The Pact (Chicago Nights Book 2)

by Natalie Wrye

  We each had two weeks to reach our goals: Me as a confident and carefree person, and Sawyer as the chaste ‘good guy’ he’d never been before.

  Maybe Ros was right. Maybe I could meet a man tonight.

  Then I wouldn’t need Sawyer’s help.

  The thought is tempting…if not a little depressing, and I don’t know why.

  Swiping wet strands of my dark hair out of my face, I slump against the shower-tiled wall, defeat pressing down on my shoulders.

  Caught somewhere between the old Naomi and the new one, I feel like I’m battling both—the two versions of myself vying over my soul. And I’m still not sure which one will win.

  Showering fast, I hop out of the confined stall, determined to find out tonight with (hopefully) a new man…even with the blush of my daydream of Sawyer still staining my cheeks.

  Chapter 15

  SAWYER

  Saturday evening

  Naomi never answered my text message this morning. And I can’t keep my heart from racing.

  My driver pulls up, and I sling my bags in the back of another Escalade, checking my phone for the fortieth time.

  It’s been twenty-four hours. And still no word.

  The sun settles ominously on the cityscape, signaling the upcoming start of tonight’s Cougars game against the Fever, and that’s exactly what settles inside my skin the second I slip into the truck’s back seat, pulling a Cougars cap over my messy hair, body heating at the knowledge, after everything, she’s ignoring me.

  And that it affects me this way.

  A part of me hates myself for not taking her to bed…like I should have.

  Unable to restrain from sporting wood around the smart-tongued assistant, I know I should stay away as much possible. Keep my distance for the both of us.

  Keep this pact intact.

  But as I direct my driver to her apartment to make good on our promise of “dating practice,” I realize there’s no keeping my thoughts at bay, no mental distance far enough to stop the memories of our kiss last night.

  I imagined that my thoughts would be on tonight’s Cougar game in New York that I’m missing, but that’s not the case. I can’t concentrate.

  But for the first time in a long ass time, it has nothing to do with baseball and everything to do with my daydreams of Naomi. Filthy intermittent flashes of pinning the sassy brunette to my mattress.

  I’m a fucking mess.

  An erection makes itself known beneath my gray sweatpants and it takes all of my energy not to grab it and say her name. Not to stroke and slide my palm along my thickening length, imagining it was in Naomi’s slick center.

  And for God’s sake, the woman is off-limits.

  I’d assured Emily and Stephan of that much when they finally got a hold of me this morning, their inquisitive gazes seeming to see right through me.

  But telling myself that I can’t, that I won’t have sex with Naomi, doesn’t stop my libido from thinking about licking her between her rounded hips. Tempted to wrap a hand around my hard-on, I’m almost seconds from doing just that in the darkened back seat when my phone starts ringing, stopping my fingers short.

  I groan out loud.

  “What?”

  “Now, now.” Danica pipes up on the other line, her voice the epitome of mock-sophistication. “You keep answering the phone like that when I call, and you won’t get that Asshole of the Year trophy like I promised.”

  I lean my head back, staring at the truck’s dark ceiling, smiling. “Oh, yeah. Surely I wouldn’t be able to take the utter heartache at missing out on that.”

  “You joke. Wait until you see the polish and shine I’ve put on this award. It’s got a sculpture of your face on the side.”

  “Just so we wouldn’t mix up the recipient of said award with anyone else.”

  “Naturally.” She chuckles low, the cultivated sound belying her twenty-two years. Her lilting voice nearly sings. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Uh, no, actually. I’m just on my way to, uh, meet a friend.”

  “Ohhh,” she croons out loud. “Of course. That explains why you’ve got the rough edge to your voice. The way you sound when you’re caught in the middle of masturbating.”

  I stiffen. “Dani, what the hell…? How would you know, anyhow?”

  “Because our rooms were next to each other growing up, Sawyer. And unfortunately, for me, I burst into your room more times than I care to count, where you’d have to throw a quick sheet over the lotion you were secretly hiding.”

  “Okay, feel free to hang up on yourself, so I don’t have to. And while you’re at it, you might want to research ways to be less gross.”

  “I have. Don’t you remember?” I hear her grin. “And despite years of Dad trying to turn me into a ‘proper little lady’ as he’d call it, it didn’t take. I’m just as gross as ever.”

  “So I see. Any chance we can talk about literally anything else on the planet?” I gaze out the window at the passing city. “Seriously. I will pay you to change the subject.”

  “Speaking of masturbating…” she begins.

  “Okay, what do I have to do to make sure you don’t say another word?”

  She laughs again, her musical voice light, but this time her words are clipped, more serious. “You know, you really could use a girlfriend, Saw. Or date a woman whose head isn’t filled with Helium. That might help.”

  “I like my women like that, thank you for very much.”

  “You belong in a case study, you know that,” she pauses, tone dipping for effect, “Someone should do research on your brain and why it’s stuck on just two things: Baseball and women’s anatomy—one no more than the other.”

  “Well, I have been compared to an ape. I’d probably make the perfect testing specimen.”

  “My guess is that the person who made the comparison…was a very smart woman. ‘Step right on up, folks. See Sawyer Kennedy the talking animal. Come enjoy the circus act. Please, don’t all stare at once,’” she announces.

  I laugh. “I know, I know. I’m working on it. So, what’s going on, Dani? Still trouble in paradise with Dad?”

  “You make it sound like we’re married.”

  “You might as well be. After mom, he practically pushed you to take her place.” I snort, muttering softly. “I know it’s a lot.”

  “Mmm,” she mutters, seeming to muse. “But that’s Dad. I never held it against him. I knew who he was.” She hesitates. “Maybe you could talk to him sometime… See how he’s doing for yourself.”

  My heart drops, dive-bombing into my stomach. I cough. “Me? Talk to Dad? Come on, now, Dani. Now you know that’s an impossibility. We just don’t get along. Not for a helluva long time, anyway.”

  “Look, you don’t have to say it. I know you miss Mom. And I know you had a whole field’s worth of stuff in common with her rather than Dad, Saw; that’s no secret. But the truth is…you’ve never gone easy on him. Not even not once in the last twelve years,” she says, sighing, the words as heavy as her breath. She inhales with a hiss. “The man lost his wife. It only makes sense that he checked out on himself.”

  I tighten my teeth, jaw jutting as I try my damnedest not to yell. Dani’s attempt at playing matchmaker always puts me in these moods. Especially when it comes to Dad.

  “My problem isn’t that he checked out on himself. My problem with him is that he checked out on us. He could barely hold down a job. Spent his days on the sofa, drinking Mad Dog forties and muttering to himself. The perfect role model. A true Kennedy.”

  “You know the two of you are not so different.”

  “Say two more words like that, and I’m hanging up, Dani, I swear. I’m nothing like our old man. And if you’d moved to Chicago with me, you would see for yourself. You would see how different things can be.”

  She says nothing for a second, the silence simmering with her high-browed anger, my very cerebral, very sophisticated little sis reining in her mood. “I won’t abandon him.”<
br />
  “Like me, you mean?” I shift in the seat, readjusting my cap, the skin underneath my neck growing warm. “You know you can just come out and say it, Dani. We don’t have to beat around the bush here.”

  “You know more than I do, Saw, that responsibility was never really your strong suit. I know that, too. But you just gotta stop being so judgmental when it comes to Dad. Or when it comes to realizing that maybe responsibility was never his strong suit, either.” She clicks her tongue, the sound sharp. “He’s changing, you know… Dad is.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  Danica pauses. “He has a new girlfriend, you know.”

  I hesitate, finding it weirdly hard to breathe, inhaling deeply at the thought. I readjust my cap on my head. “Our father? You must be mistaken.”

  “There’s no mistake. Dad’s actually seeing someone. And I think Hell’s officially frozen over.”

  “How the hell do you figure that? Thought the man forgot that other human beings exist.”

  “Because I called his new secretary. And she spilled the beans,” she laughs softly, the tone tinkling. “He’s got a new job. New secretary. New woman.” She hesitates, her voice going high. “Sounds like someone else I know…”

  I beat a hand on my armrest, inhaling the evening Chicago air. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean…you’re seeing someone. Clearly.”

  “Your sports psych degree is getting a hell of a workout there, Dani. Because what in the psychoanalyzing Hell would have you thinking that?”

  “Well,” Danica starts as my driver turns another corner heading towards Naomi’s place, my heart thudding harder the closer we get. It’s thundering even now. “There was someone there the last time I called. You’re on edge, like you’re getting ready to explode. And there’s gotta be something on your mind besides the suspension to put you in this scarily happy mood you’ve been in tonight.”

  Dan exhales loudly, the sound a whistle in my ear. She waits. “I know you, Saw. I know you more than anyone. And believe it or not: I know a thing or two about romance. It’s only when people are going through something with someone they really care about that they start swinging this low.”

  I sigh out loud, sliding a hand over my baseball cap. I grip its edge.

  Dani was right.

  I was never the best at hiding my emotions anyway. Not to mention ones like these.

  I was unusually gruff tonight—short-tempered and heated. Seconds ago, I’d chalked it up to Dad and the attitude I got every time he was mentioned.

  But to be truthful, there was another reason I was filled with fire, another reason I was two seconds from biting Danica’s head off every time she spoke.

  And that reason was centered solely around the woman who, with no subtlety, was hinting that she wanted nothing to do with me tonight.

  But that’s exactly why I never believed in relationships, in marriage. It was exactly these types of ‘entanglements’ that were capable of making you swing that low. Capable of turning you into a shell of your former self. Capable of changing you.

  I didn’t want to be changed. Not like my dad had been.

  Not for the worst.

  I bite my tongue. “Look, Dani, I gotta go.”

  “Again? This is literally the third time in as many days that you’ve rushed me off the phone, Saw.” She pauses a beat. “Is this about that friend of yours you said you were on your way to see?”

  Friend. I could laugh. There’s nothing ‘friendly’ about the things I want to do Naomi Silva.

  I save my little sister from that part. “Maybe. We’ll talk later, Squirt, I promise.”

  “Ugh, you only call me Squirt when you’re trying to get out of trouble, big bro. Don’t think I can’t see right through that. You are definitely getting a psychoanalysis with me the next time I see you.” She pauses a beat. “Which had better be soon.”

  “Soon enough. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Cutting the call is harder than the last time, and I set the phone on the leather seat, leaning back, opening the window even more to look out at the city.

  Jesus Christ, it’s beautiful here at night. And I never get tired of it.

  The smell of Lake Michigan sweeps through the city air, lapping through the streets. The business district and the Loop are bustling this time of night, teeming with townies and tourists, and I nearly stick my head out of the moving vehicle to soak in the aroma, to gather in the feel of all that Chicago has been to me.

  A sanctuary. A savior. Sanity. And rebirth…after all that had happened in Buffalo.

  Even on a long day of training and preparing my body for post-suspension, I can marvel at my home away from home as we shuttle past Michigan Ave over the many bridges crossing the Calumet rivers in a twisted grid of gold light and shiny steel.

  It's been a long day as it is, made longer the second I heard my father's name.

  And with the trade cut-off date just around the corner, I know I need my head on straight more than ever…and off the Cougars’ chopping block, for good measure.

  I know that step one to keep a cool head…is to control the smaller one in my pants.

  Problem is…my cock keeps forgetting the memo.

  And as I cross the last bridge out of the Loop and into Naomi’s neighborhood on the Lower West side of Chicago, I can’t help feeling like my brain has forgotten the memo, too.

  Because Naomi Silva? She’s a curve ball I didn’t see coming.

  My driver pulls up to the curb outside her building, and I can’t hop out fast enough, my feet taking on a mind of their own. Marching up to the building’s front door, there’s no denying to myself that I want much more than “dating practice” with Naomi.

  I’m just not sure what that “more” is.

  Chapter 16

  NAOMI

  Saturday night

  I think I remember now why I never go to parties.

  If I wanted to puncture my eardrums tonight, I’m sure I could have found better ways to do it.

  Ros and I never made it to The Drake. Cougar marketing duty called and she wound up working overtime, leaving me waiting for her at a popular club downtown called Soca with a crowd inside that drives me to drink.

  Ros would kill me if she saw me now.

  In my ‘Saturday best’ of a black halter and hip-hugging jeans, I sidle up again to the sleek black bar, waving at the bartender. Out of all Ros’s clit-whipping plans tonight, the only person I’ve made friends with…is the guy who serves the drinks, and when I make it back to my sequestered corner of the shiny aluminum surface, he’s right there, elbows planted on the bar, a crooked smile on his sympathetic face.

  “Get you anything else, love?

  It’s not a question. More like a call of concern.

  The only drink I’ve ordered tonight is one glass of red wine.

  I’m pretty sure I have PTSD from the night I ate the Alchemist floor, and for all the reasons I can’t even voice, I can’t find it in me to leave the tiny square foot of space I’ve been occupying all night.

  Even the British bartender who’s been kind enough to feed me limes with my wine looks at me in pity, probably wondering why I’m acting as if glue has my feet stuck to the floor.

  I finger my wine glass, tapping its stem. “I think I’m okay, actually. Just going to enjoy this here glass of wine.”

  He cocks a brow. “But not the dance floor?”

  “Oh, I’m not the biggest dancer.”

  Lies. I’m from Little Havana-Latin roots. Dancing is in my blood. But somehow the notion feels silly without a partner.

  I don’t tell British Bartender guy that.

  But he smirks down at me anyhow. “So who’s the guy, then?”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy who’s got you down in the mouth. The guy who’s preventing you from—how do you Americans put it?—spanking the planks out there?”

  I laugh. “I don’t think any Americans have put it t
hat way since nineteen-ninety-four. But I get your point.” I raise my glass of half-filled wine. “Well, if you really want to know the truth, I’m just trying to make it through this night in one piece. I told my friend that I’d join her here for drinks tonight, and… Here’s me.” I point at my chest. “And here’s my drink. So, mission accomplished.”

  “And the mission didn’t include any fun?”

  “I didn’t see it explicitly written out on the itinerary.”

  “Look,” the messy-haired bartender leans closer, motioning for my ear as if to tell a secret. I lean in. “You look like a nice girl. Really, you do. And nice girls deserve to have fun, too. So, go out there. Hit the dance floor. Put down that sad glass of wine and show whatever guy who rejected you that you’re capable of having a good time.”

  I want to correct him. I want to yell at cutie McBritish Bartender and let him know that when a girl’s in a melancholy mood that it doesn’t mean that it has anything to do at all with a man.

  Except he’s right.

  At least about me.

  And technically, I was the one who did the rejecting. But that’s neither here nor there. I stand straighter, nodding as the bartender goes back to making his drinks.

  Sucking down my last lime, I finish the wine in my glass, reaching for my purse. The compact mirror inside tells me that my mascara and red lipstick are still on, and I stash them away, finally turning towards the dance floor, my stomach tying into my knots.

  I’m moments from escaping from my private little corner when a hand on my arm makes me jump almost ten feet in the air. Until I see the blond hair attached.

  I smile wide. “Chris!”

  “Guilty as charged.” The bartender from the Alchemist grins back, his blue eyes ablaze. “And what the hell are you doing here?”

  “You say that like I’m allergic to clubs.”

  “I say that like I’ve never seen you go to one.” He taps the cocktail in his hand. “Like ever. Like never ever, wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-in-one…”

  “Alright, alright.” I hold up a hand, making him hush. I laugh. “I get your point. What are you doing here?”