by Julie Bale
I grabbed Georgia’s elbow and started across the street. “It’s all good. I grabbed my credit card before we left.”
The small coffee shop was busy, with a lineup at the counter and from what I could see all the tables were full. A few looked like they’d be clearing out soon but I wasn’t sure how many folks were waiting ahead of us.
A tall man, with a balding head and sharp features glanced up from the cash machine. His white apron was smeared with grease and what looked like ketchup. “Sorry, guys. If you’re looking for fast service you’ll have to go elsewhere. We’re crazy busy this morning.” His eyes narrowed a bit and he got the same look on his face that dog-walking-guy had.
I nodded. “It’s alright.” And turned to Georgia. “Do you want to wait, or go somewhere else, or just go home?”
“Of course,” the man said as he elbowed his way out from behind the counter and through the line of people waiting to pay. “We always make room for one of our boys. Welcome to Philly.”
Usually, I wasn’t a guy who used the celebrity thing to get what he wanted and truthfully most of the guys I knew weren’t like that either—most of us were small town boys—but living in LA, I’d met a lot of celebrities and some of them would do anything for a freebie or special treatment.
But today was different. Christ, today the eggs and bacon in this place were killing me and I had my eye on a booth in the back that a family had just left. It was darker back there, kind of secluded and I could have Georgia all to myself.
I leaned forward aware that a few more people were staring. “I’d appreciate the table in the back and if you want me to sign anything, just send it over.”
His grin widened. “No problem.” He stepped back quickly and signaled to a young girl who had just filled coffees for the table closest to us. “Amber, last booth. Now.” And then to us he said with a huge smile. “Follow me, Mr. Lancaster.”
“Wow,” Georgia muttered, rolling her eyes. “Is that all it takes?”
I settled my hand in the small of her back and pushed her forward, leaning down so I could whisper in her ear—and catch a whiff of that summery smell that I was fast becoming addicted to. “You want to eat don’t you?”
Our host, who introduced himself as Eli, gave us each a menu and grinned. “I think the Flyers are going all the way with you this season. I’m telling you a lot of fans jumped for joy the day your trade was announced.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
Georgia leaned her elbows onto the table and glanced up at Eli, her eyebrows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
He looked down at her as if she was crazy and pointed at me. “Ben Lancaster is without a doubt the finest center in the NHL. Hell, even Crosby can’t touch him. Lancaster’s hands are magic.”
“Ben?” Her nose wrinkled in this way that nearly made me lose my mind. Her eyes sparkled and that fucking tongue was sweeping across her lower lip as she frowned. “You told me your name was Jack.”
“Did I?” I asked, wondering where she was going with this.
She nodded. “Isn’t that what you said last night when you picked me up on the corner of John and New Street.”
By the uncomfortable look on Eli’s face, I was gonna go with the guess that John and New Street was where guys trolled for prostitutes.
She leaned forward and ran her forefinger along the top of my hand and damn if my stomach muscles didn’t clench. “Don’t worry about it, Jack, I’ll call you whatever you want me to.”
Eli cleared his throat and backed away. “Okay, so Amber will be by to take your order and ah, if you don’t mind, I have a couple things I,” he paused, his gaze dropping to Georgia’s finger as it slowly moved back and forth across me. I couldn’t blame the guy, my eyes were pretty much fixated on the same thing.
“Yeah, I’ll sign whatever you want. Give us five minutes okay?”
Eli disappeared and Georgia’s smile widened. “So that was awkward,” she said slowly. “For Eli.”
“You’re a trouble maker.”
“You have no idea,” she answered leaning back in her chair and withdrawing her finger from my hand.
“This isn’t good.” I shook my head and tried to keep the grin off my face. “Words going to get out that Ben Lancaster has to pay for pussy. I can’t have that.”
“Who says you were paying for pussy?” Her eyes widened and so did her smile. “I could let it slip to Eli that I’m a tranny.”
“A what?”
She licked her lips again and I had to concentrate hard to understand what the hell she was saying. “A transvestite.”
“You wouldn’t”
“Wouldn’t I?” She said slowly. “What are you going to do to stop me, Jack.”
“I can think of a lot of things.”
“Really.”
I leaned forward, liking the heat between us and the way her skin flushed to peaches and cream. “But first I’m going to make you pay. That little stunt will probably cost me millions in endorsements.”
Her pupils were dilated and that damn tongue peeked out from between her lips. “Hmm, I’d say trolling for pussy could hurt you a little bit, but if word got out you were trolling for dick,” she shrugged, her smile sly and it took everything inside me to not jump across the table and kiss her.
“Um, are you guys ready to order?”
We both glanced up at Amber and I slowly slid back into my seat. Once again my cock was hard and the reason for it grinned at me as if she knew.
She winked and then licked her lips.
I’m betting she knew.
After we ordered, and I’d taken a moment to calm the parts of me that needed calming, I exhaled and said the thing I should have said at the top of the Rocky steps.
“Hey,” I started and then stopped when her clear eyes fastened on me. Would this fucking teenage schoolboy thing ever go away?
“Hey,” she answered softly, almost hesitantly, as if she knew I wasn’t fooling around anymore.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry about,” I cleared my throat and lied through my teeth. “I’m sorry about the kiss earlier and, you know, I hope I didn’t cross any boundaries.”
Fucking lies. All of it. It would be a cold day in hell before I was sorry for kissing Georgia King.
Amber was back with our coffee and after she poured it and left, there were a few moments of silence.
“Don’t be sorry,” Georgia said softly. “Cuz I’m not.”
Chapter Eight
Georgia
I spent every single minute of the Fourth of July with Ben. After a totally greasy and yummy breakfast, we watched a parade that passed a few blocks away, and then strolled through Art in the Park, one that featured a ton of cool stuff, as well as music and dance.
The sun didn’t let up, the smell of summer was everywhere, and for the first time in forever I felt…light.
We didn’t kiss again—which was a sin because it’s all I thought about—but the flirting was pretty intense. I caught more than a few people staring at us, though I suppose they might have recognized Ben.
The thought that it was me they recognized crossed my mind, but I quickly tossed it aside. I knew there was stuff online, pictures and video from the night my brain had finally imploded and cracked so wide open there was nothing for me to do but fall in. But it was a pretty far stretch to think that the old couple who turned as we strolled by, or the woman sipping her coffee who paused, or the man with the fat golden retriever recognized me as that crazy girl.
But the flirting.
God, the flirting was addictive. There was a lot of eye contact. There was the soft touch of his hand at my back, the rough pads of his fingers lingering just above my shorts. There was Ben bending close to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. There were a lot of suggestive comments and jokes.
And god he smelled good. Like a guy should, not prettied up with expensive cologne.
Hours later I was still buzzing—I was buzzing everyw
here—and I mean everywhere. And then I tried to remember the last time I’d had an orgasm and I decided it was pretty pathetic that I couldn’t remember. I decided that Ben would have been the perfect stress reliever.
It was enough to drive a girl crazy because he was right here. In the loft.
He was in the office.
He was in the office right down the hall from me.
And the thing of it was, the thought of him, the smell of him, the idea of being with him was enough to get me off and sometime in the night, there beneath my covers, I used my fingers and the palms of my hands to get the job done.
I came all by myself, with my hands on my skin and Ben in my head. And for the moment it was enough.
In the morning Ben asked me to go with him to meet up with his real estate agent and even though I wanted to, I found myself saying, no. I told him that I was meeting someone and that I couldn’t get out of it.
“Who?” he had asked.
“Just no one,” I replied.
He arched an eyebrow. “A boyfriend?”
“What? No. Just a friend. Seamus.” Seamus was my therapist, but he didn’t have to know that. Just like he didn’t have to know I had no plans to meet anyone.
His eyes narrowed slightly, though there was that half smile on his face, the one that made my insides liquefy. “Seamus, what kind of a name is that? That sounds like something you’d name a cat.”
“That’s what I told him the first time we met.”
He’d grabbed the keys to his rental. “Alright, Georgia, you have a good afternoon with your friend, Seamus, and I’ll see you later?”
I nodded and watched him leave, wondering why I just hadn’t gone with him. I wanted to. And for several long moments after he left I stood in the middle of the loft, hating the silence, which was weird, because for most of the last year it was all I craved. Silence. That sweet abyss of nothingness.
But I suppose it was for the best because I had so many other things to do. You know, like paint my toenails, or figure out how I was going to fill the empty canvas that stared at me from across the room.
I was happy to be alone, dammit. Happy to paint or dance or run around naked if I wanted to.
I thought of Ben’s kiss and of how awesome his warm hands felt on me and I had to wonder again, why was I here and he was there?
Oh, right because Matt wouldn’t approve.
Liar. This has nothing to do with Matt.
Ugh, I hated when that little voice inside my brain was right. I knew it was bullshit. I was here and he was there because Ben Lancaster scared the crap out of me.
As it turned out I was alone the entire day and even though my creative juices weren’t what they usually were, I was able to work on a sketch or two. And this was good. Making art calmed my mind—it helped me focus—and when I was focused I was happier than when I was not. And an unhappy Georgia wasn’t good. An unhappy Georgia could turn on a dime.
I’d chatted with Matt, assured him that I was taking my meds but I knew that wasn’t the only thing he was concerned about. I worked it. I made him ask the question he most wanted to ask. Our conversation went like this:
“G, you better be taking your meds.”
“I am. I’m taking number one and number two.” Okay, I lied. I was taking my lithium, but not the klonopin (I hated the way it made me feel and the dry mouth was gross) but he didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need to be worried because I was fine.
I am fine.
“I’m going to count them when I get back.”
“Knock yourself out.” Sheesh, my brother wasn’t a dummy so didn’t he know I could flush number two if I wanted to? Didn’t he know I did flush number two when I went in for my morning pee?
“So what have you been doing?”
“Nothing really.”
A pause.
“Did Ben find a place that he liked or is he still looking?”
“He found something nice in Haddonfield.”
“Oh, cool. Where is he now?”
“Right now?” I said with a grin, moving in for the kill.
“Yes.” He sounded irritated. “Right now.”
“Right now he’s lying beneath me because we’re having hot sex in your bed.”
“G,” he warned.
“Totally naked,” I continued with a grin. “Because we’re having hot sex in your bed.”
“Don’t jerk me around.” Okay, his irritation was sounding more like anger.
“Whoa, take a chill pill. What’s the matter? Heather not giving you any?”
“Heather and I broke up.”
Wait. What?
“Oh,” I said softly, while I vigorously fist pumped and did a little dance. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure you are,” he answered, his tone more than a little sarcastic. “Look, I’ll be home tomorrow sometime. I’m stopping in to see a friend or I’d be back tonight. So…just be good, okay?”
I stopped dancing. Just be good? What was I, five years old?
I frowned and saluted him. “Yes Sir, I’ll do my best, Sir.”
And then I hung up.
For several moments I stared into the emptiness of the loft, wondering why his words pissed me off so much and hating the hot prick of tears at the corners of my eyes. I was twenty-one years old, okay, nearly twenty-one years old—my birthday was in August—and my older brother still felt the need to tell me to behave. To be good.
To not fuck his million dollar hockey player.
I stalked into the bathroom and glanced in the mirror, chest heaving, tight and angry. But what was I angry about? The fact that my brother still didn’t trust me? Or the fact that I wanted to fuck Ben Lancaster so badly, that just thinking about it made me hot. It made me hot and bothered and horny.
With a sound of disgust, I hopped into the shower and stood under the spray for a good, long while. I stood there for so long, enjoying the heat as it sluiced over my skin, that my mind began to wander. It began to wander toward Ben and slowly my palms and fingers slid over my stomach, seeking the place between my legs.
I leaned against the tiles and tried to stifle the moan that sat in the back of my throat, as my fingers and the erotic images of Ben pushed me on. I stroked myself. I imagined it was Ben’s fingers, and for the second day in a row I got myself off. Jesus fuck, this had to be some kind of record because I know I hadn’t masturbated like this since I was a teenager.
But it wasn’t enough and even as the remnants of my orgasm shuddered through me, I thought of him and there was a piece of me that was still empty. Because as much as my fingers could coax a reaction from my body, it was the connection that I wanted and I wasn’t satisfied.
God damn, I needed to get laid. I needed Ben.
I was just out of the shower when the buzzer rang and though I tried to quell the excitement inside me, I couldn’t . It had to be Ben, though I wondered why he didn’t just let himself in. Maybe he’d lost his key?
I ran through the loft, the towel barely staying put as I answered the phone on the wall near the front door.
“Hey, Joe.” Our doorman was an older, retired guy, with a soft, round wife and a pack of grandkids he brought around from time to time. I liked him because Joe had seen me at my worst and there was no judging when he looked at me.
“Hello, Georgia.”
“Let him, up, Joe. It’s alright.”
He cleared his throat and there was a pause. “It’s not Mr. Lancaster. It’s …Miss Kendall.”
I rested my forehead on the wall and blinked my eyes closed. Shit. Kendall wasn’t exactly welcome around here and she knew it. Matt would blow a fuse if he was home and that was something that Joe knew too.
For a few moments I said nothing and I wondered what to do. On one hand, I missed her. I missed her like crazy. I’d known her for years and for a while we were really tight, like best friends tight. She knew what I was thinking before I did, and the girl was always up for a good time. But then shit happened. Tryi
ng to kill myself happened, and Matt blamed Kendall as much as my illness.
It’s true she lived on the edge and for someone like me she wasn’t exactly the right person to be around, but…
Jesus, I missed her.
“Georgia, what the fuck is going on? Is Matt not letting me up? Come on, I miss you and I’m only home for a few more days.”
I clutched the phone. I was caving.
I could handle Kendall. I was strong now.
I thought of Matt. I thought of his dig earlier. Be good. And after a mental fuck-you, I spoke. “Come on up.”
I unlocked the door, fled to my room, and I was just pulling up my undies when Kendall burst inside and wrapped her arms around me so tightly that I nearly choked. A few things were soon apparent and I frowned, pushing down the little wiggle of unease that sliced through my gut. She was drunk and—I slid from her embrace so I could get a good look at her—pupils dilated, eyes glazed—she was high.
Double fuckedy-fuck.
“Holy shit, Georgia, you look great. When the hell did you grow those?”
I glanced down at my boobs, now encased a soft peach bra that matched my undies. I shrugged. “It’s a push-up bra, loser.”
She flung herself onto the bed. “You look great.”
“And you look wasted.”
She laughed, flinging her dark red hair behind her shoulders. She was a striking girl—tall, willowy, with a great rack, nice ass and an attitude that didn’t quit. We’d met at school—a private academy in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere—and we bonded over our love of music (at the time I was all about musicians and had a weakness for guitarists) and a shared disdain for authority.
She was type A all the way with a highly addictive personality, and with all the issues I had including the worst—the fact that I had no boundaries—we were pretty toxic together. In fact for a while there we were known as the toxic twins. At the time I didn’t know I was bipolar. I didn’t know shit, except having a good time.
But I was fine now.
I was better.
“We need to get really fucking wasted. The Rats are playing at Kachinga and I’ve got tickets.”