Son of a Sinner

by Lynn Shurr

  “I would not know this. I have the allergies against the dogs and cats.”

  “Mati doesn’t shed. You shouldn’t have any problems being here.” Stacy spoke in defense of her pet.

  “But he pisses in the kitchen when I arrive.”

  “He still gets excited about guests, that’s all. Dean gave him to me,” Stace said as if that would shut her up.

  “I would not want him to give me a dog, maybe jewelry or something else, like Don Juan offered you.”

  “Since you labeled Dean a party pooper, that isn’t likely to happen. Look, he just scored his second touchdown of the night. A pass right into the end zone. Come on, Tom. Give us one more point!”

  Unimpressed, Ilsa picked up her glass of white wine and sipped. “Tom, he is the more fun one, nein?”

  Xochi answered her. “Definitely, if you give him a chance. Dean is so serious, always worried about his reputation and not letting anyone down, constantly trying to protect all of us, and there are a lot of Billodeauxs to protect.”

  “Then, I should give Tom a chance since you say I cannot go out with the clients even though you had dinner with Don Juan. More wine, bitte.” Ilsa extended her glass in the direction of the bottle sitting on the coffee table.

  “That wasn’t a date with Don Juan, just a friendly farewell for a sick, old man.” Barely taking her eyes from the screen, Stacy gave Ilsa a refill. The Packers inched their way downfield and ran one in on the third down. The Sinners offense claimed their positions with two minutes to go before the half. Dean worked the clock to perfection and achieved a third touchdown with only two seconds left. The announcer proclaimed him as being “still on fire.”

  As the team left for their break and to make halftime adjustments, Ilsa rose. “I think that is enough of the football for tonight.” She stretched her long, slim frame that supported an amazing set of breasts beneath the stunning cowl-necked black sweater that clung to them.

  Stacy checked to see if all those Lucky Dogs the woman devoured at lunch each day because they reminded her of German wurst were beginning to show. Or maybe New Orleans cuisine had caught up with her, but no. Ilsa must have the metabolism of a hyperactive cheerleader. Her slacks, also black, exposed not a single bulge. She’d also polished off most of the bottle of wine while Xo and Stacy sucked down diet drinks, but didn’t sway a bit on her high-heeled leather boots. The woman had to be a robot in disguise.

  “The score is still fairly close. The entire game could turn around in the second half. The Sinners don’t have it wrapped up yet, and it’s hard for visitors to win at Lambeau Field,” Xo told her. “Usually, that’s when it gets really exciting.”

  Thoroughly tired of the woman, Stacy said, “I’ll call a cab for you. You’ve had quite a bit to drink.”

  “No need. I have been drinking wine since I was twelve. I will take the streetcar to my place. It is not that far.” Ilsa slung her long, white-blonde ponytail over her shoulder, getting it out of way. It sported a small red scarf knotted at the top, her concession to wearing Sinners colors when her hostesses were decked out in plain black jeans and football jerseys bearing the numbers for Dean and Tom. Ilsa circled wide around Mati as she made for the stairs.

  Much as Stacy didn’t mind her leaving, she felt compelled to make the offer. “We’ll wait with you until the streetcar comes. At halftime, the fans will be out getting more liquor and some of them will be drunk.”

  “So maybe I will meet someone fun.”

  Still, Stacy and Xo walked her to the corner, made sure she’d gotten safely to the stop and on the streetcar before they went back inside for the second half. “I thought I didn’t like her because of Dean, but I can’t seem to warm to Ilsa,” Stacy confided to her cousin.

  “Any person who doesn’t like dogs is suspect in my book. So much for interviewing over the internet. I doubt she’ll stay in our employ very long. She’ll either go back to Germany because she doesn’t like it here, or have too much fun one night and end up marrying some guy because she’s got a little Kaiser roll in her oven,” Xochi predicted.

  “Poor sap,” Stacy murmured.

  They returned in time to see Dean being blitzed by four big linemen. He threw away the ball but went down hard in a big halftime adjustment made by Green Bay. Neutralize the quarterback. But the Sinners offense closed ranks and protected their man enough for Dean to throw for a touchdown in the third quarter. Still he suffered another sack, and Green Bay caught up to tie at the top of the fourth. As the clock ran down, the Sinners got the ball again, two minutes to go. Again, Dean worked the clock as he moved the ball down the field with short, sharp passes, and on the last play, handed off to his running back to take the ball into the end zone. Final score: 35-28.

  As the reporters questioned Dean about his seven game winning streak to which he modestly replied that it felt good but lots of tough games lay ahead, Xochi said, “Really exciting game in the second half. Ilsa should have stuck around.”

  “Frankly, I enjoyed it more once she left. Dean is going to be so sore tomorrow.”

  Stacy carried the empty wine bottle and popcorn bowls into the kitchen as Mati pranced at her feet probably hoping to be allowed to lick the butter and salt out of the bottom of the dishes. Instead, he found himself confined there behind a baby gate. “Until you learn not to piddle when company comes.”

  She put his doggie bed over the top along with the ruined bra he wouldn’t give up and the red scarf Mati had taken a liking to and dragged off her nightstand. She wouldn’t play silly tricks on Dean any more and doubted she’d need a red flag to call him to her rescue again. “Goodnight, puffball. Behave yourself.”

  Nope, no more dumb games to make Dean protective and jealous, but there were other games both of them might enjoy.

  ****

  Dean continued to make management happy by not being seen in public with Stacy. He never called her when on the road or in the locker room, and so she waited, wondering when he would get back to New Orleans and be free to see her in private. Sometimes she wished he’d just cut loose and tell the bigwigs his private life was his own business, but oh no, not Dean. He’d continue to strive to be a good example just as she would keep up a cool professional façade.

  Still, behind the scenes both of them had loosened up in a way neither had ever done before. Sure, she’d met Hugo in dark restaurants far from campus, and they went to clubs for dancing where few LSU students and none of the faculty would dare venture, but that didn’t compare to her short forays across broad Canal Street in one disguise or another to meet her lover in his condo. Dean Billodeaux, her lover, Stacy savored the words.

  Having spent Friday morning at the hospital interpreting for a Costa Rican coffee grower having a procedure similar to the one Don Juan underwent, she’d returned home, shed her business dress for more casual togs, and waited for his call. When her phone rang, she answered eagerly.

  “Hey, Princess. I’m home.” Spoken with his voice low and sexy, princess had become her favorite word in the English language.

  “Be right over.” No need for prolonged conversation when they’d have part of the night together.

  She’d prepared in advance to run the gauntlet of paparazzi still doggedly staking out her alley and Dean’s street corner. She dressed as a typical tourist in Capri pants, a glittery purple cotton tee with Mardi Gras masks on it, sandals, and a big straw hat to ward off the afternoon sun and cover her hair. Adding sunglasses and a shopping bag generously donated by Mrs. Kim downstairs, she used the inside stairs off the second floor landing that took her into the rear of the electronics shop. Stacy Polasky exited the store as simply another shopper unnoticed by the sentinels of sleaze.

  She joined the foot traffic negotiating the double lanes and tram tracks of Canal Street and swung into Dean’s building without a pause. Arturo, in on their rendezvous and tipped well for his silence, notified his patron immediately of her presence. Barefooted, he met her in the doorway of his condo. In seconds, she s
tood in Dean’s embrace with her hat knocked to the floor and the shopping bag dropped at her feet.

  Stacy refrained from hugging him too hard. “You must be sore from those two sacks last night.”

  “Some,” he replied in his usual stoic way when it came to any kind of pain. Dean’s hands ran under her T-shirt to cup her breasts and unhook her bra.

  “You know, we’re still standing in the doorway. Is Tom home?”

  He kicked the door shut. “No.” He applied his lips to hers and started backing them toward his bedroom.

  Stacy balked and pushed lightly against his embrace. “Wait. My bag.”

  “I thought that was just a prop, but we’d better move it. Won’t do to have Tom break a leg tripping over it when he gets back from his date with Ilsa.”

  Stacy snatched her shopping bag from the floor, but stood there stock-still. “Tom is out with Ilsa?”

  “That’s what I said. She left a message for him at headquarters asking if he wanted to have some fun tonight. He definitely did.” Impatient with the lack of forward motion, Dean reached under her legs and pressed Stacy against his chest for a quick carry to the bedroom.

  “Where are they going? What will they do?”

  “Dinner, House of Blues, dancing and bar hopping afterwards.” He lowered her to the bed and went to work stripping off her clothes.

  “Xochi told her he was more fun than you.”

  “If they go dancing, she’ll have lots of laughs.” Dean stopped in the midst of rolling down the Capri pants with her underwear inside. “Wait, this isn’t fun?”

  “For you and maybe shortly for me. I really don’t like Ilsa. She seems calculating somehow. I’m worried about Tom.”

  “Grown man, can take care of himself while he’s having fun.” He disposed of her sandals when the rest of the clothes came off. “Stop worrying.”

  Nude, Stacy sat up. “Wait.”

  “Again?”

  “I have a treat for you.”

  “Ah, Stace, you are always a treat.” Since she didn’t do it for him, Dean stepped out of his jeans and peeled off his T-shirt to reveal several large bruises on his side and back.

  “Lie down. I want to give you a massage first. I brought lotion.”

  Dean turned down the covers before obeying. “If I leave an oily full body imprint on the spread, Krayola will know what we’re doing. I sometimes suspect she reports back to Mom.”

  “I doubt that. Aunt Nell would respect your privacy.” Stacy straddled his hips and squeezed the lotion onto her hands.

  “Like she did with you and Ugo.”

  “Stop obsessing about Hugo. I want to make you feel better.”

  “It isn’t perfumed lotion, is it? My sinuses are kind of stuffy from the flight.”

  “No, unscented. Now just enjoy.” A small lie. She’d grabbed her own body lotion on the way out and had no desire to dress again and find a pharmacy to buy another brand. For so many summers, she’d watched as other girls greased Dean’s shoulders—bigger than they should have been at his age—as he did lifeguard duty at Camp Love Letter. Their own contact had always been combative—the splash in the face, the dunk to the bottom of the pool. Now, Stacy dug her fingers deep into his shoulders and kneaded the finely honed muscles. Her eyes drifted shut as she rubbed, imagining what came next.

  “You know, Stace, the Sinners do have a massage therapist on the payroll. No need to waste time doing this. I’m not that stiff,” Dean just had to say.

  “Does their masseuse do it in the nude?”

  “Hell, no. He’s a big hairy dude.”

  “So I have no competition.” Stacy leaned over his back until her breasts pressed against his hot skin. She let her long hair tickle his sides. Droplets of perspiration from her efforts landed on his neck and trickled down onto the sheets.

  “Okay, now I am stiff, only not where you’re rubbing.”

  “We’ll get to the other side soon. Relax. Let me work.” She avoided his bruises and slid down farther on his legs to knead his buttocks so firm under her hands.

  “I’m ready for the other side now.”

  Stacy slapped him sharply on his backside. “When I say so.”

  Dean folded his hands under his chin, resigned, she guessed, to letting her set the pace. “You know, Princess, the thing I like best about you is that you never expect me to be perfect. You always pointed out my flaws, never let me get away with any crap. Dad, he wanted me to be the best quarterback and a leader. Mom tried to make me ethical, moral, and kind. Lead and protect. I should have that motto tattooed on my chest. Hard to live up to their standards.”

  Stacy’s hands stilled on his thighs. She wanted to tell him he had achieved those goals, but that would only put more pressure on him. As for tattoos, their mention brought back shades of Prince. She obliterated that darkness with sheer sass. “Sorry, you won’t get any pity from me Golden Boy, King of the Gridiron, and rescuer of maidens in distress. Don’t you dare get a tattoo unless it’s a heart with my name inside. Roll over.”

  He obeyed immediately. “See, I’m stiff, very stiff.”

  “Looks like that area needs some lotion, lots of lotion.” She ran her hands up and down the length of his hard penis and stroked his balls until they bunched and his short hairs stood on end. “Since you are bruised like an overripe banana, I’ll do the work tonight.” Stacy settled herself on his fierce erection and began moving over him.

  Dean closed his eyes. “Sometimes it is so damn nice to let someone else lead for a change.”

  “You aren’t going to fall asleep after that great massage, are you?”

  “Not a chance, Princess.”

  Stacy started out slow, not taking his length all the way in, but rising up on her knees and teasing the head of his shaft, until he pressed her down firmly all the way. After that, she went long and deep, then faster and faster as she pinned his shoulders to the bed. Dean’s groans rewarded her efforts, but he couldn’t restrain himself and rose up to meet her with strong, swift pumps of his hips. She gave way before he did, arching her back and crying out. He raised his knees to support her and kept going, doubling her pleasure until he gained his. With her hair making a golden blanket over them, Stacy sagged against his chest.

  “I was supposed to be in charge,” she murmured as his rapid heartbeat sounded in her ear.

  “Sorry, sometimes I can’t help myself. I have to take the lead.”

  “Believe me, no need to apologize—this time.”

  As they cooled and recovered, the conversation turned to food and what to order in. Starving and too enervated to debate, they settled on a classic pizza with a couple of side salads from Papa’s in the Quarter. One thing Dean’s refrigerator contained plenty of—beer, wine, sodas, juice, and milk, any of which went fine with the main dish. No doubt about what they both wanted for dessert and served hot later in the evening. Around one a.m., Stacy insisted she had to go home.

  “Tom will be back soon, and I have to check on my client in the hospital in the morning.”

  “Tom won’t care, and your patient doesn’t know where you spent the night.”

  “You should get some rest.”

  “Now who’s the party pooper?”

  Stacy, getting into her disguise again, said, “You know Ilsa called you that?”

  “Tom started it. She picked it up from him.”

  Stacy balanced against the leather headboard to put on her sandals. Her hand came down on the parrot shirt hanging on the corner. “I don’t know why you keep this thing here. You must really love it.”

  “Yeah, there’s something I do love about my parrot shirt. You and Krayola are always trying to put it in the wash. Leave it be. Guess I have to get dressed and walk you home. “

  Reluctantly, Dean put on jeans and a dark hoodie that he drew around his face. With his scruff of black beard and his dark eyes glittering, he owned a fairly forbidding look. If the paparazzi noticed him, they’d be fools to approach. But then, some of them wer
e.

  They made the crossing without incident, another successful secret assignation. Despite the glee of outwitting the yellow press and the joy of having Dean care so much for her, Stacy wondered if and when they’d go public as she trudged up the stairs to her apartment one more time after the midnight hour. That decision rested entirely with Dean. She would not betray him.

  ****

  Dean sat up replenishing himself with more pizza and a second beer when Tom got in around two. “How did it go with Ilsa?”

  “Do I know the way to a Deutsch dolly’s heart? I took her to Jagerhaus to eat her fill of kraut, red cabbage, schnitzel, and those spaetzle noodles. We had soft pretzels in the bread-basket, a bottle of Liebfraumilch—that’s a wine for the uneducated like you. Ilsa said she’d never had it in Germany. Finished off with strudel and German chocolate cake.”

  “Hey, I have to study the playbook. Only kickers have time to peruse the wine list. Leftovers?” Dean inquired with mild interest. “I did save you some pizza, but I won’t fight you for kraut.”

  “She kept all the leftovers. We skipped House of Blues because she doesn’t so much like the blues even though I told her they have other acts. Bar hopped through the Quarter. I tell you that woman can hold her liquor. The dancing didn’t go so well.” Tom slipped a slice onto a plate and nuked it just enough to melt the cheese and not toughen the crust, another of his brother’s strange skills, Dean observed.

  “You might be an ace kicker, but you dance like a gigged frog.”

  “That’s okay because I made her laugh until the beer came out her nose.”

  “Attractive picture.”

  “Got more attractive later. Turns out Ilsa is quite the athlete. She used to be on a rowing team and does cross-country skiing—well, not in New Orleans, but back home. She showed me her sculling technique. I got to be the boat.” Tom grinned from ear to ear, hiding some of his freckles in the deep grooves of his smile. “You have a good time with Stacy?”

  “Sorry, can’t share that about a woman we both knew growing up. But I do think it’s time to take this to the next level.”