by Mia Storm
But there’s no way that strap would have just “fallen” down. It had help.
When I open my eyes, she’s standing right in front of me, a self-satisfied smirk on her face as the rest of her teammates swim warm-up laps. “Why so shy, Marcus? I’m sure you know your way around a woman’s body.”
“Why aren’t you swimming?” I ask.
“My shoulder’s been hurting,” she says, rolling her shoulder in a circle. “Could you help me stretch?”
I look up to see Addie walk onto the pool deck. It’s half an hour into practice and I’d been worried she wasn’t going to show. I breathe a sigh of relief. This team is short on offense. A left-handed shooter with her skill on right wing is going to make all the difference.
“Get Melanie to stretch you,” I tell Corinne as her teammates finish warming up and gather near the edge of the pool.
She gives me a pout, but then heads back to the pool.
Once we’ve worked through offensive and defensive drills, I set them up on a five on five scrimmage, then head to where Addie is sitting with a book open in her lap.
“How’s the head today?”
She looks up from her book and gives me a shrug. The hollow under her left eye is nearly as dark as the shiner under her right, and her fair skin is missing its normal glow. She looks exhausted. “Still attached.”
I pull myself up onto the bleacher next to her. “So, everything’s okay?”
I let the question dangle, knowing it has multiple meanings and letting her decide which facet of it to answer. “Everything’s fine,” she says, her eyes lowering to her book.
So, not anything she’s willing to talk about, then. I take another tack. “What number are we up to?” I ask with a nod at the book.
She turns it so I can see the cover. Ulysses by James Joyce. “Number sixteen.”
“Wow. You’re really tearing through the list.”
“Not really,” she says. “I read Brave New World and about half of A Day No Pigs Would Die over the last few weeks. The Harry Potter series was number thirteen, and fourteen was Catcher in the Rye. I’d read those already. Skipped fifteen, so…” She trails off and holds up Ulysses with a shrug.
“Harry Potter is controversial?” I say with a shake of my head. “Who woulda thunk?”
“Filling kids’ heads full of black magic…” She taps her index finger on the bandages above her ear. “Pure evil.”
I scratch my head and grimace. “I have to admit seriously wishing I could play Quidditch after I read the first book.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “You probably would have been ridiculously good at that too.”
I can’t stop the grin. “I would have killed it.”
She smiles back and her expression lightens with the gesture, which stirs something in my gut. “Which HP book was your favorite?”
I think for a second. “The Prisoner of Azkaban. Yours?”
“The Half-Blood Prince,” she says decisively. “Least favorite?”
“Goblet of—”
“Fire,” she cuts in. “Me too. I mean, I had issues with the entire premise of that book. Hogwarts has, like, a bazillion rules so students don’t get hurt, so we’re supposed to believe they’re going to send one of them into this competition that’s so dangerous he could die? For…what? School pride? I don’t think so.”
Talking books seems to be digging her out of whatever hole she was sinking into. At least that’s something I seem to be able to do for her. I turn the conversation up a lighter path. “Didn’t really have an issue with that. I just remember thinking the Yule Ball and all the fuss about learning to dance and who to ask was too girly.”
She gives me a skeptical squint.
“What?” I say with a shrug. “I was eleven.”
She sets the book down and studies my face. “So you read the entire series?”
I nod, suddenly captivated by those deep gray eyes, so close to black as her gaze settles into mine.
“You didn’t just wait for the movies?”
“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “Not a big fan of the movies.”
“Why?”
She’s staring at me intently, waiting for an answer, but there’s a sudden, uncomfortable gnaw in my stomach. When I check in with myself I realize it’s a deep aching need to reach out and touch her. But I can’t. Cheering her up with book talk is one thing, but anything more would be crossing a line.
I shift on the bleacher so there’s more space between us. “I guess I should qualify that by saying I’m not a big fan of any book-to-movie adaptation. Once I’ve gotten neck deep into a character’s head in a book, the movie versions always come off feeling two-dimensional.”
“You think Daniel Radcliffe was two-dimensional?” she says, incredulous.
I shrug. “He did as good of a job as the script would allow.”
There’s a moment she continues to look at me as if I’ve turned purple before tapping the cover of her book. “What else from the list have you read?”
“The ones I remember you saying…” I start ticking off on my fingers. “Lolita, Grapes of Wrath, Catcher in the Rye, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Tropic of Cancer, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and Harry Potter, of course.”
“How many of those did you read in high school?”
“I read the Harry Potter books before high school.” I can feel this conversation layer by layer becoming more personal. Something about that feels wrong, but maybe I’ll find the key to how to help her somewhere in this conversation. I just have to keep her talking.
“But the others?” she presses.
I take a deep breath. “Tropic of Cancer was maybe sophomore year in college, and Lolita after I graduated.”
Her look has turned curious, as if she’s trying to see past my skin. Which, for some reason, I find exhilarating and disconcerting all at the same time.
She leans back against the fence behind the bleachers and tugs on a corkscrew on the side of her head that’s not partially shaved. “Huh.”
“Huh, what?”
“No offense, but how big of a geek were you?”
I crack a smile, but then it fades, remembering everything I had to do to keep from getting stamped with that label. “Why would you think I was a geek?”
“Because you were valedictorian of your class, and you actually read,” she says, tossing a hand at her book. “Even in my senior honors English class, only a handful of them are actually reading the assigned book.”
I lean back next to her. “The honest truth? I wasn’t a geek, but I wish I had been.”
Her eyes widen. “Why?”
“I watched my sister do her own thing while I was jumping through all the right hoops to stay in with the cool kids, and I was jealous.”
“The sister in the bright blue wedding dress?” she says with raised eyebrows.
I nod. “Blaire.” I watch my finger trace the seam of my swim trunks. “She was never afraid of what people would think or say about her, and in the end, I think because of that, they were all okay with her. High school’s hard enough without pretending to be someone you’re not.”
She gives a little nod. “Which is why I don’t bother.”
“And I have to say, I admire that about you. You’ve got strength I didn’t have.”
A cloud passes over her face, and I sink deeper into those eyes, trying to read her thoughts.
“A little help here!”
I jump at Corinne’s voice from the pool. Christ. I was so lost in our conversation…in Addie…that I forgot the rest of the team. I leap off the bleachers and move to the pool.
Corinne folds her arms on the pool edge and splits a narrow-eyed glance between Addie and me. “If you’re done with your Oprah Book Club meeting, we could use a little direction here.”
When I glance at Addie on my way to the pool, she’s smirking, and I smile despite myself.
I’m able to stay focused for most of the rest of practice, with only a few lapses wh
ere I catch myself watching Addie read. Deanna comes into the pool cage just as I’m sending the team to the locker room.
“You still free tonight?” she asks.
I am, but the growing sense of unease sitting heavy in my gut makes me want to lie. I can’t explain it. Deanna is every guy’s wet dream.
Just not mine, apparently.
Addie walks past on her way to the gate. She lifts the hand holding her book in a wave. “’Night, Coach.”
“Have a good night,” I say, hoping the cold sweat that breaks over my neck isn’t as obvious as it feels.
I turn back to Deanna and force my full attention on her. “Yeah, sure.”
She’s in snug layered tank tops and a sort black skirt, looking nine yards of sexy. I need a distraction right now and she might be enough.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask.
“I’ve still got that bottle of wine,” she says, and I know by her smile that she has more in mind than just a drink.
“I’ll meet you at your house after I’ve had a chance to clean up. Around eight?”
She smiles and turns for the path to the faculty lot. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
Once the team clears out, I lock the pool cage and head home to shower.
On my way to Deanna’s an hour and a half later, I take the long way past Sam Hill. I’m surprised when I don’t see Bruce’s car. When I pass Addie’s house and the green Crown Victoria isn’t there either, I worry that he drove the extra ten miles to Crazy Eights, where there’s no bartender who cares enough to take his keys.
I slow when I see a light on in Addie’s front window. I slow even more and stop at the curb when I see her seated at the kitchen table, hunched over what is probably homework. I turn off the car and watch her for longer than I should. She fingers the bandage on the side of her head as she works.
But sitting out here in the dark isn’t helping her. The only thing I can do right now that might be even slightly helpful would be to go out and round up Bruce. But without her asking for my help, that seems pushy. And in the end, considering the way Bruce feels about me, it would probably land me in jail.
So I crank the engine and drive to Deanna’s.
“I thought you’d changed your mind,” she says when she opens the door.
“Nope, just had something I needed to do on the way.” Like obsess over how to help a girl who doesn’t want my help.
I step through Deanna’s door. She pours the wine and starts one of those Nicholas Sparks movies. We sit together on the couch and she curls against me.
She combs her fingers through my hair. “Has anyone told you how hot you are, Marcus?”
“It might have come up a time or two,” I say, laying my hand on her leg.
“And so modest.” When she presses her mouth to mine and opens, I slip my tongue through her lips. She tastes like wine and smells like flowers and feels soft under my hands. All woman. I close my eyes and let my body take the lead, pulling her deeper into our kiss.
She lifts my T-shirt over my head, then peels off her tanks, leaving her in a white lace bra. We kiss as she pushes me down onto my back. But even when she straddles me and sits up, reaching for the button of my jeans and flicking it open, nothing’s happening down there. Or anywhere else.
I want to want this. Deanna knows what this is and she’s okay with it. No strings sex is just what I need to take the edge off all the growing frustration I feel over my dead end life.
But I find myself lifting Deanna off me. I slide to the edge of the couch and stand, looking down at her stunned face.
“Again?” she says.
I scoop my shirt off the floor and pull it over my head. “I’m really sorry, Deanna.”
She stands and looks at me. “You get that I’m not asking for anything long term, right?”
“I do, but that doesn’t really change how I’m feeling about this.”
“So, mindless sex doesn’t appeal to you anymore?” she says, and now the surprise in her expression is turning more to incredulity.
I think about her question and come to the same conclusion as I did a minute ago. “Apparently not.”
“Do you know why I came on to you in that bar this summer?” she asks, fisting her hands on her hips.
“No clue.”
“I heard you were up for a good time and didn’t jerk girls around.”
I nod slowly because that doesn’t surprise me. There are still enough of my high school conquests in town that it wouldn’t have been hard for her to find out about me. But for the first time, the thought of how I was then makes me feel more pathetic than proud, and it hits me like a bolt of lightning that I don’t want to be that person anymore.
“I’m feeling pretty jerked around, Marcus.” She lifts a hand and rubs the back of her neck. “I think I have whiplash.”
I knew I didn’t want to be here before I ever came. I should have listened to my gut and told her I wasn’t into it.
“I’m really sorry, Deanna. You’re amazing and I might end up regretting this, but I don’t think I can do what we’ve been doing anymore.”
She shakes her head in disbelief as I back toward the front door. “Why? What changed?”
I changed, but I’m not really sure how or why. I want to be better than a string of hookups. “I guess I just need more.”
Her eyes narrow and I instantly get I said the wrong thing, but there’s no taking it back. And as I think about it, I realize it’s the truth.
I pull open the door. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
When I’m outside and can breathe again, I stare up at the stars, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I jump in my truck and barrel down the hill, knowing there’s only one thing that will dissolve this bundle of frustration in my gut.
The school grounds are deserted at nine o’clock at night, but I’ve got a key to the pool cage. I unlock the gate and change in the locker room, then dive in.
And I swim until there’s nothing but me and the water.
Chapter 8
Addie
My head pounds as I sit over my econ book at the kitchen table, making it nearly impossible to focus on my homework. The other thing making impossible is the face that haunts my every waking thought—those cinnamon eyes that can be full of amusement one minute and reading my thoughts with pinpoint intensity the next.
When that gym teacher, Deanna, came for Marcus at the end of practice, the slight headache I’d been nursing all day blew into a tornado in my head. She asked if he was still free, which means they’ve got a date.
So, instead of working on econ, I’ve been sitting here twirling my pencil on the table, obsessing over what they’re doing, for the last half hour. Which is stupid because he’s dating the hot goddess gym teacher. And I’m me—his un-hot seventeen-year-old student with the shaved head and raccoon eyes.
I finally give up and go for my meds. I was trying to hold off until bedtime so maybe I’d make it to morning before my headache woke me, but there’s no point sitting here in agony and getting nothing done.
Aunt Becky stocked the fridge before she left this morning. When she told me she was going to postpone the rest of her trip, I told her not to. Whether she goes now or later hardly matters.
I grab a can of Diet Coke, and just as I’m popping the top, the front door swings open and Dad comes through. It’s only eight thirty, so maybe Bran and Vicky threw him out before he got too drunk to drive. I take that as a good sign and swallow my pills.
He closes the door and looks up at me as I move back to the table and sit. “What are you working on?” he asks, coming tentatively closer.
“My econ project,” I answer. “I make twelve dollars an hour and I have to figure out how to live on it.”
Before Mom and everything that happened after, Dad was a finance manager for a Levi Straus. Money was his thing and he made everything a lesson in budgeting. When I was in elementary school, we’d go to the grocery store, or out to dinner, an
d he’d make me add up all our purchases and decide if we had enough money left for ice cream. In junior high, when we’d plan a vacation in the RV, he’d tell me how much we could afford to spend and make me plan the trip, including gas, campsite fees, food, and sightseeing. Before everything, if I’d told him this was my project, to put together a budget based on my assigned salary, he’d be at this table asking if I’d considered all the things that I’m sure I’m not considering. He’d be more into this project than me.
Now, he just stands there staring at me with the same numb expression that’s been on his face for the last year.
“Do you want to help?” I ask, a pang of nostalgia in my heart.
He looks at me a long minute before answering and I can’t read his expression. He doesn’t seem drunk, but sometimes he’s good at hiding it. “I think the purpose is for you to learn to live within your means. But I’ll take a look when you’re done.”
I’m already doing that in real life. Once Dad’s unemployment ran out last year, we burned through whatever savings Mom and Dad had pretty quickly, and what money we got from her life insurance is almost gone. I take money from Dad’s wallet whenever there is any and stash it away for groceries and whatever. It’s a pretty tight budget. Pointing that out is only going to make him mad.
But that nostalgic little knot in my chest has grown, and the daughter buried deep inside me grasps at the possibility of connecting with her father again. “Have you eaten? I made some soup out of the rest of that rotisserie chicken we had last week.”
There’s a flash of life in his haunted eyes. “Your mother used to do that sometimes.”
“I know, Dad. She taught me.” I rise slowly from my seat. “Do you want some?”
He nods and lowers himself into the chair across from me.
I go to the fridge and get the Tupperware I put the soup away in, then scoop some into a bowl for him. “Should I heat up some sourdough to go with it?”
His eyes lift from the table to mine. “Yes, please. That would be great.”
I slice off a hunk and stick it in the toaster oven, then heat his soup in the microwave.
“I haven’t been fair to you, Addie.”