by P. Dangelico
“They’ll evict her if you don’t pay the damn bills. You know that, don’t you?”
“I’m a little late sometimes. Big deal. I’m busy, you know.”
Busy? My blood pressure skyrockets, irritation transforming into full-blown anger.
“It’s not a little late! You haven’t paid for two months! I’m warning you, pay the bill or I’ll take you to court.”
“Take me to court? With what? You can’t afford it.” She scoffs. She loves scoffing, does it any chance she gets.
“I’ll borrow against my inheritance if I have to. Or I’ll get a loan. But I promise that if we have to move her, I will make your life a living hell.”
“You’ve done plenty of that already! I’m used to it by now!”
“Hey, hey, hey. What’s going on here?” Dan says as he walks into the kitchen. His green eyes, the same color as his daughter’s, meet mine. I can’t help comparing that while my mother’s are filled with righteous indignation, as if she’s the victim, Dan’s are filled with empathy.
“Your wife stopped paying Grandma’s bill. The Sunnyvale manager told me that they’ll evict her if it’s not paid asap.”
“I’m a little behind! That’s all,” Eileen shouts. Dan shoves his hands into the pockets of his khakis.
“Everybody calm down. Your grandmother is not going to be evicted. We’ll send the payment out first thing tomorrow morning. I promise you.” I don’t doubt Dan. Not for a minute. In the twenty-two years I’ve known him he’s never disappointed me. Not once. Dan Peterson is a stud in every way that should matter––he’s smart, kind, and dependable. “You have my word, Amber.”
Hearing his vow makes every muscle in my body go slack. I give him a brief hug and plant a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, Dan.”
He gives me a sympathetic, lopsided smile partially hidden under his blond goatee and pats my upper arm.
With that, I march out of the kitchen and out the front door without a backward glance at my mother. I’m almost at the end of their street, on my way to the bus stop, when I hear Audrey calling my name.
I look over my shoulder and find her running toward me, skinny arms flailing, purple Uggs flying. When she reaches me, her cheeks are pink from running in the biting cold, her expression unsure.
“You forgot your purse.” She hands me my messenger bag. “I programmed my number in your phone.” Her expression stills, waiting for me to comment. When I don’t, she continues, “Maybe––I don’t know, maybe we can hang out…sometime?” Her gaze moves around nervously. She fidgets with the sleeves of her jacket, pulling them over her hands.
“I’d like that.”
Her eyes slam into mine. “You would?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, cool,” she says grinning from ear to ear. “I’ll text you.”
“I’ll stay here until you get back inside, so run your butt off.”
“Okay,” she says cheerfully and takes off in a sprint back home. Maybe something good can come out of this mess. Maybe, in the process, I’ve gained a sister.
Chapter Nine
It’s Sunday––the big day––and we’re all at the stadium in the Coach’s club across from the locker rooms where the players’ families sit, waiting for the AFC Wild Card game to begin between the Titans and the Cincinnati Bengals.
Most of clan Shaw is in the house, the box loud from all the enthused members of our party. Which includes Amanda, Calvin’s sister, and her son Sam, who have been here since Christmas. Three other Shaw brothers, who I hadn’t met before, and Camilla’s parents.
“I’m starting to understand why you love this game so much. Hot, ripped men running around in tight, shiny pants––” Mrs. Football Hoe, otherwise known as my best friend, arches an admonishing brow. “No need to be embarrassed. I approve.”
I called the nursing home this morning and confirmed that Eileen had sent the check. No doubt with Dan standing over her, making sure it got done. Which is the only reason why I can relax and enjoy myself now.
“Tackling each other to the ground? What she-devil thought this up? I’d like to shake her hand. The only thing that could possibly be improved upon is if they took off their jerseys.”
“You’re missing the point,” Camilla’s expression is tight. She’s on the edge of her seat and the game hasn’t even started yet.
“Am I? These dudes are brave. And not because of the hits they’re about to take.” I watch a couple of the players warming up while I suck down my diet soda. “Those pants are white. Number fifty-four looks like he’s packing some serious heat. Can you introduce me?”
“No. He’s married.”
“Lucky bitch.”
Feminine laughter gets my attention. I glance over my shoulder, to find Fancy is talking to an elegant Asian woman dressed in designer clothes. She pushes a dark drape of hair over her shoulder and bats her lashes, her face in jeopardy of cracking in two from the force of her smile.
“Who’s that?”
Camilla looks over at the two of them.
“Dr. Lucy Davis. That’s Davis as in her parents own the team. She’s a pediatric surgeon and just got back from Syria where she was working with Doctors Without Borders.”
Whatever. I organize a canned food drive for the homeless shelter in the Bowery every Thanksgiving. Do I go around bragging about it? No.
We watch them for a while. Fancy says something. She laughs again. They exchange smiles. Hands stuffed in his pants pocket, he rocks back and forth on his expensive Italian loafers. That’s when I catch it––a glimpse that tells me it’s all an act. I can’t name it. I can’t describe what it is, but I know it when I see it. The smile he’s giving her is a fraud. What a little actor. Takes one to know one I guess.
“Well, she laughs like a hyena, so there.”
Camilla tears her eyes away from the tall figure on the field warming up and smirks at me. “She does not laugh like a hyena.”
The fabulous Dr. Davis throws her head back and laughs at something Fancy said for the umpteenth time. Brows up my forehead, I’m ready to gloat.
Camilla takes one look at my expression and says, “She’s a very nice person.”
Irritation crawls over my skin as I watch the two of them for a beat longer. “Christ, does he ever take a day off?” I mutter under my breath.
“Who?”
“Your friend––the pied piper of pussy. They show up at the house, at his office. They probably stalk him on his morning run. I’d really like to know what he does to these women. Does he shoot thunderbolts out of his dick?”
Camilla’s brow furrows as she continues to stare at the man in question. Fancy’s attention steers in our direction. He looks at Cam and smiles. Then his gaze jumps to me and the same smile dies a sudden death.
The hell is his damage? He’s been hostile all day, acting as if I’ve offended him somehow. Which is impossible because we barely said two words on the ride over. I mirror back a frown of my own.
Four hours later the jubilation that was permeating the room is nowhere to be found, the mood that of a funeral. Fitting since it was a massacre. The Titans offense ran into a buzz saw called the Bengals defense. Camilla spent the better part of the game facing the wall because she couldn’t stand to see Calvin being pile driven into the ground one more time while muttering, “I fucking hate this game,” over and over. It’s a miracle he wasn’t split in two. Even I had a hard time watching.
Walking gingerly, Calvin is one of the first players to hobble into the room. We all say our goodbyes and clan Shaw departs for home. Fancy pulls himself away from Dr. Davis’ side, where he’s been all afternoon, and makes his way to me.
“Ready to leave?”
“In a little while. Harper’s going to need me to hug it out and kiss his boo-boos.”
Hands on hips, he exhales loudly. “Is something going on between you two?”
“What do you mean?” I look up and find yet again, a frown. “Ever hear the expression turn that
frown upside down.”
This does not amuse him. On the contrary he’s starting to look a touch annoyed. What’s he got to be annoyed about? Is his designer underwear riding up?
“You’re wearing his jersey.”
“So?”
“And you want to wait for him?”
“Breaking news: Harper and I are friends.”
A very tall and very fit guy with dirty blonde hair and a tan that looks like it was earned the hard way, by working outdoors, walks up to us. He’s appallingly handsome in a way that does not appeal to me whatsoever. He’s a life size version of a Ken doll––the XXL version. He’s also wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, and for a moment I wonder who let this guy into the Coach’s box. He slaps Vaughn on the shoulder like they’re bros.
“‘Sup, brotha,” he says. As suspected.
“Hey, man. I thought you were on the farm,” Fancy retorts. Also as suspected; those muscles did not grow themselves.
“Just got back. I got a favor to ask, can you take a look at the ESPN contract for me? I need a set of eyes I can trust before I sign.”
“Sure. Email it to Andi, and I’ll look it over tomorrow.”
Tall, blonde, and tan sets his butterscotch eyes on me, flagrantly moving from my face to my feet. By the time his attention makes the round trip back up to my face, he’s wearing a gleaming white grin. For obvious reasons, I do not smile back. His eyes skip from me to Fancy, trouble brewing in that golden gaze.
“Is this the little lady?” he asks Fancy.
“Dane, don’t.”
“Did your friend wander off the Ponderosa? I think there’s a 1950s TV show missing its main character.” I turn to address the beefcake directly. “This is New York, bubba, we don’t use that kind of language ‘round here.”
He snorts and smiles wider. Men, God’s test-run before she created woman.
“She dudn’t know who I am?” he asks Vaughn, his accent especially thick for my benefit, a big smile still draped across his chiseled face.
I turn my amusement to Vaughn. “Really? This is the company you keep?”
“Amber this is––”
Tall and tan cranes his neck to scan my jersey. “This one’s a stinger. Harper’s got his work cut out for him.”
My eyeballs are going to pull a muscle if he keeps this up.
“Quit it, Dane,” Vaughn finally adds.
In between Vaughn and Tall and Tan, I spot a few of the players walking into the room. Among them is Harper, freshly showered and ultra handsome in a well fitting navy suit. He looks really bummed. My heart goes out to him. His big puppy dog eyes search and find me in the crowd. I wave and he answers with a tired smile.
“’Scuse me, I have a friend to console.” I push past Vaughn and his goofy friend and hold out open arms for Justin who lumbers into them without hesitation.
“You played a great game,” I say, patting and rubbing his back.
“We sucked,” he mumbles.
“How do you feel? You took some nasty hits.”
“Achy. I’ll sit in ice when I get home.”
“You need some company?”
“Nah. I’m gonna take a couple of Tylenol PMs and sleep it off.”
A masculine cough gets my attention. Or maybe it was the weird vibe branding the side of my face. Justin, who happens to be seven inches taller and had to hunch down for me to hold him, stands upright.
“Good game. Great stats,” Vaughn says to him.
“Don’t matter. We lost,” Justin answers, much more subdued than he typically sounds.
Vaughn’s pointed gaze turns on me. “Ready to go?”
Dry amusement tips up Justin’s lips on one side. “Forgot you two live together.”
“Hopefully not for long.” The minute the words are out my mouth I regret them. The weird thing is, I don’t know why. It’s not like I could hurt Vaughn’s feelings. He probably feels the same way about me, but for some reason there’s a pit in my stomach. My gaze skitters away, to some very interesting lint on the floor.
“I know you’re disappointed, Harper, but you’ll get plenty more chances.” Vaughn’s voice is unaffected. If my jab bothered him, his voice doesn’t betray him.
“Ready to go?” Once more, that low, soft voice addresses me. I nod and Vaughn turns to leave. After I kiss Justin’s cheek, I follow my roommate out the door.
The car ride home is conducted in painful silence. A storm is brewing next to me. I can feel it gaining momentum with every silent minute that ticks by. I’ve never seen Fancy mad. Not that I have a lot to reference, but I’ve never even seen him mildly upset. He’s always the one guy in the room with a crooked grin and laid back attitude, even if it rings phony half the time. At least, it does to me. To everyone else he’s the second coming of Prince Charming.
In the underground garage, he pulls into his parking space and shuts off the engine. “Is something going on with you and Harper? You never answered my question.”
Any guilt I was feeling over the bitchy comment is immediately replaced with irritation. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
I hop out of the car and attempt to take my aggression out on the door, by slamming it shut, but I’m thwarted by one of those pesky ‘soft close’ features. German engineering and all that jazz. Not bothering to wait for him, I head to the elevator.
“It’s my business if you’re dating my client,” he says, right on my heels.
“I didn’t know,” I say with a shrug. I’m a bit surprised, though Justin and I don’t often discuss work and never once have we discussed Vaughn so there’s that. As soon as we step into the elevator, I direct my gaze to the panel, avoiding all eye contact with the man standing way too close to me.
The elevator opens onto the sidewalk and I head toward the townhouse without a backward glance, the wind chill making my eyes water.
“Who do you think negotiated that monster contract for him? Brought him to New York.”
I stop and turn, almost crashing into him. He takes a small step back. Barely a step. I’m forced to step back myself. It’s either that, or shout at the chest six inches from my nose. “Are you looking for a round of applause? Is that it?”
“What I want is to be kept abreast of who my clients date.”
“Why? Does he have to get permission?” I march around the corner and jog up the stairs of the townhouse, burning with a need to get as far away from him as possible. Vaughn gets the keys out and opens the door while I blow on my frozen fingertips and daydream a million different ways to torture him. As soon as the front door swings open, I hustle inside, and proceed to hang up my puffy jacket in the hall closet with Vaughn dogging my every step.
“I need to know these things in case I have to deal with a baby mama situation.”
My steps screech to a sudden halt in the middle of the staircase. He did not just say that to me. I turn and take in the man standing three steps below me.
Fuuureaking men. You have sex on a first date you’re easy. You don’t you’re frigid. Tell them you love them, do nice things for them, you’re clingy. You don’t, you’re selfish and cold. I could go down the list of contradictions for hours. And now I can include being friends with a professional athlete makes me a gold digger.
“You’re one to talk, Typhoid Mary! When it’s pretty damn clear you’ve slept with half the women of Manhattan!”
“What did you call me?” The look of shock on his face would be funny if I wasn’t so pissed right now.
“I called you a purveyor of disease. But here’s a term you’ll understand––slut!” I’m on a roll now, no end in sight. “When was the last time you had an STD test? You should’ve warned me that I needed to bleach the toilet seat every time I need to use it.”
The shock on his face transforms into a fresh fit of anger. All puffed up, he suddenly looks two inches taller, his color high. “Are you, or are you not dating Harper?”
Turning up the stairs, I stomp to my bedroom door an
d step inside. “Ask your client,” I shout, after which I slam the bedroom door in his face. “I’ll go to jail before I let you manage me!”
Bang bang bang. I reluctantly crack open an eye. Bang bang bang. If that’s the construction crew, it’s gonna get murdery up in here. Bang bang bang. Actually, it sounds more like knocking. Ignoring it, I snuggle deeper under the covers but the knocking only grows louder. I barely slept three hours. Reason number one, because I was so worked up by the altercation. And number two, because I could not assuage the tension I was feeling by said altercation with one of my electric book boyfriends. Just as I was settling in for a good work out with my dear, dear Gabriel, doubt started to creep in. One of those suckers sounds like a chainsaw and I couldn’t remember which one. What if he heard me? What if he walked in while I was using? The bedroom door is so old it has a keyhole, no other lock. Needless to say, I’m in no mood for him now.
“Jones? You awake?”
Motherfu…
“Jones?”
I shove my sleeping mask up and grab my iPhone off the nightstand. 5:30 am. He can’t be serious. I have a private party to work tonight that will run way past midnight.
“Jones.”
“Go awayyyyy!”
The door to our mutual bathroom swings open and I pop up in bed. “Hey! I didn’t say you could cooo…”
My eyes focus. Standing in the bathroom doorway dressed only in sweatpants, he’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms and ankles crossed like he has a right to be there. If he’s trying to get a rise out of me, then he just knocked it out of the ballpark.
“You’re sweating,” I grind out through clenched teeth. For the love of modesty, his chest is glistening.
“Tends to happen when I run.”
This dude must have a death wish. “Well––go do it elsewhere.”
“I have something I need to say first.”
He looks determined. I volley back a look that says I’m ready to crack nuts if need be, the slow to develop irritation I’m feeling inching closer to critical mass.