Kick It Up

by Carol Ericson

“You look fine to me.” Her gaze wandered over his tight, faded t-shirt and his ripped jeans. He looked more than fine, but his desire to go low-key pleased her. She hadn’t had him all to herself since the night they made love at her place among the flower petals. She’d never forget that night, no matter how badly the affair ended.

  “I have an image to protect.” He quirked an eyebrow at her and tousled his damp hair.

  “Okay, Mr. Perfect. I know a little hole in the wall Mexican place on the Westside where you can carb load in private in your grunge-wear.”

  Forty minutes later they pulled their chairs up to a rough wooden table, shaded by a red, white, and green umbrella on an outdoor patio. The gurgling fountain in the corner tried valiantly but failed to obscure the traffic noises from the busy street outside the vine-covered stucco and tile wall.

  They just missed the lunch crowd and had the patio to themselves. The Latina waitress placed two waters, a basket of chips, and a dish of salsa on their table, never taking her eyes off Simon’s face. He flashed her the trademark grin, and she nearly dropped her tray as she rushed back inside the restaurant.

  Jessica rolled her eyes and propped her feet up on the chair across from her. “Seems our all-out publicity assault is working. Even a waitress tucked away in this little Mexican restaurant on Sawtelle Boulevard knows you.”

  “Mexican being the operative word here.” He dabbed his finger at a drop of salsa on the corner of her mouth. “It would be easier to find anonymity in some all-American joint rather than in a restaurant that serves food from a country where they elevate their successful fùtbol stars to sainthood and crucify the failures.”

  “Duh.” She slapped her forehead, but not too hard. She didn’t believe for a minute he wanted anonymity.

  He sucked the salsa he’d just dabbed off her lip from his fingertip. “Mmm, spicy.”

  “Too spicy?” She pressed her thighs together to still the humming between her legs. Damn him. How did he always manage to turn the act of eating into an orgasmic experience?

  “Nothing can beat Indian curry, especially when it’s kissed from...”

  “Shhh.” Her gaze darted around the empty patio, a surge of heat, which owed nothing to the salsa, claiming her cheeks.

  The waitress backed through the swinging doors to the patio, carrying a tray laden with food and two iced teas.

  She placed everything on the table and asked, “Anything else?”

  Simon peeked under the napkin covering a basket of tortillas. “More tortillas, please. Flour.” The waitress nodded her head so hard, Jessica expected it to fall off and roll across the patio.

  At least they had the patio to themselves, removed from fawning fans. She knew enough celebrities and sports figures to realize they craved the recognition. It propped them up. Made them feel good. Simon loved the attention too, but when it disappeared he didn’t crumple up. He had too much substance to crumple, even though he didn’t realize it.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” He tapped her full plate with his fork. “I know you’re skinny, but I also know you can eat like a lorry driver. I’ve seen you.”

  “I’m not skinny.” She scooped up some rice. “I’m svelte, slender, slim.”

  “Whatever you call it, must be genetic. Is your mom skin...I mean svelte too?”

  “Yeah, she is.” She stuffed the forkful of rice in her mouth to avoid further conversation about her mother.

  Simon hadn’t mentioned the not-so-silent partner of the Waves yet. Although Dad hadn’t made an official announcement, tongues were wagging over his appearance at the charity event. Chances are, the name Roger Brett didn’t mean anything to Simon anyway. Dad’s financial tentacles hadn’t crept overseas yet.

  Thankfully Simon diverted his energy toward his food instead of any more probing questions about her family. In fact, he’d barely paid her any attention as he layered strips of chicken, onions, and peppers onto a tortilla, stuffed some rice in there for good measure, and smothered the entire concoction with salsa.

  “Looks like you’re a convert to southern California eating habits.”

  He nodded once before lifting the bulging tortilla and taking a bite. He lifted his eyes skyward and made a satisfied noise around chews.

  Simon ate like a man who’d been stranded with Tom Hanks and Wilson on that island. He may have been taking it easy at practice, but he still worked up an appetite. He polished off his fourth fajita and sucked up the last drops of his iced tea.

  “That hit the spot.”

  “You packed away a lot of food. You must’ve worked harder than you thought.”

  “I never work harder than I want to.”

  “Okay.” She held up her hands to ward off the icy little pins and needles shooting from his eyes. Despite his easygoing exterior, Simon had a tough edge of

  defensiveness...courtesy of his father. She could relate.

  The waitress saved her from any more foot-in-mouth maneuvers. She hovered at their table, wedging the tray on one hip. “The guys in the restaurant want to know if they can have your autograph, take a few pictures.”

  “Sure.” Simon pushed back from the table.

  Jessica joined him, pointing toward the door.

  “Restrooms inside?”

  The waitress nodded, and they both followed her inside the small restaurant, empty except for, what looked like, the entire staff gathered around a table. The group looked up as the waitress led Simon across the threshold, and then called out greetings.

  Jessica left him to his fans and retreated to the ladies’

  room. Soccer fans were a different breed from music fans.

  More adoring, or maybe just more respectful. The great unwashed that clamored for Jimmy were just that...unwashed. His music attracted a strange assortment of freaks, scumbags, and users. That’s why she’d glommed onto him in the first place. He represented the complete opposite of what her parents wanted for her.

  By the time she returned to the dining room, Simon was trading jokes with his new-found fan club and telling soccer stories, complete with kicking bunched-up napkins into the air.

  They shook hands all around, and the proprietor tapped the wall. “Right here, your picture’s going right here next to Erik Estrada’s.”

  “That’s brilliant, mate. I promise I’ll come back to sign it for you.”

  As they walked to the car, he turned to her. “Who the bloody hell is Erik Estrada?”

  “CHIPS.” Simon met her pronouncement with a blank stare. “Seventies TV show?”

  “I was a baby in the seventies, and I’m pretty sure you were too, unless you’ve been spending a lot of time at the cosmetic surgeon’s office.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She shrugged. “CHIPS is enshrined in pop culture, and pop culture lasts longer than buildings in L.A.”

  She popped the locks on her SUV, and Simon opened her door for her then went around to the passenger side.

  He dropped on the leather seat and sighed.

  “That’s just great. I’m going to be on the wall next to the star of a seventies show about French fries.”

  “French fries?” She jerked her head around. “It’s not CHIPS as in fish and...”

  A smile tugged at the corner of Simon’s lips, and she giggled. “You goof.” For a minute there she thought he really cared where the owner of the restaurant positioned his picture, but he didn’t. He didn’t care at all.

  Ten minutes later they passed a stretch of green grass enclosed by a chain link fence. Several little boys scurried back and forth between two nets, wildly kicking a soccer ball while a lone adult waved his arms frantically.

  Her gaze slid to Simon, sitting up, staring out the window. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Why? Some place you have to be?”

  “No.” She glanced at her watch.

  “Just a few minutes then. You can pull up here.” The man was an attention junky, but since she wanted him to get as much attention as possible, she cruised
up to the curb next to the park.

  Simon scrambled out and slipped through the gate. He approached the man, and they shook hands and chatted.

  Within a few minutes Simon had the boys lined up facing each other and kicking balls back and forth.

  Jessica got out of the car, entered the park, and slid down against the chain link fence to the grass. Now Simon had the boys form two lines and sent one kid down the middle as the other boys kicked balls at him. The boy running the gauntlet jumped and dodged the balls as the other boys hollered, whistled, and did their best to nail him.

  Simon took the boys through several more drills, all accompanied by shrieks of laughter from the boys and words of encouragement from Simon.

  Finally the boys plopped down on the grass and chugged water while Simon talked to their coach. He then waved to all the boys and jogged back to her, his tousled blond hair damp with sweat.

  “What, no autographed balls?” She narrowed her eyes behind her sunglasses. “No pictures? No chants of Boss, Boss, Boss?”

  “They don’t know who I am.” He lightly clamped the back of her neck with his hand and propelled her toward the car.

  Her mouth dropped open. “They don’t know The Boss?

  They didn’t recognize that disarming grin? The pulsing thighs? The World Cup bling bling on the fingers?” When they got to the driver’s side door, Simon squeezed her neck and nudged her bottom with his knee.

  “You’re devastatingly amusing. Get in the car.” She laughed, but the smile took a down turn when she slid onto the seat. Simon had helped out that coach and his team without even getting the recognition and attention he loved. He preferred the hole-in-the-wall Mexican place to The Ivy for lunch and didn’t even mind that they were going to plaster his picture next to Erik Estrada’s. Who stole The Boss and replaced him with this...soccer player?

  “Those boys have a lot of energy.” He turned up her air conditioning and pushed his hair back from his forehead.

  “You still have plenty of time to clean up before Nico’s bash tonight.” She tapped the car’s clock.

  Simon’s cell phone played a popular rap song, and she smiled at the repetitive lyrics, “You know I’m hot. You know I’m hot.” Okay, maybe aliens hadn’t snatched The Boss yet.

  He mumbled a few words into the phone and snapped it shut. “Looks like I won’t be able to make it to Nico’s bash after all.”

  “Why not?” Damn. She only got him out once this week, and he hardly got into any trouble at all. Nico’s party would’ve been a fertile breeding ground for all kinds of mischief.

  “Business.” He slipped the phone back into the pocket of his shorts.

  She shot him a glance, but his clenched jaw signaled discussion over.

  He remained quiet for most of the ride back to his condo. The aura that had floated around him from his previous encounters with the fans at the restaurant and the non-fans at the soccer field lost its sparkle. He obviously preferred the perks of soccer to the business of soccer, and she congratulated herself once again for giving them both exactly what they wanted.

  Before she pulled up to the front of his building, she asked, “Do you think Gemma would want to come along with me to Nico’s party?”

  “I don’t know. She’s been hanging out with a friend she met out with us one night. I think she said something about a concert tonight.”

  “Is she still tight with Ivo?”

  “No. He’s been busy with practice, and all that bores her.”

  “Who’s the friend?” A pulse of worry thrummed against her left temple. For all her bravado, Gemma was a baby. A girl could get into a lot of trouble in L.A. She should know.

  “I haven’t met her.” He grasped the door handle and shoved his knee against the door. “Nobody bothers to tell me anything.”

  With a furrowed brow, Jessica watched Simon in her rearview mirror grab his bag from the back. She pressed the heel of her hand against her temple and the sudden pain that replaced the drumming. Did Simon suspect something?

  He stuck his head through the open window. “Thanks for having lunch with me, Jessica. I’ll call you later.” She waved and peeled away from the curb, a little knot of worry gathering in her belly for both Bosfords.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A few hours after dropping Simon off, Jessica sat on her sofa with her legs curled beneath her. She had no desire to go to Nico’s shindig without Simon. What would be the point if she couldn’t land him in a little hot water?

  What would be the point when she wouldn’t enjoy herself without him?

  She grabbed a pillow and smooshed it against her face. Get a grip! She couldn’t allow herself to fall for Simon...anymore than she already had. Once he discovered the truth about her relationship to his boss, he’d dump her. If not for lying to him, then for suspecting her of plotting dastardly deeds with Dad. He’d figure her for a spy in the enemy camp. Of course, that would be better than the truth—using him for her own dastardly deeds against her father. Anyway you sliced it, it came up rotten.

  The ringing phone saved her from going down that ugly path. She scooped it up from the counter and returned with it to her little warm spot on the sofa.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Hi, Mom.” She burrowed deeper into her nest.

  “You have to come by the house tonight for dinner.”

  “Oh really?” Her parents never asked if she was busy.

  Never said please.

  “Ken Richards, our attorney, is coming over, and he has some papers for you to sign regarding your trust. Since you’re not married...anymore...it’s still in our hands.” you’re not married...anymore...it’s still in our hands.”

  “Don’t remind me. What time?”

  “Six thirty.”

  That meant seven. They always gave her a time half hour earlier than the real time because she always showed up late. One, small, childish step in her relentless quest for independence. If only she’d had the guts to take the big step for her independence when it really mattered.

  Before that riding competition.

  “I’ll be there.”

  Jessica spent the next few hours on the more mundane aspects of her job at CMS—booking spring training travel arrangements for Evan’s baseball clients. She hadn’t seen Evan since he’d returned from Hawaii, but they’d spoken on the phone and exchanged emails. He hadn’t raised the issue of Simon’s activities yet, which surprised and disappointed her. Had he given up on her, or did Dad plan to take over?

  She showered and pulled on a pair of faded jeans with holes in the knees, a pink Power Puff Girls t-shirt, and some sneakers. Maybe she could get her brother, R.C., outside to hit some tennis balls around or shoot some hoops. Fat chance.

  She hopped into her car and made the familiar drive to San Marino—the home of debutantes, polo matches, and the Rose Court. Her mother never forgave her for missing the opportunity to be a Rose Princess.

  She rolled up to the wrought-iron gate that signaled exclusivity and punched in the code on the pad. The gate eased open and she drove through. She wheeled around eased open and she drove through. She wheeled around the circular drive fronting the looming white and brick colonial, not bothering to park her car around the side. The attorney, Richards, had probably parked his car in that spot anyway.

  She strode up the steps to the long porch, lifted the heavy brass knocker, and let it drop twice. Pilar, her parents’ long-time housekeeper opened the door.

  “Hi, Pilar. Long time no see.” She stooped to kiss Pilar’s smooth, plump cheek.

  “You’re late, Jessica.” In contrast to her smooth cheek, Pilar’s forehead furrowed into enough wrinkles to rival the face of a sharpei.

  “I’m always late.” Why did her tardiness worry Pilar?

  She knew the drill.

  “There’s somebody here...”

  “Yeah, I know, the attorney. Cocktails in the great room?” She knew the drill too and swept past Pilar, s
till knotting her hands, and threw open the double doors to the high-ceilinged great room.

  Her sneakers squeaked to a halt on the marble tile floor at the threshold of the great room.

  Simon, a lazy smile lurking beneath hooded eyes, lounged in her father’s favorite chair by the fireplace.

  And he didn’t look surprised at all.

  ***

  At least Jessica’s jaw didn’t drop to the floor. Her eyes bugged out a little, and she had a death-grip on that door handle, but she deserved some discomfort for keeping secrets from him.

  secrets from him.

  The Bretts’ easy acknowledgement of Jessica’s position at CSM and her work as his personal assistant when he’d first arrived for dinner put his mind at ease that Jessica and her father hadn’t concocted some nefarious plan against him. But it left him more puzzled than ever as to why she’d kept mum about her identity all these weeks.

  “Hello, honey.” Mrs. Brett rose from the sofa and prowled toward Jessica like a jungle cat. “Are you surprised to see Simon here?”

  “Umm, not really.” Jessica released the door handle and rubbed her palms on her jeans before waving. “Hi, Simon. Dad’s the new co-owner of the Waves, and Simon’s his newest acquisition. Makes sense.”

  “Who said you didn’t get into Yale on your own smarts?” Jessica’s mum tapped her head with a manicured fingernail.

  Ouch. The jungle cat had claws. Simon thought the Ice Queen had gotten up to greet Jessica—hug her, take her hand—his own mum never missed an opportunity to hug and kiss her children. But Jessica’s mother sauntered to the wet bar to refill her martini glass from the pitcher the housekeeper had brought earlier.

  Jessica’s high cheek bones sported two spots of pink, but she shrugged and dropped to the steps leading down to the room, stretching her long legs in front of her. “Why didn’t you guys tell me JB Enterprises was silent partner in the Waves with Casellas?”

  The Ice Queen lifted an elegant shoulder clad in jade green silk.

  Brett’s voice boomed across the room. “Why didn’t you tell us about your job at CSM?”

  Simon took a gulp of beer from his bottle. No wonder Jessica kept secrets from him—it ran in the family.