With his thumb on the remote button, he flipped through the channels without really paying attention. He’d had a doctor’s appointment, haircut, and hour-long interview. It wasn’t even three yet, but he was exhausted. Before the accident, he used to run five miles and work out with weights, all before hitting the ice for practice. He was thirty-eight years old but he felt like he was seventy-eight.
Dr. Phil flashed across the screen and he paused to watch the good doctor yell at some guy for yelling at his wife. He tore open the bag of licorice and pulled out a few. As far back as he could remember, he’d always loved red licorice. It reminded him of the Sunday matinees at the Heights Theater in Minneapolis. His grandmother had been a huge fan of the movies and had bribed him with Red Vines and root beer. Even though it was something he’d never admit out loud, he’d seen many a chick flick in the late seventies and early eighties. Everything from Kramer vs. Kramer to Sixteen Candles. He and his gran had always gone to the Sunday matinees because he’d usually had hockey games on Saturday, and also there was less of a chance that one of his friends would see him walking into a sappy movie on Sunday. His dad had usually been working second and third jobs to support him and his grandmother and to make sure Mark had the best hockey skates and equipment. One of the best days of Mark’s life was the day he signed his first multimillion-dollar contract and set up his dad so the old man could retire.
Mark took a bite of his licorice and chewed. He’d never known his mother. She’d run off before his third birthday and had died a few years later in some car accident thousands of miles away in Florida. He had a vague memory of her, more faded than the few cards she’d sent. She’d write to tell him that she loved him more than anything, but he hadn’t been fooled. She’d loved drugs more than him. Her husband and her son hadn’t been enough for her, and she’d chosen crack cocaine over her family and even over her life, which was one of the reasons he’d never been tempted to do drugs.
Until now. Not that he was addicted. Not yet, but he certainly had a clearer understanding of how easily it could happen. Of how drugs took away the pain and made life tolerable. Of how easy it would be to slip over the edge and become a full-blown addict. But he wasn’t there yet.
He’d been fighting pai He fightin all day, and as the Vicodin kicked in, he felt his muscles ease. He relaxed and thought of the photo in the sports section his little assistant had told him about. It sounded like the guys were having a fine old time, and if he’d won the cup with them, he probably would have been there. But he hadn’t and he didn’t want to drink from the cup and celebrate as if he had. And giving him a day with the cup anyway felt like pity.
Sure, there had been several guys he knew who hadn’t played in the cup finals for one reason or another and had still celebrated. Fine. Good for them. Mark just didn’t feel the same way. For him, looking and touching and drinking from the cup was a big, shiny reminder of everything he’d lost. Maybe someday he could get past the bitterness, but not today. Tomorrow didn’t look good either.
The reporter from Sports Illustrated had asked him his plans for the future. He’d told her that he was just taking life one day at a time. Which was true. What he hadn’t mentioned was that he didn’t see a future. His life was a big blank nothing.
Before the accident, he’d thought of his retirement. Of course he had. He had enough money so that he didn’t have to work for the rest of his life, but he hadn’t planned on doing nothing. He’d planned on getting hired as an offensive coach somewhere. It was what he knew. Seeing plays in his head before they happened was what he’d been good at. Finding lanes through traffic and scoring goals had been a talent that had made him one of the top ten goal scorers for the past six years and was something he’d helped teach the guys on his team. But to coach offense, or defense for that matter, the coach had to skate. There was no way around it, but Mark could hardly walk a hundred feet without pain.
He ate a few pieces of licorice and tossed the bag on the table next to the chaise. As a Burger King commercial came on the air, Mark closed his eyes, and before Dr. Phil returned, he drifted off into a peaceful, drug-induced nap, the remote still in one hand. As with most of his dreams, he was back at the Key Arena, fighting it out in the corners. As always, he heard the roar of the crowd, the slap of graphite sticks on ice, and the shh of razor-sharp blades. He could smell sweat and leather and the unique scent of the ice. The cold breeze brushed his cheeks and neck as thousands of pairs of eyes watched from the seats. The anticipation and excitement in their faces were a blur as he skated past. Adrenaline bit the back of his throat as his heart and legs pounded down ice. He glanced at the puck in the curve of his stick, and when he looked back up, he saw her. A clear face in a blurry sea. Her big blue eyes simply looked back at him. The light bounced off her two-toned hair. He turned his skates to the side and stopped. Everything around him fell away as he continued to stare at her though the Plexiglas.
“Why are you here?” he asked, beyond annoyed that she’d shown up and disrupted the game.
She smiled—the full-lipped tilt of her mouth that he recognized after one day of being around her—but she didn’t answer. He skated closer to the wall and his stick dropped from his hands. “What do you want?”
“To give you what you need.”
There were so many things he needed. So many. Starting with the need to feel something other than constant nagging pain and the void in his life.
“Lu Keem">cky you,” she whispered.
Mark’s eyes flew open and he gasped for breath. He sat up too fast, and the remote fell to the floor. His head spun as he glanced at the clock on the bottom left of his television screen. He’d been asleep for an hour. Jesus, she’d intruded in his life. Now she’d infiltrated his dreams. Of all the faceless people in his dreams, why was her face clear?
He reached down and grabbed his cane resting on the floor. Thank God the dream hadn’t been sexual. He didn’t even want to think about getting it up for his assistant. Not even in a dream.
The splint on his hand itched, and he tore it off. Tossing the Velcro and aluminum aside, he slowly stood and made his way from the room. Why her? It wasn’t that the little assistant wasn’t cute. She was plenty cute, and God knew she had a body that could stop traffic, but she was just so damn annoying. The rubber tip of his cane thumped across the stone floor and his flip-flops slapped the heels of his feet. Rested and his pain somewhat dulled, he walked with relative ease.
In the kitchen, the Bartell sack with the condoms, KY, and vibrating ring lay atop the granite island. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to do with that stuff. It wasn’t like he was going to use it anytime soon. He opened a drawer and shoved it inside.
He didn’t know what he was going to do with his assistant either. Too bad he couldn’t shove her in a drawer and lock her inside. He thought of her driving his new Mercedes like she owned the road. He thought of her face when she’d first slid into the leather driver’s seat. She’d looked like she’d been about to orgasm. Under different circumstances, he might have pulled her into his lap. Under different circumstances, he might have thought the way she’d caressed his leather was about the hottest thing he’d ever seen. Under current circumstances, it had been just one more thing to irritate him.
More than likely, the woman would be back tomorrow. His optimism of a while ago faded. For reasons that he couldn’t begin to understand, she seemed to actually want to be his assistant. Maybe she was a little off in the head. No, she was definitely off in the head because why else would she buy condoms and KY when she clearly didn’t want to?
Chelsea would put up with a lot for ten thousand dollars. “He made me buy him condoms,” she told the back of her sister’s dark head. “And warming KY.”
Bo looked over her shoulder and reached for a half gallon of milk. “Well, he’s a hockey player,” she said, as if that explained and excused it. “And he always did have a lot of different girlfriends. At least he’s using protection.”
“And a vibrating ring.”
“What’s that?”
“A cock ring that vibrates.”
Bo glanced about the dairy aisle at Safeway to make sure no one could overhear them before she set the milk in the cart. “They make those?”
“Apparently, and in case you ever need one, there are three different kinds available at Bartell drugstore. The duo, the magnum, and the intense pleasure. The duo has two pleasure buttons, one onm ottons, each side. The magnum is self-explanatory, and the intense pleasure vibrates faster for—you know, intense pleasure.”
“You read each package?”
“It’s my job.” Although, really, she’d read out of curiosity more than anything else. It wasn’t like she was a vibrating ring expert.
“Have you ever…” Bo lowered her voice and glanced around one more time. “…used one?”
“No.” But if she ever got a boyfriend she might. Buying those condoms today reminded her that it had been seven months since her last relationship.
And because Bo was as nosy as her twin, she asked, “Which did you buy Mark?”
“He made me buy the magnum because he was concerned about cutting off his circulation.”
Bo’s brows rose up her forehead. “Magnum? That’s scary.”
Chelsea pushed the cart farther down the produce case. “You’ve seen one?”
“Not in person.” Bo shook her head. “Just in the porn movies David used to watch,” she said, referring to a past boyfriend. “Do you think he’s really a magnum or he just wanted to shock you?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to think about it. It’s too disturbing.”
“That’s true,” her sister agreed. “You have to work for him tomorrow, and that’s the last thing you want to be thinking about when you walk into his house.” They moved a few more feet down the dairy aisle, and Bo glanced at her list. “I know Mark isn’t really mobile, but making you buy him condoms and stuff was really uncalled for.”
“I thought so, but I’ve had to do worse.”
Bo put her hand on the cart and stopped it next to the butter. Concern etched her brow. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what?”
“Well, taking back designer dresses to places like Saks with big armpit stains was always embarrassing. Picking up prescriptions for various sexually transmitted diseases was mortifying, and breaking up with someone else’s girlfriend or boyfriend was sad.”
“Oh.” Bo sighed and reached for some cottage cheese.
Her sister looked so relived, Chelsea had to ask, “What did you think I was going to say was worse? That I was working for a madam in the Hollywood Hills?”
“No.” They continued beneath the fluorescent lights of the Safeway. “I just hoped that you never had to do anything illegal.”
There was illegal. Then there was illegal. She’d mostly just committed your ordinary illegal stuff. Run a red light. Drove too fast. Hopped aboard the ganja train at a few parties in the past. “Do we need some butter?” she asked, purposely changing the subject before her sister could ask any specific questions.
Bo shook her head and checked milk and cottage cheese off her list. “Jules never came back after lunch.”
“Hmm.” Chelsea picked up several containers of fat-free cherry yogurt.
“Did he go to the Spitfire with you?”
“No.” She dumped the yogurt into the cart. “Do you want string cheese? We used to love string cheese.”
“I don’t want any.” Bo moved to the eggs. “What do you think of Jules?”
“I think he works hard to look good.” She grabbed some key lime yogurt too. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“Except he’s full of himself.”
Chelsea hadn’t gotten that impression. “If you work hard on your body, you kind of have the right to brag about it. If I worked out, I’d brag. But I don’t, because I hate pain.”
“He’s rude too.” Bo opened the egg carton and checked for breakage. “And obnoxious.”
A harried mother with three kids hanging out of her cart wheeled past, and Chelsea looked at her sister. “I didn’t think so. Maybe he’s a little cynical.”
Bo looked over at her as she shut the carton. “Why do you say he’s cynical?”
“Because he said something about love not working out. My guess is that he’s had his heart broken a few times.” She leaned forward and rested her forearms on the handle of the cart. “But haven’t we all?”
“He used to weigh a lot, and I think he still sees himself as the fat kid in school.”
“You’re kidding. He doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him now,” Chelsea said as Bo put the eggs in the seat of the cart next to their purses. “He’s ripped and he has those beautiful green eyes. You should date him.”
“Jules?” Bo made a gagging sound.
“You should. He’s very cute, and you two have a lot in common.”
“What are you planning to do tomorrow?” her sister asked and changed the subject.
“I’m not sure.” Chelsea recognized the maneuver and let her. “I’ve never worked for someone who doesn’t have a list as long as my arm and expects the impossible. Mark said something about wanting to move out of Medina. So maybe I’ll start looking at real estate options for him. His house is too damn big for one guy anyway.”
“Most of the athletes around here live downtown, or on Mercer, or in Newport Hills.” She pushed the cart toward the butcher block. “At least I think a lot of the Seahawks and Chinooks still live in Newport. That’s how it became known as Jock Rock.”
Chelsea made a mental note to check real estate listings in those areas. “What movie are we going to watch tonight?”
“How about something with aliens?” Bo suggested and grabbed a package of hamburger.
Chelsea reached for a produce baggy above the chicken. “Something not cheesy, like Independence Day? Maybe a little cheesy, like Men in Bl220>Menack? Or heavy on the cheese, like Critters?”
“Heavy, like Mars Attacks!”
“Good call. A little black comedy and with a dash of political satire, all wrapped up in B-movie parody. Gotta love Tim Burton.”
“You aren’t going to quote dialog throughout the whole movie are you?” Bo sighed. “I just want to kill you when you do that.”
Chelsea grabbed a package of legs and thighs. In L.A., she...
Though it wasn’t easy, Chelsea controlled herself during Mars Attacks! and didn’t recite dialog. Afterward, she grabbed her laptop and climbed into bed. She placed the computer in front of her crossed knees and turned it on. A picture of Christian Bale, all duded up in 3:10 to Yuma, popped up on her desktop. She’d never met Christian Bale but she admired any actor who could play Jesus in one movie and Batman in the next and do both roles justice. Sure, he had a bit of an anger problem. So did Russell Crowe, but that didn’t make either of them bad actors. Although she did have to admit that if Christian didn’t learn to control himself like Russell had, she’d have to find someone else to love from afar.
She plugged in her Verizon PC card and logged onto the Internet. She purposely didn’t click on her bookmarks. She didn’t want to know any of the Hollywood gossip or read what producer was looking to fill what roles in what movie. When she returned to L.A., she’d contact her agency and tell them she was back and to send out her portfolio again.
Everyone in her family thought she had stars in her eyes. Maybe she did, but her feet were firmly rooted in reality. She knew that in Hollywood, landing a role after the age of thirty was about as easy as landing a man. But that didn’t mean that her only option was to slide her feet into Crocs, get a cat, and give up.
While she searched properties in the Seattle area and bookmarked the homes and condos she thought Mark might be interested in seeing, she thought about her life in L.A. Parts of it had been exciting and really fun and she missed hanging out with friends. But there was a dark side too. The horror stories of sex and drugs were too numerous to count. Young ac
tors arriving in town, dreaming of making it big, only to be used and discarded like garbage. The desperation at casting calls was truly sickening, and she didn’t miss scrambling for bit roles and walk-on parts. She didn’t miss standing around movie sets for twelve hours, dressed as a serving wench with her breasts hanging out for a period film. She’d liked working on horror films. She liked being part of a cast. She liked playing a part and becoming another person for a few hours. It was fun and exciting. She looked forward to getting back to L.A. and getting the chance to score roles other than the slutty bimbo.
First, though, she had to stick it out for three months with a crabby hockey player.
She clicked on a few more sites and found several very promising real estate options. She bookmarked them also, then she decided to Google Mark himself. One of her brows lifted in surprise as she looked at over a million results and a dozen fan sites dedicated to “the Hitman.”
“Geez.” It wasn’t like he was Brad Pitt.
On his official Web site, she watched video clips of him scoring goals, skating with his stick held above his head, or dropping his gloves and throwing punches. In interviews, he laughed and joked and talked about how much winning the Stanley Cup would mean to him and the rest of the Chinooks. Each site was filled with various still photos of him, looking all rough and sweaty while he shot the puck. The photos ranged from him having blood on his face to looking clean-cut and smiling in his head shots.
She clicked on a link and she watched a Gatorade commercial of him dressed in nothing but a pair of hockey shorts hanging low on his hips. On her computer screen, he slowly tipped his head back, brought the bright green bottle to his lips, and downed the sports drink. A color-enhanced, neon-green drop leaked from the corner of his mouth and slid down his jaw and the side of his throat. Dark hair covered his big chest, and Bo had been right. The man had an eight-pack. What her sister hadn’t mentioned was the dark happy trail that ran down the center of his smooth, flat belly and circled his navel before diving beneath those shorts. Oh baby. Chelsea had worked in Hollywood and she’d seen a lot of hard male bodies. Mark’s was one of the most impressive she’d seen outside of a body-building contest on Venice Beach.
Rachel Gibson - Nothing But Trouble (better version needed) (mobi).mobi Page 7