He comes moments later in shakes and shudders. “Fuck, Evie. Fuck!” He collapses on top of me, spent, our hearts pounding, our bodies slick with sweat. We catch our breath and I lie in his arms, tracing circles on his firm chest. I’m satiated. I’m happy. I’m a hot mess. My emotions are slinging around like hash browns frying on a grill. Are they mine. His? Right now I don’t care. “I had no idea sex could be this good.”
“So good, Lucky Charm.” He tucks a lock of disheveled hair behind my ear. “But it’s past time you go home.”
7. Empathic
EMPATHIC
I blink back tears. “You don’t want me around?”
“Of course I want you around. Hey, don’t cry. I’m sorry.” He wipes a tear away.
I run the heel of my hand across my cheeks. “I’m a hot mess.” Familiar feelings claw at me, shred my heart.
“Hot but not a mess. Look, I’m so comfortable with you, feel like I’ve known you forever, and that’s a problem.” He sighs. “Because I’m always going to want you around.”
“That’s good,” I say, sniffling. “That’s excellent. When’s the next game?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re going back to Chicago,” he says and kisses my forehead.
“When’s the next game?” I ask, more determined.
“Tomorrow. Memphis.”
“I’m still on vacation, old man. I’m traveling with you.”
“Nope,” he says, pushing himself out of bed, walking over to his clothes lying on the back of the chair. “I’ve gotten you in enough trouble.”
“Who’s going to die if I take the rest of the week off?”
“You. Madame Marchand will have your head on a platter.” He throws clothes into his carryon suitcase. “She sounds like she tortures kittens for fun during her off hours.”
“You talked with her on the phone?” I ask getting out of bed, making my way to him.
“Yes,” he says. “After I passed the background check.”
“Huh.” I didn’t know she’d actually talked with him. Why does this feel disturbing? “Behind her hard as nails exterior Madame’s a total softie,” I circle my arms around his waist, kissing the back of his shoulder. Standing on tip toes to kiss the colorful bite marks on his neck that I gave him when his dick was buried deep inside me. “She’s a total marshmallow.”
“Bullshit,” Dylan says, covering my hand with his large one. His hand fits perfectly on top of mine. I feel so safe. I feel so – oh fuck am I falling in love with this man? Is that what’s wrong with me? I haven’t fallen in love since I was thirteen years old and that was with Wyatt Wolfe and look how terrific that turned out? We ran over him in Mom’s car and broke him.
Jesus Christ, what am I doing? If I go further -- will I hurt Dylan McAlister just like I hurt Wyatt Wolfe? He’s right. I need to leave. I need to get the fuck away from him. I need to go home now.
“Okay. I’m not going to argue with you,” Dylan says. “That’s a waste of time. I’m taking you up on your offer.”
“You are?” Dread dukes it out with excitement.
“Yup,” he says. “Get dressed. We need to eat. We’re leaving for the airport in three hours.”
“Okay,’ I say.
‘What are you doing?’ Queasy wrings his hands. ‘This is supposed to be about making money. Not losing your soul.’
“Three hours?” I ask and think hard, scouring my brain for a way I can make this right.
“Yup,” he says and continues to pack.
‘Redemption’s knocking,’ Hope says. ‘An opportunity to get it right. Really help someone heal this time.’
“Dylan, I’ve got an idea.”
“Sure thing, baby. Tell me anything – right after breakfast.”
We jog down a path in a pretty park. The morning air’s warm, not yet stifling. Dew burns off lush green grass. Dylan’s not turning his game around. He says I calm him, but I’m not the human equivalent of Xanax. There’s something else -- not just the game -- that’s throwing a fat monkey wrench into his brain, his heart. Something else is cutting him off from his mojo. I’m removed, on the outside looking in. It might be easier for me to identify whatever this thing is and help him change it.
We run in step next to each other, both breaking a sweat. I gather my courage, prepare a big old long speech in my head that sounds rational and smart and cool and just when I have the words perfect, all lined up like little soldiers on parade I forget them and spit out, “Dylan, I like you.”
“I like you too.”
“What if there is a way for you to turn this losing streak around that you haven’t thought of yet? A solution that’s not even on your radar?”
“I don’t count cards,” he says, shooting me a disappointed look. He sprints ahead, practically leaving me in the dust.
Anger pops, lighting a fire under my feet. “Hey!” I race quicker, catch up with him, and smack his shoulder.
He slows down. “What?”
“I don’t count cards, either, asshole. Don’t assume a new suggestion is illegal or amoral.”
“You’re right.” He slows. “I’m sorry. Tell me more.”
I take a deep breath. “I’m empathic.”
He frowns. “The last thing I want is your sympathy.”
“Not sympathy, old man. Empathy. Sounds similar but it’s completely different.”
“How so?” He stops running, wipes the sweat off his brow with the hem of his T-shirt, and eyes me. He’s wearing one of those sleeveless tanks, the muscles cut and defined in his arms and I have to pinch myself to stay on subject.
“I can feel in my body what’s going on inside of yours. Literally feel it. That’s called empathy.”
“Okay,” he says and grazes a finger down my neck, my shoulder, his blue eyes dropping to my sweaty cleavage. “What am I feeling now?”
Goosebumps prickle on the backs of my arms, my nipples hardening. “Besides you wanting to go back to the motel?”
“Yeah. There’s that.”
“Sadness and regret.”
His eyes widen. “That’s a good guess.”
“It wasn’t a guess. I felt it.” I clench my fist tight at my side. Don’t care how hot he is – I need him to take me seriously.
“What are my sadness and regret about?”
“The game.”
“That’s obvious,” he says and removes his hand. Disbelief rears up within me. I’m used to being dismissed. Used to being the small voice that people ignore, but for some reason I thought Dylan would be different.
‘He’s not a mind reader,’ Hope says. ‘Speak up.’
I give my head a shake. “Hear me out.”
“Fair enough. Tell me more.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and search for the memories of his sadness and regret and I find them. “Glenn was betting bigger with each round. On the third to the last round of the game he didn’t. He changed his behavior.”
The thick muscle in his jaw ticks. “More.”
“You wondered if he was hedging. If his hand was really all that good -- wouldn’t he be upping his bet?”
“Go on,” he says.
I take his hand, interlace my fingers between his, liking how his palms are a little calloused. I concentrate. “You didn’t know if you should check, raise, or call. That’s when the sadness hit you. Hit you hard, in your gut,” I touch his abdomen. “Like a thief stole the watch your grandfather gave you, then wore it out in public, and bragged it was theirs. I don’t know what you were thinking, but that’s what you were feeling and that’s when you second guessed yourself. Your confidence -- poof – vanished. You wobbled around in that round like a drunk pirate with a peg leg and you folded. And the Fast Food King, who had a weaker hand than you, won the game.”
“Fuck me,” Dylan says, shaking his head. “You’re right. Fuck me. This empathic thing – it’s happened more than once?”
“Yes. I pushed it away for a long time but there’s a connection happening between you
and me. I don’t know why but the empathy’s back with a fury.”
He paces, all ripped muscles and corded emotions. “Did this happen during the Chicago game?”
“Yes.”
“St. Charles game?”
“Yes.”
“Damn,” he says. “How do you control this empathy thing?”
“Exercise, meditation, prayer. You know, things that ground a person. But with you -- I don’t control it all that well. In fairness -- I don’t really try. When I’m tuned in to you I sense all the fantastic things you’re feeling -- ”
“And the awful things too.” He slams his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Evie, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re not doing anything wrong. I can’t help wondering if we can play with this? Figure out how to make this empathic connection between you and me work for you. Maybe turn your game around.”
“I’m dutifully impressed, Lucky Charm, but I don’t get how your empathy can change anything. You feel the past -- you don’t predict the future.”
“I feel the present and I’ll lay odds there’s something from your past that’s screwing you up. An old wound’s running you, a messed-up belief’s playing out over and over -- like the lyrics to a stupid song that your brain can’t turn off. Something dark and dirty and buried is running the show.”
“Something old is playing me?” He asks.
“Yes.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know?” I shrug. “Unresolved guilt. An old fear.”
“Maybe I need to go back to therapy.”
“Therapy’s great.”
“But if you feel these things when they’re happening --”
“I do.”
“What if we can track this old belief down, Evie?” He stops pacing, stands still in front of me. I can practically see the wheels spinning in his brain as he tries to figure it out. “What if we can figure it out?”
“If we figure it out? You face it head on, confront it, and then you conquer it.”
“Get my game back,” he says.
“Get your life back.”
His blue eyes light up. He pulls me to him, lifts me up in the air and swings me around. “Yes!” He kisses me and I’m reminded why I’m playing hooky. Because when Dylan McAlister kisses me my lips tingle, my cheeks flush, my body bathes in stardust after a meteor shower blows through. When Dylan McAlister kisses me time stands still.
What I’m going to do without him when this crazy ride is over?
8. Memphis
MEMPHIS
I finally tell him a little about Mom on the plane. About her mental condition. That she’s had it a for a long time and it’s tough, but she’s making headway because of this new treatment. How Ruby and I are trying to support her.
“Not easy, Evie,” he says.
I nod. “I know. But she’s doing better. Turning a corner.”
“Not easy for you either.”
“Thanks. Enough about my exciting life – let’s talk about you!”
“Let’s not,” he says. “Tell me more about you. School. Friends. What you want to be when you grow up.”
“I have a Master’s in Education. I have friends at the Agency, pals on my softball team. What I want to be when I grow up? I’m not sure.”
“All that education and you don’t know yet? Pick the first thing that pops into your head.”
“I want to be, hmm — I want to be someone who puts her own needs first every once in a while.”
“That’s not what I thought you’d say.”
I’ve never been to Memphis and I’m kind of excited about it until we arrive. Turns out Memphis is simply another airport, another ride sharing service, another motel. I shower, dress, and apply makeup in front of the bathroom mirror. I can’t wait for Dylan to kick ass tonight. We’ve talk about meditating and I show him how to do it. Getting quiet, going still, can actually change the structure of the brain and thicken areas that deal with learning and memory. It can still the chatter, reduce anxiety, and reboot the brain. It’s like taking a chill pill without the pill.
I’m crossing my fingers that Dylan will tune into his feelings and together we’ll figure it out. He’ll get his mojo back and turn his game around. Then we can see each other, meet up on paid engagements. I can still pay for Mom’s medical treatments, help Ruby out with school, and keep a roof over my head. He and I are a team. If he gets his shit together we can do this.
I fashion my hair into a messy bun, apply a coat of lipstick and check the mirror. I’ll pass. “Ready!” I walk into the room.
Dylan’s half naked on the floor doing pushups.
“Hello?” I say. “What are you doing?”
“You said that you controlled your empathic reactions with exercise,” he says, sweat glistening on his bare shoulders, that muscle ticking in his jaw.
“Yes. Sometimes.”
“If I get the blood flowing maybe I can get more in control for the game,” he says, straining his breath.
“That’s not how it works.” I sigh. “It’s about letting go. Finding the calm when you’re hurtling through the storm.”
“Thank you, Obi Wan Kenobi,” he says, and knocks out one armed push-ups, grunting on the exhalations.
“Fuck you, Rocky,” I say when my phone pings. “Shower and get dressed. I’ll wait for you outside.”
I pace on the grass circling a fenced in play area. A few kids dig in the sand, the girls making castles with buckets and water, love and care. The boys race around like their hair is on fire. I check my texts.
Madame M: Are you feeling better?
Evie: Getting there TY.
Evie: Chicken soup and Vit C.
Madame M: Glad you took my recommendations.
Evie: Of course.
Madame M: I have a new client for you.
Madame M: You’re not contagious anymore -- right?
My throat dries up and I hack. Um…
Evie: Still coughing…
Madame: I’ll send him to someone else. Heal up.
Evie: TY.
Madame: How much longer do you think?
Evie: Soon.
I sigh and scroll.
Amelia: Victoria and I are hitting a club tonight.
Amelia: Join us.
Evie: Sorry. Can’t!
Amelia: Mom?
Evie: No.
Amelia: A date?
A door slams and I startle. Dylan exits our motel room. He’s wearing a white shirt, open a few buttons and charcoal dress trousers. He’s a panty melter for sure and I bite my lip.
Evie: Nope. Still coughing.
Amelia: You need anything?
He moves toward me like a guy appearing out of a mirage in a desert in a cheesy movie. Inside my ribcage my heart rattles about and my knees go a little weak.
“Happy?” He asks.
“You’re super hot when you’re pumped, Rocky.”
I text back while I’m still able to feel my fingers.
Evie: Thanks for the offer but I’m good.
Amelia: Change your mind and we can drop it off on the way out.
Evie: TY but no TY. Xo.
Amelia: Xo.
“I’m ready for the game, Lucky Charm,” Dylan says, our ride share pulling up into the parking lot and he opens the door for me.
“Good,” I take his arm and step inside. “Get it done tonight, old man.”
“I’m feeling it, baby. We might not even need your empathic powers, tonight,” He says. “I predict the McAlister mojo is back.”
But twenty hours later Dylan’s hopes and dreams are ambushed by darkness tearing through him like a hollow point bullet. He loses again and swims in sadness and regret. We collapse into bed, no sex this time. He stares up at the ceiling, and I soothe his bare arm, shoulder to elbow and circle back again. “Sleep, old man. Tomorrow’s another day.”
“You’re young. Your life lies ahead, waiting for you to enjoy it. Time’s running out for me.”
“It’s just a bad turn,” I say. “A crappy detour.”
“What if it’s not? What if this is just the new normal? I’m the king of reinvention but even kings can hit a limit on heartache. Even kings abdicate.” He rolls away from me.
I fall into a fitful sleep dreaming of boys lying broken in the snow, birds circling a country field, cawing as they wing their way toward the horizon.
A large one swoops down, sinks its sharp talons into my shoulders, and lifts me in the air. I pinwheel my arms trying to get out from under its black wings but no matter how much I struggle, the damn bird is taking me with him, winging its way through gaps in the clouds. The ground lies thousands of feet below. Our car that we ran over the Wolfe brothers with is a speck, and I scream. The bird screeches and releases me. I drop like a stone, the earth coming up below me fast. Too fast, and I slam my eyes shut bracing for the impact.
I wake up in a sweat, the morning sun filtering into the room and Dylan already seated in a chair at the little desk, hunched over his phone. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“I booked a game in Dallas for tonight.”
I run a hand through my hair. “You’re not taking any time off?”
“Dallas is home turf. Friendly. Buy in isn’t bad. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I’ve got to be at the airport in three hours. I’ll book a flight for you back to Chicago.” He looks at me, sadness drawing lines in his face. “I’ll miss you but I can’t let you do this with me forever. It’s not right. It’s not fair.”
PLAYER (21st Century Courtesan) Page 11