Games People Play

by Shelby Reed

  Sydney finally went to fix him a cup of coffee. With each creeping minute, she dreaded his leaving more. He seemed to belong in the wide-open, lonely space. He filled the loft with his warm presence, with the pretty sight he made down on his knees, maneuvering the tree into the stubborn stand.

  And she wanted him. She had forever, it seemed.

  When the tree was secured, he found a box of string lights and began settling multicolored strands among the branches, artfully pushing the flashing ones close to the trunk so the tree came alive with a million sparkles.

  It took a good half hour, and then he was done. The beauty of that tree, even without its ornaments, made Sydney want to cry. She’d never had a real Christmas as a child. Her mother was an atheist and eschewed anything that spoke of a higher power. The trees she’d shared with Max were designer trees, created by professionals he hired to decorate the house with bows and pheasant feathers and Swarovski ornaments. Now, with her very own tree, Sydney went overboard, but Colm was there to help, to share it with her, and against her will, tears of gratitude stung her eyes.

  If he noticed, he didn’t say anything. Holding his mug, he sat on the white shag area rug with his back against the sofa, one long leg stretched out and the other knee bent, the picture of relaxation. She was a fool to think he belonged there, but he did . . . and she couldn’t stop the mental images of spending not just this precious time, but the entire night with him. He would make love to her. More than once. She would open herself to him and let him take and take until she had nothing more to give, and then she’d give more.

  There was so much unsaid between them, so much undone.

  “I know it’s getting late,” Sydney hedged, buying time as she eyed the box of ornaments near the kitchen, “but would you like to help me hang decorations on the tree, too?”

  Colm glanced at his watch and rose to his feet. “Why not?”

  They worked in companionable silence. Hanging the mercury glass ornaments together held an odd intimacy and felt like a task married couples performed.

  Colm took his job very seriously. More than once he moved an ornament he’d placed in an unsatisfactory spot.

  “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” she said with a laugh, peeking through the sparkling branches at him.

  “I want you to be happy.”

  “I am.”

  He didn’t look at her, just kept hanging red, silver, and gold glass balls on the midsection of the tree. There was a method to his madness—larger ornaments on the bottom, graduating to smaller ones on the higher section. He was a brilliant, if mildly obsessive-compulsive, tree-decorator.

  At the end, she handed him the tinsel star she’d bought at an antique store and he placed it atop the highest point. Then they backed up to survey their work.

  Sydney had never seen a more radiant tree. With all its charming kitsch and shine, it sparkled like a universe of multicolored stars, and she wanted to hug it, to hug him. The magic of the holidays flowed through her and filled her with sentimentality as corny as her decorations.

  The lump in her throat grew as she turned to face him. “Thank you, Colm. Thank you.”

  He nodded, his expression solemn as his gaze wandered over her features. “Merry Christmas, Syd.”

  “Merry Christmas.” Her eyelids slid closed when he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead.

  Then, to her eternal disappointment, he crossed to the closet, retrieved his jacket, and said, “I have to go.”

  Where? Where are you going on a snow-choked night like tonight?

  “Did we settle what you wanted to resolve?” she asked as she followed him to the door. She already knew the answer, but she wanted him to say it.

  Amusement curved his mouth. “Not quite.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  Colm’s smile faded. “You know what I want.”

  After Max, after years of being under a man’s thumb, what did she truly have left to give? She and Colm had built up too much between them for sex to be the only answer.

  She offered him something less than what he desired. “Let me give you my cell number.”

  “I have it,” he said, slipping on his gloves. “Hans, remember?”

  Sydney didn’t know whether to hug Hans or strangle him.

  “I’ll call you,” Colm added as they stepped out into the hall.

  “I’d like that.” We could hang out, she almost added, and nearly laughed out loud at her ridiculousness. Hang out, Sydney? he would say. Really? And as before, he’d be the one to laugh.

  She trailed him to the landing, her heart aching with every pulse. What was right and wrong anymore? He was no longer a fantasy, or a temptation, but the real deal, standing there and waiting for her to finally, finally reach for him.

  Colm descended one stair before he stopped and gave her a long look. “There’s one more thing.”

  Hope surged in her chest anew. “What’s that?”

  He frowned, looked down at the ground then back at her. He seemed to be having trouble formulating the words. Finally he said, “Once in a while you and I move in the same circles. The art opening, for example.”

  “I know.” Sydney resisted the urge to add, And it stings like a bitch to run into you.

  “People talk,” he went on. “They talk about things they don’t understand.”

  “Like what?”

  He looked so troubled suddenly, she moved to the staircase, where she stood close enough for the scent of his leather coat to rise between them.

  “Do you mean people like your date at the show a few weeks ago?” she asked. “She cornered me in the bathroom to talk about you.”

  A sigh escaped him. “I won’t ask what she said.”

  “She said a lot of nothing. Made a few suggestive comments complete with eyebrow-waggling. And she referred to you as her ‘friend.’”

  Colm burst out laughing, then quickly sobered at the look she gave him. “I’m sorry. It must have been pretty awkward.”

  “Are you and she—?” She shivered and put up a hand. “God, please don’t acknowledge that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.”

  He grasped her hand in his gloved one and lifted it to his lips, kissed the tips of her fingers. “That makes two of us.”

  It took her a moment to speak again. “Is she really your friend, this woman?”

  He shrugged.

  “What is a friend to you, Colm?”

  “Someone I care about,” he said, his thumb whisking across her knuckles.

  “Was I a ‘friend’ to you? Like Azure? And that woman in the restroom? If you speak of me, will you give a casual shrug and say, ‘She was a friend’?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Confused grief squeezed her throat. “Why not?”

  “Because you were so much more.”

  She couldn’t think of a response that wouldn’t emerge with a rush of tears, so she did the next, most natural thing. She leaned forward and caught his mouth in a gentle, clinging kiss. Nothing deeper, although everything female in her screamed for his tongue, his hands, the feel of his naked skin.

  When she straightened, he stroked her cheek with a leather-clad finger and offered her a faint smile. “Does that answer your question?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He took another step down and looked back at her. “Goodnight, Sydney.”

  “Goodnight, Colm.”

  She stood at the top of the stairs and watched him descend until he disappeared and the door three stories down clanged shut, snow swirling in the rush of air. And then she stood there long minutes more, the sound of her aching heart thudding in her ears.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A melia was drowsing when Colm snuck into her room on bare feet. The floor creaked beneath his weight and she opened her eyes. “Is it Santa?” she exclaimed, her voice foggy with sleep. “Why, no! It’s my brother wearing hideous plaid pajama bottoms!”

  He tugged
at his shirt. “And a Muppets T-shirt in your honor.”

  “Thanks for thinking of me.”

  He laughed and leaned down to brush his lips against her cheek. “Santa came in the middle of the night and left all your presents at the foot of the bed. Should I start delivering?”

  “You know it.”

  He pulled up the chair beside her bed and held up a silver and gold-wrapped box.

  “Give it a little shake,” she instructed, and he obliged, as they’d done as children. The Bose headphones inside thudded around.

  “Tear into it,” she said with a big grin, so he did as ordered. Paper flew and landed around his feet as they went through gift after gift. The pièce de résistance was a computer designed for her disabilities, a replacement for the one she’d recently worn out.

  “You’re officially glutted,” he said at last, when they were finished and loot covered her bed.

  “And where are your presents?”

  “I left them in the living room.” He didn’t want to tell her he had nothing. What did he need? His real present was the day off from Avalon. Sometimes Azure seemed surprisingly benevolent. The pleasure club had a wide non-Christian clientele, and she could have put every companion to work if she’d chosen. Instead she excused them all for twenty-four hours.

  As Colm gathered up all the wadded wrapping paper and shoved it into a garbage bag, he envisioned Azure wandering her opulent apartment on the top floor of the Avalon complex, all alone . . . or was she? Her life was such a secret, the companions didn’t even bother to guess at the details. Not even the ones who slept with her on a regular basis knew anything.

  “What are your plans today?” Amelia asked, her gaze following him while he picked up the trash.

  “To be home.” And what would she do? Lie there, or hang around in her wheelchair. She had a few friends who would come by to see her today, maybe even Hatch, but mostly she was alone, and Colm wouldn’t leave her that way.

  Yet even now, his self-indulgent brain shifted to Sydney. He wanted to tear across town, race up the three flights to her loft, burst through the four locks, and take her. Two nights ago they’d danced around it. He knew she wanted him still. He’d read the stealthy glances she shot his way when she thought he didn’t notice, and he’d done the same, his eyes wandering over her slim, graceful form as she moved through the kitchen fixing coffee and quietly humming along to Bing Crosby.

  “There’s somewhere else you’d like to be.” Amelia’s observation brought him back to her. “Or someone else you’d like to see.”

  Colm shook his head. He was a damned fine liar when the situation called for it, even in his personal life. Little white lies, lies of omission, flat-out lies that could tear people apart if they knew the truth about him.

  The only one he couldn’t fool was his twin.

  “Maybe there’s someone else I’d like to see,” she added cryptically, and of course he knew. Still, he demanded, “Who?”

  Couldn’t Roger guess her heart was as fragile now as her body?

  Before he could assail her with more questions, Molly the nurse chose that moment to tap lightly on the doorframe. “Merry Christmas.” She laid a silver-wrapped gift in Colm’s hands. “This is for Amie, if you’ll open it. And, Colm, I made you cookies. They’re in the kitchen.”

  He gave her a hug, slipped her an envelope with a large tip to ring in the holiday, and then sat down to open his sister’s gift for her. Inside the box was a blue downy blanket Amelia instantly loved. She chatted with Molly as the woman prepared to lift her into her chair.

  “Let me lift you this time and give Molly a break,” Colm said, but Molly simply smiled and drew back the blankets.

  “Go be where you really want to be,” Amelia ordered.

  He studied her green eyes, avoiding the sight of her pale, wasted legs momentarily exposed. “I want to be here.” To watch over her. To stand as a wall between her and anything that could damage her eggshell heart.

  “I won’t be alone, James.”

  His jaw tightened, but she went on. “A few people will come by. And then I have Molly the rest of the day, and then Jane will be here. We’re going to celebrate, right, Molly?”

  “You know it,” the nurse said.

  Colm grabbed up the trash bag and stopped in the doorway. “I’m going to take this out.”

  “Don’t come back,” Amelia said. “Go do what you need to do.”

  “Don’t boss me around,” he told her. “You and I are watching A Christmas Story as soon as Molly wheels you out into the living room.”

  “Suit yourself,” Amelia said. “I hope you can bear my choice of company when he gets here.” And then he couldn’t see her face anymore, only the back of her pillow-ruffled dark hair as Molly shifted her into her chair.

  * * *

  Sydney was curled up on her sofa with a cup of hot chocolate, gazing at her crystalline Christmas tree, when her cell phone rang. At this late hour on Christmas night, it had to be Max. She’d changed his ringtone back to a generic ring, and after checking the screen, she saw his name and hit Decline. The peace in her home was as soft, thick, and quiet as the snowy world outside.

  When the phone rang again a few minutes later, she muted Dean Martin on the stereo and sighed. It would only be Max again—this year’s holiday must be lonely for him, now that the lavish parties were over and all his friends were home with their families or traveling the globe. With a sting of compassion, she grabbed it off the table without looking at it. “Hello?”

  “Sydney,” said a low male voice.

  Surprised delight shivered through her. “Colm?”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No. I was just sitting here looking at the tree.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Are you?” Dumb question. What was it about him that made her trip over her own feet?

  “I am.” His tone was deep, a little sleepy and hushed to suit the hour . . . and the intimacy that instantly sprang between them.

  “It’s so good to hear from you,” she said, as though they hadn’t spoken two days ago. As though the long, empty hours without him had stretched into years.

  “How are you?” he asked, just as inanely.

  She had to think about that. The most benign yet truthful answer was, “Sleepless.”

  “Me, too.”

  She let her eyelids drift closed and swallowed hard.

  “Syd?”

  “Yes?”

  “Truth or dare?”

  She groaned and dropped her head to her hand. “Oh God. For real?”

  He laughed. “You are such a coward.”

  “Not so.” Humor tugged at her mouth. “All right, let’s do truth.”

  “Are you lonely?”

  “Sometimes,” she admitted. “It’s nothing new, but this is different.”

  “How is it different? Describe it to me.”

  She sat up, drawing her knees against her chest. “It’s a good feeling in a strange way. Exciting, sometimes.”

  “When is it exciting?”

  He was right. It sounded silly, and yet . . .

  She hugged her knees and sighed. “When you left the other night, and it was so quiet here, for example. I was really alone, but I was kind of . . . vibrating somehow. Like being buzzed.”

  “Drunk?”

  “A little.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “Definitely buzzing.”

  “But we weren’t drinking.” She licked her lips. “I used to get that same feeling when I was working with you out at the estate. It just sort of starts in my head, moves to my chest, goes so deep I can’t breathe, then . . .”

  “Then?” His voice had gone softer, impossibly lower.

  “That’s enough truth for you,” she said with a sniff, and he groaned.

  “Don’t stop now.”

  “It’s your turn to be victimized.” Sexual tension edged the game, but also a poignancy, as it had the night they’d played
it on the merry-go-round. “Truth or dare, Colm?”

  “Hmm.” He hesitated. “Dare, just to shake things up.”

  He wanted to shake things up, did he? She could do that for him. Feeling brave and reckless, she said, “What are you wearing?”

  “I like the way this is going already.” The smile in his voice made her warm all over. “T-shirt. Pajama bottoms.”

  “Take off the shirt.”

  She heard a faint rustling, then he said, “Okay.”

  “Now lay your palm over your heart.”

  “Done.”

  “Is it beating fast?”

  “Worthy of cardiac arrest,” he said wryly.

  Desire leaped within her like a flame, stoking courage, feeding frank admissions. Only honesty could exist in this galvanized space between them. All pretense crumbled at her feet, and this time she didn’t scramble to pick up the pieces. “That fast beat—that’s what my heart is doing, too, Colm. So fast, it’s stealing my breath. Now put your hand on your stomach.”

  The laughter had left his voice when he said hoarsely, “Done.”

  “That’s where I’m feeling the ever-clichéd butterflies.”

  He was quiet a long time, too long, until heat flooded her face and she swallowed a twinge of dread. She was playing a dangerous game. Maybe she had gone too far. “Are you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “The way you touched me in the studio,” he said.

  Sydney breathed again, deep and trembling. She pictured him, somber and focused, as he cradled the phone against his ear. Where was he? Lying in his queen-sized bed with the rumpled sheets? In the dark? Or was a single lamp shining a wan amber glow across one half of his face, his muscled shoulder, his bare chest?

  He was the next to speak. “Truth or dare, Syd.”

  “Dare,” she whispered.

  “Take off your shirt.”

  Pulse racing, she shucked off her sweatshirt. “Okay.”

  “Put your hand over your heart like I did.”

  She ran her hand over her naked breast and did as he told her. Beneath her palm, her nipple was hard. Her heart felt like it would hammer through bone and muscle and explode from her in fireworks. “And now?”