by Sandra Brown
“In two weeks?”
“Thereabouts. It could vary a day or two either way. I’ll be using an ovulation predictor kit to test for an LH surge.”
“LH…?”
“Luteinizing hormone.”
“Ah.” As in “I see,” when actually he didn’t have a clue.
“Hopefully I’ll be able to predict the day, but it might be short notice.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
Her eyes skittered away from his, and that was when Griff figured her out. She could play hardball with the big boys up to a point. She could have her menstrual cycle, and ovulation, and his sperm count talked about freely in technical and practical terms. But when it came down to the nitty-gritty, to actually climbing into bed with a stranger, she turned pure female. Which to him was reassuring.
She said good-bye and excused herself. Speakman offered to escort him to the front door. When they reached it, he said, “I’m curious, Griff.”
“About?”
“What you’ll be thinking about as you leave here. Will you be considering what to buy first?”
Actually, what he’d thought as he’d driven away from the gray stone mansion was that, even though they looked like reasonable and intelligent people, it was probably a good thing that Foster and Laura Speakman couldn’t reproduce, because both of them were fucking nuts.
Who would do this? Nobody, that’s who. Not when there were scientific methods of fertilization available. Not when you had the money to pay for those methods. Maybe in Bible days this was the way to go when you couldn’t have a kid. But not today, when there were options.
By the time he’d reached his destination, he’d almost convinced himself that he would never hear from the couple again.
Almost.
“Another?”
He glanced up. The cocktail waitress had returned. He was surprised to find the glass of bourbon empty. “No thanks. A Perrier, please.”
“Sure. I’ll be right back.”
I’ll be right back. She had used that expression twice, not knowing that the seemingly harmless phrase was like salt on an open wound to him.
His mother had said those words to him the night she left. For good that time.
She’d often stayed away for days at a stretch, leaving without so much as a “so long,” returning without explanation or excuse for her absence. He never got too upset or worried when she wasn’t around. He knew that when she got tired of the current boyfriend or vice versa, and the guy either kicked her out or simply moved on, she would come home.
When she did, she never asked how he’d been, or what he’d been doing while she was away. Was he okay? Had he gone to school? Had he eaten? Had he been frightened by the storm? Had he been sick?
One time, he had been. Sick. He got food poisoning from eating an opened can of beef stew that had been left out too long. He puked till he passed out, then came to on the bathroom floor, lying faceup in diarrhea and vomit, a knot as big as his fist on the back of his head from the fall.
He was eight years old.
After that, he took more notice of what he ate when his mother was gone. He learned to fend pretty well for himself until she reappeared.
On the night she left for good, he knew she wasn’t coming back. All day, she’d been sneaking things from the house when she thought he wasn’t looking. Clothes. Shoes. A satin pillow a guy had won for her at the state fair. She slept on it every night because she said it preserved her hairdo. When he saw her stuff that pillow into a paper grocery sack and take it out to her present boyfriend’s car, he knew this absence would be permanent.
The last time Griff saw his father, he’d been in handcuffs, being shoved into the back of a police car. A neighbor had called the cops, reporting the domestic dispute.
Dispute. A polite name for his father beating the shit out of his mother after coming home and finding her in bed with a guy she’d met the night before.
His mother went to the hospital. His daddy went to jail. He was placed with a foster family until his mother had recovered from her injuries. When the case came to trial, the DA explained to the six-year-old Griff that maybe he would be called on to tell the judge what had happened that night because he’d witnessed the assault. He lived in dread of that. If his old man got off, he would make Griff pay for tattling on him. The retribution would include a beating with his belt. It wouldn’t be the first, but it promised to be the worst.
And he honestly couldn’t say he blamed his dad. Griff knew words like whore, slut, and cunt meant ugly things about his mom, and he figured she deserved to be called those bad names.
As it turned out, there was no trial. His father entered a guilty plea to a lesser charge and was sentenced. Griff never knew when he got out of jail. Whenever it was, he didn’t contact them. Griff never saw him again.
From then on, it was just his mother and him.
And the men she brought home. Some moved in for extended periods of time, a week, maybe two. Others were guests who hit the door as soon as they got their pants back on.
Griff remembered, not long after his dad had been put in jail, crying because his mom had locked the door to his bedroom and he couldn’t get out, couldn’t get away from the spider that had crawled onto his bed. The guy she was with that night had finally come into his room, killed the spider, patted him on his towhead, and told him it was all right, he could go back to sleep now.
When he was old enough to be sent outside to play, some of his mother’s men friends had looked at him with apology, even guilt. Especially if the weather was bad. Others didn’t like having him around at all. That was when his mother told him to get lost and stay lost for a few hours. Sometimes he was given money so he could go to a movie. Most often when banished from the house, he would wander the neighborhood alone, looking for something to occupy him, later looking for mischief.
Some of his mother’s friends had given him no more notice than they would a seam in the faded wallpaper. Not many, but a few, were actually nice to him. Like the guy who’d killed the spider. But, unfortunately, he’d never come back. One guy, Neal something, had stayed a month or so. Griff got along with him okay. He could do a couple of magic tricks with cards and showed Griff how they were done. He came into the house one day with a shopping bag and handed it to Griff saying, “Here, kid. This is for you.”
Inside the bag was a football.
Years later, Griff wondered if Neal had recognized him when he got to be a pro player. Did he remember giving him his first football? Probably not. He probably didn’t remember Griff or his mother at all.
Men came and went. Years passed. His mother would leave. But she would always return.
And then that day came when she was covertly packing the car that belonged to a guy who’d shown up with her a few weeks before and had stayed. His name was Ray, and he’d taken an instant dislike to Griff, who would snort skeptically whenever Ray launched into a story about his phenomenal record as a rodeo cowboy before a bronco stepped on his back and ruined him for the arena. Apparently the bronco ruined him for everything else, too, because as far as Griff could tell, Ray had no visible means of support.
Ray didn’t like Griff, and he made no bones about it. But Griff wasn’t very likable, either. By the time Ray appeared on the scene, Griff was fifteen, full of himself, full of anger and rebellion. He’d been busted for shoplifting and for vandalizing a car, but mercifully got probation both times. He’d been suspended from school twice for fighting. He carried a chip on his shoulder that begged to be knocked off. Over the years, his hair had darkened, and so had his outlook on life.
So that evening when his mother followed Ray to the front door and turned back to tell him good-bye, Griff feigned indifference and kept his eyes trained on the TV. It was secondhand, and the picture was snowy, but it was better than nothing.
“See you later, baby.”
He hated it when she called him baby. If she’d ever babied him, it was so far back he couldn’t
recall it.
“Griff, did you hear me?”
“I’m not deaf.”
She heaved a dramatic sigh. “Why are you being so pissy tonight? I’ll be right back.”
He turned his head, and they looked at each other, and she knew that he knew.
“You coming, or what?” Ray bellowed from the front yard.
The look Griff exchanged with his mother lasted a few seconds longer. Maybe she appeared a little sorry for what she was about to do. He wanted to think she was. But probably she wasn’t. Then she turned quickly and left. The door slammed shut behind her.
Griff didn’t leave the house for three days. On the fourth day, he heard a car pull into the driveway. He hated himself for feeling a surge of hope that he’d been wrong and she’d come back after all. Maybe she’d seen through Ray and his bullshit. Maybe Ray had seen her for the whore she was and was bringing her back.
But the footsteps on the porch were too heavy to be hers.
“Griff?”
Shit! Coach.
Griff hoped he couldn’t be seen where he was slouched on the ratty sofa watching TV. But no such luck. The door squeaked when it was pushed open, and he cursed himself for not having locked it. In his peripheral vision, Coach appeared at the end of the sofa. Hands on hips, he stood looking down at Griff with disapproval.
“I missed you at practice. School office tells me you’ve been absent from classes the last three days. Where’ve you been?”
“Here,” Griff said, continuing to stare at the TV.
“You sick?”
“No.”
A pause. “Where’s your mom?”
“Fuck I know?” he grumbled.
“I’m gonna ask you again. Where’s your mom?”
Griff looked up at him then and with exaggerated innocence said, “I think she’s at the PTA meeting. Either that or the church ladies’ sewing group.”
Coach walked over to the TV. He didn’t turn it off; he yanked the plug from the wall outlet. “Get your stuff.”
“Huh?”
“Get your stuff.”
Griff didn’t move. Coach walked toward him, his footfalls rattling the empty cereal bowls and soda cans littering the TV tray Griff had placed in front of the sofa. “Gather up your stuff. Right now.”
“What for? Where am I going?”
“To my house.”
“Like hell.”
“Or cop an attitude with me, and I’ll call CPS.” Coach placed his meaty fists on his hips again and glared down at him. “You’ve got one second to choose.”
Laughter from a nearby table jerked Griff back into the present. At some point during his reverie, the waitress had brought his Perrier. He drank it like a man dying of thirst. He was covering a soft belch when the woman he’d been waiting for came through the revolving entrance door. He stood up and waved at the waitress to bring his check, and by doing so attracted the woman’s attention.
Upon seeing him, she stopped suddenly, obviously surprised.
He signaled for her to wait while he took care of his tab. He did that with dispatch, then walked toward the woman where she still stood halfway between the entrance and the elevators.
“Hey, Marcia.”
“Griff. I heard you were getting out.”
“Bad news travels fast.”
“No, it’s wonderful to see you.” She smiled and looked him over. “You look good.”
He drank in the sight of her, from the top of her tousled auburn hair to her high-heeled sandals. The curvy terrain in between made him light-headed with lust. Laughing softly, he said, “Not as good as you.”
“Thank you.”
He held her gaze for several moments, then asked, “Are you available?”
Her smile faltered. She glanced around the lobby, her unease showing.
He took a step closer and said in a low voice, “It’s been a long five years, Marcia.”
She considered a moment longer, then, reaching a decision, said, “I have someone at midnight.”
“It won’t take me near that long.”
He took her elbow, and they walked to the elevators, saying nothing until they were inside one of the mirrored cubicles. She inserted a small key into a discreet slot in the mechanical panel. Responding to his quizzical look, she said, “I’ve moved up a couple of floors, into the penthouse.”
“Business must be good.”
“I have three girls working for me now.”
He whistled. “Business is really good.”
“The market for my product never goes soft.” Laughing, she added, “So to speak.”
Griff was even more impressed by her success when they stepped out of the elevator into a lobby with a marble floor and a clear skylight for a ceiling that provided a view of a quarter moon and a sprinkling of stars bright enough to defy the skyline lights.
Three doors opened into the private lobby. “Are you friendly with your neighbors?”
“One is a Japanese businessman. He’s rarely here, but when he is, he finds the proximity very convenient.”
Griff chuckled. “He comes over to borrow sugar?”
“At least once while he’s in town,” she said demurely. “The other is a friend, a gay decorator who envies me my clientele.”
She unlocked her front door. Griff followed her inside. The interior looked like a picture in a magazine, probably would be her gay neighbor’s wet dream. Griff gave it a cursory glance, said a polite “Very nice,” then reached for her and pulled her against him.
He hadn’t kissed a woman in five years, and the sex was going to have to be damn good to top the pleasure he derived from pushing his tongue into her mouth. He kissed her like a horny kid whose prom date was easy. Too eager, too greedy, too sloppy. His hands were everywhere at once.
After a minute of his mauling her, she pushed him away, laughing. “You know the rules, Griff. No kissing. And I’m the initiator.”
His sports jacket was fighting to stay on while he was frantically trying to shake it off. “Give me a break.”
“This once. But some rules must apply.”
“Right. I pay up front.”
“Hmm.”
The sleeves of his jacket were turned inside out when he finally was able to fling the thing to the floor. He dug into his pants pocket for the money clip of cash Wyatt Turner had given him. The tight-ass would have conniptions if he knew his client was spending his food and gas money on a prostitute. Speaking for himself, Griff didn’t begrudge a penny of Marcia’s fee. If he had to, he’d skip a few meals.
“How much?”
“Two thousand. For an hour. Straight sex.”
He gaped at her and swallowed the golf ball now lodged in his throat. “Two thousand? You’ve gone up. A lot.”
“So has the cost of living,” she replied coolly. “And business expenses.”
He expelled a gusty breath of disappointment, then bent down and retrieved his jacket from the floor. “I don’t have it. Maybe tomorrow night,” he said wryly.
“How much have you got?”
He held out the money clip. She took it and pulled out two hundred-dollar bills, then gave the clip back to him. “Don’t tell anybody.”
Griff thought he might weep out of gratitude. “I’ll be eternally in your debt.”
Marcia was the most select prostitute in Dallas, and it was strict business practices that had put her there. She was a businesswoman all the way. Through the grapevine, Griff had heard that she, acting on tips from clients, had invested wisely in real estate. She’d bought up farmland north of Dallas, and when the city expanded in that direction, she had scored huge. It was also said she had a stock portfolio worth millions.
All that could have been rumor, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if it was true. It was said she’d started “escorting” to help finance dental hygiene school but had soon realized that she was better at polishing knobs than she was at polishing teeth. And she could make a hell of a lot more money at it.
Soon after he’d signed with the Cowboys, Griff had learned of her through a teammate, being told that Marcia was the best if you could afford her, because even then she’d been expensive. He preferred a professional to the team groupies who threw themselves at him and, once he’d slept with them, inevitably caused hassles he didn’t need.
Marcia was discreet. She was clean. She was scrupulous when it came to prequalifying her clients, making sure they were disease free, financially stable, and safe. She never took walk-ins. She’d made an exception for him tonight.
She had the wholesome face of a church choir soloist, paired with a voluptuous body that invited sin. Somehow, despite her occupation, she managed to remain a lady, and if a client didn’t treat her as such, he didn’t remain a client.
Five years hadn’t left any noticeable damage, Griff was pleased to discover as she undressed. She was lush, but firm where she ought to be. He couldn’t get his clothes off fast enough. Knowing him, remembering his preferences, she didn’t assist him but idly touched herself while she watched him peel off garments and toss them aside. When her fingers disappeared between her thighs, he made an involuntary gurgling sound but was too far gone to care how gauche he seemed.
When he was undressed, she went to him and gently pushed him back until he was seated on the edge of the bed. He pressed his face into her deep cleavage, mashed her heavy breasts against his cheeks. She handed him a condom; he rolled it on. “What do you want to do, Griff?”
“At this point…Doesn’t matter.”
She lowered herself to her knees between his thighs and bent her head toward him, whispering, “Enjoy.”
“Griff?”
“Hmm?”
“It’s after eleven. You need to go.”
He’d been sleeping on his stomach, his head buried in the soft, scented pillow, virtually comatose. He turned onto his back. Marcia had showered and was wrapped in a robe. “You went out like a light,” she said. “I didn’t have the heart to wake you sooner, but you have to go now.”
He stretched luxuriantly. “Felt good, sleeping naked, sleeping on sheets that don’t smell like industrial-strength detergent.” He arched his back and stretched again. “Do I gotta?”