Hail Mary

by Nicola Rendell

“I’m in…sports?” he says finally.

  So, I don’t know why he’s got a question mark at the end of that, but maybe he’s between jobs. Maybe he’s a sportswear model. I have a vision of a dimly lit photo shoot, with him doing pushups in an empty gym while he drips with sweat and grits his teeth.

  Groan.

  “You know,” I take another sip of my beer, “you look like the guy who models for those five-bladed Gillette razors.”

  He starts to laugh, smiling, looking at me down through the bottom of his glass. “That’s because I am.”

  I slam my beer on the table. “I knew it! When I was waving those smelling salts in front of your face, I just knew I’d seen you somewhere before.”

  Again, he cocks his head and again he looks at the television. Before I can say anything about it, though—like, possibly, Do you want to go sit at the bar to get a better view of the TV?—he says, “What about you? What do you do?”

  As I chew my potato skin, he gets this adorable smile on his face and then takes a manly swallow of his beer. I watch his Adam’s apple rise and fall and feel a little faint.

  I point at my full mouth and then give him a single finger in the air. He reaches over and takes the other half of the potato skin from my plate. In the time it takes me to swallow, he’s already eaten it and is back with his pint glass.

  “I’m a physical therapist.” I wipe my mouth. “But I like to take a sort of integrated approach. The mind-body connection is very powerful.”

  He coughs through a laugh and looks away. I try to stay on course. I feel that stirring through my body for him again and shift on the bench seat.

  “Mind-body. Interesting,” he says, smiling down at his paper napkins.

  I nod. “Sometimes, when we think in a certain pattern, it ends up making the physical injury worse. So I like to help my patients break those patterns, if we can.”

  Incredibly, he looks very interested by this. Surprised, even. “Who do you work with?”

  “All sorts of people,” I say, thinking through my client list. “People with chronic pain, the elderly, people with acute injuries, athletes…”

  And then, for some reason, he cough-chokes on his pale ale.

  7

  Jimmy

  Barbeque is a full-contact sport. There’s a stack of napkins about four inches high between us, and a little plastic basket of wet wipes by the candle. I have to take my sweatshirt off to keep it clean, but somehow—and I don’t even know how because God knows I’m watching her closely—she manages to make her way through rib after rib, dripping with sauce, and not ever, not once, get any on her sweater.

  I feel like that might be the true sign of a total badass. A woman in a white turtleneck sweater who can make it through a night at Sweet Uncle Earl’s without any problem at all. That’s fucking incredible.

  And we talk. Like strangers do, getting to know each other. She does this adorable thing when she’s thinking, looking off over my shoulder. It fakes me out the first time or two, and I actually do look over my shoulder. But then I get used to it and take the pauses to really study her hair, the curve of her shoulder, the fullness of her lips. Goddamn.

  But beyond being beautiful, she’s also really good company. The conversation is easy and smooth and never once comes back to football. The few dates I have gone on lately were all about football. Or money. Or money in football.

  Which brings me to the question: Who am I, if I’m not money or football?

  Jesus, I think, picking up another rib. I have no fucking idea. At all.

  “Have you read anything good lately?” she asks.

  I sink my teeth into the meat on the top while a big drop of sauce slaps down onto my potato salad. This conversation has to be happening to someone else. I don’t think anybody has asked me what I like to read in damn near twenty years. The thing is, I do have an answer. Here goes nothing. “Actually, I just finished American Lion.”

  She blots her face delicately. “Oooh! It’s so good, isn’t it? You know what’s also super good is American Sphinx. That Jefferson, he was a piece of work! And I saw this book, Six Frigates, that looks really interesting too…”

  Seriously, I’m about this close to telling her she can share my Kindle account so we can talk about James Madison all day long. “Are you a non-fiction woman yourself?”

  She beams. “Oh yes. All sorts of things. Fiction. Non-fiction. I do love my TV, though.” She lifts her shoulders, eyes twinkling. “My roommate and I watch an awful lot.”

  I’m a little in the dark here. My television watching is limited entirely to ESPN and… “I watch a lot of How It’s Made with my niece.”

  Parting her lips slightly, she’s looking at me like I’m bluffing at a poker table. “No.”

  “Yes?” I say, thinking I might have just revealed myself to be a complete and utter nerd.

  But then she closes her eyes, with a rib perched between her fingers. “Today on How It’s Made: plastic pasta drainers, gumballs, hunting knives…and…”

  Oh Jesus, is she adorable. I freeze with my napkin in my hand. She holds a finger up from the rib to tell me to wait for it, wait for it…

  “…gluten-free apple hand pies!”

  It’s so exactly right, so perfect, that a huge belly laugh shoots from my mouth and fills the room. Sweet Uncle Earl gives me a look from the pass-through hole in the kitchen to say, “Man! Look at you!” and smiles and smiles.

  “They always throw in that product placement at the end.” I suck some sauce off my fingers. “Kills me. All I want to know is how they grow bananas and I get meatless luncheon meat or some shit.”

  She smiles hard and takes a big bite out of her rib.

  Patiently, carefully, she chews and chews, savoring every bite. It’s really kind of nice. I’m used to eating meals with guys who act like their eating time is cutting into their prison yard time. But she savors every last morsel.

  As she swallows the last bite of her potato salad, I see she’s got a smudge of sauce on her lip, and I signal to her mouth. Her tongue pokes out, trying to find the spot, but misses it by a mile. So I put down my rib and take a wet wipe from a packet. Then I lean over and blot at her lip for her. As I do, her eyes follow my fingers, and I stay there probably a shitload longer than is necessary.

  “Am I good?” she asks, after I’ve lingered there long enough to feel the wet wipe drying out.

  I scrunch it up in my palm but leave my thumb on her cheek for just a little while longer as I say, “Yeah. You’re perfect.”

  8

  Mary

  Two beers and a full rack of ribs later, he pays in cash and offers his hand to help me out of the booth. He doesn’t let go when I stand up, but instead holds it tight, knitting his big, sexy fingers around mine. My heart gives a flutter, and the heat comes back up into my cheeks. As we walk to the door and everybody calls out, “Good luck, Falcon!” his other hand slides down my back, firmly guiding me along. His arm is warm against my back, his legs strong against mine. It’s not sweet, or cute, or gentlemanly. It’s electric, and starts a deep rumble inside me. He lets my hand go only long enough to help me with my coat, and then snatches it up tightly in his again.

  We step out into the softly falling snow. “Thank you for dinner.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m not done with you yet.”

  I’ve been told I've got moxie, but this guy can take my breath away with a glance. “No?” I ask, shifting my palm upwards so that we both flatten our hands against each other’s. Mine is tiny next to his, my fingers barely stretching to his second row of knuckles, my palm swallowed up whole by his.

  “Fuck no. We’ve only just started, Mary. I haven’t even kissed you yet…”

  Oh my God.

  But before I can react—say, swoon straight into his arms, or give him a breathy Where have you been all my life?—a plow comes down Clark at roughly seventy miles an hour. The roar of the engine fills the air and the blinking yellow lights shine through the falli
ng snow.

  The curve of the plow is such that it’s sending all the snow off to the right-hand side, where there’s only one car parked:

  My old Wrangler.

  Cherry red, 1989, original hardtop. Very questionable cooling system. But, oh, how I love her. She’s got 199,997 miles on her, and her engine is held together mostly with different sorts of tape.

  And now she’s about to get buried.

  There’s nothing to be done to stop it, and I know that. But still, because I’ve never in my life been a woman to stand and watch, I start hustling down the street saying, “No, no, no, no, no,” and, “Stop, stop, stop!” and kind of cringe-watching through half-closed eyelids.

  His hand slips back around mine as the plow buries the side of my car in about three feet of dirty snow, all dotted with chunks of asphalt like chocolate chips. The pile is thick, solid, and goes right up to the door handle.

  “Shit!”

  “Oh fuck. That’s yours?”

  “Jimmy! Why? Every damned storm! Why?” I shove him on the chest and he fake-stumbles backward.

  “You’re not supposed to park on the opposite side during storms. I get alerts on my phone about it all the time.”

  I take him by the massive arms. “What is the opposite side? The opposite side of what?”

  He laughs. “I have no fucking idea. I park in a garage.”

  I shake him, hard. He doesn’t budge at all at first, but then plays limp and lets me shake him so that his head rolls slowly back and forth. Even his throat is sexy. Finally, I stop shaking him and just stand there gripping his shoulders. I wonder, briefly, if he’d even fit through my apartment door.

  “What do I do?” I say, softly. “I don’t think Uber is…”

  But I find myself trailing off because he looks so … delicious here under the street lamp, with snow falling on his cheeks, getting caught in his eyelashes. The snowflakes make soft patters on our jackets, and somehow, his eyes are an even richer blue out here in the cold. His gaze moves up and down my face, and he walks me backward up against the brick façade of the building. I haven’t even had time to zip up my coat, and now he’s taking full advantage, slipping his hand around my waist and hooking one finger over the belt loop of my jeans. He presses his hips against me, and without even thinking, I find myself sliding my hands into his back pockets, the fingers of my right hand underneath his wallet, against the firm, strong curve of his ass.

  “You’re so fucking sexy, Mary.”

  I swallow hard. My purse slides down my arm, slippery because of the fabric of my parka, and dangles at my elbow. His other hand comes to my face, his thumb moving slowly up and down my cheek. “Do you even know what you’re doing to me right now?”

  “I think you better show me.” I press back against him as best I can.

  That’s when he leans in, nudging my forehead with his, a little bit like we did in the ring. But this is very, very different. Soft. Tender. Yet somehow just as intense. His stubble scrapes the edge of my cheek, and I let my eyes flutter shut.

  Into my ear, he whispers, “Get ready, because I’m going to kiss you.”

  “I’m ready.” I take the buttons of his Henley in my fist and pull him closer.

  “You fucking better be.”

  Inhaling hard against my cheek, he places his thumb to my jaw, keeping my face steady in his huge, warm hand. Harder and harder he pushes me against the wall. I let my purse fall onto the snowy sidewalk so that I can pull him close with both arms. Through half-closed eyes, I notice the traffic light turn to yellow, then red, as he kisses me deeper and deeper. The kiss says, This is who I am. This is how I am. I grip his head with my palms as his fingers find their way down past my panties at the small of my back. The rush of cold sends a prickle up my spine.

  He isn’t careful about his split lip, like he doesn’t feel anything but me, but this, but us, in the middle of a snowstorm on a street corner. As the traffic light turns to green, I feel dreamy and far away. I’ve forgotten to breathe. It’s that kind of kiss. A take-your-breath-away, forget-where-you-are, kiss. Finally, I gasp for air, but don’t part from him. I bring one hand around the back of his head. Under my cold fingers, I feel the short hair at the nape of his neck, the warmth of his skin at the edge of his collar.

  At last, he pulls himself from me, and I’m left speechless, breathless, lost in his arms. For a second, we just stare at each other. Then he draws me up against his chest, sheltering me from the cold.

  I rest my cheek against him, the ridges of his thermal shirt pressing into my skin. With an effortless movement of his thumb, he draws my face up so I’m looking right at him. Those blue eyes sparkle in the neon lights from the building behind me.

  “I’ve never been kissed like that.”

  He inhales deeply and his grip on my body tightens. Then he leans in closer, and runs his tongue along the edge of my ear. “I’m going to make you feel a lot of things you’ve never felt before.”

  Oh my God.

  Once I’m able to speak again, I whisper back, “Maybe. Never know. Maybe we could teach each other a thing or two.” I lift myself up on my tiptoes and run my tongue along the edge of his ear to that place where it meets his jaw. I smell the very smallest hint of cologne, a clean, sharp, woodsy smell like nothing else in the world.

  “Fuck, Mary,” he groans. “I like you, you know that?”

  It’s so simple, so beautiful, that I don’t even know how to answer. I think this is what they call chemistry. Explosive, nuclear chemistry. I pull his mouth to mine again, and get lost for another round of green-yellow-red. His forearm lines the curve of my back, and he growls a little as he presses my hips back against the wall with his. He is intoxicating. Double India Pale Ale, move aside. Jimmy is here.

  When he lets me go again, he takes my face in his hands, the way I did when I was trying to bring him back to consciousness. His eyes shift back and forth between mine, finally settling on the left. “I’m going to take you home now. And we’re going to fuck. You’re going to make it up to me for knocking me out. You’re going to let me do what I need to do.” He nudges my cheek with his nose. “You with me?”

  It’s a full-body shudder that starts in my thighs and ends in my fingertips. “Please. Do it. All of it.”

  “I will.” He nips my lower lip. Then he adds, “I’m going to be a gentleman and say I’ll come shovel you out tonight. But I won’t.”

  “Won’t you?” I whisper.

  “Hell, no. The only thing I’m going to be doing tonight is you.”

  9

  Jimmy

  With her hand in mine, I hail a cab on Fullerton. She isn’t saying much, and I like that. I like talking to her, getting dirty, watching her lose her words. Because I’ll tell you what, I’m planning on her losing a shitload more than that before I’m done with her. Losing everything to me. That’s the fucking plan.

  The cabbie pulls off to the other side of the road a little way up from us and puts on his hazards to tell us he’s waiting. As we head for the crosswalk, I kick aside a drift from one of the plows, but it’s unsteady footing, icy and slick. As she begins to slip, her grip on my hand tightens.

  “That’s enough of that,” I tell her, and scoop her up into my arms, newlywed-style.

  She squeals and hangs on tight. She fits fucking perfectly in my arms, and I love the way she feels tight against me. Her fingers slip past my collar, and her fingernails dig gently into the back of my neck. “I can walk,” she says, mostly to my mouth. Then she raises her eyes. “It was just slippery.”

  I don’t answer right away. I don’t want to come on too strong. I don’t want to scare her, but I don’t want there to be any fucking mistake at all about what I want or how I plan to get it. “I know you can. I’m sure you can do pretty much everything.”

  Her eyes glisten, and I hoist her up a little higher in my arms. The walk signal starts flashing its hand as we get to the other curb. “I’m no shrinking violet.”

  “Good
. Because I’m going to need you to come strong for me tonight.”

  Her body reacts before her face does, her back arching under my hand, that bend so delicate under my palm.

  “Multiple times. Loudly.”

  She presses her face to my chest and moans out what sounds like, “Who are you?”

  “And you’re going to tell me what you like and how you like it. We’re not going to fuck around. Communication, pussycat. That’s the key.”

  There go her words again. I’m getting to know that glaze in her eye, disoriented with desire. “And what about you?”

  Now we’re even with the cab, but I’ve still got some things she needs to know. “I don’t come until you do. At least twice.”

  She’s got no answer for that, so I bring her chin up toward me, stretching her pretty neck out with my thumb on her jaw. “You hear me?”

  She nods. She breathes. She blinks.

  “That’s how it’s going to go.”

  “I think I can handle that.”

  I laugh, sending a plume of steam out of my nose. This girl has no idea how badly I want her. How badly I need her. How fucking hard I am already to get inside her. “Yeah? You think so? You think you can handle me?”

  Her eyes widen a little. “I think so,” she whispers.

  Then I let her slip from my arms, such a fucking shame, but I’m not about to let her open her own door. As she gets into the cab—on the street side, the safe side—I say into her ear, “We’ll just see about that.”

  I live in an old converted warehouse that takes up a whole block. I had it gutted, putting in new lofts that are so recently renovated, my guys tell me they need to let the concrete floors cure a little longer before they put on the final sealant. It’s all pretty much perfect.

  Except for the elevator.

  It’s an old industrial piece of shit that goes about one foot every ten seconds. The guys who did the renovation called it retro. I call it scary as hell. I’m not proud. I’ve bookmarked “unusual elevator noises” and “should elevators shake for no reason?” and “elevator accident deaths” on every device I have. Usually, I take the stairs, but not tonight. Tonight, I need to get her up against the wall as soon as fucking possible. With one hand on the small of her back, I pull my keys from my pocket, stick the master key into the elevator, and fling up the old metal rolling door. I swing her inside and press her up against the wall as I hit “4” with my clenched fist, and then kiss the breath right out of her.