“Oh, right,” Josh replies. “We can’t even compliment the way you look because—”
“I’m sorry for what I said,” Hunter interrupts his friend. “That’s not the kind of man I want to be. So, I apologize, to all of you.”
At that, I turn back to find Hunter staring at me. He raises his eyebrows and nods, and I nod in return, offering a slight smile.
There isn’t any further commentary from Josh or Mallory, the flight attendant Josh had discussed like an interchangeable sex toy asking everyone to take their seats and buckle up.
The mood lightens during the flight, though a back and forth between Hunter and Sheila starts up about an hour after take off. Sheila makes some kind of joke about her life span being shortened having to work for Hunter, and he tells her he should have fired her ass years ago. I think he’s joking, but he can act so serious sometimes that I can’t be sure.
“You’d have saved me having to buy bulk containers of Excedrin migraine relief if you had,” she shoots back.
“Then he can come and sign with me,” Scott Tomlinson, the third man on the flight, says. He’d stayed out of the earlier discussion between Josh, Mallory and Hunter, but he weighs in on this one.
With slick dark hair and a well-tailored suit, he kind of reminds me of the guys who bought Mallory and me drinks at The Hive, which isn’t exactly a compliment. Like Sheila, he’s a sports agent, and he’s helping her with the cost of the private flight.
“You poach my best client, and you won’t survive the next season he can play to enjoy it,” Sheila snaps right back.
“She’ll kick your ass,” Mallory says, matter of fact.
“Don’t I know it,” Scott replies, eyeing Mallory’s long tan legs before turning his gaze to me with eyes like a bird of prey.
“I apparently don’t get a say in this,” Hunter says, shaking his head and offering me another one of his slight smiles.
“Nothing personal,” Sheila answers. “We’ve all got to make money, except for maybe Josh over there. Might I ask what it is exactly that you do for a living?” Her tone says she already knows the answer but is out to embarrass him, probably as punishment for what he’d said about the flight attendant.
I’d asked a similar question of Hunter when we talked about friends on our drive back from our hike. I’d mentioned a few I’d been close to back home, friends I felt smothered by after the accident that killed Wyatt and my brother. Because of that, I’d grown apart from them. His response was similar, that he didn’t keep in touch with anyone but his family back home, that he’d met Josh at a college party.
Josh, about as tall as Hunter, with light brown hair and a face I’d call handsome, is nearly thirty but is still apparently supported by a trust fund he very liberally utilizes.
A trust fund.
Hunter told me his friend also dabbled in business ventures, but he didn’t know if any of them were profitable. He seemed content enough for Josh to be a “nice guy,” with a career or not.
“None of that’s going to matter much when I’m on my death bed, now is it?” Josh says to Sheila, his tone slightly clipped. “I’ll sure as hell be glad I spent my life having fun instead of worrying about some job I hate.”
“Your parents must be so proud,” Sheila volleys back.
“Oh, come on,” Scott says. “The kid isn’t so bad. He makes Hunter happy, makes sure he gets laid on a regular basis and keeps him playing a good game.”
“God, didn’t we just get done talking about how disgusting that kind of thing is,” Mallory says, her eyes fuming in Scott’s direction.
My jealousy is brewing back to the surface when Hunter turns to Scott and firmly states, “I’d appreciate it if everyone on this plane would stop talking about my fucking sex life, okay? And Mallory’s right—let’s stop acting like cave men.”
Yet again, Hunter ends up looking at me, but this time I turn away, afraid he’ll see the jealousy I don’t want to be feeling about the many women I’m sure he’s shared his bed with.
When things quiet down again, I force myself to focus on the work Sheila’s given me for the duration of the flight. It’s mostly reading up on all of her clients and doing my best to memorize stats and endorsements. Hunter is by the far the biggest earner, his deals with popular athletic brands, a credit card company, automotive company and an airline bringing in more money than his contract to play football. The numbers are mind-boggling. No wonder Sheila can afford to charter a private plane.
When we arrive in California, Hunter manages to stay behind after the other guys de-plane. I’m sure Sheila gives him some sort of look as she passes him, but she keeps walking, giving Hunter a moment to take my hand and say, “We’ll find a few minutes after the game to be alone, okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper back.
“And that stuff that Scott and Josh said—”
“I know.” I don’t want him to repeat it, so I step forward and give him a quick hug. “Deep down, I know that’s not who you are.”
“Thank you,” he says, a smile radiating on his face.
We take separate vehicles to the stadium, Hunter and Josh in one, the rest of us in another. It’s kind of like a limo SUV, and I find myself sitting directly across from Scott. I’m beginning to regret my short skirt, my high heels and low cut blouse by the way he’s looking at me, but I remind myself I’m allowed to wear whatever I want, and it’s his problem if he can’t control himself. Still, I’ve never been so grateful to get out into the fresh air when we reach the stadium in Santa Clara.
“Do you think he really has that much sex?” I ask Mallory a while after we’ve been seated in one of the luxury suites overlooking the field.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess so. He’s a sports agent, so I’m sure he manages to get his fair share.” Her eyes scan toward Scott who is deep in laughter with Sheila and the other agents sharing the large, enclosed suite with us.
“No, not him,” I say, shaking my head. “I wasn’t talking about Scott.”
She lets out a breath. “Oh, of course not.”
With a small degree of shame that my jealousy had burrowed in this deep, I admit, “I meant Hunter.”
She nods. “I know… I know. It’s just the way Scott was looking at you on the ride over—I just kind of thought…” She shakes her head.
“Do you like him or something?” I ask, momentarily letting my question about Hunter slide away.
She lets out a small laugh and then sighs. “Yeah… I did. We had a thing like a year ago. I know he’s old enough to be my dad, but I kind of thought I loved him. If Sheila or my aunt knew, they’d totally die.”
I hadn’t, even for a moment, imagined my question about Hunter leading to that revelation about her and Scott. “I’m really sorry,” is all I can come up with to say.
“Don’t be. It was apparently just a fling for him. He acts like it never happened, and then I saw how he was leering at you. You’ve got to guard yourself around guys like that. Men can be such assholes sometimes.”
“And you think Hunter is one of those guys too, don’t you?” I hate that I’m even asking this, but I guess I just want to make sure I’m not being blind to a reality that everyone but me sees.
“Honestly, I don’t know. I mean, he’s a decent enough guy, but he’s definitely been around, Allison. Still, the way he took your hand at The Hive”—she lets out a heavy breath, and I half expect her to dreamily bring her hand to her heart—“It was really adorable. And I’ll keep your secret… of course I will. But Sheila might be right. Just watch yourself around him, okay?”
“I will. And thank you, for covering for me yesterday.” I’d not yet been able to properly thank her for being my alibi while I went on my hike with Hunter. As far as Sheila and Lisa knew, I’d spent the entire day hanging out with Mallory near her dorm at the University of Washington.
“God, it’s no problem. You’d do the same for me I’m sure.”
I tell her yes, that I would, that
she can count on me as a friend.
As much as I think she’d like to stop herself, her attention eventually drifts back toward Scott. By the sad look in her eyes, I’d say she’s not over him. Not even close.
My own eyes move to one of the giant TV screens in our suite, the camera currently focused on Hunter sitting on the sidelines with his team. The announcer discusses his injury, Hunter turning to say something to one of his teammates. The man next to him nods, both of them looking out onto the field, perhaps discussing strategy. The teammate on his other side leans toward them, becoming part of the discussion. The comradeship brings a smile to my face. Hunter told me nobody would need him at the game, but it’s easy to see his value to his team, how much they want him here even if he can’t play.
The cameras pan back to the field, the announcers animatedly discussing a play, and I wish they’d just go back to Hunter. Eventually, I’m sure they will, but I won’t be able to sit around and wait for it. Sheila puts a hand up and waves me toward her and the group of men she’s with, which still unfortunately includes Scott.
With a flutter of nerves, I stand. “Duty calls,” I whisper to Mallory who only nods, her eyes trained forward.
With as much confidence as I can muster, I walk toward the group, Sheila introducing me to everyone I don’t know, which is everyone except for Scott. It’s a group of agents, some of them with their assistants, like me, just at the periphery, taking notes and updating schedules. I do my best not to let my lack of experience in dealing with multi-million dollar contracts attached to sports superstars show, but when one of the assistants—informing me he’s a Harvard graduate—asks me from where I graduated, I have to admit the highest degree I’ve attained thus far is my high school diploma. The man who looks to be near thirty is appalled, and I know it won’t do any good to add that I was first in my class and that I’d never so much as messed up a single appointment for my dad while I worked at his church.
“She didn’t have to waste years in college, you mean?” Scott says with laughter in answer to the continued look of disgust on the Harvard graduate’s face. “I’d say you found yourself a real gem,” he tacks on, looking toward Sheila.
I’m begrudgingly grateful to Scott for the save, and I offer him a slight nod.
“Don’t I always?” Sheila answers with a pop of laughter in her voice. “And if you’ll excuse us, I have more people I’d like for my discovery to meet.”
The Harvard grad excluded, everyone says how nice it’s been to meet me. In return, I shake hands and offer pleasantries and attempt to ignore the extra long looks I get from several of the men. When I pass Mallory, she’s looking back toward Scott.
“We’ll be back,” Sheila and I seem to say to her in unison.
“Okay,” she says, her eyes barely flickering in our direction.
I don’t feel right about leaving her in the same room with Scott, the idea offering me the mental imagery of leaving a recovering heroin addict with a loaded syringe, but before I can come up with a good reason for her to come with us, Sheila and I are already out of the suite and walking into another one.
It’s the suite set aside for the visiting team’s elite—in this case, the Seahawks—and Sheila introduces me to the team owner and his inner circle as easily as you might be introduced to co-workers at an office party. There seems to be no door closed to my boss, and I imagine a great deal of that power is because of her representation of Hunter Lawrence.
This power is what I think makes most of the people I meet appear genuinely interested in making my acquaintance, perhaps imagining they might one day need something from Sheila and will have to work their way through me first to get it. It might not be the most authentic interest, but I can’t help but to feel a small sense of empowerment because of it.
“I can’t believe I was going to leave you behind in Seattle just to keep you away from Hunter,” Sheila mumbles as we leave the suite. “We’re going to pop into one more and say hello to the wives,” she says more clearly. “Sometimes they’re more important than their husbands, and a hell of a lot smarter. You get in good with them, and they’ll remember you if their husbands ever decide to jump ship.”
“Oh, okay. That makes good sense.” I’m amazed at her ability to network and so thankful I’m here to see her in action, in spite of her concerns about Hunter and myself. This opportunity she’s giving me is something I couldn’t have even envisioned a few short months ago.
“Can you call down and ask them to bring the wine up?” she asks me on our way to the next suite.
“Of course,” I reply, grateful for the task and even more grateful when the young man I’d called meets us outside the suite the team wives are in. He’s dressed in a crisp white shirt and black trousers and holds a crate of wine we’d taken along with us on the plane. Knowing how valuable the six bottles in the crate are, I’d feared losing sight of them, even when Sheila said we couldn’t just lug them around and would trust them to a third party.
“Miss Briggs?” The young man looks at me, his cheeks turning a shade of pink.
“That’s right,” I say. “You’ve got our wine I see.”
He nods while Sheila walks up to him, chooses one of the bottles and lifts it from the crate. “Ah, perfect,” she says. “I’m so glad we chose this vintage. Follow us in, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” he answers.
“Some of the wives like to attend the games in the stadium,” Sheila says once we enter the suite, the man at the door waving us in. “The rest like to spend their time in a bit more luxury.” With the wine bottle in hand and the young man with the five other bottles behind us, Sheila stops and says, “Well, hello ladies!”
The women, spread out in comfortable looking couches and chairs, turn toward us in unison.
“What goodies have you brought us this time?” one of the wives asks, a chipper, petite woman with long, curly red hair that jumps up from a couch like a kid on Christmas morning.
“The really good stuff,” Sheila says, meeting her halfway and handing over the first bottle. “I’ve got more. Five more bottles of the very best with your names on it.”
“You’ve really outdone yourself!” the woman says, eyeing the label with a vintage year that fetched nearly a thousand dollars for the one bottle. I know because Sheila had entrusted me to make the wine purchase, a slightly more difficult task being that I’m not even twenty-one.
“And you’ve brought a cute young man to present it, I see,” another woman says. She seems to come out of nowhere, like a cat slinking its way into the room. But she’s no cat—she’s tall with long, honey-colored hair and a flawless face with perfectly done makeup, the kind of beauty that’s intimidating.
I turn to the man holding the crate—I’ve embarrassingly forgotten the name he gave me over the phone—and his face goes absolutely beet red, at the comment itself or just being in the presence of someone so attractive.
Then the woman laughs and plucks another bottle from the crate. “You know just what we like, but are you sure you want to waste it on us during a football game?”
“And save it for what?” Sheila asks, as if there were no better time to drink five-thousand-dollars worth of wine. “It’s all about living in the moment, isn’t it?”
“Sure is!” The redhead says before dashing off with one of the bottles.
The second one, the tall, beautiful one, exposes a set of brilliant white teeth in a smile that makes me think of danger. “Well, of course you’re right, Sheila. Seize the day and all.” She turns to the corner of the suite and says, “Won’t you get this open for us? And get us a cheese plate with some crackers too. And add in some grapes and strawberries while you’re at it.”
She says these things to a man I hadn’t even noticed, who had apparently been standing in the corner of the suite all along, dressed in white, his hands folded behind his back before jumping into action.
“Go and help him please,” Sheila says to the younger man holdi
ng the crate, and I feel immediately bad for the men being ordered around without any of us either knowing or bothering to use their names.
But there is no time for me to ask or show any further concern because the woman says, “And who might this be?” while looking in my direction.
Propelled into action, just as the two men had been, I extend my hand to her and say, “Allison Briggs,” before Sheila can introduce me.
“What a sweet looking young thing you are,” she says, lightly shaking my hand before dropping it, then turning momentarily to one of the big screen TVs, the Seahawks having scored a touchdown.
“This is Theresa Carmichael, Henry Carmichael’s wife,” Sheila informs me. Then, once Theresa turns her attention back to us, says, “And Allison is my new assistant. I’ve been giving her a lay of the land and introducing her to everyone.”
Theresa’s perfect eyebrows nudge upward. “Is that right, a new assistant? What ever happened to old what’s her face?”
“Carin moved to Germany,” Sheila says of the assistant who vacated my position. “She’s a military wife, so she didn’t have much say in whether she wanted to go or not.”
“Well, what a loss,” Theresa says, her nose upturned. “I was quite fond of her, you know?”
Hmm. Fond of a woman she’d just referred to as old what’s her face?
Sheila clears her throat. “I think you’ll grow quite fond of Allison as well. In fact, if you ever want to get a hold of me and have any difficulty at all, I’ll make sure you get her private number so she can hunt me down.”
“And why would I need to get a hold of you? I think Henry is quite happy with his representation.” Theresa’s tone is playfully mocking, like the way in which a cat plays with a mouse before breaking its neck.
Sheila doesn’t betray even an ounce of annoyance, and says, very matter-of-factly, “Because I’m always here if he decides he’s not. Now I suppose I should make the rounds and say hello to everyone else. But you’ll let me know if I can be of any assistance to you, won’t you?”
The Ground Beneath (You and Me Book 1) Page 7