The Do It List (The Do It List #1)

by Jillian Stone

  More garbled speech.

  “Right, good night.” Bradley ended the call.

  “So, when did all this start?” I asked.

  “Hannah called me at work Thursday afternoon and asked if she could call Liv—it was eight o’clock London time, so I gave her the green light. Apparently they hit it off. I spoke briefly with Liv today. She was chatterbox over Hannah.”

  I finished stacking plates, which Bradley carried into the kitchen. He rinsed, and I loaded the dishwasher. “Thank you, Bradley.”

  “You’ll find that I’m rather handy around the flat—”

  I shook my head. “Thank you for taking an interest in Hannah, encouraging the friendship.” My niece had her issues, but, as it is with many young girls, all she really needed was to feel safe and loved. You just had to double it for Hannah.

  “So…coffee?” I asked.

  He pressed against me. “I was thinking dessert.”

  I hooked a finger in the V-neck of his tee shirt. “Two pints of gelato in the freezer. Sea Salt Caramel and Dark Chocolate Chip.”

  He rocked me in arms. “No doubt Skyfall is queued up in the DVD player.”

  I nodded, biting my lower lip. “I’m afraid so.”

  “If I recall correctly, there’s a smoking-hot shag against a wall.” He kissed my earlobe. “And a shaving scene with Miss Moneypenny.” His lips brushed my cheek. “Something steamy and naked in a shower…” His mouth hovered a breath away from mine. “There is a danger we could become overstimulated.”

  “Might I remind you,” I murmured, “the remote has a pause and a playback button.”

  Sunday morning broke gray and misty. Bradley finally got me out of bed with a promise of blueberry pancakes, melted butter, warm maple syrup, and antigravity yoga.

  We stopped at Johnny’s Luncheonette for pancakes and we both ate ravenously, no doubt to make up for all that vigorous, high-octane sex last night. Bradley had been indefatigable, impressive even by X-rated video standards.

  Since waking, every time he looked at me, whether it was helping me into my sports bra or a glance over a fork full of warm pancake, I could tell he was thinking about last night.

  He had started with an occasional nuzzle, a whispered word or two. There had been a pleasant, languid build of arousal, until masterfully, he had awakened all the girl parts.

  Halfway through Skyfall his fingers had danced lightly along the edge of my panties, and when his hand slipped between my legs my hips rose to meet his touch.

  By the time the bad guys had blown up 007’s Aston Martin, I had removed Bradley’s tee shirt and licked my way down his chest.

  “I can’t watch the car burn.” Bradley pressed the pause button on the remote. He hooked his thumbs under his sweatpants and pushed them lower.

  “Fuck me, Gracie—get on top.”

  Bradley stared at me over a steaming cup of coffee. “We’re fucking great together. You know that don’t you?” His gaze quickly turned penetrating, possessive.

  “M-mmm,” I murmured, “If there was a reality TV show called Sex Survivor I’d enter us in a hot second.”

  Bradley laughed a bit uncomfortably. “You should see yourself after you climax. Your body is almost luminous, and the way you look at me…”

  “Lust crazed?” I slanted bedroom eyes at him.

  “Claire never looked at me that way—the way you’re looking at me right now.”

  I stared at him for a long time. As great as the sex was, I was aching for a different kind of intimacy. “We fuck great, Bradley, but we hardly know each other. When are you going to let me in?”

  A hint of panic flashed in his eyes.

  Those gorgeous, crystal blue orbs shifted to the quiet morning traffic outside the diner. Would he open up or would he obfuscate? I held my breath and waited.

  Finally, he returned to me. “What do you want to know, Gracie?”

  I settled back into my chair. “Who cheated first?”

  “I honestly don’t remember. We both cheated a lot.”

  A sobering thought.

  “It’s not something I’m proud of. And I haven’t cheated since. Truthfully, I’m not sure what went wrong between Claire and I. Things got pretty fucked-up.”

  “What did the marriage counselor say?”

  “All the stuff you’d expect her to say. We were both replaying childhood dramas. Insecure in ourselves and each other. Mostly we didn’t know what we wanted or needed in a partner.” His gaze moved far away before returning to me. “At one point, Claire accused me of sex addiction.”

  Somewhat stunned by his candor, I also got it. “And the counselor’s opinion?”

  “Alexa Rinehardt—that was her name. Not long after Claire made the sex addiction accusation, Alexa made a pass at me. Called me at work, asked me to meet her at a hotel bar. I forget the pretext…” He rubbed a bit of chin scruff. “I do remember how awkward it was.”

  I swallowed. “What did you do?”

  “I fired her, then I reported her.”

  His story infuriated me. Therapists were supposed to help us not take advantage, not prey on us. “What a royal piss off,” I growled. “My first MFCC offered his services as a licensed sex therapist.”

  He stared at me. “How old were you?”

  “Like, seventeen.”

  “Fucking pig.”

  I nodded absently, thinking about Bradley’s story. He was finally talking and I needed to know more.

  SIXTEEN

  “WHY DO YOU THINK you cheated on each other?” I asked.

  “I think…she thought I was sleeping around. I was working long hours back then. I also checked out of the marriage for awhile—mentally and physically.”

  His furrowed brow and tensed jaw gave way to a subtle head shake like he still didn’t fully understand what had happened. “So she slept with someone. A pre-emptive fuck, as it were. She even made sure I discovered her infidelity.”

  “Where?”

  “In his car, parked in front of our flat.”

  I snorted a laugh. “Sorry. I’m really sorry. It’s not funny, you were devastated, I’m sure.

  “It’s all rather schoolyard, isn’t it?” He shrugged. “I felt angry and betrayed, so what did I do?”

  I gaped at him. “You didn’t—not in the car.”

  A self-conscious grin quickly disappeared. “No, I didn’t, but I participated in a number of not-so-discreet encounters. After awhile you become desensitized. You start not caring what your partner is doing. We blew through a few marriage counselors. When the last therapist pointed out that I was living my parents’ life, I quit the whole charade and filed for divorce.

  “After I moved out, I made things worse. I didn’t want to relate and I certainly wasn’t looking for intimacy. I’d see a woman maybe once or twice. Get in, get out—I kept things pretty simple. Claire plays the role of a woman scorned, always looking for ways to punish me.”

  “So you married your mother?” Just a guess on my part, but it felt right.

  At first I thought he might be angry, but his gaze relented. “Claire can be a bit of a cold fish at times, and both she and my mother excel in the extramarital intrigues department.”

  Bradley downed the last of his coffee. “There are people who enjoy all the angst and drama—the secret liaisons. My parents each had a string of lovers. As far as I could tell, they were both fucking miserable. I never did figure out what all the illicit sex did for them.” He slumped back in his chair with a comic shiver.

  Time for a truth-sharing break.

  I reached out and squeezed his hand. “I saw my mother eaten up by jealousy and rage—how it changed her and my father.” A sudden sadness nearly overwhelmed me and my vision blurred. “Folie à deux.”

  Bradley nodded. “Craziness for two.” He squeezed my hand back.

  So I had guessed correctly about the abandonment and trust issues. We both had them.

  “I remember a strange sort of benign neglect. Mother wasn’t a
crack addict. She was an aging movie actress with a philandering husband and prescription drug habit. My absentee father wasn’t doing time in Folsom Prison. He was a brain surgeon—saving lives when he wasn’t two-timing my mother.”

  The look on Bradley’s face mirrored my own emotional state. Compassion, recognition, but at the same time feeling overwhelmed and slightly numb.

  I sighed. “We’re both shutting down a little.”

  One side of his mouth lifted. “When things get too close to the heart, that’s what we do, we shut down.”

  We both checked our watches.

  “Almost nine fifteen.” He left a large bill on the table and we headed straight for the gym.

  According to Bradley, God created Sunday morning expressly for pick-up ball. And God’s blessing had been confirmed when he discovered an antigravity yoga class offered at ten o’clock. Sore from Pilates and sex, I had to admit the stretches from suspension yoga sounded heavenly.

  We both needed the tension release and endorphin rush of a good workout. I could tell by the frown he worried about his breakfast confession. Too much truth-telling too soon? Had he confessed too many sins? I had to admit he’d given me reasons to be cautious.

  Rounding a corner we came upon the waterfront warehouse that housed the huge sports and fitness palace. We also ran into Audrey Lacoste, waiting at the entrance.

  “Audrey belongs here. She recommended this pick-up game.”

  I suppose I didn’t sound too thrilled. “Is that right?”

  Bradley flashed a “be nice” face as we closed in on her. Frankly, she looked about as happy to see me, as I was to see her.

  Fuck. Audrey again.

  Bradley arranged for a guest pass and we moved off into the spectacular, multi-level cross-training sports center. Not sure why I hadn’t joined yet. Three full-size basketball courts had games either forming or in progress.

  Bradley stopped beside the middle court and called next. He turned back to me. “You need to get going.”

  He looked a little nervous. This was New York City pick-up basketball. I flashed a reassuring smile.

  “Stay in the paint, post up, rebound and defend—you’ll get your share of outside shots.” I lifted my gym bag off his shoulder.

  He nodded. “I’m the new guy.”

  “Have fun and get a good workout.” I held out a fist and he bumped me.

  Audrey directed me downstairs to a number of smaller workout rooms and then headed for the fitness machines. Suspension yoga, anti-gravity yoga, whatever you want to call it, turned out to be amazing. Fully stretched and feeling strong and toned, I ran into Audrey on my way out of the locker room.

  “I really have to join this gym.”

  Audrey smiled her usual thin smile. “So, you and Bradley are together?”

  I stared at her. “Actually, I think we’re quite taken with each other.” I rolled my eyes. “That sounds like something Bradley would say.” I played my usual game with her, not giving away too much, acting casual.

  She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “And what about Derek?”

  “He’s all yours, Audrey.”

  She grinned the coy, irritating grin that women use when they pretend they’re not cheating on their husbands. “And you think Bradley’s not a player?”

  I suddenly realized I couldn’t act like I didn’t care anymore. I’d played it cool with Derek, and surrendered without even trying. “Stay away, Audrey. This time I’m going to fight for Bradley.”

  She edged away, apparently sensing something new in me. This felt weird—this new empowered me. I remembered what Bradley had said about her husband.

  “I was sorry to hear about your husband. I had no idea he was sick. Bradley says the prognosis is excellent.”

  Storm clouds drifted behind gray-green eyes. “He’s doing a lot better.”

  I turned away and hesitated. With three floors of rock climbing, pools, boxing rings, running tracks, ice rinks and workout rooms, I was lost.

  Audrey pointed me in the direction of the basketball courts. “Downstairs and left—just keep heading toward the northwest corner.”

  “Thanks.” I called over my shoulder and dashed away.

  I found the courts and watched Bradley for several minutes from afar. He appeared to be a decent passer. Nice lay-up. I caught his rebound, as I took a seat on the bench.

  Bradley ran past and held up two fingers. The puffy brow meant he’d taken an elbow to the eye. And there was evidence of a skinned knee. With this level of players, I wasn’t surprised.

  They made their two points and the game broke up. New players moved onto the court while others moved to the sidelines. Several brothers took notice when Bradley grabbed a towel and joined me.

  The taller player approached us. “Sunday mornings, Thursday nights, if you’re interested.”

  “Thanks, man”

  The brother offered a backhand bump, which Bradley answered. The six-foot-five ball player grinned at me. “You with him?” He pointed to Bradley.

  I added some attitude to my nod.

  “Damn, girl, break a brother’s heart.” He grumbled, backing away.

  I turned to Bradley. “He’ll get over it.”

  Wrapping the towel around his neck, he pulled me close for a quick kiss. “There’s a juice bar out on the deck—can I buy you a glass of green slime?”

  I nodded. “Meet you there.” I followed Get Juiced! signs to a pleasant indoor-outdoor eatery on the river. Besides kiwi, pineapple and wheatgrass, the juice barista added kale, parsley, lemon and ginger to the extractor and out poured…green slime.

  Mother would call this a badass detoxifier. Four years clean and sober, she credited her juicer for getting her through the tough times.

  Bradley set his bag down and sidled up close. With his hair still damp from the showers, he appeared relaxed with great color in his face. “Hey—how’d it go?”

  “Audrey or the yoga?” I examined the redness around his eye.

  “Whichever one you want to talk about.”

  “Yoga was amazing. Audrey was Audrey.” I changed the subject and returned to his eye. “Looks like you have to up your game.”

  He grinned. “They were pretty cool about it.”

  Gently, I pressed his ice-cold smoothie against the swelling. “Hold it there a minute.”

  He rolled the cup over the injury.

  “I don’t imagine there’s much pick up ball in London.”

  “I’m rusty—more than I thought I’d be.”

  “You’ve got some moves.”

  Bradley slung my bag over his shoulder. “For a white boy.”

  I slanted a look at him. “Did those brothers give you a hard time about me?”

  He nodded. “So black girls are off limits to white guys?”

  “They’d like to think so.” My gaze narrowed, irritated. “My father and mother raised us to see everyone as beautiful shades of beige and brown.”

  “Do you ever go out with black men?”

  “Of course—not so much lately.” I caught his eye. “Am I your first mocha chocolata ya-ya?” His lopsided grin made me laugh. “I am, aren’t I?”

  My fingers brushed his and his hand closed over mine. “Gimme some of that gitchie, gitchie, ya-ya.” He yanked me close and kissed me on the lips.

  On the walk home, I mulled over the revelations of the last few hours. First, the specter of the ever-present Audrey. Then Bradley’s troubled marriage story which included accusations of sexual addiction, the new name for serial cheater. A scary combination that pushed all my buttons.

  Weirdly, I wasn’t feeling any of the usual crazy dread or angst. I credited the crisp cool air and dappled sunlight for my clarity of mind.

  Instead of assuming the worst—that Bradley was a lying cheat. I saw him as an easy target. And the charge of sexual addiction had been made by an angry, unfaithful partner.

  As for myself? I hadn’t really tried with Derek. The moment Audrey entered the picture
I’d kept the relationship flirty-casual with the occasional sport fuck thrown in just for fun.

  That kind of casual sex wasn’t going to be possible with the man walking quietly beside me, the silence between us broken only by the crunch of golden-brown leaves underfoot.

  Amazingly, this felt comfortable and natural—not scary.

  And I didn’t want to overanalyze us. For years, my issues and insecurities had sabotaged my relationships. But they were not going to fuck with me now.

  Not this afternoon, anyway.

  We settled into Sunday afternoon like an old married couple. Me in my soft, lace teddy and cut-off sweatshirt. Bradley in sweatpants and sloppy-loose V-neck tee.

  I had my routines. He had his.

  We headed straight for the bedroom and took up our stations. He piled pillows behind him, stretched out long, muscular legs, and opened his computer. I sat cross-legged on the opposite corner of the bed surrounded by the Sunday paper and my laptop, ready for a bit of online sale shopping.

  I conditioned my hair, read my favorite sections of the Times, and posted an Instagram of Hannah in hip-hop class. I also checked out Bradley’s Facebook page. His Timeline photo was a shot of him in the boxing ring. A number of graphic piers set up around the arena read, FightKlub UK. I examined his handsome face, gritty and determined, and the motion-blurred glove that slammed into a blurrier opponent’s face.

  I exhaled a sigh. “Now I don’t have to worry about your sparring match with Derek. I can see that you know how to take care of yourself.”

  He glanced up from his spreadsheet. “Social networking?”

  “M-mmm. I just friended you.”

  I scrolled down his page. He’d made one entry since arriving in New York. A lopsided picture of Times Square taken from inside a cab, and a brief message: Just arrived NYC, missing my UK friends. There were several likes and a couple of well wishes. I was in no mood to view pictures of him partying with drinking buddies or flirting with fan girls, so I clicked out of Facebook.

  Something about his page triggered a concept for the Héros campaign. Just a snippet of an idea—moments with a hero. Scratch that. More like moments with an everyday hero. I typed a few lines of voice-over copy and some thoughts on images. I glanced over at my new lover.