, social workers, and the occasional neighborhood abuela. The ones who express an interest in cars get sent to me.”

  “What program is this?” I ask, interest rising despite my vow to give Mac a piece of my mind about this whole article sham.

  Javier glances at Mac and back to me again, blinking. “Mac’s program.”

  A tense grumble comes from behind me. “Not my program.”

  Javier’s lips curve as he shakes his head. “Whatever you say, man.”

  I can’t help it. My head swings around and up to Mac’s face. His mouth is turned down and the lines in his forehead are particularly pronounced. “Well, well, well.” I can’t help my drawn-out teasing tone, especially when I see it makes that spot on his left cheek tick.

  “It’s a community program.” Mac walks forward, forcing both Javier and me to move along so we don’t become his roadkill.

  “Don’t let him fool you, sweetheart. He and his pops started the whole thing up about a decade ago.” I freeze at the reference to the man I assume to be Mac’s father, but I do my best to hide it. “Hundreds of kids have gone through the program, coming out the other end with jobs in respectable trades, earning a great living for their families and staying out of trouble.”