by R. C. Martin
I haven’t a clue where I’d like to take her Saturday evening, but I intend to go out of my way to make it a night that she’ll remember. I’m not always the most romantic guy in the world, but I have my moments. I’d like to cash one in this weekend. The look on her face when I walked into the Lounge tonight, the sound of her voice when she admitted that she thought I had changed my mind—I don’t like being responsible for it. I’ve seen her hurting before. I’ve witnessed her tears, and I know that I don’t want to be that guy. I don’t want to be that guy who disappoints her.
It doesn’t make any sense. I barely know her, but I feel protective toward her. Maybe it’s the way she puts herself out there—the way she allows herself to be vulnerable with me, even if just for a moment. Whatever it is that draws me to her, I feel damned if I do and damned if I don’t explore it. It’s the hunger—it’s the thirst for that instant connection that I’ve found with her that has brought me to this place.
I don’t bother sitting down while I eat, too preoccupied with my thoughts. Halfway done with my late dinner, I’m on the cusp of formulating an idea when I feel a pair of arms circle around my waist.
“Are you sure you should be eating that so late? You know how you respond to pasta when you don’t give it the proper amount of time to digest,” Veronica says before pressing a kiss below my shoulder.
Shoveling another bite into my mouth, I simply reply, “I’m hungry.”
Laughing, she kisses my back again before patting a hand against my chest and letting me go. “I’ll leave the Tums out for you.”
A pang of guilt hits me in the gut. The woman at my back has been there—at my back—for over twenty years. She knows just about everything there is to know about me, including the indigestion I’m sure to wake up to in the morning after my spaghetti dinner. Yet, I can’t stop my thoughts from thinking about a little brunette, whose laugh sounds a lot different than that of my wife’s, with a smile I missed out on two nights ago.
Frowning down into the dish before me, I inform her, “I won’t be home Saturday evening. I have a dinner engagement. I hope that doesn’t conflict with your schedule.”
“I don’t think so,” she says unassumingly. “I’ll have to double check; but if you have something going on, I’m sure I’ll manage just fine without you.”
“Good.”
“Hey, Mike?”
She leans against the counter next to me, her gaze trained up at me when I look over at her. Offering me a guarded smile, she hooks two fingers into the waist of my pants before she continues.
“I know that I haven’t really been myself lately.”
I wait for her to say more, for her to stop pretending like she can carry the weight of her sorrow all on her own without any help from anyone. I wait for her to acknowledge how pushing me away also means ignoring my loss, as well—but then she shrugs and begins tracing her fingers back and forth between my shirt tail and my pants.
“I know I haven’t been fair to you, and I’m sorry. I was hoping you’d let me try and make it up to you tonight.”
“You want to have sex?” I ask bluntly, for clarification.
My cock might be feeling a little neglected, but our lack of physical intimacy hasn’t been the issue at hand lately.
“Yes,” she replies with a knowing grin. Giving my pants a playful tug, she scoots closer and whispers, “I miss my husband.”
Staring down at her, I realize that I want to tell her no. Not simply because when I close my eyes, it’s not her that I see—but because for the last several days, when my eyes are open and I’m looking right at her, she hides from me. Yet, in spite of that truth, I know that admitting it won’t make her open up to me anymore than she has for the last decade. Furthermore, to deny her now would lead to questions of why, which would only make way for another argument. Not wishing to force us back into the never ending cycle of what we’ve already been through the last couple of weeks, I simply nod my head in agreement.
“All right.” I lean down and press a quick kiss against her lips, earning me another smile as I tell her, “I’ll meet you upstairs in a bit.”
“Don’t take too long,” she insists, pressing up on her tiptoes to kiss the smooth skin of my cheek.
I agree, looking down at my leftovers as she leaves the kitchen.
Running my hand over my face, I free a heavy sigh.
My head at war, I try to decipher what it is that I feel for Blaine. The unknown answer is a stark contrast juxtaposed with the question of why my wife is no longer the one who temps me.
My appetite lost, I cover up the rest of my spaghetti, stow it in the fridge, and head upstairs.
Blaine
Coors Field. 7pm. Baseball attire optional.
I GLANCE DOWN at the text message once more and then peer out of my windshield. I’ve checked the Rockies’ game schedule at least half a dozen times since I received Michael’s text, and every single occurrence yielded the same answer.
There’s no baseball game tonight.
The fact that I was able to find street parking only a couple of blocks from the stadium is further proof that something else is going on here, and I’m not sure what. Knowing that I won’t receive any answers unless I get out of my car, I step out, lock up, drop my key into my bag, and start walking.
While I’m feeling less nervous this time than last time, my small ounce of calm comes from the fact that I didn’t have to lie to Mateo before leaving the loft. He and some of his buddies hit the road this morning, headed for Blackhawk. Set on celebrating his birthday in true wild fashion, his friend Wilson decided he wanted to spend the day gambling and drinking. Someone suggested they turn the whole thing into a guys’ weekend of sorts, and they won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure Mateo could care less where I am right now. He’s never really been one to obsess over my whereabouts. He trusts me.
Though, apparently, he shouldn’t.
I know that lying by omission is still lying, but I shove that thought out of my head when I reach the final stop light between me and my night at Coors Field.
Looking across the street, I think I see someone standing right outside the entrance, and my stomach clenches in anxious anticipation. With a few seconds remaining before the light turns and I’m able to cross, I assess my outfit. I don’t have any baseball attire, so I went with a mix of casual, cute, and sexy. Deciding to stick with my old-faithfuls, I tucked my feet into my favorite, worn pair of red Toms. The skirt I have on is short and high-waisted, the form fitting, cream colored material accented with a lace overlay, hitting just shy of mid-thigh. I paired it with a deep V-neck cut, fitted t-shirt that I wear tucked in. It’s a washed-out red color, and the front reads: I’m sorry, did I roll my eyes out loud? I skipped the dangling earrings this week and opted for a simple, pendant necklace instead.
Smoothing my hand over my stomach, I look up in time to see the walking man appear in front of me. As I draw closer and closer to the wide, empty entrance of the stadium, the figure I spotted across the street becomes clearer and clearer. Michael stands alone as he waits for me—though, I’m sure he’s not really alone. I’ve never seen him without Clay. In any case, with no one around to watch me, I don’t stop myself from drinking him in.
He’s dressed casually, in a pair of dark-washed jeans and tennis shoes. The baseball t-shirt he wears—and, god, does he wear it—has green sleeves and a white body. Dartmouth is in bold print across his broad chest. He’s got the sleeves tugged up over his elbows, a detail I only notice because his biceps deserve my attention, and he’s wearing a wristwatch—like always. The hat he’s got pulled on over his head full of hair is black, with a Rockies emblem on the front, and I’m sure I’ve never seen anyone make a hat look as sexy as he does. I can’t make out his eyes from where I am, but the smile he flashes my way encourages me to walk faster.
It isn’t until I’m standing right in front of him, my heart racing, that it truly hits me.
He came.
“Hi,” he replies, his voice almost just as soft.
From my current vantage point, I can see into his eyes. The longer I stare, the more certain I become that I could drown in his blue irises.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” I answer with a nod.
He narrows his gaze on me suspiciously before he asks, “What’s your take on hotdogs?”
In a failed attempt to stifle my giggle, I make some sort of weird hiccup noise. A blush blossoms across my cheeks before I admit, “I love hotdogs.”
His face lights up as a grin pulls at his lips, and my breath catches in my throat.
“Come on, angel.”
He nods his head toward the stadium, and I follow him without question, trying to concentrate on keeping my heart from beating out of my chest. Suddenly, the expression: be still my beating heart, seems to make a whole lot more sense. That’s the third time he’s called me angel. I don’t know why he does it, but I like it. A lot.
As I follow him, he leads me past the row of turnstiles and over to a swinging gate. Just as I suspected, Clay stands on the other side. He pushes it open for us, not speaking a word as we pass. For a second, my feet slow my progress as my mind comes to terms with his presence. He has been a witness to every encounter I’ve had with Michael. He might have been standing at a distance, or waiting in another room, but he knows. If not before now, then definitely now—he knows what this is.
“Hey.”
Michael slides his finger under my chin in order to lift my head. It isn’t until I peer up at him that I notice I’ve come to a complete stop.
“Are you okay?”
“Will he tell?” I whisper, hoping that Clay can’t hear me.
Michael’s eyes flicker behind me, connecting with his security detail for a fraction of a second before he focuses all of his attention on me. Taking a step closer, he moves the hand from under my chin, gently grazing his fingertips along my shoulder and down my arm. A shiver climbs up my spine, and his lips twitch in a smirk.
Leaning down, so that the bill of his hat almost connects with my forehead, he whispers, “He saw you first.”
Confused by what he’s trying to tell me, I shake my head a little as I ask, “What?”
“At the Capitol. I would have kept walking. I had a lot on my mind, and I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings. Clay saw you. Clay pointed you out to me.”
My lips part open, forming in the shape of an enlightened Oh, but I’m not sure if I utter the word or not. I don’t think on it too long. The next thing I know, Michael has my hand in his as he explains, “No one is better at their job than Clay is. He’s professional to a fault. Our secret is safe, okay? Trust me.”
Trust.
Pulling the nub on my cheek between my teeth, I admit to myself that while it doesn’t make sense—while it’s completely ass backwards—I do trust Michael. In the midst of his lie—our lie—I trust him enough to be here, and I don’t regret it. At least not so far.
“God,” he practically groans. Reaching up with his free hand, he smooths his thumb over my cheek, just beside my lips, causing me to lose hold from inside of my mouth. “You’re adorable when you do that.”
Nope. No regrets.
Feeling more bashful than I ever thought possible, I shift my eyes away from his. The view of his massive chest doing nothing to help my current state, I peek up at him from beneath my lashes, hoping that he’ll put me out of my misery and take me to those hotdogs he mentioned.
As if he’s somehow managed to read my mind, he winks at me before he starts making his way further into the stadium. Tugging on my hand lightly, he encourages me to follow while simultaneously wordlessly explaining that he has no intention of letting me go.
Five minutes with the man, and he already has me feeling giddy.
What will he have me feeling like in an hour?
Recognizing that I’ll soon find out, I give his hand a squeeze and softly call out, “Michael?”
“Yes?” he replies instantly, glancing down at me.
My stomach tingles wildly as I whisper, “I’m glad you came.”
Michael
I DON’T REMEMBER the last time I felt like this, or if I’ve ever felt like this. The thrill of this chase is unlike any other. It’s true that the secret nature of what we’re doing plays into the feelings I have—that is unavoidable. But it’s more than that. It’s the look in her eyes. Her gorgeous, dark green, hazel eyes. It’s the way she responds to my touch. It’s the sound of her whisper when she stands close to me. It’s her little hand wrapped in mine, sending a zing up one arm and down the other, making my free hand tingle. It’s as though I’m buzzing with the promise of what this night could hold. It makes it easier. Her smile, that blush, the way she bites the inside of her cheek, it all makes this lie, this secret, easier to swallow.
And I haven’t had my fill. Not even close.
“So, when do we get to the part where you explain to me what we’re doing here on a night where there’s no baseball?” she asks as I lead her up the stairs.
“Have you ever been here before?”
“Yeah. My dad’s a big sports fan. He’s brought me a couple of times.”
“Is that right? Which sports does your dad like?”
She laughs as she tells me, “Uh, any sport with a ball or a puck about covers the list. Hockey is his favorite, though.”
“What about you?”
“Me?” she asks as we climb up yet another flight of stairs.
“Yeah. Did you inherit any of his love for sports?”
“On the contrary,” she says teasingly, shaking a finger at me. “I inherited my mother’s abundant tolerance of sports. It might not ever get my blood going, but I know enough to understand what’s happening during a game. Mom always taught me to pay attention so that when dad got into a fit, I could join in on his outrage when he recapped the game later.
“Anyway, I’m glad I listened. I’m an only child, so it’s not like my dad has any boys to talk sports to. Then, when we lost mom, dad and I spent a lot of time watching different games and yelling at the outcome. It was a good distraction. I know it’s kind of stupid, but it helped us get through the first couple of months without her.”
Stopping at the landing on the level of our destination, I give her hand a squeeze. I had no idea that she was without a mother. When she talked about her Foster Girls’ Mix, it never occurred to me that the woman she spoke of had passed away. Now knowing that to be the case, her gift means even more than it did before.
“I’m sorry to hear about your mother.”
“Thank you.”
“What happened to her?” I ask softly.
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I lose her eyes. Understanding that this is a topic of conversation I may not have a right to, I attempt to gain her attention back cautiously. I let go of her hand, reaching up to tuck a bit of her hair behind her ear. With that one touch, I’m reminded that I’m already familiar with her soft, silky strands. I don’t hesitate to sink my fingers into her wavy locks, gently holding the back of her neck, and she lifts her gaze to align with mine. For the first time since I laid eyes on her, I notice how young she looks—the honesty in her expression giving her away.
Before she has a chance to respond, I assure her, “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
Stepping closer to me, she rests her palms against my stomach, and my muscles tighten, enjoying the feeling.
“I was twenty,” she begins, her voice low and subtle. “She got sick when I was nineteen. It was my third semester in college, and she was already at stage four when they found the cancer. I withdrew from all of my classes and took off the rest of the year. She was gone less than nine months later.”
“God, that’s awful,” I mutter, sliding my arm around her waist and pulling her
closer.
She gasps softly, her fingers closing around the fabric of my shirt before she relaxes against me. I watch as her throat moves with a hard swallow before she stammers, “Yeah. Yeah, it sucked pretty bad.” Shaking her head, she coughs out an airy laugh and goes on to say, “Not to ruin the moment or anything, but it’s very hard for me to—like—think clearly with you, um…”
I pull her against me tighter, unable to restrain myself. She gasps again, louder this time, her eyes growing wide as she stares up at me. I like the way she feels pressed against me. She’s not like Veronica. She’s not curvy and familiar. She’s slight and new. She’s soft and delicate. Not to mention, the way she responds to being in my arms—her breaths coming in short, shallow spurts—it causes a heady feeling I hadn’t quite anticipated.
“Michael,” she says on a sigh.
My dick jerks, enjoying the way her voice wraps around my name, and it makes me want to kiss her.
No, it’s more than that—greedier than that. I want to taste her.
Sure that if I don’t let her go soon, I’ll cross a line I’m not sure either of us is prepared to cross, I decide to hold onto her for one more question. In spite of our bodies reactions to one another, I haven’t lost sight of what she’s just informed me. Her mother died when she was twenty, but I have no idea how long ago that was. I’ve never thought to inquire about her age, until now.
“How long has it been? Since you lost your mother?”
“Four years.”
Twenty-four.
Dipping my head in acknowledgment, I finally let her go, stepping back to give her space to breathe. As I do, I run a hand down my face, wondering if what we’re doing could be even more wrong than it was a moment ago—when I was blissfully unaware of the thirteen years that span between us.
Twenty-four.
It seems as though I’ve lived an entire life since I was twenty-four. I was still at Harvard. I hadn’t even begun to step foot into my career. I was a newlywed—now, I’m not. What’s worse? I’ve been with Veronica almost as long as Blaine has been alive.