by Leslie Pike
Cards Of Love: The World
Leslie Pike
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Cards Of Love Collection
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also By Leslie Pike
Playlist
The World
Copyright 2018 by Leslie Pike
All Rights Reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication, may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, brands, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
For those who still, and always will, believe in great loves
Chapter 1
January
Silence is better than bullshit. My shrewd father used to say that whenever I’d try to weasel out of something. Years later I found it applied to other situations. Like tonight. I’m mostly keeping my mouth shut until I get called to the stage. Zip. A few well-placed nods and an occasional laugh is all that’s required when the people you’re sitting with only want to talk about work. Ad nauseam.
It’s a yawn exhibit. No athletes to lighten the night’s mood or coaches to share funny stories from the past. Tonight there’s only people like me, agents, managers, financial planners, from both coasts and everywhere in between. In other words, the queen and king makers congratulating ourselves on a stellar year.
Some feed on accolades. I don’t. The end result is all that’s needed to validate a job well done. But I’ll graciously accept my award for the year’s record-breaking contract. Then I’ll sneak out as soon as I don’t look like an ingrate.
We may not be the most interesting group, but everyone here has the one thing our clients don’t. Anonymity. The public doesn’t give a damn who we are. I never realized how valuable privacy was until I witnessed people losing theirs. When you’re a star athlete, you live in a gilded prison. But as the agent, I can misbehave all I want. Even right here. Not that I would.
Wish I was home putting Saturday night to good use. There’s a Snickers bar in the freezer and a favorite vibrator, or three, in the drawer next to my bed. A girl needs variety after all.
Instead, I’m sitting with colleagues listening to their takes on the Baseball Commissioner’s divorce. Who gives a shit? I might be the first person to literally die of boredom. The headline would read, Sports Agent Mysteriously Drops Dead. The article would go on to say it was two hours before anyone noticed my head in the soup. They were all talking too much to hear the impact of skull to bowl.
Guess I’ll have to entertain myself. Cue the Jeopardy theme music and Alex Trebek’s voice in my mind. La la la la, la la la. This is January Jeopardy! Time to play my favorite game. Tonight’s category, Fuck Buddies. How many of the men sitting close by would I screw if given a million dollars per man? Then I’ll add it up and see if I beat my previous best score. What is eight, Alex?
The fact I came up with this pastime at seventeen only makes the diversion more interesting. My standards have changed over the last twenty-three years. Even the declining value of a million dollars alters the game.
Let’s begin. This man to my right is normally too old for my tastes, and he may not have the ability required. But in my fantasy world they can all get it up. Nineteen or ninety, they have a wild python in their pants. It gives the contestants an even playing field. I’d do this one. The cleft in his chin is sexy. He’s stayed modern. Not young, which is an impossibility, but up-to-date in his shoes and glasses and haircut. He has no idea I’m giving him the once-over.
Now, the one next to him is a definite no. Oh God, no, nyet, not gonna happen. I’d rather diddle myself with a rotten cucumber than do him. Keep the million and pay for some table manners, honey. When he eats his tongue pushes forward and everybody around him can see what he’s chewing. Close your damn mouth, man! He thinks I’m looking at him, which I am. But most definitely not in the way he thinks. Let’s move on.
The guy on the left just got up and excused himself from the table. Very slowly I turn my head and watch him walk away. Cha Ching! The January Jordan Fuck Fest Fund just increased. All he has to do is keep quiet. Because judging by what I heard from him tonight, he’s vain. Too bad. He’s got a great ass. Maybe he should be in the E.F. category. Emergency Fuckable.
Next to Mr. I’m Wonderful sits a contestant I’ll have to disqualify. Mindy Myers and I have talked many times, usually over a legal issue within a contract. She’s smart. But even if I liked women sexually, Mindy wouldn’t be my type. I’ve never seen a person with such a high-profile job look so disheveled. Her polish is worn and lipstick has smeared just a little into the lines above her lips. When she wiped her mouth on the napkin a minute ago, it only made things worse. It looks like she colored outside the lines.
Sometimes when playing I let the women participate. If the pickings are especially thin, I factor the ladies in and imagine what I’d do to them for a million dollars. It seems like an awful lot of detail work for the money.
And what if the tables were turned and I was the one being judged? That’s a horrible thought. I’ve got too many flaws to count. My ears are too big, breasts too small. My second toe is longer than the big one. Not to mention … wait. What the hell? This is my fantasy game, not theirs. I chuckle a little.
The man on my right glances over. Instead of returning the stare, I casually look to the left through the empty seat, toward the other tables.
That’s when I see him studying me with a crooked smile. Oh shit. How long has that been going on? Was I making peculiar expressions as I appraised possible conquests? A smirk? Maybe a random shake of the head or a lifted eyebrow? He probably thinks I have Tourette’s.
Hands on his lap, he runs his right index finger slowly over his lifted left. Three times. There’s a flush creeping up my face, and I’m pressing my lips together, but I hold his stare. That’s Brick Swift, scolding me like he read my dirty girl thoughts. He’s one of the most respected sports agents here. I know his roster includes his brother Atticus and a handful of other top-tier athletes.
I’ve been meaning to call and introduce myself since I arrived in Memphis. Now my hope for a professional first impression is missed. But it appears he’s got a sense of humor to go along with that hot body wearing the expensive suit.
My eyebrows raise, sending him an acknowledgment. I get a nod and a smile and return the same. He looks away. What a face. Nice smile. Sexy. If I was in the market, I’d buy twelve cases of whatever that man’s selling and sign up for automatic refills. I’m not shopping though. But just for the purpose of the game, it’s a hell yes I’d do Brick Swift. And the million dollars? Can I bank two if I do him twice and throw in a blowjob?
“Thank you,” I say holding up my engraved Waterford bowl and giving a quick wave to the crowd. The two-m
inute acceptance speech seemed like it took an hour. Blah, blah, blah, thank you.
Their applause dies down as I make my way off the stage. By the time the host wraps up the presentation and the voices of resumed conversations rise, I see who’s sitting at my table. In the previously empty chair next to mine is the two-million-dollar man. As I approach, he stands.
“Hello, January. I’m Brick,” he says with a warm smile and an outstretched hand.
“Your good reputation precedes you. It’s really nice to finally meet,” I say shaking his hand.
He holds out my chair, like a southern gentleman should. Too many New York men would let me take my seat unassisted, not wanting to treat me any differently when we’re on the same playing field. They think I’d object to being shown the niceties because I’m a tough broad in the boardroom. Not this man. He’s one of the few who’s figured out the two issues aren’t mutually exclusive.
“Thank you,” I say acknowledging the kindness.
He signals to the wait staff nearby. When he turns back, I get a dazzling smile. “Would you like a cocktail? I’m going to have a vodka martini.”
“Great idea. Make it two.”
As soon as our order is in, he leans in towards me and speaks over the noise in the room. “I’ve been meaning to call and introduce myself.”
“You stole my opening line. It’s me who should have called you. It’s just that things have been so hectic these first months back in Memphis.”
“Back?” He looks surprised. “I thought you were a native New Yorker?”
“I’ve lived and worked there for seventeen years. Ever since I graduated from law school. But I’m a Tennessee girl, born and raised. I’m here for three more months to put my parents’ house up for sale.”
“So you’re bicoastal now.”
“New York will always be home base. But I’ll fly here as needed.”
“Congratulations, by the way, on the Jon McMartin contract. He’s going to be quite an addition to the Mavericks. I know my client Duane Ricky and he are good friends.”
He comes across as genuine. I don’t detect a hint of envy.
“Thanks. It was a ball-buster of a negotiation. If I had ‘em, they’d be shriveled up to tiny prunes.”
Thankfully he laughs.
“It’s good that we’re only a week into postseason, so you can take a few breaths.”
“I’m taking the time required to get my parents’ business wrapped up. That’s about all I’ll have before I renegotiate for another client.”
“Word is your methods bring the other big dogs to their knees,” he says.
“That’s just talk. I use the same weapons all agents have in their arsenals.”
“I don’t think so,” he says matter-of-factly. “Or maybe you just know how to use them more effectively.”
There was nothing salacious about the comment. He was acknowledging my tactics.
Our drinks are delivered, and Brick raises his to me. He sure does have lovely dark blue eyes.
“Here’s to January Jordan, the new girl in town, who’s entertaining to watch from afar.”
He was watching me scope the table.
“And to Brick Swift, her new drinking friend, who seems to be good at reading women’s minds.”
The night ended on a good note. Driving home, I’m reliving the highlights. Brick was a gentleman and walked me to my car. When I mentioned we should have lunch sometime soon, he looked pleased. I think he’s one of the good guys. There’s something in his eyes I can’t read though. Maybe melancholy. But from what I can see and what I’ve heard, he lives a charmed life.
I know the entire Swift family falls under the category of Memphis baseball elite. People speak highly of them. I’d do well to connect with them. To that point my focus is on doing the best I can for my clients. And part of that is building business relationships that benefit all parties. The Swifts are perfect examples. Once in a while you make an actual friend too. Could happen for Brick and me.
All roads lead me back to this house and this Tennessee land. The street winding in through the Red Maple trees is so beautiful. I’ve driven it a thousand times, but still it holds magic. In October the foliage is especially beautiful with the vibrant colors of changing leaves.
And when the house comes into view, I get this feeling I can’t replicate anywhere else. Probably it’s because I know every inch of the place, land and two-story childhood home. Love lived here. The four of us were such a happy family. How will I have the heart to sell this place? And even more disturbing is how will it feel when I’m not able to come back and walk through the rooms?
I pull in front and park the car. Walking toward the front door I’m serenaded by the sound of crickets. It’s such a comfort. Each time I return to Memphis, I notice all the small things I do without in New York. What’s that? My eyes lock on the colorful card lying on the top step leading to the porch. When I pick it up I’m struck by the beauty of the design and its’ pristine condition. I’m pretty sure this is a Tarot card. How did it wind up here? A naked dancing woman is the central figure and she’s surrounded by a green wreath of flowers. The words The World announces its’ name. I tuck the card inside my coat pocket. Maybe I’ll Google it later. My sister, the Sultana of Signs, will want to see it too. She’s always looking for hidden messages. Summer’s the only person I know who reads her astrological sign in the newspaper every day. She’ll get off on this random communication from the heavens.
Entering the house and turning on the lights, I’m hit with the reality of what’s missing. My parents are both gone now. Our precious Sammy, the family dog that lived to old age, long passed too. Their absence has left a hole in my heart, but not within these walls. I still feel its spirit comfort and wrap around me, saying, You’re home.
That’s the biggest reason I’m hesitating selling. I’ve never had the same feeling in any other house or condo or apartment. No matter how much I loved them, they didn’t feel like home. I could buy my sister out, that’s always an option. I know she’d love it because she’s as attached to our ghosts as I am. They’re all still here on some level. So great was their connection to this place on Earth and to my sister and me.
Now with my father recently gone, there’s a whole lot of clearing out we need to do. Three big boxes in the entry are the only evidence I’ve even started the job I volunteered for. I couldn’t let my very pregnant sister bear the load alone.
“Oh god,” I sigh to the empty room.
Heading for the kitchen, I toss my purse to the wooden counter. The cell sounds. Someone’s texting. I grab a water from the refrigerator and the Snickers from the freezer. Retrieving my purse, I head upstairs.
Halfway up, the phone reminds me there’s a message, so I dig for the cell and look. A smile breaks out on my face. It’s Brick.
How about lunch today? Let’s get to know each other.
I check my watch. It’s one minute past midnight. I sit myself down on the staircase.
“Were you waiting for the clock to turn before typing ‘today’?”
There’s a pause before he responds.
“Yes. How is it that you’ve figured me out already?”
I laugh out loud.
“Sure, lunch sounds good. I’m free around two. Does that work?”
He’s typing.
“Two it is. Italian or Sushi?”
“Definitely Italian.”
“Shall we meet at Giovanni’s on Third?”
“It’s one of my favorites.”
“See you there.”
And that’s it. For a minute I thought he was going to make a play. There’s no part of me that’s interested in mixing business and pleasure. But I have a good feeling about the man. We could be friends. He’s smart and speaks softly and he has that certain unforced something that connects with my personality. Besides the fact I can tell he thinks I’m funny. I like that.
Chapter 2
Brick
The satisfy
ing aroma of coffee surrounds me as soon as I walk into Starbucks. I spot Atticus at the small corner table. It must have been his only choice because he looks like he’s too big for the space. His baseball cap is over his eyes in an attempt to stay incognito.
It’s crowded today. At least five people are on their laptops and more on their cells. The only person without a technology crutch is my friend, the old guy whose name I don’t know. He sits waiting patiently for me to send over his daily coffee and pastry. He’s always alone and never makes eye contact. Not till he walks out. That’s when I get a nod. From the beginning he let me know he didn’t want to talk. He’s always neat and clean, although his clothes are timeworn. But I’m not sure there’s anyone in his life to notice.
“Make it the usual for my friend, and I’ll have a Grande. Black,” I say to the upbeat kid who sees me more regularly than anybody in my life. “And a bran muffin.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Swift.”
Atticus lifts his chin in his usual hello. I answer the same way. The shorthand of our conversations would make a good body language study. I’m handed my order and make my way through the tables.
“Hey, brother,” he says as I take a seat.
“How’s your morning going?”
“I’m fortifying myself for today’s wedding projects. Actually, it’s the reception. The wedding we agreed on right away.”
I chuckle at his expression. It’s the one most men I’ve known wear when it comes to planning parties of any kind. Resignation. I don’t think it’s in our DNA.
“What’s on today’s list?”