by Tracey Ward
“We’re in the lead,” Sutton tells me eagerly. She’s standing on her toes to see the paper in my hand, even though I’m pretty sure she’s memorized it. The edges are creased and worn from where she’s held it over and over again. “We got one of the lowest scores from the judges that first week but we’ve been on the upswing ever since. They’re into us, Shane. And the viewer votes and donations have kept lifting us up more and more every week. We’re killing this thing.”
I frown at her. “Are we supposed to know this?”
“No.”
“Then where did you get this?”
She smiles that mysterious, secretive smile again. “I have my sources.”
Eric, I think, and the thought irritates me in a way I didn’t expect.
I hand the sheet back to her. “That’s cool.”
“‘That’s cool’?” she echoes incredulously. “That’s all you have to say? We’re dominating and you think ‘that’s cool’?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to be excited!”
“I am,” I laugh at her irritation. “That’s exciting. Those donations are legit. I’m proud of people for chipping in like that for the kids.”
“I’m talking about the competition.”
“The competition is about the kids.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “I know that. And I know what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“You’re trying to make me feel like shit because I’m not focusing on the charity. But there’s more going on than just that. There’s more at stake.”
“You mean like the show going under?”
Sutton stares at me like I’ve stolen the breath from her lungs, and for no good reason. She looks at me like I’ve done it just to hurt her.
I’m worried that she’s right. I wonder if I have.
“Yes,” she answers softly. “The show is in trouble. These viewer votes are higher than we’ve had in a while. That means people are actually watching again. We could be poised to have the best season we’ve had in years and that means good things for the charity but it also means good things for those of us who love the show, and I won’t apologize for caring about my job or the people around me who depend on theirs as well. I don’t see the kids every day. I see the crew. I see the other dancers and the choreographers and directors and producers. I worry about every one of them and myself if DNA goes under, so I won’t apologize or be made to feel like a bitch for giving a shit about the world I live in.”
I nod, avoiding her eyes. Avoiding the fight that I started because I’m not even sure why I did it. “Okay. Got it. Sorry.”
She doesn’t reply. I wonder what she’s thinking, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll never tell me and I’ll never be able to read her. Definitely not today. I can’t even read myself right now. I’m too tired. Even after a morning off, I can’t get my ass in gear. I wish more than anything that I was back home on my couch, sleeping through episodes of SVU. When I walked in here, Sutton was in a good mood for the first time ever, and I went ahead and screwed it up. I started a fight that didn’t need to happen, and I can’t figure out why, other than I’m burnt out.
“You didn’t bring your lunch in today,” she comments softly.
“I wasn’t hungry,” I lie.
“But you’re always hungry.”
I rub my fingers over my burning eyes. “Yeah, I know.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m good.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Thanks,” I chuckle, dropping my hand. I nod to the unit on the wall. “We should get to it, yeah? The day is getting away from us.”
Sutton’s brow creases as she looks down at the paper in her hands. She folds it neatly in half, pinching the crease down tight with a slow drag of her fingertips. “You know what? Maybe we need a day off instead.”
“You don’t take days off. We fought about taking tomorrow off. I said even God rested on the seventh day, and you said—”
“‘I’m not lazy like God’,” she finishes for me. She smiles wanly. “That may have been a bit much.”
“I was seriously afraid you were gonna get smote.”
“Is it smote or smotten?”
“When you’re struck by the hand of the Almighty, does it really matter how you say it?”
“I guess not.” She sighs, falling back on her heels. “But you should take a break. I’ve been running you ragged with rehearsals right after practice. You must be exhausted from this morning.”
“I didn’t go,” I confess without meaning to. It just comes out, like I can’t control it. “There was no practice this morning. I only told you there was so I could have some time off.”
She nods, her eyes on her hands. On our scores hidden inside the little booklet she’s made. “That’s fair.”
“I shouldn’t have lied.”
“You had to, right?” she asks lightly. She looks up at me with a smile. “I would never have agreed to it if you’d asked.”
That smile looks so fragile on her face, it immediately reminds me of how small she is. It’s surprisingly easy to forget her size when you get to know her because her personality is so big. Her temper larger than life. She’s become a sort of lioness in my mind, one I tiptoe around trying not to anger, but inside she’s a kitten. She’s delicate in ways I can’t understand, but when she looks at me like that with the sunlight in her hair and a glimmer of sorrow and sorry in her eyes, I feel it. I can feel her; like a dove in my hand, heart thrumming wildly against my palm. The smallest noise will make her jump. It will make her flutter her wings and fly away, but part of me is longing to hold her like this for just a little longer.
“Have you eaten lunch?”
She gives me an amused look that reminds me how little she eats. “No. I haven’t eaten.”
“Can I take you somewhere?”
“Where?” she asks suspiciously.
“Somewhere good. Really good.”
“We have very different definitions of what’s ‘good’.”
I smile, popping the door open expectantly. “Trust me.”
Sutton hesitates. Her eyes dart between me and the digital display on the wall. She’s torn between rehearsing by herself and something else. Something like me and food and a day without work; three things she is not accustomed to. It’s scary for her. I can see it in the way she wrings her hands together anxiously.
For all of her bluster, Sutton Roe is afraid of a lot of things. Things a person shouldn’t fear. Things like fun.
“We’ll have to work twice as hard tomorrow,” she warns me in a rush. “We’re not taking two days off. This isn’t The View, for God’s sake.”
“Whatever you say, Boss.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SUTTON
I’m playing hooky. I’ve never done that before. I feel like a criminal when I sneak out of the studio with Shane. Luckily, there’s no one around to see it.
“I’ll drive,” I offer, pulling my keys from my bag.
Shane laughs. “There’s no way in hell I can fit into your car. I’ll drive.”
I look at his Jeep glistening in the sun next to my Fiat. His car looks like a skyscraper in comparison, but he’s right. Even with the seat all the way back, his knees would be in his face inside my car. His is missing the doors and the roof again, and I can’t think of a single reason why he would keep it like that. Inside, the seats are black leather that have been roasting in the afternoon sun. They’ll be murderously hot against my bare legs, a feeling I’ll find divine. I can wedge my fingers between the seat and my legs and maybe, for once, they’ll feel warm.
Assuming I can get up inside the damn thing.
I stand at the passenger side looking everywhere for a handle or a step or some kind of purchase to help launch me up into this beast, but there’s nothing. This is a car built for a man Shane’s size. Not a woman little enough to fit inside the glove compartment.
“Let me hel
p you,” he says from behind me.
Before I can argue, his hands are on my hips. His fingers wrap around me securely as he lifts me into the air and gently sets me down on the passenger seat. It’s as hot as I imagined, but not nearly as hot as the searing feel of his hands on me.
Shane touches me a thousand times a day when we’re dancing, but this feels different. It feels intimate as he helps me into his car. He’s not my partner right now. He’s not even the guy I made out with on the night of the first filming. Right now, he’s a man and I’m a woman, and I’m painfully aware of how large his hands are. How capable he is in everything he does.
I compartmentalize my entire life into easy to identify boxes. Work is the biggest, fullest one. But Shane barely fits inside that box. I can’t even think of how to build one large enough for him outside that context. And what would I name it? Guys I’ve made out with? Men I’d like to see naked?
I watch out of the corner of my eye as he steps up into the lifted vehicle like it’s nothing. The Jeep jostles under his weight, tossing me toward him.
“Do you have one of those...” He opens and closes his hand rapidly, like he’s trying to mime the words into existence. “A thing?”
I frown, assuming for some reason that he’s asking if I have a condom. “A thing?”
“You know, a hair thing.” He gestures to my hair hanging down over my shoulders. “A rubber band. It’s gonna get windy once we hit the road.”
“No,” I laugh with relief. “I don’t have a ‘thing’.”
“Don’t worry. I got you.”
Shane reaches over to pop the glove compartment at my knees. From inside, he pulls out a bright yellow baseball hat with a big, black bear on the front.
I shake my head when he offers it to me. “Shane, I’ll be fine. Really. I’ve been in a convertible before.”
“Not like this you haven’t. Here,” he shakes it insistently. “You’ll need it.”
“I doubt it.” I take it anyway, if just to stop the discussion.
Shane sees me set it in my lap, but he doesn’t push any further. He brings the Jeep to growling life before putting his hand on the back of my seat to see behind us. “Eric’s here,” he comments as we pull out of the parking spot. “Or is that golf cart always here?”
“It’s always here, but so is he,” I answer stiffly.
“I bet his wife loves that.”
My heart skips a beat. “How’d you know he was married?”
“He wears a wedding ring.”
“Right,” I mutter, feeling paranoid. “Of course.”
“Have you ever met her?”
“No. Never.”
“I wonder if she’s anything like him.”
“What do you think he’s like?”
Shane shrugs, driving us slowly through the lot toward the gate. “I don’t know. Phony, mostly.”
“A lot of people in television are phony,” I agree.
“Including you?”
I frown at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a question, Sutton. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”
“You’re asking if I think I’m fake?”
“Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“‘Cause you’re getting pissed off and I liked it better when you were in a good mood.” He glances at my hands even though he knows exactly what’s in them. “Did you bring that sheet with you? Look at the sheet. It’ll perk you up.”
“I don’t need ‘perking’,” I bristle. “I need…”
He waits through my sudden silence before prodding, “What? What do you need?”
“I don’t know,” I answer softly.
“You know what I think?”
“Rarely.”
He grins. “I think you need this day off as much as I do. Maybe more.”
I don’t reply because I don’t know if he’s wrong or right. I felt bad, that’s what got me here. That’s what I know for sure. I can see how burned out he is. I’ve seen it for the last couple of days, but I’ve ignored it. I’ve been selfish because that’s what I am. I’m not phony. I’m not Hollywood. I’m a New Yorker. I’m driven and tireless. I’m selfish and angry. I’m East Coast and so lonely and homesick I can hardly stand it, and when he gave me those wounded puppy dog eyes as he apologized for calling me out on my own shit, I felt like the worst version of myself imaginable. I felt real guilt constricting my chest until it ached.
Shane takes us west – toward the ocean. I’m disappointed in a way. For a second, I thought he was going to take me to the stadium where he plays. I thought since we were taking a day off from my turf he’d take me to his, evening the imaginary score that I know we’re both keeping between us. Today is definitely a point for him. He got me to ditch. He could have scored another point by taking me somewhere I’ve never been before to learn about a game I’ve never watched, but he’s not pushing his advantage.
I’m struck again by the fact that Shane Lowry is a bigger person than I am, in more ways than one.
“Why’d you choose red for your Jeep?!” I shout over the wind and the world rushing around us. It’s whipping my hair into my face, over my eyes, in my mouth, but I refuse to admit I was wrong. The hat sits untouched in my lap.
“It’s my favorite color!”
“Mine too!”
He glances at me with a surprised smile. “Really?! We have something in common?!”
“It’s a color, Shane,” I tell him coolly, looking away. “Don’t get excited.”
He laughs, nodding slowly. “Alright, fine! Can I tell you a secret, though?”
“Sure.”
“Red is one of the reasons I decided to play ball for Nebraska. Their colors are red and white.”
“That’s a stupid reason to choose a college,” I laugh.
He’s not offended. He’s laughing with me. “I know.”
“Was it worth it? Going to Nebraska?”
“Yeah. If I hadn’t played for the Huskers I wouldn’t be in the NFL.”
I sputter, spitting out a lock of hair that’s blown between my lips. “And you love to hit people.”
“I love playing the game.”
“Are you good at it?”
“No.” He glances at me, grinning mildly. “I’m fucking great at it.”
I blush, feeling instantly embarrassed by it. Of course, that makes me blush even harder.
It’s not what he said or even the way he said it. It’s the fact that somewhere in the discussion, we leaned in closer to hear each other. Both of us have an elbow on the center console. His skin is pressed up against mine. It’s warm. Almost hot, like the black leather against my thighs. His face is only a foot away when he tells me how talented he is. I can see myself in the reflection of his bright orange sunglasses. I see me as he’s seeing me, and it leaves me deshelled, the way his smile does.
“Hitting people can’t be that hard,” I say to be a bitch, but there’s no bite to it.
“It is if you’re doing it right. You gotta make sure you don’t murder them or yourself. But you also can’t let them through the line. My job is to protect my family at all costs but keep my head enough to not mess a guy up doing it. There’s a thin line and I toe it on every play.” He casts me another quick glance. Another penetrating smile. “You should watch a game.”
“You should watch an episode.”
He laughs, smacking his hand against the steering wheel. “I knew you’d say that.”
“If you know I’m going to say it, why don’t you do it?”
“Because some sick part of me likes making you mad, Sutton. It’s sexy.”
I hold my breath and count to five. Then I do it again. I’m not containing anger. I’m holding onto something else. Something liquid and light that runs through me like cool water. His simple words do something sinuous to me. They make me want things I shouldn’t want with a man I can’t have. The waters around us are muddied and confusing, and I don’t like confusing.
I like clarity. Simplicity. I like black and white when I can get it, and Shane looks like every color of the rainbow to me.
I lean back into my seat, sliding his hat on low over my eyes to hide them. “We’ll see how sexy it is when I lose my shit and stab you in the face with one of my heels!”
Shane chuckles. “Damn! That was weirdly specific!”
“Tell me you haven’t fantasized about ways you’d end me!”
“Never once!”
“You’re a liar! Or not very creative!”
“What if I’m just a nice guy?!”
I shake my head stubbornly, looking away. “No one is a nice guy.”
Forty minutes later, Shane pulls us into the parking lot at the Santa Monica Pier. In that time, we said very little to each other. I don’t like yelling and I didn’t dare lean in close to him again. Eventually he gave up on conversation and just cranked the stereo. His speakers are impressive. I could hear them clearly over the wind and traffic on the 405. He listens to a lot of classic rock. It surprised me that his taste in music isn’t that bad. I expected to be subjected to country or death metal. Definitely something more abrasive than Tom Petty and Lynyrd Skynyrd.
I drop down out of the Jeep like I’m freefalling from a cliff. I’ve never been to the pier before. It’s a gorgeous day and the place is flooded with tourists on the beach, at the amusement park, and strolling along the pier that reaches out over the sparkling blue water of the Pacific Ocean. It rolls in gently, sending a breeze up the beach that tickles along my neck and my naked shoulders. I’m still wearing my workout gear – Shane promised me before we left that it would be fine – and the bare skin on my arms and legs is greedily lapping up the sunlight.
“You a fan of the beach?” he asks from across the hood of the Jeep.
“I don’t know. I never come here.”
“You should. It’s good for you.”
I cast him a wry grin. “You say that about carbs too.”
“It’s true.”
“Maybe for you.”
“Sometimes you just have to let things be good for you, Boss. Whether they are or they aren’t, it doesn’t kill you to imagine they could be.” He steps toward the pier, motioning for me to follow him. “Come on. Lunch is this way.”