Whatever Life Throws at You

by Julie Cross

  Even in the dark, I can see him roll his eyes before grinning. He removes a shoe and then another, followed by his jeans, revealing his black boxer briefs. I duck underwater after getting a quick glimpse of the Jason Brody package. When I resurface, he’s wading toward me, his abs flexing in response to the cold temperature.

  “This water should help you with that problem you had earlier today.”

  Brody launches himself toward me, pushing my head back under. We come up laughing, and he says, “You’re such a pain.”

  I smile at him in the dark. The lack of light seems to be giving me confidence. “A pain? Like a little sister?”

  He shakes his head, protesting this analogy. My tank top has bunched up under my boobs, and I feel fingers brushing against my bare midsection. Brody gently guides me closer until his mouth can reach mine. Our lips part and his tongue mingles with mine, my hands resting on his face and water dripping from his eyelashes onto my cheeks. I open my eyes in the middle of the kiss, taking in the glow of the moon against his tan skin. The nerves and apprehension I had in his apartment this afternoon vanish.

  I break the kiss and move back just enough to pull my tank top over my head. I bunch it up into a ball and toss it toward the grassy area beside Brody’s jeans and shirt.

  “Okay, this just got a lot more entertaining,” Brody says, his voice rising an octave.

  “You sound nervous.” I step closer, trying to avoid the pointy rocks on the bottom of the lake. My fingers graze his stomach and then his sides. “Are you nervous?”

  He shakes his head, his eyes focused downward on the water between us. His hands travel from my hipbones slowly up and over my stomach. Another shiver moves down my spine. His thumbs brush the bottom of my bra and stop there.

  I close my eyes and bite back the too-revealing sigh that’s about to escape my lips. I take Brody’s fingers and tug them around my back until they land on the clasp of my bra. He gets the hint and, with one hand, unfastens it, causing the white satin material to float up to the surface. My eyes had been focused on Brody’s chest, but he places a finger under my chin and lifts it until our eyes meet. I suck in a breath and hold it while he slips the straps down my arms until my boobs are half exposed, half underwater. The bra gets pushed to the side to float away. It’s one of my favorites, but I couldn’t care less.

  He’s still got his gaze locked with mine, probably using his gifted intuition to read my mood. To make sure I’m not uncomfortable.

  Brody places a hand on my lower back and gently guides our bodies together until my chest is pressed against his warmth. Then he dips his head and kisses up and down my neck, one hand drifting lower over my black panties. The water starts to feel so much warmer, and I’m completely lost in the moment, my cheek now resting against his chest, my own fingers toying with the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs.

  I’m about to dip my hand inside but chicken out at the last minute and instead, I tentatively move my fingers over the front of his underwear, feeling him through the material. The inquisition of this act, of applying what I’m feeling between my fingers to guess what it might look like temporarily distracts me from noticing anything else—like Brody’s heart rate doubling against my cheek or even his fingers brushing along my inner thigh.

  I lift my head from his chest and look up at him. “It’s not quite as intimidating as I imagined. Private parts of public figures…”

  His forehead touches mine, and he laughs lightly despite his now uneven breathing. He finds my free hand underwater and laces his fingers through mine. “I love…” he says, dragging out the words in dramatic fashion. “Your hands. And your boobs. They’re perfect.”

  I’m almost laughing too hard to kiss him, but then he pulls my mouth to his and cuts me off. My hand explores him with a little more courage, pressing firmly against the front of his underwear until he’s breathing too rapidly to keep his lips glued to mine.

  Brody gets just as lost as I do in this adventure, and suddenly his hand is touching me, moving in gentle but firm motions over my panties. My forehead rests near his shoulder and it only takes a minute or two for him to finish me and another thirty seconds for me to reciprocate. And once he’s caught his breath, we’re kissing again, our half-naked bodies pressed together, and I’m waiting for the spell to wear off, for me to start freaking out because holy shit I just gave Jason Brody a hand job. Well, technically I haven’t handled him, and I guess technically he didn’t handle me.

  But seriously, he totally handled me. Like a pro.

  After a few minutes of some more awesome kissing, my teeth start chattering. Brody holds onto me with one hand and reaches through the water to retrieve my bra with the other. My gaze stays focused on his while I fasten it back on. I keep thinking, the second I look away, it’s going to get awkward again.

  We make our way back to the grassy area, and Brody pulls his shirt over my head. The sleeves go past my elbows and it hangs down to the back of my thighs. We both stretch out in the grass to dry off, and after a couple minutes of comfortable silence, Brody says, “I did not plan on that happening.”

  I rest my hands behind my head and stare up at the sky, laughing. “Me neither.”

  He leans on one elbow, facing me. “Totally not complaining. In fact, I think we should come here every single night. And mornings, too. Maybe an occasional lunch.”

  My whole body shakes from laughing. I reach up and bring his face closer so I can kiss his cheek. “You are intimidatingly handsome. I’m just now getting used to looking at you.”

  Brody smiles and kisses my lips. “And you are intimidatingly pretty.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “I wish I didn’t look like her.”

  “I don’t see any resemblance.” He lifts the borrowed T-shirt and slides down and kisses the exposed skin right between my boobs, then he lays his ear against my chest. I immediately set my fingers into his dark hair and comb them through it.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?” I say, waiting for him to stiffen or look serious again, but he’s like a relaxed rag doll lying half on top of me.

  “Ask me anything you want, Annie,” he mumbles.

  “I’m wondering if,” I say, biting back any hesitation, “you’ve had a girl handle your parts and totally do it wrong? Like the worst hand job ever?”

  “Not possible.” He lifts his head just enough to kiss my neck and then rest it on me again. “I mean, we’re not talking about violent acts or anything, are we? Because I guess that could happen, hypothetically.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of accidental failures, not intentional.”

  “Nope, not possible,” he repeats.

  “Well, I’ve definitely had my own episode of fingers gone wrong,” I admit.

  “Douchebag boys,” he mumbles against my skin. “Just stick with me; you’ll be fine.”

  Warmth that has nothing to do with the air temperature spreads all over me. It’s such a simple statement. I don’t want to read too much into it, but I can’t help feeling so many things all at once.

  Maybe even the L-word.

  Chapter 22

  “Holy shit,” Lenny says, pulling her eyes away from the road to study my face, probably making sure I’m not messing with her. “You and Brody? Seriously?”

  We’re both still in our community service clothing—old T-shirts, gym shoes, and jean shorts all speckled with blue and white paint. Today was our final six hours of community service, so of course Johnson sent his camera crew. The car ride to the stadium for the game today is the first chance I’ve had to fill Lenny in on my recent life’s drama.

  And she wanted to go home and change first, which would have made us late to the game, but I convinced her that showing up in these clothes would piss off both our moms. She couldn’t resist that temptation. And yes, Mom is attending the game today, and she’s sitting with us. I’m super excited about that.

  I swallow hard, already feeling anxious having this secret in the hands of one
other person. Especially given my lack of experience in sharing secrets with girlfriends. “You seriously can’t tell anyone, Len. Promise?”

  “Of course,” she says. “I’m just shocked by the fact that I got it all wrong.”

  I sigh and rest my head on the back of the seat. Being away from Brody for several hours or days causes that I-don’t-care-about-my-fears-or-the-complications feeling to wear off and the anxiety to creep in. Things like worrying about what the hell we’re doing and what it’s going to do to me if it’s a long-term thing or, worse, if it’s not. “I’m just as shocked as you are, if that helps any.”

  Lenny releases a breath, revealing a level of tension and concern I hadn’t anticipated from her. I figured we’d dive right in to the kiss-and-tell stories.

  “He’ll get raked over the coals if this gets out,” she says.

  My heart sinks. “Yeah, I know.”

  “And you’ll be painted the teenage victim of a sexual deviant ball player who likes to use his power and fame to prey on innocent young girls.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my throbbing temples in a clockwise motion. “He’s still a sexual deviant, even if there hasn’t been any sex involved in this story?”

  Lenny glances at me again, her eyebrows lifted way up. “There hasn’t been any sex yet. And no one cares what actually happened. It’s perceived under the ‘relations’ umbrella.”

  Relations. We’ve definitely had relations. My mind instantly drifts to last night in the lake, and I can feel Brody’s hands on me all over again—the warmth of his fingers in contrast to the cold water, the tentative way he approached me, hesitating before sliding my bra straps down my arms. And then the moment when we both shifted to that abandoned freedom when my hands drifted south. I rub my arms, pressing the goose bumps back into my skin. I’d do it all over again right now if I could. But this time I’d probably be brave enough to actually put my hand inside his underwear instead of leaving it outside. Or I’d just strip the boxer briefs off of him. Now I can’t stop picturing his Calvin Kleins floating in the lake water beside my white bra.

  Just as quickly as the memory came on, the feeling I had lying beside Brody in the grass replaces the other image.

  Nausea hits hard. I can’t be in this deep, this quick, can I? I rub the tightness from my chest. Now all I can think about is Dad. Dad after he’s been run over by Mom—him sitting on the couch among a sea of newspapers and dishes, staring at the TV, eyes glazed over. Those memories go almost as far back as I can remember.

  I can’t turn into that.

  I shoot upright in my seat and turn to Lenny. “I’m gonna break things off with him. He’ll understand…I mean, Jesus, he’s Jason freaking Brody; plenty of women will be willing to swim around in a lake with him and give him hand jobs, right?”

  Lenny lifts an eyebrow as if to say, yeah, I’m not answering that question. “So you’re just going to tell him what? That it’s too risky?”

  I blow out a breath, my heart already breaking but my head filling with resolve. “Yes, it’s too risky, and I still want to be friends.”

  “Friends?”

  “Friends,” I say, sounding more determined than I feel. “If anybody can stay friends after…well, after what we did together, it’s us.”

  She shakes her head. “Good luck.”

  We pull up to the valet guy who parks cars for the players and families on game days. We both hop out, and Lenny hands over her keys to the guy. It’s ninety degrees outside, so I’m grateful for the air-conditioned suites we get to sit in and watch the game, but still both of us take our time walking inside, knowing the moms are waiting.

  “So what’s your plan?” she asks me. “Just don’t tell anyone after you break things off? Not even your dad?”

  For a few seconds, I let myself fantasize about telling Dad that I have a new boyfriend and his name is Jason Brody and it’s probably best that we don’t tell anyone outside of the family. And Dad’s affection for Brody would make this so easy and keep him from worrying about me being with some asshole guy he doesn’t know very well. But deep down, I know the truth. Dad hasn’t ever considered the possibility of the two of us being together, or else he wouldn’t have let Brody hang out with me or give me rides. He would have had some negative reaction when I mentioned studying together last week. Telling him would be like yanking a big giant rug out from underneath him.

  Yet another reason to end it.

  “And when are you going to tell Brody?” Lenny drills. “After the game?”

  “Actually, I’m gonna put it on the Jumbotron,” I snap, and then quickly apologize. “Sorry.”

  “There you are, honey!” Mom rushes over to me and gives me one of her big annoying hugs. She pulls back just enough to see my face. “Isn’t this exciting!”

  Lenny’s completely fascinated by the idea of Mom from my descriptions. She sticks a hand out to introduce herself, and I dart around them, ignoring the free food. I’ll be starving to death when Lenny and I leave later, but now I can’t even fathom eating a bite of food. God, why did I let this happen? And why did I have to like it so much?

  While I’m standing nearly pressed against the glass window, pretending to watch the game closely, I catch bits and pieces of Lenny using her Lenny London charm to press my mom for specifics on this sketchy play she’s supposedly been cast in.

  “So it’s like Mamma Mia?”

  “Well, I suppose that could be a good comparison, but a few less songs. It’s very cutting edge. A really young, talented writer and director.”

  During the first two innings, Brody is in the bullpen warming up with Dad. But at the start of the third inning, he jogs out to the field with the rest of the team. This is the first home game I can stare at him shamelessly and think inappropriate thoughts. Before, I was always afraid he’d make eye contact with me again like he had that first game.

  Except now that I’ve decided that we shouldn’t do inappropriate things together anymore, I can’t really enjoy this freedom.

  The chatter around me dissolves when Brody faces the first batter. I zoom in on number eleven. He uses the sleeve of his jersey to wipe sweat from his forehead. They all must be dying out there. It’s still late afternoon, and the sun is relentlessly beating down on the players.

  Brody strikes out the first two batters with six straight fastballs, then Dad gives him a new signal. Brody’s face tenses, and he shakes off whatever pitch the catcher has just suggested. He throws another fastball.

  98 mph.

  The Angels’ batter manages to tip it, but it’s a foul ball. Brody throws another strike.

  99 mph.

  Brody shakes off the next pitch, prepping with his usual stance. Our catcher keeps shifting around like someone is changing the plan on him. Brody throws another pitch, and the Angels’ batter swings way too late.

  100 mph.

  The crowd gets on their feet to cheer, but I’m not sure which is causing more excitement—the fact that we’ve gotten three outs and we’re up to bat now or that Brody just threw a freaking hundred-mile-an-hour pitch.

  My gaze follows Brody as he jogs into the dugout. I shouldn’t stare at his ass in those white pants, but I can’t help myself. His head drops the second he gets near Dad. There’s no clap on the back for cranking out a hundred-mile-an-hour pitch, not to mention three outs in a row.

  Oh no…please don’t tell me we’ve been outed.

  Frank does give Brody’s shoulder a squeeze, and he says something that looks like good job from up here. But Dad doesn’t even make eye contact. My heart is flying when he leaves Brody on the bench and heads to the bullpen to instruct some of the other guys. For the first time that I’ve witnessed, Dad has three relief pitchers actually stopping and looking at him while he offers instruction, using words I can’t hear and hand motions and body movements that mean nothing to me.

  Obviously he’s only ticked at one person. Oh boy, this is bad. Very bad.

  Brody’s got a wet towel
over his head, a fan blowing hard on him. He looks like someone who just struck out, not a pitcher who banged out nine strikes in a row.

  If only I could sit down there with him and ask him what’s wrong. I lift my hand to the glass, pressing my thumb against the surface. It’s only a little bit smaller than Brody’s head from all the way up here. I close my eyes and sigh, knowing I’ve just been defeated by my own self.

  There’s no way I’m ending this thing with Brody today. I’ll never get the words out without wanting to touch him, kiss him…yeah, it’s not happening.

  Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll dump me first. Seems fitting, considering I’m the one who is in the deepest.

  Or if Dad has somehow managed to find out about us, then it’ll be over for sure.

  The noise level in the suites skyrockets. I peel my eyes from the dugout and realize that First Base just hit a homerun and there’s now finally a score to be put onto the scoreboard. I glance at Lenny over my shoulder. She sees me and rolls her eyes.

  By the ninth inning, Brody’s still throwing fastballs, though more in the mid-nineties and less near a hundred miles per hour, but he still looks tense and Dad doesn’t appear to be any more enthusiastic with him. He’s also still shaking off pitches.

  I’m glued to this last inning, dying to figure out what the hell is going on behind the scenes, when Mom approaches me with one of the publicists I’ve met a couple times while helping Savannah.

  “Come on, Annie,” she says, steering me away from the window. “Daddy wants us down on the field after the game’s over.”

  I open my mouth to protest going anywhere with Mom, but the publicist beside her nods to me, as if to say that it’s a legit request and now we both have to put up with Mom. Amy, the publicist, hands me a Royals Jersey, ironically with Brody’s number eleven, and a matching hat. “Just put this over your, um…shirt,” she says, eyeing my old, paint-speckled T-shirt.

  Since I have on a sports bra, I decide to discard the old T-shirt while walking behind Mom and Amy. The jersey is one of the expensive replica ones, and it smells like golf balls. I pull it over my head and then realize Lenny and her mom are also behind us. Lenny’s sporting the Royals’ blue and white now, too, only hers is number twenty-four, First Base.