We continue walking down the street. “Your car is the other way.”
“We can’t go home already. The night is young. And so are we.”
I snort. “I think that’s a song.”
“Really? Whatever. I’m on holidays.”
“Oh right. You are. But I have to work tomorrow.”
“What are you, forty? Come on.” He grabs my hand and pulls me toward a club. It’s a dance club I may have been to years ago. So not my thing anymore.
“I’m a mature, responsible adult who has to get up early in the morning.”
“That’s boring.”
There’s a line to get in, but Wyatt flashes some cash at the bouncer and has a few words with him and we’re inside, surrounded by pulsing music, flashing lights, and writhing bodies.
The DJ is spinning a Tiësto song. The electronic beat vibrates inside me.
“Oh my God, I haven’t been to a place like this in years,” I shout into Wyatt’s ears.
He grins. “Can you handle it?” He tugs me to the dance floor and sets his hands on my hips. The rhythm is strong and throbbing, and I can’t help but get into it. A little.
Wyatt’s a good dancer. Not flashy, but comfortable, with a good sense of rhythm. His smile tells me he’s having fun as we move to the music. The song slides into another sexy, pulsing tune, and Wyatt turns me so my ass is pressed to him. Deliberately, I grind against him. We dance like that, moving against each other. I’m exquisitely aware of his big, hard body, his hands on my waist, my hips. Somehow we know how to move together, and I’m buzzing and so turned on by the sultry music and his touch, I can hardly stand it.
After a few songs, we’re both damp and out of breath. He leads me off the dance floor with a hand on the small of my back. “Let’s get a drink.”
We head to the bar, lined with more bodies, including a lot of women barely old enough to drink, in sexy short dresses and high heels. I feel old.
I take off my jacket and drape it over one arm, and Wyatt’s eyes move over me in my short leopard-print dress. I’m not oblivious to the attention Wyatt is attracting from the other women, with his good looks and athletic body. He’s mine, girls, back off.
Whoa. Where’d that come from?
Wyatt orders me a glass of champagne (how does he know I love champagne?) and a beer for himself, receiving immediate service from a pretty, young bartender. Then he turns my back to the bar and steps in front of me, setting one arm on a pillar next to us, effectively creating a little privacy for us in the crowd.
I gulp down some wine. The bubbles sting my nose and throat.
“Admit it, you’re having fun,” he says near my ear.
“Okay, okay, I like dancing. I haven’t done it for a while.”
“Is that because you’ve been dating guys old enough to be your father?”
I snort. “No.” Maybe. It’s true that most of my recent dates have been dinner dates or charity events or dinner and a movie. Definitely not sex shops and dance clubs.
“You have to live a little,” he says. “Life is short.”
He’s smiling, but the words sound intense.
“I guess that’s true.”
“Hakuna matata.”
I burst out laughing. “You’re crazy.”
“Maybe so.” He leans in closer and nuzzles my ear. His breath has shivers cascading down my skin. “But I’m having a good time.”
“Life’s not all about fun.”
“Right now it is.”
I shake my head, but he’s irresistible and I smile.
We dance more. He runs into someone he knows—a football player? And we hang out with them for a little while, laughing a lot. I can’t believe it’s two in the morning the next time I check my phone.
I lay my hand on his forearm and go on my toes to speak into his ear. “I really have to go home! It’s late.”
This time he nods. “Okay. Beam us up, Scottie.”
“I wish. Are you okay to drive?”
“Sure. I’ve only had one beer.”
“Really?” How the hell did that happen? Then I realize I’ve only had two tiny glasses of champagne the whole time we’ve been here. Every time I mentioned another drink, Wyatt made me dance again.
We say goodbye to our new friends and I dance my way out of the club. The street is a lot quieter now and we start down the sidewalk arm in arm. I’m singing the words of a song the DJ played. “Chop up the beats, chop up the beats.”
Wyatt laughs and spins me around. I can’t believe I don’t fall over, but I guess I’m not that drunk.
“I haven’t laughed that much in a long time. My face hurts.”
“That’s good. Laughter is important.”
“I’m not that much of an old fuddy-duddy.”
“Fuddy-duddy? That must be a term your dad uses.”
I giggle. “Yeah, that probably is where I got it.”
We arrive at the church parking lot where Wyatt left his SUV and we both stop short at the now locked gate in front of us. A big, black wrought-iron fence with spikes on top surrounds the lot, including his Land Rover.
“Oh my God.” I gaze at the locked gate.
“Fuck.”
We both stand there staring at it.
“What are we going to do?” I ask.
Wyatt walks back and forth along the fence, as if assessing his ability to climb it. That won’t help, though; we still need to drive out.
He blows out a breath and shoves a hand into his hair. “Maybe I can pick the lock.”
“What?”
He moves closer to the gate to inspect it and I hover near him as he pulls a Swiss Army knife out of his pocket. “Damn, I can’t see,” he mutters.
“Here.” I pull out my phone and turn on the flashlight, shining it on the lock.
“Great, now the cops can clearly see me breaking in.”
“Do you want to see what you’re doing or not?”
The sound of voices reaches us, and we both look down the dark sidewalk. A man and a woman are approaching. The guy’s hair is bleached blond and spiky. He’s wearing a long black leather coat and multiple piercings glint in the streetlight. In the darkness, all we can see of her is black hair, black-rimmed eyes, and black lips. And black combat boots.
I clutch Wyatt’s arm nervously.
“Shit,” Wyatt hisses, straightening.
“It’s your fucking fault!” the woman says. “He wouldn’t be in jail if it wasn’t for you!”
“Calm down! It’s not my fault.”
My eyes widen, my stomach clenching.
The dude stops near us and takes in what we’re doing. “Hey, man. I can get that done for you.”
“Uh…”
He disappears back up the street and around the corner.
Wyatt and I exchange wide-eyed glances, then smile cautiously at the goth girl scowling at us, her arms crossed and one hip cocked.
The roar of an engine fills the quiet street, and the dude in the coat pulls up in a white van. He jumps out and opens the back doors. He’s got an entire True Value hardware store in there.
He pulls out a power saw and in a few minutes, sparks flying, metal whining, he has the lock cut open. I glance wildly around, ready for the police to race up with lights flashing and sirens blaring.
I’m not even sure what to say. I mean, we could have taken an Uber home and come back tomorrow for Wyatt’s vehicle; we didn’t really have to do this. But it seems polite to thank the guy for breaking in.
“Yeah, thanks,” Wyatt adds.
“No worries, man, it’s cool. You never know when you’re going to need to fuck some shit up.”
He gives Wyatt’s hand a bro shake and then he and Goth Girl jump in the van and roar away.
Wyatt and I t
urn to each other, stunned, then both collapse into each other’s arms, laughing.
“We just broke into a church!” I wheeze, holding on to him.
“I know!”
“Pretty sure we’re going to burn in hell for that.”
“I feel guilty.” He pulls out his wallet, peels off a bunch of bills, and jogs over to push them into a mail slot beside the church door. Then we make our getaway.
“I can’t believe that just happened.” I lean my head back against the headrest. “I have to say, a date with you is an adventure.”
“Of course it is. Life is an adventure.”
“I can’t believe how late it is. This is really going to mess with my sleep hygiene.”
“Sleep what?”
“Sleep hygiene. I try to keep a strict routine, because I have, uh, trouble sleeping. Sometimes.” All the time.
“Yeah, I know what it is. Sleep is important, but a night of fun is okay once in a while.”
“I don’t know.” I sigh. But yeah, I had so much fun.
When we arrive at my place, Wyatt parks on the street. He jumps out to open my door, and leads me to my condo.
I was all relaxed and mellow until this moment. Now uncertainty grips me.
“You kept me out way too late,” Wyatt says. “It’s past my bedtime.”
I splutter. “What? You’re the one who kept me out!”
“Nah.” He brushes his lips over my cheek. “Now it’s too late to come in and make out with you.” He shakes his head. “I know it’s disappointing, but you’ll survive.”
I’m both aroused and…yes, disappointed. And relieved. I should be relieved.
I smile, though. He took an awkward moment and made light of it. “Damn. If I’d known, I would have insisted we leave hours ago.”
His eyelids lower and his lips part enticingly. “Maybe next time.”
There shouldn’t be a next time. But my own lips part too, hungry for his kiss, and I close my eyes as well. His mouth meets mine…warm…firm…delicious.
My belly quivers and flips, a little ache starting up low down inside me. I pull in a slow breath as he eases away from me, my eyes fluttering open. I stare into his dark orbs, and he touches my face. I love how he does that.
“Good night, princess. I had fun.”
“Me too.” I have to be honest. “Good night.”
He waits until I’m safely inside, the door locked behind me. I lean against it, listening to his footsteps on the sidewalk, then his vehicle starting.
Wow. That was a crazy date, but…I really did have fun.
* * *
—
I’m not even hungover the next morning, just tired. And yet I seem to have some weird adrenaline thing going, a fizzy, excited, energetic feeling every time I think about Wyatt and the crazy stuff we did last night. So I’m buzzing through my work all morning. I check in on the photo shoot where Wyatt is decked out in Hockey for All gear and smiling at the camera in various poses. All is going well.
At lunchtime, I’m on my way out to grab something to eat. Passing by the front reception counter, I see a group of people crowded around the receptionist Jennifer’s computer.
“What’s going on?” I pause. Maybe they’re watching something from the All-Star Game in Vancouver.
Jennifer looks up at me. “Is Wyatt Bell gay?”
I jerk back, nearly falling over. “Pretty sure he’s not,” I say casually. “Why?” Why are you asking me?
“There’s a picture of him online—the On the Town blog. In some kind of gay BDSM fetish-wear.”
I blink. My insides go hot, then freezing cold. I grip the edge of the counter. “What?”
“Come see.” She gestures.
I round the desk and peer at the screen at which Jennifer; Brenda, the chief HR officer; and Kate, the CFO, are all staring.
“Jesus.” I can only gape at the picture of Wyatt wearing that singlet last night.
But it’s not just that…it’s a picture of Wyatt with his arm around the guy who works in the store, and they’re smiling at each other, looking for all the world like they’re a couple.
“I didn’t know he was gay when we chose him to be the ambassador for All,” Brenda muses. “Is he out?”
“He’s not gay.”
I frown. I’m confused and my mind is spinning uselessly. Lack of sleep probably isn’t helping.
“Are you sure?” Lisa eyes the image doubtfully. “Wouldn’t it be good to have an ambassador who’s gay?”
“He’s not gay.” I keep saying that.
“Then what is this?”
I swallow. I rub my temples. Okay, this is a dilemma. “Who else has seen it?”
Jennifer snorts. “Only about a million people.” She leans closer to the screen. “There are nearly a hundred comments on the post.”
“Oh my fucking God. I meant, who else from the hockey organization has seen it?”
“I don’t know.” Jennifer grimaces. “But I’m sure they’ll hear about it. Théo and Dave and Brock are in Vancouver. I bet there’s talk about it there.”
I can just let this go. Hope for the best. Maybe nobody will see it. Talk will die down. It’ll be a big nothingburger.
And the Condors are going to win the Stanley Cup this year.
I bite down hard on my bottom lip. “I’m sure it’s, um, nothing. But if you hear anything more, will you let me know?”
“Sure.”
Instead of going for lunch, I return to my office. I drop into the chair behind my desk.
I need to think. I need to stay calm. On the Town is a pretty popular blog. They post a lot of news about celebrity sightings in Los Angeles. Some of them are tacky and trashy, but not all. They’ve been criticized in the past for how they get some of the images they run. I wonder how much they paid the person who was in the store last night.
Dammit! I should have known that could happen! I tried to stop Wyatt, but he went and did it anyway, and we were laughing and having fun and I guess I just lost my common sense for a few minutes.
That doesn’t happen to me. Ever. What the hell got into me?
I slump in my chair and close my eyes. Being in the news for the wrong reasons is my worst fear.
Of course, I’m not in that picture and there’s nothing about me in the article.
It’ll be okay. But nothing like that can happen again. I live my entire life to avoid things like this.
I fish my cellphone out of my purse. I don’t like talking on the phone, but sometimes it’s necessary. I call Wyatt.
“Hey, princess.” His deep, smooth voice greets me. “How are you?”
“I’m…oh my God.”
“What?” His tone sharpens. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. You’re in trouble, though.”
“What the hell?”
“Where are you? Are you near a computer? Or can you look on your phone?”
“Look at what?”
“This blog.” I give him the URL and wait.
And wait.
“Oh my fuck.”
“Yeah.”
He cracks up laughing. “Jesus! This is hilarious! Who the hell took this picture?”
I hold my phone away from my ear and gape at it. He’s laughing about this? “Must have been a customer who recognized you.”
He’s still laughing, so hard he almost can’t speak. “They think I was trying that on…for real? Ahahahaha. And the dude who works there…bahaha.”
“They think you’re gay.”
He laughs more, gasping for air. “Jesus Christ.”
“This isn’t funny, Wyatt.” I glare across my office. He thinks everything’s a joke. Well, this is not.
“Sure it is. It’s freakin’ hilarious.”
�
�You were just named the team ambassador to Hockey for All.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re supposed to support inclusivity and diversity.”
“So?”
I grind my back teeth together. “You’re not gay.”
“That is correct. You figured that out, huh.”
“Smart-ass.” I close my eyes, my jaw aching. “This could be a huge problem. I don’t know how huge. But if management finds out about this…” I stop.
“Who cares?”
“You have no idea.” He should know something about optics and image and public relations.
“Come on, if people think I’m gay, it’s no big deal. Not these days. And I don’t give a shit what people think.”
“I know you don’t, and it wouldn’t be a problem if you really were gay.” I rub my forehead. “Look, never mind. Let’s just see how things play out. Maybe it’ll blow over without attracting any attention.”
“Okay. Whatever. So…do you want to come over to my place for pizza tonight?”
My eyes pop wide open. Now he’s asking me on another date? Good God, I should never have gone with him last night, and this whole shit show wouldn’t be happening. “No. I can’t. Look, Wyatt, we should never have gone out. Now this has happened…I can’t do that again. Sorry. I have to go. Bye.”
I end the call and toss my phone aside. Elbows on the desk, I bury my face in my hands. That was rude. I feel bad. I’m such a bitch.
It’ll be fine.
I’ll just spend the weekend imagining the worst, having anxiety dreams, and knitting up a storm. There might be wine involved. It’ll all be fine.
* * *
—
It’s not fine.
Of course word gets out about the blog post and the picture. Monday morning, when everyone’s back in the office, there’s a big meeting about it, including Murray and…my dad.
I’m not included in the meeting. I don’t work for the team. But I’m aware it’s going to happen at eleven o’clock. I sit in my office, swiveling back and forth in my chair, my palms sweaty, my stomach churning, debating what to do.
At about five minutes to eleven, Wyatt appears in my door.
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