Imperfect Strangers copy edit

by Mary

  “Are you kidding me? What an asshole.”

  “Right? The biggest. After that I was a bit hesitant to give anyone too much of my heart. My mom always told me I fall too fast and my heart’s too soft to handle the break. So instead I ended up partying a lot. Maybe too much. It was a way to escape.” And a way to avoid my problems at home.

  “This guy really did a number on you.”

  I glance down at my lap. Sort of. Not really. I was escaping Mom more than anything else, but I’m not sharing those tender bits. I’ve never told anyone the whole truth. Not even my closest friends back home.

  “Yeah . . . he really fowled me up.” I nudge him with an elbow. “Get it? Fowl?”

  He groans. “Are we doing bird puns again?”

  We laugh. Crisis averted.

  He leans in while I’m still smiling and presses his mouth against mine. It’s a brief caress, a momentary brush of warmth and then he pulls back and his grin is sheepish. “I wanted to taste your smile.”

  My stomach flutters at his words, and I can’t control myself. I ease against him and steal his lips, seeking more of his warmth, more of him. The brush of his mouth against mine sends a pulse of desire shooting downward. His lips are soft but persistent, and he tastes like chocolate cake. His hands slide into my hair, gentle but strong. He is a study in contrasts.

  When his tongue slides past my lips, I melt against him and then we’re tumbling back, lying on the ground facing each other, our mouths never leaving the other’s even as we fall. An ache begins to build inside me, and I ease closer and closer, but it’s not enough.

  His hand runs down one arm to my hip, gripping me firmly.

  I reciprocate the movement, clasping his hip, pressing myself closer against him.

  He pulls back on a gasp.

  “We should go somewhere more comfortable.”

  Oh, hell yeah.

  My body is flush with heat.

  Finally.

  Chapter Fifteen

  If you aren’t going all the way, why go at all?

  –Joe Namath

  Brent

  “Thank you for today. And dinner, and . . . everything.” Bethany’s hand on my arm is warm and soft. Her eyes are glazed and her lips are pink and swollen from our earlier make-out session.

  “It was a great day.”

  We’re standing in the space between the hall and the kitchen, stuck somewhere between need and anticipation and anxiety.

  My body is buzzing. It has been all day. I want more than anything to take her into my arms, kiss her senseless, but I don’t know if I’m ready. I know where it will lead—where she’ll want it to lead—and I can’t. Literally.

  My heart speeds up in my chest.

  Can I be the man she wants? The one she needs? I should tell her everything but the words get caught in my throat.

  I need to come clean. It’s why I stopped us at the Empire State Building. I need to tell her everything so she knows why, but . . . what if she doesn’t want me? What if all my problems are a deal breaker?

  I imagine her eyes growing cold. Distant. Pitying. Disappointed.

  No.

  She won’t judge me.

  Will she?

  It could be a simple half-truth. One kiss. One moment and then I can pull away with the excuse of wanting to take her seriously, to take us seriously. It’s not entirely a lie. I don’t want to rush this thing between us, but the look in her eyes . . . I’ve already seen it. She’ll think I don’t want her.

  Her eyes are on mine, wide and vulnerable and we’ve been staring at each other for longer than what should be comfortable but the taut wire of tension between us pulls us inexorably inward.

  Her hands run up my arms, lightly squeezing. “Mother ducker,” she murmurs, her fingers around my biceps.

  I laugh softly. “Punny.”

  In the dim light of the hall, her eyes are dreamy and watching me like I’m the best dessert in the world and she can’t wait to eat me. And I can’t hold her back any longer.

  The kiss is like a warm fire on a rainy day. I could lose myself in her lips forever.

  I don’t mean for the pressure between us to ramp up into a blaze. I want to keep it light and sweet, but I can’t control my response when her fingers slip under my shirt, against the bare skin of my back.

  Her warm hands trail to my stomach and the kiss turns insistent. The press of our mouths becomes harder, escalating into an inferno of clashing tongues. Her fingers explore up my stomach, pulling my shirt over my head and tossing it on the ground.

  The momentary separation only makes us come back together harder. Her mouth is demanding and devouring and I love every second of it.

  We somehow make it over to the couch, still kissing. She pulls me with only the force of her lips and the subtle tug of her hands. Before I can figure out what’s happening, she pushes me down to a seat and straddles me, her lips on my neck for a brief and tantalizing suck before we’re kissing again.

  I moan into her mouth and my hand brushes up, under her shirt, feeling her through her bra before pulling the cup down so I can run a thumb over her already peaked nipple.

  Her head falls back on a gasp. She feels amazing. Like nothing I’ve ever . . . Thoughts disappear under the strength of the need flooding through me.

  My lips nibble down her neck and then she grinds against my lap, her fingers fumbling for the buttons.

  All of my thoughts coalesce into panic.

  “Wait.” I grasp her wrists between us. “Stop.”

  Her body tenses against mine. I ease my grip on her hands and suck her bottom lip into my mouth.

  “Please,” I whisper against her lips. “Let me make you feel good first.” There’s a smidge of guilt attached to the words, knowing that it won’t go any further. Can’t go any further.

  “Yes,” she says just before our mouths meet again.

  I slip her shirt over her head and chuck it to join mine on the floor.

  Her breasts are spilling out of a satiny black bra. I can’t pull my eyes away, her chest right at my eye line. I tug one cup down, exposing a tight pink nipple. I suck it into my mouth and her head falls back on a groan.

  “Brent.” She thrusts her hips in my direction, seeking relief that I cannot wait to provide—but not in that position.

  I spin her around, settling her in my lap so her back is against my chest. I reach down between her legs, and delve into her pants.

  She’s not wearing underwear.

  The realization pushes a groan from my chest and ignites a frantic yearning throughout my body, all the way to my toes.

  I brush against her most sensitive spot, skating my fingers through her already wet folds.

  With a gasp, she arches her back and turns her head to meet mine. I sip at her lips, slowing our movements while I slide my finger into her heat, pressing my palm against her clit and moving my fingers in time with my tongue. She moans, trembling in my arms, breasts pointed to the ceiling.

  Holy fuck. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  I run a free hand up her chest to tug at her puckering nipples and I’m rewarded by a groan and her hips thrusting against my hand.

  Her movements are intoxicating. Her moans and wildflower scent mixed with the heat of her arousal invades my senses and consumes my every thought until all that exists, all that matters are the slick sounds of her flesh and the hungry rock of her body clenched around my finger.

  Her hand reaches down and covers mine, gripping me as I stroke and press into her a little harder, a little faster.

  I glide in a second finger and her movements grow frantic.

  Every whimper and thrust incites a matching thirst that makes my heart throb in my chest. She squirms as pleasure drums through her, creating an answering beat of pleasure within me, as if her body is my own.

  And just like that, she explodes and shatters in my arms, pulsing around my fingers
, surrendering to her release.

  I want to bang my fists against my chest, howl at the moon, shout to the world.

  Once the aftershocks quiver away she turns in my arms and burrows her face into my neck.

  Our heavy pants fill the silence.

  “That was . . . amazing.” Her breath puffs against my neck.

  “It really, really was.” She has no idea.

  She sits back in my lap and runs her hands down my chest, her eyes tracking the movement on my flesh and then she goes for the buttons of my pants. “My turn.” The wicked grin she shoots me is nearly my undoing.

  “Wait.” For the second time, I still her hands.

  I can’t let this continue. I have to tell her, but I can’t quite pull my thoughts together.

  Her grin drops slowly, like the ball drop in Times Square, a full minute from top to bottom.

  She swallows. “It’s because of my dirty vagina, isn’t it?”

  A startled laugh breezes past my lips. “What? No. You don’t have a dirty vagina.” I can’t help it. I laugh harder, the sound jangling with a touch of nerves since I’m about to tell her . . . everything.

  “Stop laughing at my lady parts!”

  “I’m not laughing at your parts. I’m laughing at your words. Come here.”

  I hug her to me, breathing in the wildflower scent of her hair for a few long seconds. Then I shift her gently into the seat next to me, keeping her hand in mine. The warmth gives me strength while my body cools.

  My eyes are on our connected fingers. I rub a thumb over her palm. “I have to tell you something important.” I take a deep breath and release it. Then I meet her eyes. “There’s only one other person in the world who knows what I’m about to tell you.”

  Her hand squeezes mine. Her eyes are concerned, maybe a little insecure, but underneath there’s a steady warmth. “You’re safe with me.”

  I search her face for a moment. “You know how I told you about my mom dying?”

  She nods, but her eyes turn wary. “Yeah.”

  I take another fortifying breath and release it. “She had a heart condition. It’s called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. It’s where the muscle between the heart chambers thickens. In normal people, it’s not necessarily a problem . . . but there is this other thing called athlete’s heart. The heart is a muscle and when it’s worked out a lot, just like any other muscle, it gets thicker. A more serious problem can happen when both conditions coincide—it exacerbates the thickening of the lining in the heart and blocks blood flow.”

  She blinks and her hand tightens on mine. “What are you saying?”

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. “It started with chest pains, but only during major exertion. Most of the time, it was minor things. Shortness of breath. Dizziness. But I didn’t go to the team doctors. I already knew, even then.”

  “Knew what?”

  “I have the same thing that killed my mom. It’s genetic.”

  The ensuing silence is heavy, but I could almost float away, I feel so light. Those words have burdened me for months. Their release is a relief, but with relief comes clarity.

  This is really happening to me.

  “Are you trying to tell me you’re dying?”

  “No. Not . . . necessarily.”

  “Can they fix it?” Her voice rises at the end.

  “There are some options. They want me to have surgery.”

  “When?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  Her head is shaking, her shoulders rigid. “Why wouldn’t you know?”

  “It’s not that simple. Heart surgery at this point is career suicide.”

  “Brent. You can’t put football ahead of existing.” She pulls her hand out of mine. “Corpses don’t get touchdowns.”

  My hands feel empty without her fingers in mine. “Well, when you put it that way.”

  “I’m not kidding.” And for the first time, she really isn’t. Her mouth is turned down, and her eyes are already filling with tears. I’ve never seen her like this. I’ve seen her goofy and feisty and scared and happy, but never like this. She looks broken.

  “There’s no guarantee I’m going to die. And I have other options. There’s some kind of implant. It would restart my heart in case it stopped. Why are you so upset?”

  “You just told me you’re dying and you’re not doing anything to fix it. How long have you known?”

  “Since before last season.”

  “You’ve known for a year, and you’ve done nothing?” I open my mouth to answer, but then her eyes lift and she says, “You played all last season. What if you had dropped dead on the field? That happens to athletes! I’ve heard of it.”

  “I didn’t die.” Although I’ve always known that I could. I just didn’t think about it too hard. Never allowed myself to sit inside the possibility and truly consider it.

  “But you could have. You still could.”

  “Maybe. But we could all die at any moment. There are a lot of what-ifs.”

  And we’re getting off track. There was a reason I brought all this up. I have to tell her about my broken cock. But she’s so agitated, words just pile up in my throat.

  She stands and starts pacing the ground in front of me. “Brent, you have to have this surgery.”

  “I’ve been weighing my options with my doctor.”

  A frustrated sound leaves her mouth. “I can’t believe they let you play.” Her hands are wringing.

  “They didn’t let me do anything, B. I told you, no one knows about my condition. Except my doctor and you.”

  “Why would you not tell anyone?”

  How could I tell anyone? “I . . . was in denial. I didn’t want to believe it and then I couldn’t risk it getting out. Football is my life.” Doesn’t she understand that?

  “How is football more important than your actual life?”

  “It’s all I have. It’s what I live for. It’s what I’ve always done, since I was five. It’s my happy place. After Mom died . . . nothing else in my life has ever been consistent except Marc, and he has his own life. If I can’t play, I—” I don’t know how to explain it. “Nothing would be worth it.”

  Her head swivels back and forth. “Unbelievable. You’re just like your father. Maybe you need something else worth living for,” she snaps and then stills. With a heavy swallow, she steps back from me. “I have to go.”

  “You’re leaving? Now?” I glance over at the clock. It’s nearly eleven.

  “I have to go,” she says again.

  “I thought you would understand. You’re my . . . friend. More than a friend. You’re supposed to support me.”

  “And you’re supposed to stick around.” Her voice is soft and full of tears.

  Another step back and she turns and walks out. She doesn’t slam the door. I barely hear the soft click as she shuts it gently behind her.

  I’m too mad at her and myself to do anything but stare at the wall and take deep breaths. I need to stay calm. My heart races in my chest like a ticking time bomb.

  She was so hurt . . . because I might die. Because she might lose me. She really cares. For me. Not my name or my money or my position on the field.

  And I care about her.

  And she’s gone . . . where exactly?

  I pick up my cell phone and send her a text. Screw playing it cool. Maybe it’s needy or annoying or desperate, I don’t care.

  I’m so sorry. Please come back.

  No response. I pull up the video feed to her apartment and wait, watching until I see her go home, unlock the door, and slip inside.

  What if something happens and I’m not there to help?

  I know she said they put something over the entrance to the dumbwaiter, but I don’t think they’ve done the concrete pour yet.

  Her safety is more important to me than air. I’m worried about her. And she’s worried about me.

  A bitter laugh escapes
my lips. She’s right. I am like my father. Nothing is more important than his business. And for me, nothing has mattered more than football.

  But there are more important things in life. Family. Marc. Bethany.

  My life can be worth something even if I can’t play.

  I pick up my phone and call but it rings once and then goes to voicemail.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “This is terrible.”

  “Keep going.”

  –Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark

  My Favorite Murder episode 42

  Bethany

  I’m the worst person in the whole world.

  If there were any justice, I would be run over by a cab, then peed on by a homeless person, then run over again and set on fire.

  Brent just told me he has a life-threatening condition and what do I do? Run away and avoid his calls.

  Because that’s a supportive reaction.

  I’m well aware of my own abandonment problems. Everyone leaves or disappoints me. My dad, my mom, and every man I’ve ever slept with or dated or had lukewarm feelings for. And now Brent.

  My issues have issues.

  And I’m not alone. He runs, too. Avoids problems at all costs.

  Hell, running to the other side of the city is nothing for me. I ran to the other side of the country to escape my problems. Which are nothing compared to Brent over here, risking his life and denying a serious health issue.

  We’re quite the pair.

  I step off the elevator, wiping my eyes right as Steven and Natalie are getting on.

  “Hey, Bethany,” Steven says.

  “Where are you guys headed so late?” I ask brightly, like infusing my voice with cheer will hide the red meltdown splotched all over my face.

  “We’re going to Natalie’s place. I’m going to stay there tonight because we’re leaving in the morning for an out-of-town Frequent Flyer meeting.”

  Right. The bird cult.