by Mary
My heart plummets, hurt returning. I just had the stupid thing fixed, and now she wants to break it?
But then she smiles at me, her eyes watering, lips trembling. “I don’t want to start over, because I want to pick up where we left off. You promised me a date. And I think there was something about twenty million orgasms?”
I bark out a laugh, then wince at the pain in my chest.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” Her hand moves to my arm.
“It’s okay.” The ache doesn’t overshadow my eternal relief. “I feel like that number is slightly inflated.”
Her brow lifts. “Are you saying you can’t handle it?”
“Never.” I lean forward, trying to get closer and the pain makes me grimace. “Eventually.”
Her laughter is like rays of sunshine streaming through dark clouds. She leans into me, careful of my bandage, and kisses me gently on the lips.
“Hey, now, no riling up the patient.” Marc’s voice interrupts us from the doorway.
Bethany moves away, pink flooding her cheeks.
“You guys made up!” Gwen claps her hands together. “Come on.” She grabs Bethany’s arm. “We need to have some girl time so you can tell me all about it.”
Why is she pulling Bethany out the door?
The explanation is in the doorway. Dad.
He won’t meet my eyes and he shifts on his feet like he’s ready to run.
Bethany and Gwen disappear out the door and Marc moves in closer.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he says.
I smirk. The last time all three of us were in the same room was at another hospital, after Marissa shot me in the arm.
He turns to the door and lifts his brows at our father, still hovering.
Finally, Dad steps into the room. “Brent. I’m glad everything went well with your surgery.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Silence.
The squeak of sneakers on linoleum passes by the door. The machines next to the bed whirr and hum.
Marc clears his throat.
Dad steps closer to my bed and finally meets my eyes. “I’m sorry, Brent. I haven’t been the best father but I want to be better.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m shocked into silence. Dad. Apologizing to me.
“That’s . . . thank you.”
“I know it’s probably too late, but I would like to have a real relationship with both of you. I might be too old to learn new tricks, but I’m willing to try.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Nothing was ever the same after your mother died. But that’s not an excuse. I want to change. I’m a work in progress.”
“Dad.” I reach for his hand. “We all are.”
His grip is firm, but his skin is thin and wrinkled, reminding me of how little time he might have left. His eyes are watery.
I clear my throat. “Especially Marc.”
Marc flicks my leg. “Speak for yourself, little brother.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve been bigger than you since I was nine.”
“I mean mentally and emotionally.”
Dad chuckles. “Knock it off, you two.” He takes a breath. “Promise we’ll all get together?” He looks at me, then Marc, then back at me. “Somewhere other than a hospital?”
“I promise,” Marc says.
“I promise.”
~*~
“I’m kidnapping you.” Bethany jumps on the couch next to me, bouncing on her knees, grinning, hair wild, wearing only a thin T-shirt and boy shorts, looking like every guy’s wet dream. “Since you’re my really real boyfriend and I can.”
I smile. She loves referring to me as her “real” boyfriend.
It’s been two months since the surgery. The recovery has been slow and painful. Frustrating since I’m used to being physically top-notch.
I’m still going to physical therapy, but they’ve cut it back and I’m doing more work on my own at home. I’ve been staying with Bethany at her place almost every night since Marc and Gwen are temporarily home. I’ve been helping her search for an apartment. And by help, I mean perusing ads and giving her tips on the best neighborhoods while she does all the legwork with Marc and Gwen.
I should be overjoyed. Leaping from buildings. On a high from life. But everything is a little . . . off.
And I don’t really know why. I mean, part of it is the fact I still don’t know if I will ever play ball again. I’m not where I was, physically, and won’t be for at least a year. Maybe longer.
Roger terminated our contract. No bad blood, but there’s no work for him to do for me. No more deals, no more sponsors. Not now.
And while the fear of death no longer looms over me, I lack purpose.
“Are you going to take me into the forest and murder me?” I lean forward to brush a kiss on her exposed thigh.
On top of everything else, Bethany and I still haven’t had sex.
She’s adorable. Sexy. Beautiful. Smart. Everything I could ever want. We’ve even prepared ourselves with birth control and clean bills of health. But . . . nothing.
I’ve stopped taking the beta-blockers. So why am I still broken? The doctor has assured me it’s normal. I just underwent major surgery, not to mention trauma and depression from the end of my lifelong career goals. Stop putting so much pressure on yourself, she says. Stress makes it worse. But how can I not? Bethany doesn’t act like it bothers her, but I think it does. I don’t want to make her insecure, not about us, not after everything we’ve been through.
She lies on the couch, putting her head in my lap. “Close. I’m taking you to a beach house and I’m going to seduce you.” She grins up at me.
I smile. “Sounds fun.”
“Come on, lazy bum.” She smacks my leg and bounces to her feet. “Let’s get packed.”
I don’t fight her, but I know I’m not as excited as she wants me to be. I can’t help it.
So like I’ve been doing for the past month, I follow along, riding Bethany’s good mood like a stowaway.
She packs me and all our things—enough to last us a year—into the Panamera and then we’re driving. It’s a beautiful early summer day with my beautiful girl.
I even let her drive, though I know where we’re going. She’s been taking way too much pleasure in driving me around since the surgery.
Once we’re out of the city, the greenery springs up like we’ve entered a different planet. We leave the concrete jungle behind and drive through the idyllic pastures and neighborhoods of Long Island.
The drive is mostly silent, peppered with Bethany singing Queen songs at the top of her lungs while I alternate between watching her and gazing at the passing scenery.
A few hours later, we arrive.
“We’re here.” Bethany puts the car in park.
We’ve finally reached the two-story grey clapboard house that backs up to the beach and smells like my childhood. The whoosh of waves crashing and the distant caw of seagulls filter through my open passenger window. I peer up at the house through the windshield.
It reminds me of chasing Marc down the beach, searching for shells, getting tan in the sun while Mom read trashy novels from the porch, yelling at us to put on sunscreen, dirt between my toes and bonfires on the beach. And laughter. So much laughter and freedom.
We grab the bags from the trunk and haul everything up the stairs and into the house.
Bethany chatters on about how the caretaker already made sure everything is clean and the kitchen is stocked with food. I half listen. I haven’t been out here since before college, before my life became a blur of football and more football.
At this very moment, my former team is heading to training camp. Getting to know the rookies, working on pass plays and drills together before preseason officially starts in August.
Some of the furniture has been upgraded. I glance at the new flat screen TV on one wall, then my gaze wanders over the new dining set in the kitche
n. New stainless steel appliances have replaced the old white clunkers, and there are shiny granite countertops.
There are pictures all over the walls of us kids . . . and Mom. My eyes trail over the memories. I drop my bags on the floor and walk through the living room straight to the back of the kitchen and out the sliding door.
The porch is smaller than I remember. The Adirondack chair Mom loved is still here. The bright blue wood is faded from weather and time.
I sit and stare out over the lapping waves, breathing in the salty sea air. Families are spread out up and down the shoreline, dotting the beach like freckles in the sand, the laughter of children on the breeze.
Bethany moves around inside. I left the sliding door open, and the sounds of her shuffling and murmuring to herself while she investigates the house make me smile.
She’s the brightest part of my life. I love her so much.
Am I enough for her?
Familiar tendrils of hopelessness twine themselves around my body, tightening my shoulders. What if I don’t ever find a purpose? And then I drag her down into my useless existence?
A breeze whips around me, tickling my nose with the scent of lemon and sugar. Memories of happy summers in this same sunshine settle around me like a hug.
Peace floods me, calming my thoughts and drowning out the despair, replacing it with a sense of hope and relief.
Emotion overcomes me. And I know. Down to my bones.
Everything is going to be okay.
A tension in my body releases. I sit there for I don’t know how long, realizations hitting me with startling clarity, as if someone else is whispering truths into my ear, but one stands above the rest.
It will be okay.
If you’re still breathing, then there’s hope left.
I breathe deeply, trying to make sense of the moment, wondering if my mother is here, watching, helping.
“It’s so beautiful out here.” Bethany walks out the door and sits on the armrest of the chair.
I tug her onto my lap and she shrieks out a laugh. “It’s not as beautiful as you.” I pull her into me and inhale her wildflower scent. I’ve missed hugging her close to my chest. For most of the past two months, we were affectionate as much as possible, but we had to be careful of the incision site over my heart.
“Aww.”
“Or as loving. Amazing. Wonderful. Smart.” I sprinkle each word with a kiss to her neck, collarbone, shoulder.
She giggles, squirming on my lap. The movement sends a wave of heat into my stomach. Blood rushes south, my shorts tighten, and then . . .
“Let’s get some food.” She hops off my lap and tugs on my hands to get me out of the chair.
There’s always hope. I don’t put too much thought into it, though.
Because now I know, it doesn’t really matter. Everything will be okay.
We go out to eat at a little café and then walk along the beach, laughing and talking. I can’t stop touching Bethany. Over the past few months, she’s become as familiar to me as my own body—if not more so. And yet, I can’t get over the surprising softness of her skin or the comfort of her just being there.
We fall asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms.
And in the morning, something is markedly different.
“Brent.” The soft word whispers across my face.
“Hmmm?”
“Brent.” Now louder.
My eyes blink open to find Bethany lying on her side facing me, mirroring my position.
Her wide eyes are pointed at my midsection.
I follow her gaze.
What she’s staring at is apparent through the thin cotton of my boxer briefs.
I have an erection.
“It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” she whispers.
I crack up.
“Stop laughing!” She smacks my arm. “You’ll make it go away!”
“Come here.”
I kiss her pout away and tug her closer. She melts into me, one leg going over my hip, pressing our bottom halves together.
The thin fabric of our underwear is the only thing between us. When she sighs into my mouth and I thrust against her, I almost explode with want.
“Brent,” she gasps. “Too many clothes.”
It’s a rush to remove all the barriers between us, and when I thrust again, this time against her slick heat, it’s too much. I’m like a teenage boy all over again.
Slowing down, I continue with gentle thrusts. Not entering, just teasing and working her into bliss, peppering my movements with soft kisses and drowsy gazes locked onto each other.
Right after she falls apart in my arms, I slide into her for the first time.
“I love you,” she whispers, our eyes still locked.
“I love you. So much.”
The distant numbness that had encapsulated me since surgery shatters into oblivion. It was all in my head. We’ve made love a million times in different ways over the past few months. Every time we touched or held each other, every soft-spoken word, every lingering gaze of affection . . . the making love part was already there. This is just one more page in our playbook.
The sensation of skin on skin, the feel of her around me, the gasp of our breaths and scent of wildflowers mixed with sex. I hold out as long as I can, but it’s never going to be long enough.
When I explode inside of her, I practically leave my body behind on Earth. When I come to, Bethany is kissing me with soft brushes of her mouth. My cheek, my eyes, the corner of my mouth, my ear.
“We need to do that, like fifty million more times,” she says, settling down in the bed next to me, her chin on my chest, a finger tracing my scar.
“At least.” I shift to face her more fully. “We have time. Forever. If you’ll take me for that long.” The words fall out of my mouth without much thought but when I stop to examine them, they feel right and true.
“Wait. What?” Her head lifts up. “That’s not a question, is it? Please tell me you’re not asking like that right now. Like this.”
“What’s wrong with this?”
She gestures down to our bodies. “I’m naked.”
“I like you naked. Would you rather I ask you to give me forever when we’re at the scene of a horrible murder?”
“Oh my gosh yes!” Her eyes light up with excitement. “Wasn’t there a famous murder in the Hamptons? Some rich guy? The wife did it. His place has gotta be nearby.”
“We could do that but then we’d have to put on pants.”
She grimaces. “You’re right. Pants are the worst. Are you sure you want to tie yourself to someone crazy like me?”
“You’re it for me, B. For the rest of my life.” I pause to make sure she hears my next words. “Owl never want anyone else.”
Her head throws back and she laughs. “I see how this is. You have to marry me. No one will love your bird puns like I will. Okay. Fine. We can get engaged. But this doesn’t get you out of the hundred million orgasms. You still have, like, at least ninety-nine point nine million to go.”
“Right. I’m on it. It’s a good thing we have a lifetime to reach that number.”
“You’ll never egret it.”
I swallow her laughter and proceed to cut my orgasm obligation down.
By at least a few.
The End
About the Author
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Mary Frame is a full-time mother and wife with a full-time job. She has no idea how she manages to write novels except that it involves copious amounts of wine. She doesn’t enjoy writing about herself in third person, but she does enjoy reading, writing, dancing, and damaging the eardrums of her coworkers when she randomly decides to sing to them.
She lives in Reno, Nevada, with her husband, two children, and a border collie named Stella.
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Imperfect Series—All books are stand-alone and can be read in any order! With a guaranteed HEA!
Book One: Imperfect Chemistry – Lucy and Jensen
Book Two: Imperfectly Criminal – Freya and Dean
Book Three: Practically Imperfect – Sam and Gemma
Book Four: Picture Imperfect – Gwen and Marc
Book Five: Imperfect Strangers – Bethany and Brent
Extraordinary Series—Not stand-alone novels! Must be read in order!
Book One: Anything But Extraordinary
Book Two: A Life Less Extraordinary
Book Three: Extraordinary World