The Seduction of Dylan Acosta

by Nia Forrester

  As the minutes stretched by, Dylan signaled for the waiter and made no effort to lower her voice as she ordered an iced tea and chicken Caesar salad. Only then did Corey seem to remember that he was not in fact sitting at the table alone, and end his call.

  “Hey buddy,” he said to the waiter, without first acknowledging Dylan, “give me the same, would you?”

  Finally, when he looked at her, his blue eyes were unreadable. He leaned back and placed his Blackberry on the table.

  “I was arranging a public appearance for Mark,” he explained. “At a women’s shelter.”

  Dylan nodded.

  Corey unfurled his napkin and smoothed it over his lap. “For the moment he’s still in demand for that kind of thing.”

  “That’s good,” Dylan said. Her voice was quiet. She was intimidated by Corey, and hated that she was.

  “Yes, it is good,” Corey said. “But you know who’s stopped calling? Companies looking for endorsers. Y’know why?”

  “Don’t be condescending,” Dylan said in a burst of irritation. “Of course I know why.”

  “Good,” Corey said. “So we can skip the preliminaries.”

  “Tell me why I’m here, Corey,” Dylan said.

  “I need you to help me save Mark’s career. Both on and off the field.”

  “Mark only has one career. And that’s on the field.”

  Corey waved a hand impatiently and then ran it through his hair. “Yeah, I know that’s what he thinks. But he’s wrong. What the public thinks matters, Dylan. Whether they like him or not isn’t just about him selling sneakers for Nike, or walking the red carpet at the ESPYs.

  “If he becomes a pariah, no matter his talent, he will not be signed again once this contract is up. Not by anyone. Have you ever heard of Allen Iverson?”

  Dylan closed her eyes and sighed. “Of course.”

  “Big talent, big attitude, big drama, big liability. You know where he plays basketball now?”

  “No. Where?”

  “In Turkey, Dylan,” Corey said, nodding for effect. “In Turkey.”

  Dylan swallowed. He’d made his point. “So what would you like me to do?”

  “This is going to hurt,” Corey warned.

  “Would you just spit it out?”she asked impatiently. The less time she spent with him at this point, the better.

  “I need you to lay low. Stay out of public with Mark. Let him rebuild his image separate from you.”

  Dylan leaned back in her seat. This she had not been expecting.

  “I know it sounds harsh,” Corey said. “But the public doesn’t dislike Mark; not really. They dislike you. And they dislike that he seems to be weak, because of you.”

  Dylan blinked back tears. She wasn’t affected by Corey’s harsh manner—he always had a harsh manner—she was affected by the harsh truth that he was speaking. A truth she had denied to herself for the last several weeks, telling herself that her and Mark’s bond in the face of adversity would eventually win his fans over once again.

  “Look, I know I sound like an asshole. But part of my job is to say the asshole things no one else will say. And what I’ve said is the god’s honest truth. And I think you know it is.”

  Dylan took a sip of her water. Her stomach felt like it was in knots and there was a bitter taste in her mouth. She was almost convinced she might throw up.

  “It sucks, but those are the facts,” Corey continued. “Every single time he’s photographed with you and then the Mets lose a game . . .”

  “Okay, I get it,” Dylan said.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes!”

  “So will you do it?”

  “I’ll need you to be clear about precisely what I’ll be doing,” she said.

  “What you’ll not be doing is more accurate,” Corey said. “Going to events with him, particularly where there’ll be press. Games, out of the question—you saw what happened yesterday. And as much as possible, even in his downtime, it would be great if you travel separately and not be seen together.”

  “Essentially create the impression that Mark’s and my marriage is in distress,” Dylan said incredulously.

  “Well isn’t it?” Corey asked evenly.

  Dylan felt her face grow warm. How much did Mark confide in his agent, anyway?

  “Not to such a degree that . . .”

  “Maybe he needs the space anyway, Dylan,” Corey said looking at her. “Your being the devoted, clingy wife right now might be having the exact opposite effect than what you intend.”

  “Excuse me, but . . .”

  “Okay, okay, that wasn’t called for,” Corey acknowledged quickly seeing on her face that he was moments away from causing her to walk out altogether.

  “Mark would never go for . . .”

  “I don’t see Mark here, do you?” Corey looked around the restaurant theatrically. “This is why I asked you not to say anything. You’re right; he would never go for it. He loves you and seems to think you’re worth all the shit he stirred up on the team. This is how you prove it.”

  “Why on earth would I need to prove anything to you?” Dylan demanded.

  Corey laughed, his eyes hard. “Not to me, Dylan. Prove it to yourself.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw those pictures and I don’t care what you say. Given time and opportunity, you would have become just another Ray Hernandez conquest.”

  Dylan felt all the blood rush out of her face and her breathing become shallow. Corey was studying her, assessing her. He looked so sure of what he’d said that she wondered. The fear that he might be right was the only thing that kept her from throwing her glass of water in his face.

  “But call me stupid, I don’t think you actually were a Ray Hernandez conquest. Those pictures might have been the best thing to happen to you in that sense, because they just may have stopped you from doing something dumb.

  “But they also led to a shit-storm for your husband and his career. This might be a way to redeem yourself, Dylan. And help him in the process.”

  Dylan said nothing, feeling exposed. Ray’s attention had been exciting. First Mark and then him— she had never had such attractive men interested in her before. Men whose interest she never believed she could have gotten or maintained. Every single day, she still wondered what it was Mark saw in her, why he was sure he loved her. Now, with all the trouble she had caused him, she wondered it even more frequently. And Ray’s flattery, the looks he’d given her . . . she felt like she mattered somehow. It hadn’t hurt either that it made Mark so jealous.

  “Look, the way I presented this was crass,” Corey said, as if conceding a point she herself had made. “I freely acknowledge that. But no fucking around now, Dylan, this is the fork in the road. This is Mark’s rookie season and he will be forever defined as a pro baseball player by how this shakes out. And if you know anything about Mark, you know that he doesn’t just want to be adequate. He doesn’t just want to be good. He wants to be amazing.

  “And he has the talent and the drive to be amazing. Not just on the field but as a community symbol, as a real presence in sports. Everything that happens in this season will set him up for life, even after he’s no longer playing and wants to be a sportscaster or something. It’s that important.”

  In spite of herself, Dylan had to admit that it made sense. And if she was really hindering that, she owed it to Mark to step back.

  “I have to give this some thought,” she said quietly.

  Her stomach was roiling now, and she seriously doubted she was going to be able to get down a Caesar salad or anything else.

  “You do that. But don’t take too long. I have plans for him to do some events and if you agree with me, I’ll expect you to bow out of his suggestions that you accompany him. I’ll expect you to be scarce at the games.”

  Dylan swallowed hard. She could feel herself about to be sick.

  “Excuse me,” she said quickly before shoving away from the table and runn
ing into the Ladies Room.

  Once inside she barely made it into a stall before retching into the toilet. There wasn’t much in there, since she hadn’t been eating too well lately. This low level nausea had been with her for awhile. Now it was full-blown. She gagged again and waited it out. Confident that it was manageable, though not completely gone, she went to the sink, washed her mouth out and patted a cold paper towel on her forehead and cheeks.

  When she returned to the table, Corey was eating. The sight of the food, and the smell of the garlic from the salad threatened to make her ill again.

  “Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?” Dylan managed.

  “Nope,” Corey looked at her. “That was it.”

  “Okay, well I think I’m going to take off then,” Dylan said. She reached for her pocketbook and Corey grabbed her hand.

  “One more thing,” he said. Dylan looked down at his hand and he quickly released her. “Do you doubt that what I’ve said is true?”

  Dylan swallowed and after a moment shook her head.

  She didn’t just believe him she knew that what he said was true. Mark would be fine. The fans would love him again because he loved the game and he would play well when free from distraction. Without feeling like he had to protect and shield her from unwelcome speculation, insults from fans, the press . . . when he could stop worrying about all of that, he would be great again.

  “Okay then,” Corey said. “I’ll wait for your call.”

  As she left he didn’t remark on the fact that she had left her uneaten salad sitting there across from him on the table.

  Instead of having the driver take her all the way back to Westchester, she went to the condo where she was able to take a nap, holding her stomach, waiting for the nausea to subside.

  When she awoke, feeling marginally better and a little hungry, she realized there was no food in the refrigerator because she and Mark hadn’t stayed there in awhile. So she called for take-out and when it came was surprised to feel her stomach turn at the sight of it. By then it was beginning to get dark, and she could see that there had been several missed calls while she slept, most from Mark. Calling for the driver, she slipped her feet back into her shoes and headed downstairs to go home, tossing the uneaten food in the trash as she went.

  “You’re not coming?”

  Mark had emerged from his dressing room towel still wrapped about his waist, carrying the shirt and pants he’d chosen for the Trevor Project event and looked surprised to find Dylan still in bed. She’d propped herself up with a pile of magazines and turned on the television, wanting to illustrate, rather than say that she wasn’t accompanying him.

  The first few events had been difficult enough. Mark had been willing on those occasions to accept her excuse that her knee was aching, but now she’d run out of reasons. And for this event in particular, he was understandably be puzzled because the Trevor Project was one of her favorite charities that she’d urged him to support.

  “Not this time,” she said, barely looking at him, hoping to avoid his eyes.

  No, she wasn’t okay. And for more reasons besides this deception she was conspiring with Corey to pull off. But that was yet another thing she didn’t want to trouble him with.

  “Are you sure? Is everything okay?”

  Mark came to sit next to her on the bed. He put a warm hand on the side of her face and Dylan leaned into it.

  She prayed she was doing the right thing. Ava said she was, but now she realized that the person she trusted most—Mark—was the one person she couldn’t ask for guidance. He was beginning to worry about her. She could tell he thought she was pulling away and was confused about why, especially after all of her impassioned speeches about them staying together and weathering the storm as a couple, living in the same house no matter the tension between them. After all that, how could he not be confused when she wouldn’t so much as go to the local diner with him for breakfast on a Sunday morning?

  Dylan reached out now and put a hand to his chest, running it over the smooth, silky dark hair she found there. Mark took a breath, and placed a hand over hers so she looked directly at him. She could see the puzzlement in his eyes, all the questions he had.

  “That shirt’s a great choice,” she said by way of distraction. “You always look so handsome in it.”

  “You haven’t been out at all lately,” Mark observed, leaning into her line of sight again so she would look at him.

  Dylan shrugged. “I don’t miss it.”

  It was true. She didn’t. Stephanie and Lauren, her two most frequent partners in crime before the scandal still called to invite her shopping and to lunch and she’d accepted their invitations a couple times, but all the talk seemed to be about other shopping trips and other lunches. And when that failed, about other wives. Dylan wondered why she hadn’t noticed before how small their worlds were, how limited.

  “But you’re turning into a little hermit,” Mark said, stroking her hair affectionately, trying to keep his voice light.

  “I’ve got plans with Miri tomorrow,” she said truthfully. Dylan ran her hand down the center of his chest and tugged at the towel at his waist. “What time does the car get here?”

  Mark looked at her. “In about forty minutes.”

  “I only need ten,” she said.

  “Speak for yourself.”

  Mark gently pushed her back against the pillows and shoved aside the sheets that covered her. Dylan bent her knees and raised her hips to allow him to pull her panties down. When she was naked from the waist down, Mark ran his hands along her thighs and placing his palms on the insides of each, pushed them apart.

  “This was my idea,” Dylan reminded him. “I think that makes it lady’s choice . . .”

  “And what does the lady choose?” he asked, lowering his head between her thighs and kissing her.

  In spite of herself, Dylan pressed her hips upward toward the pressure and warmth of his mouth. The feeling of his tongue, delightfully hot, seeking entrance, was enough to make her forget what she’d been about to say. She propped herself up on her elbows and watched Mark’s head as it moved, resisting the urge to grab it and press him harder against her.

  With slow, long strokes, he seemed to be caressing rather than just tasting her, then a well-placed finger raised the stakes, so that Dylan felt herself moving rapidly toward release. She squirmed and circled her hips against him, feeling the slight burn of his rough chin and jaw against the most delicate parts of her.

  But even through her pleasure, the mindless, weightless feeling, the rolling, undulating waves of his tongue against her, she wondered why it was that whenever she started out thinking she would give him something, she ended up taking.

  “Mark,” she breathed, grabbing his head. “Mark . . . let me . . .”

  He looked at her, and his eyes were sleepy and heavy-lidded, like someone intoxicated. Dylan throbbed with the sudden absence of his attention where she still wanted it.

  “Get up here,” she said, opening her arms.

  Mark moved up her body and she felt him against her inner thigh, incredibly hard. He slid effortlessly into her and she tightened about him, grasping his hips, holding him still inside her for a moment.

  “I love you,” she said, her lips pressed into his shoulder. “I love you so much.”

  When he was gone, she got out of bed and went to her closet where she retrieved a brown paper bag she’d stuffed into one of her jewelry drawers that afternoon. Once she had it in hand, she grabbed her phone and dialed Ava’s number.

  “He’s gone,” she said when her friend answered. “I wish you were here with me to do this.”

  “The whole deal should only take a few minutes,” Ava replied. “Do you have it?”

  Dylan took the pregnancy test out of the packet. “Hold on,” she said as she ripped the plastic that covered the wand. “Okay I’ve got it.”

  “So here goes,” Ava said on the other end of the line. “Time to pee.”


  Walking with the phone in the crook between her shoulder and neck, and the wand in her hand, Dylan headed for the bathroom.

  “So this is going to be a little too much information, but do you think semen affects the accuracy of the test?”

  “Okay, so yes,” Ava said, her voice even, “that was too much information. And no, I don’t think semen affects the accuracy of the test. It looks for a pregnancy hormone that I sincerely doubt occurs in semen.”

  “Except it might neutralize it, or . . .”

  “Dylan! Just pee on the damn stick already!”

  Dylan put the phone on the bathroom counter and took the stick over to the toilet. Her bladder was positively bursting as she’d been holding it since Mark left.

  It had taken her awhile to suspect she might be pregnant. The stress of the last several weeks coupled with her weight loss had all help feed her denial about why she hadn’t gotten her period. She’d been sloppy about taking her contraceptive pill, sometimes missing for a day and doubling up the next. And a couple times she’d even started spotting before she remembered to resume taking it. But the sickness almost every morning before she ate, and the nausea that accompanied certain smells, the metallic taste of her coffee . . . it all finally came together for her.

  Now, looking down at the stick in her hand she took a deep breath and peed. After a moment, she wrapped it up in toilet tissue and dropped it in the trash, taking the time to wash her hands before picking up the phone again.

  “Hey,” she said to Ava.

  “Well how long do we wait? Three minutes?”

  “No need,” Dylan said, feeling surprisingly emotionless. “All it took was five seconds. It’s definitely positive. I’m pregnant.”

  19

  All of the usual suspects were at Pedro’s house for dinner, except that this time Dylan and Mark had brought Ava along. As they entered, all heads turned and Vanessa came toward them, hands extended, taking Dylan’s.

  “So good to see you,” she said, kissing both Dylan’s cheeks. Then she turned to Ava and greeted her, then kissed Mark as well. “The men are outside,” she said to him.