Hard Fall

by Ney, Sara

  “I don’t know—four?”

  “Four!” she practically shouts, and right in my damn face considering we’re only inches apart. “Are you for real?”

  “Why, is that not enough?”

  “I can’t even take you seriously right now.”

  “What! Four is not too many. It’s perfect. Two isn’t enough and three is a crowd, so they each need a buddy to hang with. My parents had three, and sometimes I wish I had another brother to gang up on Tripp with. My sister isn’t an asshole like that, so she doesn’t count.”

  “I can’t even with you.”

  That makes two of us, three if you count my mom, who’s probably listening at the door. “Alright, so now that I’ve spilled my guts to you, want to share?”

  “Ugh, fine. Fair is fair I guess.” Hollis groans, shifting on the bed. “I’m single because…” She hums, unsure. “Well. It’s really difficult finding a man who isn’t like my father, if I’m being honest. I grew up in this world—the baseball and the athletes. They’re agents. Scouts. High-powered men, all of them…assholes. That’s not what I want, no offense.”

  “None taken.” Tons taken, actually, but I won’t lie here and argue that I am not any of those guys. I’m me, and I’m fucking awesome. “You know, Hollis…you won’t lose your identity if you date someone in your father’s circle, in his world. Not if it’s the right person.”

  “Well I tried that, remember?”

  “If you’re talking about Marlon Daymon, don’t. Because that dude is a fucking douche and everyone knows it. It’s not your fault he’s a pile of crap, okay? You fell for the bullshit like everyone else, including some of his guy friends—he treats everyone the same, not just the women he dates.” I would know, because I’ve witnessed it firsthand. “Not all athletes are cheaters. Not all agents are dishonest. Not all high-powered people are cutthroat.”

  “I just…never want to lose myself. I thought when I met someone, it would be easy. Like a partnership.” Her laugh is rueful. “I’m delusional, go ahead and say it.”

  She’s not. “That sounds nice, not delusional. Did you ever wonder what it’s like being on this side of the fence? Having people—men and women—using you? Someone can know nothing about me and still want something from me. I stopped having casual sex years ago. Too many women trying to get themselves knocked up, thinking ’bout that lifelong, monthly child support check.”

  “That would suck.”

  “Yeah, well, welcome to what it’s like for me to date and one of the reasons I’m single. It has nothing to do with losing myself or feeling less than and everything to do with wanting something real.”

  “What if a person didn’t have…real boobs?”

  “Hollis Westbrooke, you did not have a boob job.” But it would be cool if she did, ‘cause breasts.

  A light laugh in the dark space. “Guess you’ll never know.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No.” But. “Can I feel them and tell you if they’re real or not?”

  “You’re just trying to cop a feel, you perv.”

  “Duh.”

  She moves around next to me restlessly, inadvertently bumping my hip, knocking my arm with her elbow, kicking my shin with her foot. Each touch electric.

  Weird.

  Hollis is flopping around like a dead fish and it’s turning me on.

  Wow, have I gotten easy.

  Not having sex in forever will do that to ya.

  Sure, when I met Miranda—Noah’s girlfriend—I hit on her. It was a joke, the way I was joking when I hit on Hollis, my words mostly trash talk and bravado. All talk and no action.

  Because I am done with casual sex and that is all anyone seems to want.

  “How many kids do you want?”

  “I’m not sure I want kids.”

  Hollis isn’t sure she wants kids? Does. Not. Compute.

  “Well if you did, how many would you have?”

  A loud sigh. “I’m not sure—maybe give birth to one, then adopt one? Or two? I’m open to it, but only if it’s the right person. Four seems like a lot. I also like vacations, so who knows—maybe I’m selfish.”

  “Hollis Westbrooke, you strike me as anything but selfish.”

  She groans. “I feel like I am sometimes.”

  “Do your parents want grandkids?”

  I feel her shrug. “My mom, maybe. Dad? Highly doubt he gives a crap, unless it’s one more person who can run the family business. He doesn’t spend time with his own children—he isn’t going to spend time with a grandkid, but it would look nice on a holiday card.” She sounds a smidge bitter about it.

  “You have siblings?”

  “Yes—a sister and a brother. They both work for my dad.”

  Dang. I didn’t know that.

  Hollis yawns. “Can you do me a favor?”

  “Depends on what it is.”

  “Typical,” she mutters. “But seriously, I have this knot in my shoulder—can you maybe…”

  “Rub it out? Sure. Which shoulder is it?”

  She rolls in the dark, presenting me with her back, reaching behind me to grapple for my hand, placing it in the center, on her spine. “Here.”

  I spread my fingers wide and present her with some statistics. “Did you know seventy-five percent of all massages end in some form of sexual activity?”

  “Are you making that up?”

  “Probably. I’m guessing the number is actually higher. You should google it.”

  “I’m not going to get turned on while you’re rubbing a knot out of my back, trust me on this.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  “Pfft. Yes.”

  12

  Hollis

  “Wanna bet?”

  “Pfft. Yes.”

  Famous last words of someone who knows they’re going to lose. How do I know this? Easy—I’m already half turned on by our conversation, and he hasn’t touched me once. Plus, I’ve had men massage me before and know what can happen. Me, wet.

  Still.

  I have a horrible knot from sleeping the wrong way last night and a strong set of hands at my disposal, ergo: massage.

  “I’m pretty sure I can resist the temptation, but thanks.” I sound cocky and confident.

  “Bet me then.”

  “I don’t have to make a bet to prove you’re not going to get me all hot and bothered. In fact, you’re probably going to give me one of those half-assed, wimpy, limp-handed jobs that leave me frustrated.” Wait. That sounded horrible. “That’s not what I meant. I meant you probably suck at massaging.”

  Buzz makes a grunting sound deep in his throat. “I’ve had my shoulder rubbed out enough that I assure you it will not suck. And, you are going to be turned on.”

  “Will not.”

  “You’re adorable when you’re clueless.”

  Whatever. “Fine. If I get turned on, I have to…take off my pants.”

  “You should take your shirt off too, if you want me to do this right. It’s dark—I can’t see your tits.”

  Tits.

  I blush at the word; he says it so casually.

  “So you want me to take my shirt off now, then if I lose the bet, I have to take off these shorts, too? How will you know I’m turned on and have lost?”

  “You’re going to tell me.”

  That makes me laugh. He sounds so sure. “You trust me not to lie?”

  “Yup. I trust you one hundred percent.”

  Well.

  Well.

  That…

  That gives me pause. Makes me think. Gets me…all…kinds…of…

  Something.

  He trusts me one hundred percent.

  It’s a strange but good feeling, this new sensation. I feel like we’ve just become friends, but—I selfishly also want to feel his hands on my skin under the guise of a back massage. Don’t get me wrong, my shoulder does hurt and could use thumbs digging into the muscles, but it’s not like I can’t
wait.

  He’s right, though, about me being honest; I would tell him.

  “Fine. I’ll tell you if I get turned on.” I roll my eyes despite the fact that he can’t see my face and raise myself up, shucking off my shirt, knowing no decent rubdown can really happen through a cotton barrier. Just not the same.

  The giant t-shirt comes off and I drop it next to the bed where I’ll be able to easily retrieve it later. Then flop back down onto the cool, crisp bed sheets, pretending to be nonchalant about the whole thing.

  I hold my breath.

  Try not to, waiting.

  Tense, but not from repulsion or dread. I’m tense because the anticipation is killing me, the thought of those giant, talented hands on my skin making me warm all over.

  What am I doing, having him rub my back? Am I insane? A glutton for punishment? What kind of hell am I going to subject myself to, lying here pretending not to lik—

  “You need to relax.” Fingers graze the skin on my shoulder, hot hands, singeing where they roam. “You’re so tight.”

  So tight? I want to quip. If you think my skin is tight, you should feel my vagina.

  But I don’t.

  Instead, I squirm, loving every second of this torture, knowing my panties are going to become wet in record time.

  Buzz knows what he’s doing, thumbs kneading into my trapezius muscles—and I only know the technical term because for a hot minute in college, I thought I might want to be a sports trainer. Mostly to make my dad happy.

  Dodged that bullet, but I won’t be dodging the tingling in my lady parts.

  Shit.

  It’s already happening and he’s only been touching me for thirty seconds.

  Pushing. Kneading. Rubbing.

  I can feel the heel of his palm digging, making slow circles over my flesh. Trails down to my rhomboid. Pushes. More pressure, around and around and around, causing my eyes to become half-lidded and drowsy.

  “Mmm,” I moan, purely by accident.

  “What was that?” His hot breath warms the crook of my neck, just below my ear. “That distinctly sounded like a moan of, oh—I don’t know…pleasure?”

  “Dream on, pal.”

  Buzz presses his fingers into my back, releasing a few knots. Again. Again. Again. “Wow, you really needed this. You should make an appointment with someone who knows what they’re doing.” He leans in again. “I could set you up with the team’s trainer—he does private massages on the side.”

  “Uhhh…” Another moan escapes my mouth. “I’m g-good.”

  “You sure?” His voice is a melodic hum or maybe I’m imagining it?

  My neck tilts, loving the vibrations from his chest against my back every time he makes a sound.

  “How does this feel? Too much pressure?” All fingers of both hands are squeezing gently, the tension in my shoulders loosening as the throbbing between my legs gets worse.

  “It’s good. A good amount of pressure,” I respond dumbly. What’s he saying? All I can hear is the sound of my crotch telling him to do it harder—I can handle more.

  Massaging. More massaging.

  Definitely only more of that.

  My brain stops working. His hands haven’t stopped moving. My panties are no longer dry.

  I arch my back.

  Tip my head forward, hair hitting the mattress, giving his roaming hands better access. My boobs begin to ache.

  Buzz’s hands skim my rib cage, one hundred percent out of massaging bounds. Down my hip, skimming the waistband of the mesh basketball shorts I’m wearing, then up again.

  He can’t see it, but I bite my lower lip.

  I want his hands all over.

  My breasts, my ass, between my legs.

  No, Hollis—if you give him the cookie, you’ll never hear from this guy again. That is what guys like this do. Give him what he wants and he’ll ghost you.

  So what? I argue. You don’t want to date him anyway. You want him out of your life, remember?

  Do you though? Do you really want him out of your life?

  You wouldn’t be lying in this bed beside him if you did, you liar.

  I’ve always been good at lying to myself. Stop trying to stop me, bitch.

  Whoa. Cool it with the internal babble, you psychopath.

  Oblivious to the ramblings inside my head, Buzz Wallace—the best closer in the entire professional baseball league—strokes my skin and gently traces his fingertips along my spine, slowly moving over every bump. Every curve.

  I shiver.

  I feel his pecs crowd my back. “Are you turned on yet?”

  “What was that statistic you gave me before?”

  “Ninety percent of all massages lead to sex.”

  I softly laugh. “That is not what you said.”

  “I’m close though, give or take a few percentage points.” He waits a few more seconds, hands treading perilously close to my side boob. “So? Are you?”

  I want to groan, but that will give me away. I want to deny it, but that would be lying—and I promised I’d be honest. Instead, I go with a half-admission. “Sort of.”

  “Sort of? You are or you aren’t. Which one is it?”

  Are.

  Am.

  “Yes.”

  Buzz laughs. “Hollis, just admit you’re turned on or I’ll remove my hands from your body.”

  Shit—I don’t want him doing that! It feels fantastic, and it’s been forever; Marlon never rubbed my back or did anything but squish my boobs, thinking that was adequate foreplay.

  Wrong!

  Then Trace whispers, “You know you want to take your pants off.”

  Ugh, why did he have to go and say that! Admitting I’m wet and turned on is like admitting I want him to feel me up—which I do! My pride is a brutal mistress, rearing her ugly head, causing the words to get trapped in my throat.

  My head twitches. Nods.

  “What was that? I couldn’t hear you. Are you saying you’re turned on or that you want to take your pants off? Either way—it’s a win-win for me.”

  “I didn’t say a single thing,” I clarify, buying time.

  “You nodded.”

  “No I didn’t.” I did though, and he knows it.

  “Hollis Westbrooke, are you lying to me right now? You know there’s a penalty for that, right?”

  There is? “What is it?” That might be better than admitting I’m turned on, better than admitting my panties are wet and everything down south of my border is on fire.

  “You have to pick one spot on your body for me to kiss.”

  “That sounds more like assault.”

  “Shit. Oh my god, that’s not—I didn’t mean. Never mind, I’m sorry.” He yanks at the covers and rolls off the bed, standing next to it as if I’ve just tried to poke him with a scalding-hot iron. “Fuck.”

  “Wait—what are you doing? I was joking.”

  “That’s not a joke, Hollis.”

  “Okay, but where are you going? Your mom is outside waiting for us to slip away.” I pull the remaining blanket up to cover my naked breasts, seeking out his profile in the dark.

  “I’ll sleep on the floor. I should never have said that.”

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit—I didn’t think he’d take me seriously, and I didn’t think he’d fly off the bed like it was ablaze. I didn’t think he’d care about how I felt, not like this.

  I feel terrible!

  God I’m an asshole…

  “Come back to bed.”

  “Nope—I’m good.” He flops down on the carpet beside me, spreading out the blanket. “There’s no room up there anyway. You take the bed and I’ll be right as rain down here. Good night.”

  Well.

  This escalated quickly.

  I’m flat on my back now, topless, staring up at the ceiling, racking my brain for a solution. Sure, it’s for the best that he’s not on the bed, tempting me with that warm breath and those big, strong hands and that smooth skin. And cute laugh and dumb jokes and str
aight white teeth I can’t see in the dumb dark.

  Reaching below the covers with both arms, my hands push down the waistband of these terrible bottoms, sliding them all the way off.

  “I’m turned on.” My voice travels to him in the dark, along with the mesh basketball shorts, which I blindly toss in his direction. “You win.”

  “Fuck me sideways. Are you naked?”

  “No.”

  “Underwear don’t count,” he tells me.

  “Do granny panties count as underwear?”

  “Yep. Those are hot as fuck.”

  I laugh quietly. “Uh…then yes, I’m naked.”

  “Why are you telling me this? To torment me now that I’m marooned in Siberia?”

  I laugh again. “Has anyone ever called you a drama queen before?”

  “Literally everyone who knows me has called me a drama queen at some point.”

  He makes me giggle; I bite down on my bottom lip, debating my next move.

  “I’m cold,” I blurt out.

  I can almost hear him rolling his eyes. “You are not. It’s hot as balls in here—I think my mom wanted us both naked, hashtag babymaker.”

  The fact that he says hashtag, as if it’s a word, still cracks me up. It’s obnoxious but…endearing.

  “Your mother would not want me accidentally getting pregnant.”

  “The hell she wouldn’t! If we had condoms in here, she would probably poke holes in all of them.”

  “Dramatic.”

  “I know my mother—she’s a snake in the grass.”

  “But you’d do anything for her, and that’s why I’m here—you wanted to show her that you are capable of having a relationship with someone normal.” The truth rolls off my tongue as if I’ve just discovered the cure for an incurable disease. It all makes sense now! The reason he bribed-slash-guilted me into coming! “So you dragged me here for this sham of a relationship to make her happy.”

  Buzz grunts, and I can hear him rolling over. Punches his pillow a few times, displeased.

  “It’s fine. I won’t tell anyone you’re a decent human bean.”

  “I’m not a decent human being!” he disputes in a huff.

  “I said bean, not being. Pay attention.”

  The joke catches up to him, and from out of the dark, a pillow hits me in the thigh.