by Natalie Wrye
My kitty. My ‘no-sex’ guide. My sanctuary.
Naomi Silva.
The only woman who wants nothing to do with me.
Chapter 28
SAWYER
Thursday night
Theoretically, the blonde I find at the bar tonight to numb my brain and body is damn near perfect. Too bad this liquor isn’t.
The gin burns my tongue more than I thought it would. The taste of that and the tonic I had earlier is bitter on my tongue, and for the four hundredth time since my entire world turned upside down, I wonder just how the hell I’ve allowed myself to get here.
To this point of drunkenness. To hanging on the cusp of becoming that has-been athlete and ruined man I’d never wanted to be.
And if it weren’t for Naomi Silva, I can’t say that any of this would have ever happened.
But I’m one week too late for that. Not to mention minus one shirt.
The anti-Naomi I picked up earlier coos towards me in a molasses-like drawl. She’s sugar, spice and everything sinful, but on a night like tonight, when my pride hurts, and I’m feeling particularly sorry for myself, everything that normally would make my cock shoot due-north does absolutely shit.
I feel nothing. Nothing but the alcohol in my system, as she stalks towards me in barely-there lingerie, her bubble-gum pink lips pressing into a smile. She gazes down at me.
“I’ve never been with a celebrity before.” She purrs in a strong Southern accent, her words like syrup.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, not particularly interested in her answer.
“Yeah.” She crawls over the mattress, moving slow. “I’ve seen you on TV before. And you looked so. Damn. Strong,” she emphasizes, nearing my comatose figure on the hotel suite’s bed. “Dribbling that basketball in your great, big hands.”
I want to correct her. But I’d have to care first.
My mind is still stuck on Naomi and all the messages she won’t return, when all I’ve been trying to do is forget.
Forget that my career just might be finished. Forget that my friendship—the strongest one I’ve ever had—is blown to bits. Forget the only woman I want doesn’t want me.
Because right now? I do have someone here, company I need to entertain. If only for the night.
I try to smile up at my expecting guest, but the damn expression cracks on my face. Finishing what’s left in my glass, I set it on the nearby nightstand, and I prepare myself to put on a performance. The same performance the Sawyer I used to be put on every night in the hopes of numbing more synapses.
The numbness has threatened to consume me until the night I collided with a gorgeous wide-eyed brunette in my lonely bathroom.
And I had known. Known the second I touched her that I’d set in motion something that just couldn’t be stopped.
The solution?
Well, that was easy. What else was there to do but screw your brains out when the rest of you was already fucked?
Luckily, for me, this southern seductress in my sheets looks up to the task. And she grabs my zipper, sliding it slowly with a firm tug, her smile bright, white teeth flashing as she eyes my unzipping fly with interest. My name is like a moan on her lips.
“How do you like it, Sawyer, baby?”
I close my eyes, the back of my hand hitting my eyelids. I breathe out a deep sigh. “Silent for the most part…if you don’t mind.”
“I can be silent,” she chuckles with a low growl. “But I’m not sure you will be.”
That’d be a first. Most women I’d used to bring to my bed turned out to be screamers.
They’d try to hold out a for a while. Show some restraint, of course.
And once I was bored with whatever ministrations my new pickup tried to put on me, I’d turn the tables as my buzz from the bar wore off.
Delivering multiple orgasms—straight up, no twist, climaxing and leaving each woman deliciously limping out of my front door.
It wasn’t a habit I was always proud of. But I didn’t hear the women complaining.
At least…any women but the one not texting me now.
I’d give anything to have Naomi talk to me, message me, something—even if it was cursing me to the high heavens, calling me every ‘caveman’ synonym in the dictionary (plus a few that aren’t).
It’s the first thought that brings a genuine smile to my face all night. I grin.
“Oh good.” Miss Southern Belle giggles as she climbs atop my body. “That’s only the second sign of interest I’ve gotten from you all night.”
I close my eyes, ignoring the Antebellum Annie attempting to crawl in my lap.
And just like that, at the notion of Naomi screaming at me via text—enraged, “Mini Kennedy” is finally hard, rigid despite the liquid haze that makes my head (the one that isn’t in my pants) extremely light.
I know what I’d do—right now, right here—if this were actually Naomi in my hotel bed.
If this were Naomi, I’d grab her, flipping her to all fours. If this were Naomi, I’d unravel the foil-wrapped condom from my jeans pocket, setting it between my teeth before sending the denim wrapped around my legs to the floor.
Next to go would be t-shirt and boxer briefs, followed by the aluminum as I ripped it apart.
If this were Naomi, every touch would be nothing but sweet on a night like this—sentimental and yet sexy as hell, shooting sparks every single place my lips touched.
I’d stroke two fingers over Naomi’s panties, pulling the lacy threads apart.
And if this were Naomi, she’d already be wet for me. Wet for no one but me.
No one but Sawyer—not the “sports celebrity” woman only saw me as that always make me hate myself just a little bit more.
Reason number two to hate myself a little bit more? I couldn’t even bring home women who knew what sport I played.
Back in the real world, back in reality—a world without Naomi, Miss Georgia Peach begs, her elbows pressing into the mattress. “Come on. Give it to me, Big Daddy. Play me like you play that basketball.”
I roll my eyes. “You can dispense with the Big Daddy stuff, okay? It’s not needed.”
I grab for the gin on the nightstand, swigging it.
And if I were the fraud I’d been before Naomi’s large brown eyes and bow-shaped lips wiggled their way into my life, I’d do it, anyway. I’d sleep with the Southern Barbie. Hating myself all the while.
But right now, I actually give a shit.
About myself. About my behavior. About the asshole I’d become.
Right now, I can’t do any of it.
Not now. Not after Naomi.
Not after knowing what it’s like to like the man staring back at me in the mirror, not after learning the art of intimacy, the skillful bliss of loving someone and hoping to God that you are loved back.
Naomi had given me that gift. And she couldn’t take it back.
The thought of the annoyed enigma I’ve fallen for writhing beneath me instead of Miss Gone with the Wind has me more wound up than ever before, and unable to get the vision of Naomi’s brown eyes and wavy hair out of my mind, I jump out of bed, needing another drink more than oxygen, the southern flavor-of-the-night staring after me, her pink lips in a pout.
I definitely can’t do this. I’m so fucked…and not the good way.
“What’s wrong, Big Daddy? Did I do something wrong? Did I make you angry?”
“I’m not angry,” I call over my shoulder, walking fast. “Just thirsty. And for the last time…” I flail fingers inside the mini-bar fridge, tossing bottles left and right.
What was her name?
Was it Amber? Ashley? Jennifer? Jessica?
I’ll stick to the safest bet. “…darling. You don’t have to call me…”
But the sound of footsteps cuts me off.
There’s a third pair of them heading my way.
I glance over my shoulder to find a cascade of curly hair fifteen feet from me, moving in fast. From between the caramel tendril
s, a pretty face arches both eyebrows at me, and with my hands full of mini-gin bottles, I stare, jaw dropping as a slender figure steps farther into the huge hotel suite.
She holds out both hands as I turn.
“Oh wow. Ben never told me you had a, uh, guest.” She turns to the blonde I’ve picked up at the bar tonight who’s decided to join, outstretching one delicate hand. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” She says to her. “I’m Rosalyn.”
Blondie grins, reaching out her own hand to shake it, her words slurring by the smallest fraction. “Hi Rosalyn. I’m Delilah.”
Delilah. I wasn’t even close.
Didn’t know my memory had gotten that bad. But then again, Delilah was definitely not supposed to last past a night.
I look over at Rosalyn, realizing she’s not supposed to either.
I step forward. “Umm.” I stop, feeling more sober than I’ve been all night. “Rosalyn, how the hell did you get in here? I don’t remember giving you a hotel key.”
She nods. “You’re right. You didn’t. Ben did. He followed you out of the bar. Tipped the doorman downstairs.”
Shit. Ben.
My second-choice of a wingman was shot to hell now. Ben hadn’t just thrown me under the bus; he’s run me over with it, and I was too drunk to realize I was being played.
I sigh. “Wow, okay, so…” I shoot a peek over Rosalyn’s shoulder at the front door. “So, the doorman just gave you a key to my suite? If Stephan’s firm’s that connected, that they… Wait, do I even want to know this?”
She smiles, a slow, small expression that tugs at her pink lips. “No, I don’t think you really do.”
“Hm, all the more reason I shouldn’t ask. Well, Rosalyn, now that’s you’ve met Delilah here, let me re-introduce myself. Nice to meet you, too. I’m Sawyer.” I motion towards my chest. “You might have heard of me as the man who paid to have this suite…alone.”
The curly haired vixen nods, stifling a smile. “I had heard that, yeah.”
“Lemme guess: You’re here for Naomi.”
The smile is no longer stifled. “I’m definitely here for her. And for you…” She offers up a pregnant pause before saying my name. “Sawyer.”
I peer over her shoulder as I hear another set of footsteps nearing. “And is that our girl I’m hearing right now? Haven’t exactly seen her around here lately.” I hesitate, trying not to think of the reason. Trying not to think of that night in her small, perfect apartment where everything went from Heaven to Hell in seven seconds flat. I close my eyes, squeezing them briefly. “My guess is that’s no accident.”
My voice almost fumbles over the words, but I manage to keep them clear. The only thing that’s not clear is what Naomi’s friend is doing here.
The attractive newcomer wrings her hands. “Well, me happening to be here tonight was kind of an accident… An accident that turned into more accidents, if you can believe it.” She takes a deep breath. “I ran into Emily. And we talked.”
“Sevin’s girlfriend Emily?”
“Yes.”
“You two talked?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“About you,” she says on a ragged breath, arms clasping together. “And we both came to the same conclusion. You and Naomi belong together.”
I nod, swallowing over a knot in my throat the size of Texas. “I’m glad you came to that conclusion. I wish Naomi could come to the same one. But, unfortunately, I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.”
She shakes her head, curls flying. “You don’t know that, for sure.”
“Maybe I don’t. But my phone and seventy of its missed calls could tell you a thing or two.”
“Sawyer,” I hear another voice over Rosalyn’s shoulder, “this is serious.”
Emily emerges from the shadows, her brown hair sweeping across her shoulders as she closes the distance between us, ambling slow.
“Jesus, before I check out, I’m going to have a quick talk with that damn doorman about giving out keys to my suite to beautiful women.”
“Sawyer,” Emily says, her voice full of gravel. “She’s leaving.”
“Who?” I ask, knowing the answer, hoping it can’t be true.
“Naomi. She’s going back to Miami. She quit.”
“Quit?” That knot in my throat has found some friends and they’re teaming up in my chest. “When?”
“Two days ago. She told Sevin everything. About her aunt. About you. And her.”
I forget about Delilah, forget about Rosalyn. Right now, Emily and I are the only two people in the room, and I face her, chest heavy, a bouncing knot of tension wrecking the inside of my stomach. I stop just a few feet short, hands balled into fists too tight to function.
I wet my bottom lip. “And you and Sevin aren’t going to do anything to stop her?”
“We are.” She nods, hazel eyes understanding. “That’s why I’m here. That’s why Rosalyn is here,” she points. “To convince her. And to do that, we need the help of the only man who can.” She inhales deeply, blowing out breath just as shaky as I feel. “And that man…is you, Sawyer.”
“Like I told, Rosalyn… Like I’ve said a million times before, I wouldn’t be too sure about that. She won’t even answer my calls.”
“Because she’s hurt,” Emily retorts, eyes wide. “Or, at least, she’s afraid she will be, and she’s trying to protect herself. Not because she doesn’t love you. Because she does, Sawyer. Anyone can see that.” She takes a few steps closer, her high heeled footfalls clicking along the hardwood. “Now we just need you to help her see it.”
It’s a tall order to ask for, a request I’m not sure I’m even ready for.
And though I have not stepped up to the plate (literally) at all for the last week and a half, when it comes to Naomi, there’s no sitting this one out.
I’ve gotta get in the game.
If not to convince the woman I’ve fallen for that she should stay for me, then at least, to convince her to do for herself.
To continue to blossom into the free, fun, bold and self-loving woman she’s become.
The woman she’s always been, beneath that armor of hers.
I turn to Delilah, giving my overnight guest a rain-check of “never.” I pick my shirt up off the bedroom floor, along with my pride, knowing I’m sure as hell going to need it to get Naomi back.
Chapter 29
NAOMI
Saturday night
I used to tell myself that there was a special place in Hell for people who enjoy parties.
But currently, I’m one of them.
All I have to do is make it through the night. That’s all I have to do.
Because if it were up to my brain, I’d be in the back throwing up, freaking out that in less than fifteen hours, I’ll be back in Little Havana, back in the home I’d left two years ago.
Back in the place I’d promised I’d never go back to.
On the night of the last game before the MLB trade deadline, the Alchemist is pulsing—completely alive. It’s also my last night of being under Sevin’s employment, and if it weren’t for the hordes of people, the loud noise and thumping music, I wouldn’t be able to make it.
Not through this night. Because my brain would actually have space to think.
But that’s the last thing I want it to do…
To have thoughts.
I count down the minutes until Ros makes it here. I hate when she’s running late.
Checking the thin watch on my wrist, I secretly hope that the time isn’t right. At the early hour of ten o’clock, the Cougars post-win party is already in full swing, and a sexy sixties rock beat drums across my halter top and skirt as I search through the thickening throng of guests, looking for her full curls.
A few weeks ago, I’d be hiding in a corner, counting down the minutes until I could go home. Two weeks ago, I’d have been sipping on a glass of wine, doing everything I could to remain invisible.
But it’s amazi
ng how much a few weeks can change.
Because a few weeks after my last “official” party, here I am, in the throngs of another one. Using the usual after-game shindig at the Alchemist to bury my feelings, I’m almost managing the task well when Chris inches up to me, a worried look on his face as he pours me a glass of water, nudging it towards my hand.
He sucks his teeth. “Not even wine tonight, huh?
He nods at the fifth water “shot” in my hand, and I wave him off. “No, I’m good. It’s nothing but vitamins, water and as much potassium until I get to Miami.”
As if I needed another reminder to avoid becoming Aunt Sandra.
I smile as Chris toasts me with his own glass of water.
“Damn, I still can’t believe you’re leaving. We were supposed to drink more wine, get into more fights…” He chuckles, reaching over to lightly shove my shoulder. “Have many more wild club nights.”
“Oh, I think I’ve had enough wild club nights for a while,” I emphasize, grinning over at Chris. “Speaking of ‘wild club nights,’ I never got the ‘tea,’ so to speak from Ros… What happened between you and Ros after the club?”
His blue eyes widen before thinning suspiciously at my face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you two left together. I wasn’t drunk enough to forget that. So…what happened?”
Chris winks, both elbows brushing the bar as he leans in. “Wouldn’t you like to know? And if I recall, I wasn’t the only one who went home with someone. If memory serves me correctly, someone I know quite well went home with her very own six-foot-four, famous baseball player.”
“Correction: I didn’t just go home. I was half-carried there. And if you don’t mind… I’d like to avoid talking about six-foot-four tall, baseball players for the night, thank you…”
“Why? I hear a few of them are pretty decent. If I do say so myself…”
I’d turn around. But I’d recognize that voice anywhere.
My skin prickles as Sevin takes a seat beside me. Tall as a redwood and ten times as sturdy, he towers over me even as he sits, his green eyes twinkling dimly down at me, dark hair flattened against his forehead from his Cougars cap.