Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015

by Melinda Curtis

  Cora squeezed Mimi’s hand. “Next time some dickhead calls you a slut, instead of lifting a glass, lift your hand and slap him.”

  L.A. Happenings by Lyle Lincoln

  …The movie trailer for Cat Claws from Hell features Lon Gleason playing against his wholesome, Disney image and possibly against his agent’s advice! What fun!

  …Mimi Sorbet and that mystery woman were spotted shopping for pet supplies once more. Mystery glam gal, @GlitterfrostGem, received more Women Crush Wednesday mentions than Mimi this week. How long can this friendship last?

  Chapter 16

  “Damn, son. I wouldn’t have thought you could pull this off with that pious style you have, but you did.” Archie heaved himself out of the Fairlane.

  “Coach isn’t religious like that.” Randy climbed from the back. “He’s serious. There’s a difference. You say pious and people expect religion and perfection. You say serious and people understand you’re dedicated.”

  Randy’s words settled onto Trent like a perfectly tailored coat. He’d been serious about playing and coaching at religious universities. His environment had dictated his nickname. If he’d played or coached at Harvard, they might have called him the Professor for his determined approach to the game. Randy’s insight also seemed to explain why the press wouldn’t let his track record of injured players go. Other coaches had similar records, but the Reverend’s record made a better story.

  Archie flashed Trent a glance that seemed to say the kid was smarter than he gave him credit. “I’m for the bar. Who’s with me?” His dad beelined it through the lobby.

  Trent was surprised that Randy followed the old man. They paused at the lounge entrance and looked at him. He didn’t want to go into the bar. It reminded him of Cora. She must think he was an ass. Hell, he thought he was an ass – stay, go, kiss her, no.

  “You go on,” he told them. He turned toward the hallway leading to his room. The first day of training camp was done. Trent was drained. He passed the elevators, remembering Cora helping him hoist Archie to his room and her amused glance when Archie complained Holy Southern hadn’t wanted to hire him. She wasn’t anything like he expected based on her beautifully cool looks.

  Trent’s room seemed cavernous. The slamming door echoed through the empty luxury suite. He needed to add house-hunting to his to-do list. Cora’s condo came to mind. It was small overall, but large where it mattered. The open living room and dining room were perfect for hosting the team.

  Stop thinking about her.

  He’d need a place where he could entertain the team and their women.

  I’m with all of them.

  Cora’s statement from the day they’d met was true. She paid attention to every man on the team.

  “For the love of God,” Trent said aloud, emptying his pockets. “Stop.”

  He propped himself against the headboard and sent out texts to several candidates for additional assistant coaching roles. He needed experienced position coaches, but men who were open to his coaching philosophy and innovative style. Men willing to take risks. His rate of refusal was higher than he expected. He’d become a victim of his media image. The Reverend wasn’t made of Teflon. Good thing the team was accepting Randy and Berto, but that might not extend to them listening to the youngsters during games.

  Consulting the front office, Trent had managed to release two fringe players today, and sent two college draft picks down to their development team in Las Vegas. Evan wasn’t happy that their stock of backups was depleted. If Jack didn’t bounce back soon and the team was injury-plagued in the pre-season, they’d be in trouble.

  With Jack still in the hospital and no contingency plan in place for team financial and management decisions, Trent and the team would be hamstrung soon. He needed a few key role players to implement his ideas and their first game was only a week away.

  If Trent’s system worked, he’d no longer be the pariah the press made him out to be. He’d been seen as serious and determined. His father would regain credibility as well, just by association. And Randy would have one hell of a resume.

  But the system had to work. It had to work. He wanted to be free to live his life the way he wanted, according to his own beliefs, his own desires, his own code of conduct. Without sermons. Without censure. Without gossip. All he wanted to do was coach a basketball team. Why did that mean his life became open to judgment?

  He showered, but despite the warm water, his muscles ached. He flexed his toes on the bed. It felt good. Randy’s evaluation of him felt good. Serious, not pious. Trent, not the Reverend.

  He knew what would feel better.

  He texted one more person.

  Mistake. Big Mistake.

  She texted him back: You can only come over to talk Flash business.

  Trent wasn’t feeling much like talking.

  He went anyway.

  ~*~

  It had been over a month since Cora’d had sex with anyone but her vibrator.

  For some women, that might not be a big deal. And it might not have been an issue with Cora if no man was pinging her ju-ju meter. But no matter what she did, Trent sat at the fringe of her consciousness, like a backseat driver who wouldn’t shut up. She’d driven past The Ivy and seen a couple exchange a kiss across a small patio table and thought of Trent. She’d channel-surfed past a Lifetime movie, pausing to watch the romantic leads kiss and thought of Trent. She’d sat at Jack Gordon’s bedside, holding Viv’s hand and thought of Trent.

  When she’d returned from the hospital that night (and a visit to both Cal’s father and Jack), she’d found Senge’s book on the floor behind the driver’s seat where she’d left it days ago. The steamy content of the book required wine, a rich Zinfandel. The more wine she drank, the more a familiar male face superimposed itself on the illustrations. She brought out her sketch pad and tried sketching evening gowns. Everything she drew looked like spiky anime, not surprising given all her energy and creativity lately went into life coaching. She switched to creating a garden on the page. Somehow Trent’s name appeared in the shading of a lily leaf.

  She’d given up on sketching and had been flipping through the book when she received Trent’s text. Her motor was already racing, prepared to go over the legal limit. Trent was a posted-speed, law-abiding citizen. He wanted nothing to do with her. So why was he texting her?

  A booty call? Not likely. After that hot kiss in the janitorial closet, he’d scowled at her the rest of the afternoon.

  Was he coming over to terminate the Dooley Foundation’s services with the Flash? Not likely. Jack still hadn’t regained consciousness.

  She’d reached for her vibrator after he texted, needing to take the edge off, but the batteries were dead. She should have bought some from Senge!

  Allowing Trent to come over was foolish. If he wanted to talk Flash business, they could have spoken on the phone.

  Trent texted her again when he arrived. She met him at the door, barefoot, in shorts and a camisole. She should have changed into something that covered more skin. She hadn’t, more as a punishment for Trent. He wasn’t dressed for business either. He showed up in basketball shorts, a Flash polo shirt and flip flops. He might at least have put on slacks and a button down, something harder to yank off.

  She had to get sex off the table early, for her sake, not his. “Ah, Reverend. I assume you’re coming over to talk strategy for the team.” She backed into the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? Whiskey? Wine? Water?”

  “Whiskey.” He shut the door, locking it behind him. “Nice neighborhood. I saw two movie stars walking their dog down the block.” He leaned against the kitchen arch, watching her as he had the other night, arms crossed and unavailable.

  Except he hadn’t been able to keep up the pretense then.

  Brutus sat at his feet, tail wagging. Trent bent to pet him.

  “I’ll never understand why Brutus likes you. Normally, tall people intimidate him.” She made him a drink and topped off her wi
ne, unable to carry on a conversation when there was clearly sex in the air. Or too much wine in her system. “This isn’t a booty call.”

  “I deserve that.” He accepted his drink and headed for the living room. “What’s on ESPN?”

  “College football.”

  He sat in one corner of the couch facing the television, gesturing for her to sit in the opposite corner. Brutus, the traitor, hopped into his lap. “There’s usually a classic basketball game running on one of the other sports channels.”

  “Why go classic? I have some Flash games recorded.” She punched up a game with the remote, muting the sound. “We could play the drinking game. I’ll drink whenever Evan makes a mistake. You drink whenever anyone else makes a mistake.”

  “Why do you get Evan? I’d be too drunk to drive if I had to take shots for the rest of the team.” He gave her that wickedly crooked grin, the one that belonged to Trent, not the Reverend, the one that set off sparks in her from breast to belly.

  “I’ll call you a cab.” She imagined rolling him into the back of a run-down taxi. A second image was sobering – her climbing inside with him. She tugged down her shorts. “What did you want to talk about?”

  He stared at her, saying nothing with his mouth. But there was a tension to his body that telegraphed attraction, that negated the efforts of her air conditioner, and sent heat permeating through her limbs. His wicked smile turned devilish.

  Wasn’t it just like a guy to reject her one moment and want her the next? “We’re not having sex.”

  “I’m good with that.” His tone softened. “I need to explain…About the Reverend. It’s a side of my personality I developed as a kid. My mom had just died and my dad bypassed grief in favor of drunken groupie sex.”

  Cora suspected alcohol was Archie’s way of soothing his grief, but who was she to defend his father’s behavior?

  “We lived in a small college town where he coached. Rumors were quick to spread and get back to me. According to rumor, Dad passed out at a frat party. He escorted the college homecoming queen to an after-party where he did a naked limbo. He was caught pants-down with the wife of a prominent professor.” Trent stared at his hands. “Almost overnight, we switched roles. I went from a hell-raising teenager to the responsible one. I did the grocery shopping, the cooking, and the laundry. I made sure he got up in time for morning meetings on campus.”

  Cora’s image of Archie as a harmless, fun-loving drinker shattered. Trent’s impatience and rigidity toward his father’s drinking suddenly made sense. She’d think about why Archie would pretend to be sauced later. Trent was still talking.

  “I was the high school quarterback, groomed by my dad for his team. But when scholarship offers came in, I defected and chose basketball.”

  “At one of the strictest moral colleges around,” Cora said. “Parents make us form the weirdest defense mechanisms, don’t they? Do I remind you that much of your dad that you need to bring the Reverend out when I’m around? I haven’t done the naked limbo with the team.”

  “You and the Dooley Foundation remind me of my wife.” He stumbled over the word. “My ex-wife. She and her father have a budding televangelist thing going – rigid views, strict codes of conduct, prayer recitation. They loved the Reverend more than they loved me. The Reverend fit into their business model. And the Dooley Foundation has all these rules.” He made air quotes. “I’ve found organizations who emphasize rules tend to overstep and meddle. No one’s meddling with my team anymore.”

  She nodded. Their fathers had both been womanizers, but Trent had created defenses the opposite of hers, probably because his parents had a fairy tale love she’d never witnessed. And then Trent had married someone who seemed to want only one facet of this very complex man.

  “And so the Dooley Foundation hits my coaching hot button, whereas you – ”

  “Don’t care for the Reverend, which probably hits his – your – hot button.” She should have put more clothes on. The more Trent talked, the more she understood him. The more she understood him, the more she liked him. Add like to lust and the combination was nitro glycerin set in the path of an oncoming locomotive. Bring on the Boom!

  “Yeah.” He ran a hand over his five o’clock shadow. “Something like that.” He glanced at the TV, then back at her. “When we’re together, part of me wants to forget about the need for the Reverend and part of me wants to defend his turf. When I’m not focusing on you coming along at the wrong time in my life, I can’t help but feel that we’d be…that you are…”

  Ignoring the tiny voice in her head that squealed, “OMG!” she held up a hand to stop him. He was venturing into dangerous territory. She may have acknowledged she wanted to get married someday, but this kind of sentiment…It was too soon.

  “I haven’t dated in a long time.” Trent shot her that wicked grin.

  “Me, either.” True enough. The past year or so she hadn’t wanted to be bothered with the foibles of men. She’d had bed-buddies, but those relationships were sex-only. No dinners. No movies. No staying in to watch basketball games. No sleep-overs. Sex at their place or sex in her living room or kitchen. Then off to sleep solo.

  “I was an ass earlier…in the closet. I have so many decisions waiting to be made, so much on my mind, that when you enter my radar, my brain goes a little haywire.” His smile was a beacon. It sent out a signal. That signal said he was interested. In sex. With her.

  Whoa.

  “There’s not going to be a bump and grind tonight,” Cora said, when what she wanted to say was, “How many times are we going to do the bump and grind tonight?” It sounded like he’d had an epiphany since there’d been closet kissing, but a girl had to have some standards.

  Discarding his flip-flops, Trent lifted his legs onto the couch, stretching them toward her. “Don’t tell Evan, but his workouts are killing me. My body feels like an over-used rubber band, from my toes to my neck.”

  Another come on, an invitation to give him a massage. He’d apologized for yanking her chain today. He’d explained why the Reverend was such an integral part of his personality. Her pulse was pounding, begging her to submit. But she wasn’t going down that easily. “You could have soaked in a hot tub. I’m sure your hotel has one.”

  “I have a Jacuzzi tub in my room.” The ball of his foot pressed into her hip. “It’s not the same as your magical touch, sugar.”

  Sugar. No man had ever called her something so sweet.

  Cora stared at the television. Evan cut through the defenders and scored. She held herself very still. Catholic schoolgirl, scared virgin, Gemma-would-be-proud still. “What makes you so sure the Reverend won’t show up?”

  “That serious side of me is still here. It’ll still be here tomorrow.” His voice was as quiet and solemn as if he was making confession. “But I don’t have to be serious all the time.”

  Cora nearly fell back and said, “Take me.” But there was the question of her wrestling with issues of own morality, who she wanted to be, and his respect for her in the morning. She mostly ignored the inner voice that reminded her of dead batteries, and chanted: Sex-sex-sex. But only because this was the perfect opportunity for a foot rub.

  “No sex.” She plucked Brutus out of Trent’s lap and set him on the floor, then stretched her legs across the couch, resting them in his lap. She lifted his foot into hers.

  Brutus retreated to his bed in the corner.

  Trent had big, strong feet. For several minutes, they massaged each other instead of watching the game. It was nice to be touched without the obligation of sex. Maybe Amber was right. She should know somebody before she let somebody know her body. But it seemed as if she did know Trent. She’d read his history online, and watched film of him coaching. She’d seen firsthand what kind of man he was while he interacted with the team. He’d listened to a few of her secrets and shared a few of his own.

  It’s not enough. The voice in her head sounded a lot like Amber’s.

  He doesn’t want compl
ications, like girlfriends, she argued.

  An image of a wedding dress flitted through her mind. Remember me?

  “Antoine didn’t set up a screen for Evan,” Trent noted. He must have been sneaking glances at the screen. “That was bad.”

  “Take a drink.”

  He left his whiskey untouched on the coffee table. “I have a different game in mind.” He lifted her foot and placed her arch over his balls. “Every time someone makes a mistake, you make a move on me.”

  “Someone? Anyone?” Desire momentarily distracted her from rejecting him. It pole danced around her veins and landed center stage between her legs, hot and wet. “Uh…When do you make a move on me?” She almost didn’t recognize her own voice. Husky, needy, unsure. She was used to sex on her terms. Foreplay? Seduction? They weren’t part of her regular repertoire.

  “Didn’t I tell you? As team coach, I have first dibs on Evan. And this was one of his better games. But when he makes a mistake, like he’s about to, I’ll make a move on you.”

  “How do you know – ”

  Evan set a moving screen and was called for a foul.

  Of course, Trent knew. He hadn’t worked his way up to the NBA because he was lackadaisical. He studied the game, his players, and his opponents. He planned ahead, like the new offense he was adding to the Flash’s tool box. He’d probably planned something like this before he’d texted her, asking to come over. He didn’t realize she meant what she said about not having sex.

  “Slow down, cowboy. We barely know each other.”

  Too late. Trent’s legs were longer than Cora’s. His toes inched beneath the edge of her camisole. With a stretch of his leg, his foot was beneath her top. His heel rested on her waistband. His toes drummed over her bare nipple.

  Air became a precious commodity. It took Cora more than a moment to fill her lungs and repeat, “We’re not having sex.”

  “We’re not having sex.” He might just as well have added, “Yet.” His eyes darkened to a deep, dangerous brown. “And I do know you, sugar. I know you regret not making peace with your father. I know you like to work independently and that your sister is a demanding boss.” He flexed his foot against her breast, wreaking all kinds of havoc with her lung function. “I know you’ve earned the player’s trust and respect.”