by Mary
I’m grinning, but at the same time I can’t wait for the game to be over.
Dad hasn’t been helping my depression. He makes comments about Bethany, about the pictures of us. He doesn’t say it outright, but it’s clear he doesn’t want me to see her. He mentioned Angela again and I shut him down.
I managed to put Roger off for another week, but I won’t be able to wait much longer. Not without a valid reason. He tells me to ignore the press about Bethany. Everything is always no comment. My personal life is my personal life.
I’m going to have to tell him the truth.
Angela doesn’t mind the press, either. In fact, she sounds downright chipper when we talk. She can’t tell her dad about Charlie.
I’m basically her beard.
My cardiologist called to badger me again, but this time I agreed to the surgery. I have to, or nothing will ever change. I choose life, even if it’s not with Bethany, but I hope it is.
My mind circles back to her constantly. I miss the crazy things that pop out of her mouth at the most unexpected times. I miss the facial expressions that convey every possible thought in her head. I miss the way she makes me laugh and forget all my troubles. Her presence has become a soothing balm, a comfort, and now that she’s gone it’s like I’m missing my best friend.
I don’t know how many minutes I have left, and I don’t want to miss any I could be spending with her.
Once the game is over, I have to sign autographs, pose for pictures, and shake hands with sponsors and fans. It all takes forever and by the time most of the people have cleared out, I’m worried she’s already gone.
But she’s not. She had things to deal with after the game, too, since she helped to set up most of it.
I find her at Scarlett’s truck in the parking lot, helping her pack up the tables and chairs set up outside the mobile dessert shop.
She turns as I approach. When she sees me her face brightens, but then she glances to the side and bites her lip. She’s in jeans and a plain T-shirt. There’s a ball cap on her head and a smudge of dirt on her cheek.
She’s everything I didn’t know I needed.
“Hey,” she says.
I don’t waste any time. “Can I take you to dinner?”
Scarlett clears her throat from the window of the truck where she was wiping down the counter. “I’ll see you later, Bethany. Nice to see you Brent, great game.”
“Thanks, Scarlett.”
She shuts the window to give us a semblance of privacy.
“So. Dinner?” I try again.
She hesitates.
“Please, B? I’ve really missed you.”
Her lips tilt up and she finally meets my eyes. “I’ve missed you, too.”
“Really? How much?”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t push it, buddy. I’ll go to dinner with you, but I don’t want any paparazzi to see us.”
“I know. I’ve already heard it from Dad, but it will be nothing like that, I promise. We’re actually going to get some food on the go. We won’t even get out of the car. I have a few places to add to our tour from the other day.”
I can see the indecision warring in her eyes. She glances around, as if she’s afraid a paparazzo will pop out of the bushes, but finally she relents.
“Okay.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re eating burritos in the Panamera.
“I’m going to get beans and rice all over your beautiful car.”
I shrug. “I’ll get it cleaned.”
“So what’s this tour all about? Famous hotels of New York?” She motions to the giant red hotel to our right.
I’ve parked right outside Hotel Chelsea.
“This, my friend, is where Sid Vicious murdered Nancy Spungen. Allegedly.”
Her mouth pops open in surprise and then she laughs. A good laugh, head back, throat exposed. The sight makes me grin. It’s nice to make her laugh like she does for me.
She puts a hand to her chest. “You brought me to the scene of a horrible crime. You really must like me.”
I laugh with her. “I really know how to show a lady a nice time.”
“Sid Vicious was the Sex Pistols guy, right?” she asks before taking a bite of her food.
“Yep. He died before they could try him for the murder—overdose. They were both heavy into drugs so there are lots of theories about her death. If it wasn’t Sid, it could have been a drug dealer, or some people think it might have been an accident since they were both strung out.”
She frowns and glances down at her lap. “How sad.”
“But wait.” I pull out of the parking spot into traffic. “It gets so much worse.”
We drive down Tenth Avenue and then take West Forty-Seventh over to Twelfth.
“The Hudson River,” I say as we drive next to the churning waters. “The unfortunate location of many a dead-body drop-off. Spring is a good time for finding remains since the warming of the waters causes the corpses to rise.”
“So creepy.”
“Seriously though.”
Ten minutes later, we pull up outside of a large soccer field, part of Riverside Park off Henry Hudson Parkway. On our other side, the Hudson River is an inky black streak in the darkness.
“Who died here?”
“This is where Lucien Carr killed David Kammerer.”
“Oh, I know this one! Lucien was friends with Jack Kerouac. The beatnik dudes.”
“You know your murders.”
“You’re damn right I do.”
We continue our drive through Central Park, the bare branches above us reaching toward the dark sky like skeleton arms glinting in the glare from headlights and street lamps. “Yet another place there are too many murders to mention.” And end up at Dorrian’s Red Hand.
“Ah the preppy murder. Such a bunch of bullshit. I can’t believe that guy pretty much got away with murder.”
“And set the tone for assault against women for years to come.”
“Right? Let’s put the victim on the stand. She was wearing a short dress, you know, so clearly she was asking to be murdered.” Her words are jokey, like normal, but the tone is flat. Subdued. Like a chandelier with half the bulbs burnt out. Is that my fault?
I keep my own tone light. “Even more ironically, the Red Hand refers to an old Gaelic legend involving murder.”
Her brows lift. “No way.”
“Way.”
She smiles, the motion soft and brief.
There’s a pause while we gaze at the red-canopied restaurant and then she yawns.
“I should take you home.”
She nods. “I am pretty beat. It was a busy day.”
“You did a great job with the game. Thank you for everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
We drive in silence the ten minutes it takes to get back to her apartment.
I want to tell her the truth. About everything. She deserves to know the real reason I pulled away the other night. I can’t leave it like this.
But the words stick in my throat. I should just let her go.
She hesitates before getting out of the car, hand on the door. “Do you want to come up? I . . . want to talk to you. And I’m not gonna lie, I don’t really want to be alone.”
“I’ll come up.” Thank God.
Once we’re upstairs sitting on her futon—which is still in the bed position, blankets strewn everywhere—I take her hand, linking her fingers in mine.
She speaks first. “I’m sorry I freaked. I don’t want you to drop dead.”
“No, I’m glad you did.”
Her answering smile is wry. “You’re glad I acted like a weirdo and bolted on you?”
“Kind of. I mean, I’m used to two scenarios: women who throw themselves at me because of my fame and position, or women who don’t like me at all for the same reasons. You don’t care about money or fame, but you’re worried about me as a person and frien
d. That you care enough to get mad at me actually means a lot.”
“Well then. I’ll try to get pissed off at you more often.” Her fingers squeeze mine.
I blow out a relieved breath. “I’ll try to deserve it. But you were right to be pissed. I’ve been ignoring my problems for too long and it doesn’t make them go away.”
“I totally understand. Sometimes it’s easier to escape than to face things head on. We all have our crutch.”
And I have one more secret to tell her. For some reason, this is harder to reveal than the potentially fatal one.
“There’s something else I need to tell you.”
She groans. “There’s more? Diabetes? Pulmonary disease?”
“What? No, nothing like that. Only the one life-threatening condition. Which I am going to have surgery for. It’s pending scheduling. I have to tell you though . . . when I pulled away the other night, it wasn’t just because of my heart condition.” I stop, take a deep breath. “I have to take these pills, beta-blockers. They help with the chest pains and everything. They aren’t foolproof, but they help. The thing is . . . there are side effects.”
“Side effects?”
I glance away, not wanting to see her response. “One of the side effects is impotence.”
Her hand is still in mine, not moving. Waiting for her reaction is killing me, even though only seconds have passed. I finally meet her eyes.
She blinks at me. “You mean . . . ?”
“Yeah.”
She releases a long, relieved breath. “Oh thank God.”
A startled laugh escapes me. Only Bethany would respond in the complete opposite way of what I expected. No disgust, horror, or pity. Relief is a welcome surprise. “That makes you happy?”
“I just, I really thought you weren’t attracted to me like, at all. I mean, the times we’ve woken up together there wasn’t even morning wood sticking me in the back. All this time, I figured you just weren’t into me. Which is why the kissing and stuff was real confusing. Then I thought maybe you were forcing it but it wasn’t really there.”
“No. The opposite is true. It’s weird because even though I can’t really . . .”
“Get hard?”
“Yes, that.” I give in to the urge to brush a wayward curl out of her face, rubbing the silky strand with my fingers before releasing it. “I am still very much attracted to you. The pills don’t affect my libido. I still feel passion and lust and want. But I can’t do much about it.”
“Dude. That sucks.”
“Tell me about it.”
She bites her lip and there’s a curious gleam in her eyes that I recognize.
“Go ahead.” I shake my head with a laugh as she scoots closer and her hand tightens around mine.
“Have you tried to, you know, get it on with anyone since the heart thing? I mean, besides the other night, when it was just about me.”
“No. I mean, it’s not like I have time to fool around with people during the season and whatnot and I was already pretty messed up from Bella. And then with Gwen—”
“Wait, does she know?”
“She knows about the impotence. She doesn’t know about the heart condition. The only way I could get her to agree to the fake relationship was to tell her the truth. About that part, anyway. The doctor said impotence is a fairly common side effect, and it’s not permanent. It gets better when I stop taking the blockers, but then the side effects from the HCM get worse.”
She winces. “Ugh. So even if you, like, rub it and stuff, nothing happens?”
“Not really. Sometimes it will get a little harder, but it doesn’t last long and it doesn’t relieve anything.” I shift a little and rub a damp palm against the thigh of my pants.
“What about a little blue pill?”
I shake my head. “Nope. I didn’t try it, because of the heart condition. I can’t take anything like that without further risk. Besides, I did some research early on and I guess forcing an erection isn’t satisfying. It’s like going through the motions but not experiencing the pleasure, you know?”
She shakes her head. “No idea. I wish I had a penis sometimes. Even if you can’t get it up, you can still pee standing up so there’s that.”
Laughter bubbles out of me, a mixture of humor and relief. I can’t believe she’s making me laugh about even this. “True.”
“So after you have the surgery and stop taking the blockers, then your penis will come back from the dead?”
I rub my head with a chuckle. Of all the conversations I pictured us having about this, it didn’t quite go like this. “Yes, once I stop taking the beta-blockers, it should be business as usual.”
“Awesome. And when are you having the surgery?”
“Want to mark your calendar?”
“Hell yeah I do.” She grins but then her smile falters and she looks down at our joined hands. “That is, if you still want me at that point.”
“Bethany. I will always want you.” I tuck a finger under her chin to bring her gaze to mine and then I kiss her.
It’s different from before. Before there were unsaid things between us, my ever-present problems that always lingered in the back of my mind, keeping me from being truly present.
Now there’s nothing between us. She knows everything. And she’s still here and she doesn’t give a shit.
She’s amazing.
I deepen the kiss, angling her head back, and she turns into putty in my arms. She leans into me, her head tilting and her body melting into mine, the heat of her breasts against my chest making me groan.
She pulls back for a moment. “If this makes you uncomfortable, we don’t have to.”
I cup her face in my hands. “I want to. You have no idea how badly. The other night, when you fell apart in my arms, was . . . indescribable.”
Her cheeks flush. “I thought so, too, but—”
“No buts.” I kiss the pink glow along her jaw, trailing my lips to just behind her ear, and I’m rewarded with an answering shudder.
This isn’t like the last time, no frantic movements and rushing heat. I want her to know exactly how much I treasure her.
Cupping her face in my hands, I pepper her lips with soft nibbles, patient and languorous, determined to keep the moment slow and sweet.
Even when her hands tug at my hair and her mouth opens, I continue to taste her with careful dips and strokes.
“Brent.” Her voice is breathy and aroused and my stomach quivers in response.
Leaning back, I remove her shirt, taking the time to graze the soft skin of her arms and sides with my fingers as the fabric slips up and over her head.
She reaches for me, fiddling with the bottom of my shirt.
I help her tug the clothes over my head and then have the satisfaction of watching her eyes glaze over as she runs a hungry gaze down my chest. Her hands are fisted at her side and I grab one and bring it to my skin.
“You can touch me.” The words are a whisper in the dark.
And she does, running careful fingers over abs, up to my chest, lingering over my pecs and grazing my nipples until I can’t take it anymore.
I kneel at her feet to remove her shoes, stopping to kiss her insoles and ankles, marveling at the softness of her skin and the hitch in her breath every time I trace her flesh.
Reaching up, I tug at her pants until she’s sitting in front of me in nothing but a bra and underwear.
“You’re more amazing than anything I’ve dreamed.”
“Brent,” she says again, until I begin kissing my way up the inside of her leg and then her head falls back on a moan.
“Bethany,” I say and her head comes up. “Look at me.” I move up her body further, turning kisses into torturous sucks and grazes of teeth along her inner thigh, my eyes never leaving hers. Her gaze turns dark and drowsy as her legs fall open and I near her panties, already damp with arousal.
With a slow, languid gesture I rub he
r through the fabric with one gentle finger.
She moans, eyes falling shut again. I wish I could swallow the sound.
Lust surges inside me, seeking release that can only be spent through her. Taking a deep breath, I inhale her wildflower scent mixed with the spice of arousal that does nothing to calm the inflamed need licking through my body. I tug the strip of fabric between her legs to the side and press my mouth against her heat.
My reward is a strangled groan, louder than the last. She arches back and I wrap my arms around her thighs to hold her in place.
I start with gentle kisses mixed with furtive licks, as slow and soothing as I can manage just to savor her as long as possible, learning what she likes, what makes her crazy, what makes her squirm and buck and pant.
It’s not enough. I drag her panties down and off, needing to get closer to everything. And it is everything. Her body, her sounds, her smell. She’s the rush of the crowd roaring when I’m running onto the field. The touchdown pass that hits me right in the chest as I’m crossing the line into the end zone. The championship win, the Super Bowl ring.
I pull her to the edge of the futon, lifting one trim leg up onto my bare shoulder. Her calves are smooth and strong, flexing against my skin. I force myself to slow down, then speed up, then slow again, teasing her, tormenting her. Her leg trembles against me.
Her hips start to shudder, her hands reaching into my hair.
“Brent,” she pants. “Please.”
I increase the intensity. Tongue thrusting and plundering until the surge moves through her like a tsunami.
She shakes with the intensity, shattering with my name on her lips and her thighs clenching around my head.
When her movements finally subside and she relaxes back, formerly tense muscles now limp, I plant a few more kisses on her thighs and climb over to meet her on the bed.
She immediately curls into me. “Brent.” My name is a puff warm of air against my skin. “That was . . . everything.”
“Not quite everything.”
She laughs. “Almost everything. Close enough. I feel terrible.”
I trail a finger over her smooth shoulder and she shivers. “That’s not exactly what I hoped to hear.”
“You know what I mean. I feel great. But also terrible that I can’t reciprocate.”