“Lucky?” James says.
Then: “Lucky!” Bradley shouts, trotting down a ramp in his khaki pants and crisp white button down. The thick gold watch on his wrist is blinding, catching the stadium light in the flashiest piece of jewelry on someone who isn’t a rapper or Elton John.
“Who did you have to kill for that thing?” I point at his wrist.
He pretends to check the time and smiles. “Early birthday present.”
His birthday isn’t until November, but I let it go. Bradley’s family is this great long lineage of Massachusetts doctors—everyone is a doctor of something. His father is an OB/GYN, his mother is a cardiologist, his brother is a pediatrician. I think they can trace one of their ancestors back to a physician in the Civil War. At least, that’s the story his dad likes to tell. Bradley always spent holidays at my house since no one in his family is ever home.
James stands behind Bradley. I can see his eyes just over the top of Bradley’s blonde head. “I’m going to take these back to the guys.”
Bradley turns around, just noticing the massiveness that is James Hughes. They do that thing guys do when they somehow measure each other up by standing up a little straighter and making eye contact.
“Hey,” Bradley says, lifting his chin in greeting.
“Hey,” James says.
I close the distance to them in two steps, sloshing beer in the process. I’ll be surprised if I make it back to our seats with any beer at all.
“James, Bradley. Bradley, James.”
Bradley takes a nacho from the tray James is holding. It drips with gooey cheese all the way to Bradley’s open mouth. I watch James’s face flood with the following emotion: surprise. His sea-green eyes widen. What-the-fuck-ery. His lips part to say so. Then rage. His sea-green eyes get squinty with anger.
“What are you doing, Brad?” I say, taking one huge step between them. James huffs behind me, like a great big bull who just saw red.
“I came to get you. It’s not cold up in the box and there’s way better food. You can bring your cook friend.” Bradley gives James a borderline-friendly smirk. “Oh you guys don’t like to be called cooks right? Sorry, chef.”
“Bradley Thorton…” I say with warning in my voice. “Thanks, but we’re with work people.”
He stands with arms at his waist, puffing his chest out. “Hope it’s worth ditching me.”
I groan. “Shut up. Why don’t you come slum with the rest of us? There’s a bunch of empty seats. Is Sky with you?”
Bradley deflates. “No, we had a fight.”
“You were shoving frosting down each other’s throats the other day. What the hell happened?”
A cheer goes up from the stadium followed by a hip-hop song I don’t know the lyrics to.
“Just stuff,” he says.
“Very specific.” I adjust the beer tray in my hands. “I have to go get this stuff back. James let’s—”
But when I turn to him, James is already gone. There’s a swell of people walking from gate to concession stand to bathroom to the round charging stations, because god forbid you can’t take a selfie at Fenway.
“Oh look. Your cook is gone.”
“Don’t be an ass.” I walk ahead of him.
Bradley picks up his stride to keep up pace with me. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you like him now? Jesus, are you wearing makeup? You said he was a total dick to you. I’m just being sympathetic to my best friend.”
“Argh.” I find our gate and make my way up the steps. The loud crowd of college guys seems to have multiplied like bunnies. I hear someone say, Take the fucking cap off, Yankee, and, Kimbrel, you suck diiiiiiick!
“We have a truce thing going. I have to play nice while we get the restaurant up and running. It’s bad enough that my mom just picked up and went to New York for a few days. She says it’s business, but I think she’s lining up husband #5.”
When we get to our row James isn’t there. He’s moved a row down to where the rest of the kitchen guys are. He glances back at me and I can’t read his face. He doesn’t smile but he doesn’t look mad either. He just glares at Bradley for a moment and then looks back at the game. The guys descend on me and claim their beers and pretzels.
“Felicity!” Bradley plants a kiss on her cheek. Bradley takes James’s old seat. “This girl totally saved me last month. I was late for class and my car was in the shop.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I feel something wet sprinkle on my back. When I turn around one of the college bros is tossing his beer in the air. He shoots down on his seat when a security guard in a canary yellow jacket gives him a warning glare. When the security turns around, Frat Boy #1 points a drunken finger at me. And my mom wondered why I didn’t date any nice boys in college.
While Bradley fills Felicity in some information about his summer plans, I sit back and watch the stadium go insane. I don’t know anything about baseball. I only know to cheer when they start running around the diamond and even then, the stop-and-go of it doesn’t hold my attention.
Unlike James. He holds my attention. I stare at the back of his head, the soft wave of his thick, dark hair. The black ink that peeks out from the collar of his shirt. Usually I find tattoos boring, but because I can’t see it, it just makes me want to know what it is that much more. I bury my face in my beer. Popcorn rains down on me but I don’t turn around. I hold my middle finger high in the air. I fucking hate frat boys.
James turns around and looks up at my birdie, then at my face. He smirks. “Can’t take you anywhere.”
He offers me the tray of nearly depleted nachos. The tortilla is soggy, but I need something to do to stop myself from letting the warmth of his eyes spread through me.
“What the fuck?” Bradley stands, holding his arms out. His shirt is splattered with beer. He reaches into his pocket, his shiny new iPhone vibrates and flashes in his hand. His angry face goes to a smile in a split second. He waves a quick goodbye to Felicity and me and goes back down the steps with the phone pressed to his ear.
But the beer shower doesn’t stop and I can’t tell if I’m more drenched in drizzle or beer. Frat Boy #2 laughs and shouts. “Your boyfriend left ’cause he’s a pussy.”
Felicity cranes her neck for security, but there’s another problem on the other side of our row. Is it a full moon or something?
“Do you want to go?” she asks me.
I have no interest in the game, but I’m not about to let some dumb boys scare me off. “No.”
I feel a hand try to grab my cap. I smack it away and stand to face him. Frat Boy #1 and his bulbous nose. He’s got the acne of a thirteen year old and the wrinkles of a thirty year old.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” I stick a finger in his face.
James stands like a lightning rod behind me. His beautiful face is marred with an angry frown. In a swift move he steps over his seat and into my row, then the one behind me. His fists grab the guy spraying the beer. The guy drops the plastic cup and it splashes on me anyway.
“Apologize,” James growls. He’s not much taller than Drunk Frat Boy, but James wins in the muscle department. His shoulders are tense, holding on to the guy’s shirt.
“Fuck off, pretty boy.” He shoves James in the chest.
The change in James is so sudden that it takes me a minute to process what’s happening. James breathes hard and fast, as if he has to contemplate what would be worse, walking away or pursuing the fight.
“Yeah,” Frat Boy #1 snarks. “That’s what I thought.”
His boys get rowdy and cheer him on. James catches my eye and I want to tell him it’s okay. It’s not worth it. But he breaks the connection. It’s like he’s trying so hard to stop from doing what he’s about to do, but a darker part of him won’t let him. In one swift jab, he knocks the guy back into his seat.
“James!”
Frat Boys #2 and #3 descend on top of James. He stumbles back, tripping on an armrest. People stand and crane their necks in o
ur direction. Two yellow jackets start making their way up to break up the fight. Behind me Felicity is freaking out. The rest of the kitchen guys trip over their seats to rush to James’s side, but with people getting up and out of their seats, their passage is blocked. All I have in hands is an empty cup of beer. Frat Boy #1 is slowly getting back up, his nose gushing with blood while the other two bring their fists down at James’s sides and thighs. Felicity screams and people snap photos.
I do the only thing I can think of and I kick at the nearest one. I kick him from the back as hard as I can. He yells out and turns to face me. But when he sees I’m a girl, he hesitates. The hesitation is momentary. I can see it in his eye that he doesn’t care. So I take the keys in my pocket and grip them between my fingers. I punch him in the gut.
I can hear a big “Ohhhh!” coming from the crown and when I turn around, I can see our faces magnified on the jumbotron. James, his face covered in blood, pushes his opponent on the cement steps. The sound of his fist on the guys face makes me cringe.
“James!”
His fist stops mid-air. His whole body is shaking and bloody. He looks up at me, at the people looking over at us. The Braves hit a home run and the entire stadium shudders with a groan.
“James!” I press my hands on his back and feel him relax.
“I’m sorry,” he says to me, not to the guy. “I don’t know—”
But he doesn’t have time to finish. A handful of cops have made their way to us. They grab the four bloody guys and take them away.
“You,” a security guard points at me with a pale, demanding finger. My body turns to fire with panic. This isn’t what was supposed to happen today. We were supposed to watch a nice, family friendly baseball game. He bends down in front of me and picks up my keys. For a moment I think he’s going to take them away. His blue eyes stare me down. “You know what the fight was about?”
I stare at the keys hanging from his index finger. “They were throwing beer at me. James was just trying to defend me.”
The cop nods. I don’t have much experience with police. The only time I can remember dealing with them is the day of the accident. When they pulled me from the wreck, I was screaming and screaming. My mom wasn’t with us. My dad was getting carted into the ambulance. I can’t remember the officer’s face. I just remember him holding my arms down against my sides in a forced hug. He placed his hand on my head and let me cry and cry until I didn’t have any tears left.
I take my keys back and shove them in my pocket.
“Come with me,” he says.
Felicity and the boys follow at my heels. Day one of my job, and I can cross off three things: fabric, flood, and a Fenway brawl.
Chapter 17
I bite my nail to a stump while James talks to one of the security officers. He holds a hand out to one of the emergency staff members. James nods his head, but looks at me. I try to give him my most reassuring smile, but the truth is I don’t know what kind of trouble we’re in.
I tell the guys to go back and enjoy the game, but instead they choose to wait by their chef.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Felicity says.
I nod, but I can’t take my eyes away from James and he doesn’t look away either.
Only one of the Frat Boys gets arrested for underage drinking and for pushing a Chowder Guy down the steps in the heat of the moment. The other two are escorted out the stadium as the 6th inning crowds watch from concession stand lines.
“It’s a good thing that James’s nose was just as bloody,” Felicity says, “or it’d be worse for him.”
Frat Boy #1 walks past me and gives me a nasty glare. In the yellow light of the stadium halls his features are gaunt, and a bruise blooms across the right side of his face where James brought down his fist over and over. He’s got butterfly stitches all over his right cheek. Blood is crusted on his upper lip.
When he’s gone, I turn my attention back to James. He shakes a bandaged hand with the security guard. The guard is older, but still formidable. He wags a finger and shouts something to James that I can’t hear. A warning, maybe? My mind reels when I watch them embrace like friends, minus any semblance of a smile on their stern faces. Something isn’t adding up here.
James stands still for a moment. He looks down at the ground, like he’s breathing in and counting. I count, too. One, two, three… He looks up and hesitates before walking back to us. To me.
The closer he gets the better I can see his face. There’s a cut on his forehead where a butterfly stitch covers the skin. A green bruise on his cheekbone matches his eyes. He bites his bottom lip, then regrets it where a cut is swollen and red.
Before I can say anything, the guys descend on him. “I’m sorry, man, I didn’t see you until it was too late.” “What the fuck, dude!” “You look like shit bro.”
James shakes it off like it’s just another day. “You should see the other guy.”
“I did.” My words take his smile away. I shove my thumbnail back between my teeth and gnaw at the stump.
“Are you okay?” James looks at me with an intensity that sends a current down to my toes.
“I’m good just a little…”
“Yo, Lucky, you got that guy good,” Sully tells me, mimicking my kick and punch on the air.
It gets a good laugh, but then it’s followed by an awkward silence.
“Felicity, can you take us home?”
She nods, smiling at us like we’re the most pathetic people on the planet. “Sure thing.”
After we drop off the guys, two in Somerville and one in Allston, it’s just Felicity, James, and me in the car.
At the red light it starts to rain. Felicity flicks on the windshield wipers. The rubber against glass and water squeaks. We’re driving back to The Star so James can pick up his bike.
“You can just drop me off here,” James says. “I can take the T back to my place. I can’t drive in the rain.”
I’m still going to town on my nail when I look back at James. I hate the bruises spreading across his beautiful face. I hate even more that I’m the reason they’re there. What the hell was he thinking?
“Just stay at our place?” It’s a suggestion, but it comes out as a question.
Felicity looks at me wide-eyed. I guess she’s lived there longer than I have, so if anyone should be inviting anyone over, it should be her. Still, I feel terrible for the way everything ended up today.
“There’s definitely room!” she says.
“It’s fine.”
I unbuckle my seatbelt and turn around in my seat. “It’s not fine. You’re not fine. You’re staying at our place and that’s it.”
It’s like my mouth is faster than my social filters. A car behind us honks and Felicity steps on the gas. I turn back around in my seat and I’m keenly aware of my heart racing in my chest. I wish my body didn’t react this way to James. I wish I could think of him like any other guy, but for some reason, I just can’t.
We drive in silence, and I take that as James’s resignation to being sequestered by his colleagues and taken to his boss’s house.
The elevator ride is filled with the same silence, the ding when I press the penthouse button, and the metallic rattle as we go up. Felicity gives James a towel when I realize I don’t know where they are. She also shows him to the room beside mine, where he can sleep.
When James is in the shower, I have to stop myself from picturing him undressing. Stop myself from imagining his hard muscles flexing as he rinses himself off in soapy foam.
“What a day,” Felicity says, sighing hard and sitting beside me in the living room. I turn on the TV and put it on mute just to have something to distract me. Felicity chuckles lightly. “At least I’ll never forget this game. Beats little league, I guess.”
“How old is your brother?” I realize I don’t know a lot about her other than the fact that she works for my mother and lives down the hall.
“Twenty. He’s in Florida studying oceanography. H
e doesn’t play anymore though.”
“I always wanted a brother,” I say, and the honesty in that surprises me. Felicity gives me a sympathetic smile.
I pour myself a drink from a tall, skinny bottle of bourbon. When I offer some to her she cringes and declines. I smell it, taking warm comfort in the boozy liquid. Because of the unseasonable cold, I turn on the fireplace.
Felicity yawns. “I can’t believe how long today had been. Tomorrow we have interviews for the front of house staff. Then there’s—”
I take a sip from my drink and hold my hand up to stop her. “Mm. Please. Stop. We’ll deal with that tomorrow.”
She smiles. “My brother says I’m a workaholic.”
I snort. “Well, you are. You literally live with your boss.”
She shakes her head, giving me a chummy pat on my back. “Goodnight, Lucky.”
When Felicity locks herself in her room, I realize I don’t hear the shower running anymore so I walk down the hall to the bathroom. I lean against the wall, a deep ache filling my chest. I don’t think I was completely altruistic when I invited James to sleep over. I turn on my heel and start sliding back down to where my room is when the door opens behind me.
Steam and fresh soap fill the space between us. His towel is wrapped around his waist. Moisture clings to his creamy skin. His hair is wet and thick and raked back, a tiny curl falling out of place. I take a deep swallow of my bourbon to stop myself from saying what I’m actually thinking. And that’s damn. Damn James Hughes and his beautiful, perfect pecs. Damn his shoulders that need my nails digging into them. Damn the smoothness of his neck. Damn the bruises that mar his skin around his ribs. The red slash on his perfect bow shaped lips. The shame in his eyes. Just—damn.
“Uh, there wouldn’t be any clothes about my size lying around the place?’
I frown. “Not unless you’ve left them here.”
James sucks his teeth. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I’m kidding,” I say. “I think I have a ratty gym t-shirt, but unless you want to sleep in one of my thongs, I can’t help you out in that department.”
Luck on the Line Page 10