by Lynn Shurr
“I know how that is,” Joe answered, dumbfounded. “Honest. I did the celibacy thing for six months last year. It was hard.”
“So are you.” She lifted his erection free of the zipper and eased the dress slacks down enough to give him moving room. Then, she raised her skirt again and prepared to settle on his shaft. “I’m tough, Joe, small but mighty.”
“Condoms, left rear pocket,” he prompted. “I told you I was careful.”
Nell felt around for the little pockets of protection while Joe enjoyed the search. She came up with a packet, ripped it open with her teeth and smoothed it over his penis while he throbbed beneath her hands. She pushed his knees together, knelt on his hard-muscled thighs and lowered herself.
He let her do the work as she moved against him with her eyes closed. He removed her hands when she clawed at his chest, scratching at the dark hair between his nipples, and slid the top of her dress and the camisole down over her shoulders in order to cover her small breasts with his hands. He rubbed his callused fingertips over them in a circular motion. Nell moved faster determined to show him what she could do.
Joe leaned back, supporting her with his grasp, closed his eyes and let it happen. Nell kept moving even after he spent himself—until the fuse she’d lit sent up the fireworks inside. She gasped and moaned and finished. Her head sank to his chest and she rested over the wild beating of his heart.
“Yeah, small but mighty.” Joe stroked her back.
They dozed together just like that, her legs dangling over the side of his, and his hand cupping the short, silky hair of her head.
Someone knocked. The doorbell rang. A pleasant voice sang out, “Nell, it’s your mother. I saw your car outside. Are you in the shower?”
Mrs. Abbott raised the flower pots on either side of the door and clunked them back into place. She peeled up the doormat and let it spring back against the concrete landing. “Where is the spare key?” Ann Abbott said aloud.
“My mom! My God!” Nell vaulted over the sofa back, scooped up the red cummerbund, the blue garter and the white lace panties, and raced for the bathroom. A second later, water roared in the shower.
Joe Dean, always calm in a tight situation, righted himself, tucked in and zipped. Good thing he’d only faked being drunk to get into Nell’s apartment because now he had to think fast. Not much he could do about the gaping, studless formal shirt. He sauntered toward the kitchen and called out to Mrs. Abbott, “Just a minute. Nell has herself locked in here like a fortress. Let me find the deadbolt key.”
“Who is that?” Nell’s mom queried from the other side of the door.
“Joe. We met the other Saturday, Mrs. Abbott.” He took a large red barbecue apron from a bentwood coat rack. The illustration on the front showed two happy crawfish stirring up a big pot of gumbo. Why the crawfish should be happy when they were listed among the ingredients that followed, Joe had no idea. Obviously, the apron, still stiff and creased from the gift box, had never been worn. He put it on and tucked his shirttails in beneath its covering.
Joe picked up the full coffeepot and sauntered to the door. Nell’s deadbolt key sat in the lock. He opened the door for Mrs. Abbott. “Hi, there. I was just making us some coffee.”
He lowered his voice. “Nell overindulged a little at the wedding reception, but I got her home safely. Good, you brought food. Now I won’t have to cook after all.” He gestured to his apron before taking two large Styrofoam boxes from Ann Abbott’s hands.
“Gary and I had dinner downtown at Ralph and Kacoo’s. He shouldn’t have all that fried food and couldn’t finish the seafood platter anyway. I brought my leftover shrimp fettuccini, too. Nell rarely cooks when she gets home from work. I thought she might appreciate the leftovers.”
Ann followed Joe behind the sofa and across to the kitchen. The heel of her pump crunched down on foil. Joe reached for the floor, scooped up the condom wrapper and balled it in his fist before Mrs. Abbott could remove it from her shoe.
“Not much of a housekeeper, is she, our Nell?”
“Well…” Mrs. Abbott looked around the apartment. “The place has always looked tidy to me. If she’s not feeling well, perhaps I should check on her.” She hurried to the bathroom door and shouted over the torrent of the shower. “Nell, it’s your mother, baby, can I do anything for you?”
“Just sit down, Mom. I’ll be out in a minute.”
For a second there, Joe had a vision Nell naked, frantically washing off the scent of sex under a stream of warm water, maybe rubbing a bar of scented soap between her legs. If they had been alone, he’d have joined her by now. Good thing a stiff apron could cover a stiffie, now likely to melt like ice on a barbecue grill with her mom in the house.
Nell appeared with her short dark hair slicked back, her small but perfect body swathed in only a large terry bathrobe. She smelled of flowers, those kind that looked like little bells, ah—lily of the valley. His erection didn’t go away.
Ann Abbott sat perched on the edge of the sofa. She picked a small object off the floor. “Did you lose an earring, dear?”
“That would be mine, ma’am. It’s a stud. From my tuxedo shirt. I don’t wear earrings, not that I have anything against men who do. I was in the wedding and wanted to get comfortable afterwards so I took the studs out. Coffee?” Joe held up the pot again.
Ann put her hand down on the sofa and stooped to pluck another stud from the floor. “They are all over the place and the upholstery has a damp spot.”
“That would be mine, too. I mean I knocked the studs onto the rug while I was trying to get Nell to take a little water. Then, I spilled the water trying to pick up the studs. I can be clumsy.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Abbott as if she really did. “Actually, Gary said you had fine feet in reference to your football playing, I believe. Which reminds me, Gary is waiting in the car. I told him I was going to drop off the food, not visit. He thinks I visit too much.”
She stood and walked towards the door. “I’m glad you and Nell made up. She can be overly sensitive about her—past. You will take good care of her, won’t you, Joe? Make sure she eats some of that food.”
“I will, Mrs. Abbott. Don’t you worry.” He closed the door behind Nell’s mother and relocked the deadbolt. “Coffee,” he offered the pot in Nell’s direction, “or should I make a fresh pot?”
Nell sank into her overstuffed chair, tucked her legs beneath her and checked her robe to make sure it closed over all parts of her body. “Give my parents a chance to get out of the lot and then you can go.”
“I think we should have coffee.” Joe filled the two mugs that had been sitting on the counter for a couple of hours. “Sugar?”
“Don’t call me that,” Nell snapped.
“For your coffee. I’m afraid to ask if you want milk.”
“Sorry. Black is fine. Assign me a number. What would I be? Ninety-one or two? Then, go. Your irresistibility is affirmed.”
He handed her a mug and, avoiding the damp spot on the sofa, sat on the arm nearest her chair. She took a sip and winced at the bitterness of the dark roast made too strong when she thought she had a drunken man to get sober.
“The number would be in the nineties if I had done those girls on the island. I sort of got hung up in the early eighties, but I can’t give you a number.”
“How about stars? How many stars did I get?”
“You know about the stars?”
“Doesn’t every man who has a little black book give stars? So how many?”
“I can’t rate you.”
“Why not?”
“Because that was, well, not a pity fuck, more like an anger fuck if there is such a thing. I never had one of those before—not that it wasn’t great.”
“Joe, Joe, Joe. I had it all together before you came into my life. Now, I’m a mess again.” She placed the coffee mug on the table and used her hands to cover her face.
“You’re not like the other women. Don’t say so.”
She tried to straighten him out. “You know, all those other women, whether bored with their everyday sex life or out for a thrill or just plain curious, have life stories, dreams, careers, hopes of marrying and having families.”
“But you had—”
“Cancer. It’s a disease, not an excuse, though heaven knows I used it that way for a while.”
“When I took those girls on vacation, I got to know them a little since we weren’t doing anything else. One was funny. One was sad. She hated how she looked. Two were proud of how well they did their jobs. It’s a new way of thinking about women for me. I know I been spoiled by fame and my sisters. I was the big football stud in high school and college like that Brady dude. Say, are we talking about Brady Grant who played for Ole Miss? We beat the hell out of him when I played for LSU. He never made it to the pros. Weak knees.”
“That would be Brady. I am so ashamed I told you that stuff.”
Joe lifted her, settled into the chair and placed her on his lap. “Sugar, if we are talking about shame, you got nothing on me. Coach says I should try to settle down with one or two women. I think I’d like to give that a try. Are you willing?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Who the other woman is.”
“Lord help me. This one is funny, too. We need to go back to the bedroom and give this another try before I bust up laughing.”
TEN
The fresh tabloids came out early in the week. Joe usually ignored them as he walked past the newsstand on his way to get hot beignets for breakfast, but this morning his name fairly jumped off the page. “Billodeaux Drunk at Best Friend’s Wedding. Takes Home Teenage Girl for Sex.”
The picture of Stevie and Connor exiting their limousine at the Fairmont looked pretty nice. Unfortunately, the paparazzo had gotten a good single shot of Nell in her floaty dress and little white sandals. She did look very young and childlike. Taken at an angle with his bow tie askew and dinner jacket flapping open as he pursued Nell, Joe appeared very drunk. That did not bother him. He had been photographed carousing when he served as reserve quarterback for the Sinners, but he had watched the booze very carefully since he became the starter, the Super Bowl winning starter. He seized a copy and paid the blind paper seller.
Joe’s anger rose as he stood reading in a long take-out line extended by a busload of elderly, sightseeing women dropped off at the Café du Monde for breakfast. Once he had grabbed his greasy bag of donuts and large go-cup of café au lait, Joe charged back to his condo. Tourists gave way before him as if he were a tanker cutting through Mississippi waters. He had his game face on and could not to be bothered. Those who recognized Joe Dean Billodeaux snapped pictures they would later narrate by saying, “I was almost run down by the Sinners’ quarterback right there in the French Quarter. You can see the statue of Andy Jackson just behind him.”
He used up half an hour getting through to a tabloid editor with enough clout to authorize a retraction. Joe finished his coffee and wiped the powdered sugar from his fingers as he made his demands.
“Look, I don’t care what you say about me, but you leave Nell alone. She’s no teenager. I don’t do teenagers. She’s twenty-five and has a responsible job at Ochsner’s Hospital.”
“How do you spell her last name?” the editor asked.
Joe hung up. He should have known better than to mess with the press himself. He’d call the Sinners’ PR department. They knew how to put out fires by stomping on the fuel. Who would be mean enough to do the best job? Margaret Stutes of course.
Joe found his black book. The cover had gathered a thin layer of dust over the last few weeks, but no matter, he knew Margaret had signed listing both her office and cell numbers so she could be reached day or night.
Where would Margaret be at nine on a sweltering June morning? Probably in her air-conditioned office where she thought up good ways to keep the Sinners in the news during the off-season—nice things like having players visit the Boys and Girls Club or hold day long football camps for little kids. As the phone rang, Joe thought he might suggest that he go visit sick children at Ochsner. He should learn to be more comfortable in that sort of situation like the Rev was.
A young man answered the phone. Had he called her cell by mistake and gotten the second-string lineman Margaret cultivated? What the hell. “Is Margaret around? Tell her Joe Dean is calling.”
“Margaret? Oh, Ms. Stutes. No, she is no longer with the Sinners organization. This is Shawn Kyle. They gave me her office,” the voice reported with glee. “I would be more than happy to help you with anything, Mr. Billodeaux.”
“What happened to Margaret?”
“Ms. Stutes said she was taking a long vacation, then starting her own agency in the fall. She expected to come into some money. I would love to help you, Joe Dean.”
Shawn seemed a little too eager and a mite limp in the wrists even over the phone to do what Joe wanted done. “Ah, Shawn, could you get together a sack of those little foam footballs, some of the stuffed red devils and a few teddy bears for me to take over to the hospital? I’ll be by to pick them up.”
“I’ll have them ready for you, Joe. Should I arrange for a photographer? I’m much better at this job than Margaret, you know.”
“I’m sure you are, Shawn, but let’s skip the photographer. Thanks for the information.” Joe hung up and considered the situation. He might have to do the stomping himself.
Nell showed some annoyance when paged about a guest who wanted to visit her patients. Do-gooders were always dropping in wanting instant access to the children. She took her time and finished an exit interview with Cassie. The teenager was being released—one of their success stories.
She had asked Mrs. Thomas to wait in the hall at the very end of the conversation in order to have a few private words with the girl. They had been over how others might react when she returned to school in the fall. Nell suggested Cassie find a few summer activities and make some friends, perhaps join a youth group at church, and ease back into a normal teenage social life. Keep in touch with friends she had made in the hospital by all means, but find new ones who would stand by her when classes started.
With Mrs. Thomas safely out of earshot, Nell discussed sexuality. Cassie looked thirteen, but her age and hormones were fifteen. Nell had the personal knowledge to counsel her well. Interview ended, she walked Cassie and her mother to the lobby where she sighted Joe Dean, sprawled in one of the plastic chairs, passing the time by taking little foam footballs from a plastic sack and autographing them with a black marker.
“Hey, Nell. Hey, Sassy,” he greeted them.
“Mr. Joe, you remembered me!” Cassie beamed, the freckles across her nose almost glowing.
“How could I forget you, sugar? The one woman in the world who thinks Connor Riley is sexier than me.”
“Not sexier, more romantic. He didn’t wait for me. I saw his wedding picture in the papers today. I hope Stevie is good enough for him.”
“And then some. Besides, he’ll be a crippled old has-been by the time you grow up. Me, now, I’ll be young and still playing at forty. Maybe you should reconsider who your favorite player is.”
“But I saw you and Miss Nell are—”
Nell could have sworn the child was about to make an obscene gesture with her hands, but Cassie’s mother gave her a look and the gesture changed to two intertwined fingers. “You know, together,” Cassie concluded.
“Sad but true. You might pin your hopes on Jared Forte. He hasn’t settled down yet.”
“Like you have. Well Cassie, call me any time if you need to talk. You have my card.” Nell hugged the girl.
“Bless you, Miss Abbott, for being there for us,” Mrs. Thomas said while grasping Nell’s hand. Her face with its watery blue eyes, faded red hair and freckles, was taut with sincerity. “Come along, Cassie. Your brothers and sisters are waiting to throw you a party.”
“Little kids.” Cassie rolled her eyes. “Got t
o love them. Bye, Mr. Joe. Bye, Miss Nell.” Mother and daughter walked out into the world.
“So, you are the visitor who wants to see my patients.” Nell eyed the sack of toys. “I hope all of those are new and clean because we can’t risk infection with any of the children. You’ll have to scrub up like a surgeon and wear a face mask. Keep the visits brief. We’ll see how you do.” Nell led the way to the elevators.
She remembered seeing Joe over a year ago trailing the Rev and Connor Riley as they visited less critical children. Joe had looked as if he were afraid of catching celiac disease or cerebral palsy, but he’d put his time to good use hitting on the more attractive nurses. Nell had prepared herself to waylay the players before they got to her kids, but the big men turned and got on the elevator before they reached her sector. Joe’s eyes had passed right over her. He’d not made a good first impression. Their meeting at the Super Bowl went even worse, thanks to his cheesy come-on.
Scrubbed and gowned in paper, Joe pulled up his face mask and left the restroom. He caught a glimpse of himself in a window as they passed along a quiet corridor. “Calling Dr. Billodeaux, calling Dr. Billodeaux. Bring that heart you have for transplant to the operating room,” he whispered.
“Stop clowning. Don’t tell anyone to get well soon. These kids aren’t that stupid. They know the odds,” Nell snapped.
“Yes, Miss Nell. Whatever you say, Miss Nell.”
All in all, Joe did fairly well. He asked names and personalized the footballs for little boys with their arms stuck full of needles. He autographed the plastic red devils on their butts and made a few of the kids laugh. Where allowed, he gave out furry teddy bears and signed their ribbons with his name underscored by a tail that ended in a heart.
“Well, that was…” he began.
“Depressing.” Nell filled in his sentence.
“I was going to say uplifting. Okay, it was sad.”