by Mary
Eventually, the sounds of even breathing and distant traffic lull me into a light sleep. Until a warm hand lands on my stomach.
I jolt awake.
“Do you hear that?” she whispers.
It takes me a few seconds to focus. My entire being is fixated on the location of her hand. It’s on my stomach, lower stomach. Close to . . . another area.
I shove those thoughts away. I can barely hear it, a kind of rhythmic knocking.
She moves away, taking the heat with her, leaving a cold reminder behind.
I follow. The sounds are coming from somewhere above the hall closet.
“Where does this lead?” I ask in a low voice.
“How am I supposed to know? I’ve never crawled around in any ventilation.”
“Maybe we should try and get a copy of the building plans.”
The sound cuts off suddenly.
I open the closet door and poke around. It’s a shallow, narrow space with sweaters and a couple of coats hanging up. I push the coats aside until I find the back wall. There’s nothing else in here. No vents or cracks in the plaster or anything out of the ordinary.
“Maybe it’s from a TV or something in another apartment?” I suggest.
“What kind of TV show is just a bunch of knocking and banging?”
I shrug. “People are weird. Let’s see if we can hear it from the floor above. Or anywhere else on this floor.”
Time to investigate the strange noise.
We lock the front door and then head down the hallway, stopping to listen periodically.
Nothing. Steven and Martha’s place is quiet. The Frequent Flyers must have left for the night.
We head to the stairwell.
On the floor above, we walk down the hall together, stopping at intervals to listen carefully.
She stops, grabbing my arm. “Did you hear that?”
“No.”
We sit in silence for a minute. Then I hear it. A knocking and then a low moan.
“I think it’s coming from this way.” I walk in the direction of the sound to the nearest apartment and lean against the door. There’s another weird, garbled yell and then a muffled shout.
I get closer, pressing my ear closer to the hard wood.
“There’s something really—” My words cut off as the door swings open and I fall inside.
Chapter Ten
Adversity is an opportunity for heroism.
–Mark Levy
Bethany
I watch Brent disappear into the doorway and my heart drops with his fall.
“Brent!” I rush toward him and then stop in my tracks.
There’s a middle-aged man standing at the door. He has a receding hairline, thick black-rimmed glasses, and a scrawny white chest covered in dark hair. The only thing he’s wearing is some kind of oddly fashioned underwear. I can’t help but stare down at it.
It’s a thong shaped like a pink elephant with the trunk covering his crotch.
Once I’ve taken all that in, I glance up into the apartment. There are people in all stages of undress behind him. At least a dozen men and women. Tall and short and thin and naked and middle aged to old and wow this is quite the . . . orgy.
Oh. My. God.
“Are you here for the party? I really hope so,” pink elephant man says.
Brent’s still on his knees from his inglorious fall. He hasn’t moved. Maybe the shock of being eye level with elephant-covered junk has incapacitated him.
“Do you guys have these, uh, parties often?” I ask.
“You two interested in joining us?” He winks at Brent.
Brent wakes from his frozen terror and leaps to his feet, eyes wide, face red. He puts a hand on the small of my back to guide me away from the scene.
But I can’t leave yet. “Do you guys do this every week?” I call out over my shoulder.
“Just once a month, sugar, second Friday! If you can convince your man, I’ll be here waiting.” He sings the words.
I’m disappointed in his answer—wild orgies apparently aren’t the answer to the strange knocking sounds—and Brent’s hand on my back is pushing me so urgently now I’m really struggling not to laugh.
“We won’t be back,” Brent calls. “We’re at the wrong door.”
“It might be the right door, sugar!” pink elephant yells as we’re turning the corner back to the stairs.
I completely lose it. I’m laughing so hard, tears are running down my face. “I . . . can’t . . . believe . . . that was a real orgy.”
“And it’s not even Tuesday,” Brent deadpans.
Now we’re both laughing hard.
“Did you see his face?” I wipe the tears from my eyes. “He was super into you.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking we should call it a night with that one.”
“But who knows what else is going on around here? Is that what the sound has been this whole time? People knocking . . . boots?”
“It would be weird if everyone in this building waited to have sex until Gwen moved out.”
“Good point.”
Back in the apartment, there’s no more knocking sounds. All is silent and mostly dark. Only the hall light is still on. We resume our positions on the futon.
“Do you think there will be any more noises tonight?” Brent asks.
“I’m not sure. I don’t usually stick around after the initial burst.”
“We can get more data for your spreadsheet.”
“Oh lovely, lovely spreadsheets,” I sigh.
He chuckles. “Did your obsession start as a child or is this a recent fascination?”
“I’ve always loved analyzing data.”
“And that’s what led you to your job working for the biggest asshole in New York City?”
His tone is dry, but his words strike a chord in my chest that I recognize all too well. I know what it’s like to swallow a bitter taste in your mouth every time you talk about a parent. “Your dad isn’t really an asshole. He’s just kind of old-school.”
“That’s one way to put it. An incredibly kind, sugar-coated way.”
“What can I say? I’m just one of those full of love kind of people.” I wink. “Seriously though, I’m super grateful Marc gave me this opportunity. I was so ready for a change and to get away from—” My mother. “Everything.”
“Running away from something?”
“Escaping, more like it.”
“Bad relationship?”
Part of me wants to tell him everything. He would understand, since he has parental troubles as well. Another part of me is so used to holding back, I can’t help but avoid exposing too much.
“You could say that,” I hedge. “My mom is a bit of a level ten clinger. It was time to cut the cord.” And it’s also time for a subject change. “But really, Marc is great. You’re so lucky to have him as a brother.”
“Very true. You have any siblings?”
“Nope. Only child. I’ve always wished I did have brothers or sisters.” Someone to share the responsibility of Mom with.
“I don’t know what I would have done without Marc after our mom died.”
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs off my condolences. “It was a long time ago.”
“My dad died when I was young, too.”
His eyes focus on mine. “What happened?”
“Unintentional poisoning.” I used the nice, clinical term for an overdose. No need to get into all that. “It’s part of the reason my mom is so needy.”
A crease forms between his brows. “What—?”
“How old were you when your mom passed?”
He blinks at the subject change, but doesn’t push it. “Ten. Marc was fourteen. She—” He cuts off and rubs his forehead before continuing. “She had a heart condition. We didn’t know. Dad was . . . Well, he didn’t take it well, to put it lightly. It was really unexpected and he just so
rt of disappeared. He was always busy with work, but Mom was the one person who could pull him from it. Once she was gone, he lost himself even more to the company. Marc became a surrogate parent. Always taking care of me.” He sighs. “I’m glad he’s out there, enjoying his life.” He smiles, but the gesture doesn’t reach his eyes.
Simple jealousy that his brother got the girl? Or is it something more complex? “So did he go snowboarding yet?”
This time the smile is one hundred percent real. “Oh yeah. Kicked butt doing it, too. I wish I could have been there with him. I didn’t think I would miss him this much. But it’s been weird since he’s been gone. Lonely, almost.”
“Huh. I guess I never thought about hot, rich, and famous people as being lonely.”
He grins. “You think I’m hot, huh?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t let your ego take up all the space in here.”
He laughs softly. “It’s not ego. Trust me.”
We’re silent then for a few long minutes, but it’s not uncomfortable. The sounds of distant traffic are soothing and with the lights down, I almost start to nod off until Brent shifts next to me.
“Let’s pull the bed out,” he says in a low voice. “You’re falling asleep on me.”
I smile and get up to help him lay the futon flat and grab the comforter from underneath.
We lie down, facing each other in the dim light.
“This is weird.” I yawn.
“You’ve said that before.” His voice is low and warm in the dark, like a rich chocolate.
“We have a lot of awkward moments together. It’s like our thing. You know, some people are like, we always meet at happy hour, or I always see you at the gym. But us? We have the market cornered on weird. How many other friends have you staked out apartments with, looking for ghosts?”
“You are definitely the first. Does being here on your bed together make it uncomfortable? I can sit on the chair or on the floor.”
“No. Oddly, it doesn’t. I like our creepy interludes.”
“I like them, too.”
Silence descends, and in the quiet, I can’t help but think Brent isn’t a man-ho or a douche-nugget or like I would have thought a famous, rich, successful football player would be. He’s kind. Considerate. Sensitive. He’s not a frog, he’s a prince.
I fall asleep to the steady sounds of his breathing.
Although we fall into dreamland apart, we wake up together, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth. Brent is once again the big spoon.
His breath puffs steadily in my ear.
His arms are wrapped around me from behind like he can’t get close enough. I have front-row seating to his strong, tan forearms. I could lie here forever.
I wiggle a little and something important dawns on me.
He’s not hard.
At all.
Aaand this explains why we’re just friends.
He can’t be my Prince Charming because he’s not attracted to me, obviously. Although I always thought morning wood was an involuntary thing, like a guy could have a three-legged puke-green troll with a giant nose and red eyes in his armpits and still wake up with a boner.
Am I so unappealing? No wonder I’m the only single chick left standing in my group of friends. No one told me, I’m disgusting.
His breathing changes, drawing in on a sharp intake and then he pulls away quickly, taking his heat with him.
I stay still and keep my breathing even, not wanting him to know I’m awake.
Of course he wouldn’t want me. He wants girls like Gwen and Angela Sinclair, former models and rich people who belong in his world. I’m just . . . me. Normal. Boring. Blah.
I wait until he heads for the bathroom, and then I get out of bed, grabbing my night robe and wrapping it around myself like a shield.
Friends. We are just friends.
By the time Brent exits the bathroom, I have coffee brewing and a selection of cheap, generic cereal on the counter. I’ve also gathered all my insecurities and forged them into my armor of humor. It’s what I do best.
“Fruity Os or Captain Not-So-Crunchy?” I shake the box at him. “I was going to cook you some Belgian waffles and gourmet omelets but I didn’t want to wow you too much with my prowess in the kitchen because then you’d fall in love with me and I’d have to leave you eventually for Chris Evans.”
He chuckles. “Really? Set aside like so much trash for Captain America?”
I shrug. “Sorry. He’s my boo.”
He grabs the box of cereal from my hand and shakes some into a bowl.
“So last night was a bust.” He pours milk into the bowl and then shoves a bite into his mouth.
“A bust, a cock, some saggy boobs, a bit of hairy man chest.”
He chokes.
“Last night was a lot of things,” I add.
“You need to stop making me choke. I think you really are trying to kill me.”
“I would never. But I did have an idea. You mentioned getting plans for the building last night, and I think it’s a good idea. My friend Sam is an architect. I’m going to call him for help.”
“Sam?”
Is that a twinge of jealousy I hear in the voice of Mr. I Have No Morning Wood? Not likely. Just wishful thinking.
“Yeah. He’s Gemma’s boyfriend. Gwen’s sister.”
“Right.”
We finish up our breakfasts and drink our coffee in comfortable silence. It feels like we’ve done this a hundred times when he takes my bowl and proceeds to wash it for me and place it on the drying rack. It feels even more natural when we chat about our plans for the day, and he asks me to meet up later for dinner at his apartment.
And it only stings a little bit when I force myself to tell him I have work and laundry to do, so I will be back at his place super late.
And when he hugs me goodbye, it’s the most normal thing in the world to try to hold on to the feeling of warmth and safety for as long as possible because I know that while I’m starting to feel things for him, he doesn’t feel the same.
I have to pull away. I have to stop staring at his biceps and eyes and perfectly chiseled jawline like I want to worship him with my tongue.
I can’t hang out with him like we have been, laughing and joking while he offers me glimpses of all his most vulnerable pieces. He’s chipping away at the walls I’ve built around my heart, the emotions I’m saving for someone who will stick around.
Someone who actually wants me back.
Chapter Eleven
Do you know what my favorite part of the game is? The opportunity to play.
–Mike Singletary
Brent
“Don’t stick your elbows out. You’ll strain your shoulder joints.” I tap Rodrigues on the arm and he pulls his elbows in.
I’m well aware of the irony here, helping a teammate avoid injury when I shouldn’t even be working out.
He finishes his reps and rolls to a stand. “Thanks for spotting me, man. And for the tips. Those grip drills really helped.”
“Anytime. I saw you on the field yesterday. You caught at least twice as many jump balls.”
We bump fists and then he wanders off to some other rookies hanging around the squat rack.
Satisfaction sings through me. Helping someone else succeed is almost as fulfilling as achieving it myself.
My phone chirps. It’s Roger.
“We got an offer from the Sharks.”
“What is it?”
“Six years, fifty-four million. I negotiated a signing bonus and over a million in potential incentives. We can go over it together tomorrow morning before you sign.”
“Right.”
My heart thumps in my chest. I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning to go over the results of the MRI.
This should be fantastic news, but I can’t muster the enthusiasm I know Roger expects.
“I’m . . . in shock, I think.” I force out a laugh.
“How about tomorrow afternoon?”
The clock is ticking. I can’t sign this contract in good faith. Not without coming clean. It’s not fair to the team. Right? But how could I just leave football?
“That’s great, Brent. I can see you at three.”
We hang up and I head to the locker room, rubbing my chest, trying to soothe the building anxiety.
What is Roger going to think? Dad is going to freak. I’m going to lose this contract. End my career. Dad’s company . . . they won’t want me as the face of the business when I’m no longer a sports superstar.
I wish I could talk to someone.
Bethany.
I haven’t seen her much lately. Granted, I’ve been busy helping with training, and she’s been helping the kids club organize the charity baseball game. Plus she’s got her job and I have my dealings with Dad and doctors.
Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I think she’s avoiding me.
I texted her this morning to see if she’d heard anything back from her architect friend, but she still hasn’t responded.
The other night at her apartment was . . . fun. Weird, all things and pink elephants considered, but nice.
She listened to my sob stories without judgment or pity. It’s like she actually cares about me and not what I have to offer. Which, frankly, isn’t much at the moment.
After showering, I head to the Bronx. I’ve been meaning to stop by to see if there’s anything else I can do to help with the charity event, and also to see how Bethany has been progressing.
The front office is bustling with activity. Normally, there are only a few people there, including the director, Rosemarie, but right now there are about a half dozen people sorting envelopes, working on computers, and making copies as I walk in. I recognize more than one face.
My eyes snag on one in particular.
What is Angela Sinclair doing here? Did my father—?
“Brent,” Bethany calls. She’s in the back corner, leaning over someone at a computer screen. The redhead sitting next to her is a welcome face. Charlie.