by Kennedy Ryan
“Jared, this isn’t about me.” I shake my head, feeling helpless. “You can throw the sheets in the garbage, and I’m sure if you messed with the app long enough, you could figure out how to delete all the records of me having sex with Zo, but you can’t toss him out of my life. You can’t delete him like he never happened.”
“I’m not trying to delete him,” Jared snaps, his frown dark and heavy. “I’m trying to add me. I mean, did I happen? Am I happening?”
He bends until our gazes are level and locked, the whole universe narrowing down to this fulcrum hinging on this handful of seconds.
“Are we happening, Ban?” he asks softly.
I’m at a loss. Beneath the anger, the sheer force of his frustration, lies some strain of vulnerability I’m not accustomed to in him.
“If you want me to say that us having sex while I was still in a relationship with Zo was right,” I say, looking at him as directly as I can, “I won’t ever say that. It wasn’t right, and I’ll always feel awful that I hurt him that way.”
“Yeah,” he says and clears his throat, loosening his grip on my wrists. “I get that.
“But,” I say quickly before he lets me go completely. “That doesn’t mean I . . .”
How do I say this without sounding like a hypocrite? A hussy? How do I convey to him what is still not completely clear to me? That my despair over hurting Zo sits right beside the pleasure I’ve found with Jared, the irrational sense of rightness.
“Doesn’t mean you what?” he asks, eyes guarded. He’s protecting himself from me, like I could hurt him. I never suspected I had that power, but I read it in the cautious way he’s watching me and in the hands that still haven’t let me go.
I lean up and into his body held taut and offer the words to give him the reassurance I never thought he would need.
“We are definitely happening,” I whisper.
And then I kiss him. Not wildly or with urgency like I did two nights ago. This kiss recalls the first tentative press of my lips into his in the laundromat years ago. Like that night, I’m not sure about where this kiss will take us or what it will prove. I’m not even sure what he wants from me beyond the obvious because with Jared, it’s never merely the obvious.
At first, his lips remain set in an unyielding line, and I’m kissing a brick wall. After a few unresponsive seconds, I pull back, ready to give up and possibly put this behind us, but he tightens his hands on my wrists and twists into the kiss, pushing me deeper into the closet until my back is at the wall. He commandeers my mouth, taking control and groaning into the kiss. I tug at his hold on me until he frees my hands to explore his chest and the sleek muscles of his back until I find his hands and link our fingers between us.
“I don’t want to be your shitty choice,” he says harshly, brows drawn together.
“You’re not.” I bite my lip. “I mean, of course I wish Zo hadn’t been caught in the middle of everything. Hurting him has been awful, and it will take time to get over it.”
“Over it?” he asks, eyes never leaving my face. “Or over him?”
“Not like that.” I run my fingers through my hair, still at a loss. “I knew that it was a mistake to start dating Zo, not because I was his agent but because I was his friend.”
I bite back a sob and blink at the inevitable tears.
“I was lonely, and looking for companionship,” I continue. “And wanted someone to . . . God, what if I used him, Jared? That I can’t live with.”
He dips until he hovers over me and drops kisses on my nose, my cheek and finally, my lips.
“I forget you’re Catholic,” he murmurs, humor making its way back into his voice.
I punch his chest and find myself laughing along with him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You guys should patent that brand of guilt.” He settles his hands at my hips and most of the humor flees as fast as it came. “I know we process right and wrong differently, but I refuse to believe what happened between us was wrong, and I don’t think you staying in a relationship that might never be what Zo wanted would have been right. I think we do things and we live with the consequences. We make the best decisions we can with what we have; with what we feel and know, and live through the fallout if it comes.”
“That’s how you get through . . .” the word mistakes stalls in my mouth “. . . decisions that hurt other people?”
“I live through those things by caring less,” he says. “And I know that isn’t an option for you.”
A humorless chuckle strangles in my throat. “Um . . . no. That isn’t likely for me.”
“But it’s one of the things I like about you most.”
Surprise gives me pause and has me staring at him like he has two heads.
“We’re often drawn to our opposite, right?” He lowers his head to nip my earlobe, sending a shudder skittering over my spine. “Saying I’m drawn to you would be putting it mildly.”
It pleases me, how easily he tells me he wants me. His frank appreciation after years of self-doubt in varying shapes and forms feels good. Not that Zo wasn’t up front about how attracted he was to me, or that I haven’t been with other men who told me they liked my ass or my breasts or my brain or my drive or . . . whatever. I feel in this moment when Jared looks down at me that he sees all of me at a glance. He takes in all my disparate parts, synthesizes them and is pleased with the whole. I’ve always felt seen with him, understood and accepted in a way that almost frightens me.
“I have an idea,” he says after a few seconds of us standing in the circle of each other’s arms, quietly, contentedly.
“This sounds dangerous.” I lift my head from his shoulder and peer up at him.
“I have to go to the Virgin Islands on a recruiting trip,” he says. “You should come with me.”
“Oh, so you need my help signing a new client?” I joke. “Cal wouldn’t be very happy about me working for the enemy.”
He slides my hand down between us and presses it to an impressive erection.
“This is the only thing I need your help with,” he says. “Let me know when you’re ready to do me a solid.”
My face burns, but I laugh and slowly—maybe slower than necessary—pull my hand away.
“You wouldn’t happen to be visiting Richard Tillman, would you?” I ask to shift the conversation to less flammable ground.
Tillman is a guaranteed first-rounder next year.
“Maybe,” he says slyly. “He might be the best thing coming from the Islands since Tim Duncan. Maybe once I’m done working, we could play a little.”
My teasing grin wilts around the edges. It’s fast. I was practically catatonic on my couch, depressed about Zo yesterday, and already Jared has spent the night and wants us to go on a romantic getaway.
“I don’t know.” I step away and turn my back to sort the workout clothes I set into chaos. “I have a lot of work to do.”
“You always have work to do.” He presses his hand over mine, staying the unnecessary task. “We both do. I can’t even remember my last vacation, Ban. Can you?”
I don’t answer. It has been a long time, and my body is aching for some rest. The biggest contract in my off-season cut me loose last night in more ways than one. Everything else feels manageable. I could afford a few days.
“How long are you thinking?”
And as if reading my mind he says, “A few days, maybe a week, and you can have your own room, if you want.”
We stare at one another, and the heat, the clawing hunger that possessed us in my office, rears and roars long enough to remind me my best intentions tend to run amok where this man is concerned. But I’ve already hurt Zo, driven him out of the agency. Things may have been painful, but they’ve gotten simpler. I want Jared and he wants me. It’s worth exploring, and now I can.
“My own room sounds great,” I finally agree.
“Your own room sounds redundant.” He laughs and shoots me a knowing look. “But we’ll cross
that burning bridge when we get to it.”
27
Jared
I just signed one of next season’s colossal talents. His potential in the NBA has no ceiling. Lebron kind of impact. Signing this kid to Elevation may be the greatest coup in our young company’s history. I’d typically be crowing to August and already on the phone priming the endorsement pump with Nike and Gatorade. Those things can wait.
How often do you get a second chance at something truly great? Something you couldn’t fully appreciate at the time because you hadn’t yet experienced what the world had to offer and found it lacking? Hadn’t been with countless women only to always find your mind drifting back to that one who got away?
Now that the one who got away is sunbathing by the pool of a borrowed St. John villa, what do I do with her? I’m not screwing this up. I have to be patient and give her time to adjust to this Zo thing. Give her time to get over how things ended between them and time to forgive herself. Hell, maybe forgive me. I made no secret of the fact that I didn’t care about her relationship, didn’t acknowledge or respect it. Does that make me bad? Maybe, but I wanted Banner back and I have her. No one will convince me I shouldn’t have pursued her. I want her too much. I always have. Never more than right now.
If I finally have a week with Banner Morales, it won’t be in some hotel where I have to act civilized for other people. One of my fellow prospects from The Pride, who actually made it in, owns this villa in the Virgin Islands. Private. Secluded. I may not have joined The Pride, but I did make a few lifelong friends who come in handy regularly. He and Bent were two of the good apples in a barrel full of rotten ones.
Banner has scooped all her hair up, and she’s lying by the pool. Topless.
Yes, topless.
I can’t see much because she is stretched out on her stomach. The ties of the white bikini lie loose on the ground beside her while she reads. Her olive-toned skin glowing with health and sunscreen. She adjusts the oversized sunglasses and turns the page of her book.
“Whatchya reading?” I ask once I’m within pouncing distance.
She jumps and almost loses her top. Unfortunately, she catches and carefully reties it before flipping over.
“You don’t have to do that for my benefit.” I gesture to the straps holding the top in place. “Wouldn’t want you to have tan lines.”
“Very thoughtful of you, but I’m fine,” she says with a wry twist of her lips. “I was heading in soon anyway. I don’t want to burn.”
She slips a thin cover-up over her head. The words “cover up” in relation to Banner should be outlawed. Struck from the English language. Hiding that beautiful body she works so hard for is criminal. There’s a glimpse of swelling breasts and full ass and hips before the offending cloth covers her.
There’s two books on the ground. Hunger by Roxanne Gay and another opened pages down, the one she was so engrossed in before I came. I angle my head to read the cover.
“All the Single Ladies: Unmarried Women and the Rise of an Independent Nation.” I serve up some sarcasm with my grin. “Just some light beach reading, huh? No half-naked man on the cover of a romance novel for you?”
“Oh, I have those, too.” She laughs over her shoulder and walks ahead of me. There’s a newborn ease to the swing of her hips and a looseness in her shoulders I don’t recognize.
“You’re relaxed,” I tell her when we reach the verandah.
“How could I not be?” She points through the floor-to-ceiling window. “When that’s my view?”
Crystalline water laps at the white sandy beach. Palm trees sway. Verdant, grassy mountains rise and fall along the coastline.
“It is beautiful,” I agree. “I just wasn’t sure you’d be able to put everything behind you long enough to unplug.”
She pulls on my tie and grins up at me, shorter than usual in her bare feet.
“I’m not the one dressed like I’m on my way to a business meeting.”
“Well, I was on my way to a business meeting, but now I’m done.” I drop a kiss on her cheek and risk a hand at her waist. “For the rest of the week.”
I kiss her lips lightly. “I’m all yours, if you want me.”
We share a look that silently sizzles in the afternoon heat and draws tight in the balmy island air.
“Lucky me.” Her laugh sounds nervous.
Or maybe not nervous. Tentative? Uncertain? I feel that, too. We practically broke Banner’s desk having sex last week, but it feels like we are on the verge of our first kiss. Like there’s some invisible line we are poised to cross. Whatever it is, it makes me hesitant, which I rarely am. I’m decisive and pursue what I want as soon as I want it. Maybe this feels fragile because it’s been broken before. Something we’ve just pieced back together. The glue is still drying and I don’t want it to fall and break again.
“You don’t want to know how the meeting went?” I ask, knowing that business is always firmer ground for us, even if we are on different sides of the field.
“We are on opposing teams,” she says. “I don’t want you to feel awkward about telling me anything.”
“I signed him,” I offer without reservation. I trust her.
“Oh my God!” Her eyes saucer and her grin spreads. “Seriously? Huge, huge deal, Foster.”
“Yeah, it is,” I agree immodestly.
“This calls for a celebration.” She clasps her hands together under her chin. “Should we go out?”
She’s browned some from the sun, and my seven freckles sprinkle across her nose like flakes of cinnamon. With her bare face and feet, and sporting her bikini, no one would think she’s one of the NBA’s most powerful agents. She’s unadorned and in her own skin. Looking like this, she could bring me to my knees.
“What if we stay in?” I tug at the loose knot on her head, and the hair spills over her shoulder in a single file line of silk. I toy with the ends, deliberately allowing my knuckle to brush the curve of her breast. “Could that work?”
A deep breath lifts her chest under the cover-up, and she swallows, lashes fluttering from the subtle contact with my hand. We haven’t made love since her office, and I hope she wants it as badly as I do. She did ask for her own room, though. So maybe not.
“I forgot to ask how your room is,” I say, dropping her hair and taking up with her hand, lacing our fingers together.
“It’s, um, great.” She looks from our joined hands to my face. “Beautiful actually. Thank you for this. For all of it. I needed it.”
“So did I.” I loop an arm at the small of her back and scoop her sun-warmed curves into me.
She stiffens at first, and then I can almost see her make the decision. To relax. To enjoy. To let herself want me. I can’t know for sure what the decision is, but she leans into me instead of away. The sun melts her expression into a smile, into pleasure. She props her elbows on my chest and works her fingers into the hair by my ears. It feels so good, I close my eyes and wait for more of her touch. She doesn’t disappoint, walking her fingers to my temples and adding gentle pressure, coaxing a groan from me.
“That feels incredible.” I slide my hands lower on the swell of her hips, lower still to cup her butt. “You have such a great ass, Banner. Have I ever told you that?”
She fixes her eyes on the tiles at our feet and licks those perfectly symmetrical lips, sinking her teeth into the bottom.
“No, you haven’t.” The words come thin, like the breath has been sifted from them. “You don’t think it’s, um, too square?”
“Square?” I laugh at the unexpected question and squeeze the firm roundness overflowing my hands. “I have no idea what that means, but I want to bite your ass every time I see it, if that answers your question.”
Banner’s eyes widen, and then a deep-throated laugh unspools from her that reminds me how much I love to make that happen.
“Wow. Thanks.” She gives a tiny shake of her head. “Leave it to you, Jared.”
“Why’d you ask me tha
t?” I squeeze her ass again just ’cause.
“It’ll sound silly to you.” She lowers her lashes and chews on the corner of her bottom lip. “There’s this blogger who said . . . things about me when I started dating Zo. That’s all.”
The smile I’ve been wearing since I took her in my arms slowly falls apart.
“What kind of things?”
Rose gold tints her cheeks as she toys with my tie, studying the pattern instead of looking at me.
“She said I was like the, um, the biggest Kardashian,” she says softly, her smile less natural than before. “She called me Sponge Banner Square Pants because she said my ass was, well, square.”
And August wonders why I hate people.
“I can usually brush stuff like that off,” she says, looking up at me with that same stiff smile I can’t stand. “I know. I’m a powerful woman and all that, right?”
Uncomfortable chuckle.
“I should be impervious to that shit.” She twists her lips into a grimace. “But some of it sticks from time to time, and kind of . . .”
She doesn’t say the word “hurts,” but it does. I can see that some stranger, some person who doesn’t even know Banner—doesn’t know that she speaks God knows how many languages by now, doesn’t know she’s the first to go to college in her family, doesn’t know she charges into dangerous situations she has no business being in to rescue grown men who should know better, doesn’t know that she sees potential in broken people like Quinn and refuses to give up on them even when they give up on themselves—some person has hurt this spectacular woman by saying her ass is square?
Fuck that.
I take her chin between my thumb and index finger and lift until her eyes meet mine.
“Listen to me, Banner,” I say firmly. “Your ass is not square, but if it was, so the hell what?”
“I know that,” she says hastily.
“Yeah, you’re a strong woman. You’re a lioness. Hear you roar. Got it, but no one likes things like that said about them in a conversation, much less tweeted to thousands of—”