by Brea Brown
Assuming an innocent air, Rae roots in the fridge and comes out with another beer, which she pries open with the bottle opener on the counter. “I’m surprised, that’s all, that you haven’t seen… everything.” She punctuates that with wiggling eyebrows, so there’s no mistaking her meaning.
I peek at Colin and blush. He raises his hands in front of his chest. “Don’t look at me. I don’t find it odd at all.”
“Good. Because it’s not. We haven’t known each other that long.”
“You see or talk to each other every day. You’ve been to Hawaii together, where you shared a bed.”
“But nothing happened.” Although they both already know this personal detail, it’s somehow awkward to remind them together, face-to-face. “So what’s your point?”
“The guys I know and work with aren’t normally this, um, conservative. Not when it comes to things of an intimate nature.”
Colin flails his hands. “Blimey, say the word. Sex!” Then on a mutter, “And they say the English are repressed.”
Rae lasers a deadly look toward him. “Fine. Players aren’t slow to jump in the sack with people. Is that direct enough for ya, Princess Margaret?”
“Well, it’s not only his decision, you know?” I counter.
“You’re not usually this slow to jump in the sack with anyone either.”
“I’m sorry that Jet and I are not behaving sufficiently sex-crazed for you. There doesn’t seem to be any particular hurry, in this case. That’s all,” I say. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
Colin edges toward the doorway. “I may check out the halftime show after all. Maybe I’ve simply never given hip-hop a fair shake.”
“Whatever.” I wave him off. I’d prefer not to have this conversation in mixed company. I’d prefer not to have it at all, as a matter of fact.
As soon as Colin is gone, Rae asks, “Who usually stops things?”
“I don’t know! One time the dog stopped us.” She raises an eyebrow at that, but I shake my head to let her know it’s not as exciting a story as it sounds.
“Hm.” She swigs from her bottle but keeps her eyes on me.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
Pulling her beer away from her mouth with a thwunk, she says, “Like what? Stop being so paranoid and weird. I’m just surprised, that’s all. You’re the one who brought up not seeing the guy’s bedroom yet.”
“And you turned it into a capital offense,” Colin startles me by saying from the other side of the kitchen doorway, where he’s obviously been listening the whole time.
I turn toward his voice. “If you’re going to participate in this conversation, be a man about it and do it from the same room as the rest of us.”
“I am a man; the lookout man. Carry on.”
Rae defends herself, “I only mentioned it seemed out of character. For both of them.”
Colin pokes his head around the door frame. “Maura’s right. This is none of our business.”
I bite the inside of my cheek but say, “Drop it, okay? There’s no story here. We’re taking our time, letting things progress organically. If you want to know the truth—”
“No, we want you to keep lying to us about organic sex. Like we were born yesterday,” Rae says.
“Why are you being so terrible about this?” Colin asks, returning more fully to the room. “That’s not how friends act. You don’t bully someone to confide in you, then interrupt them with sarcastic asides when they seem like they’re about to open up.”
She shoots him a middle finger. He responds with the two-fingered English equivalent.
“Enough!” I hiss at the bickering pair and glance nervously at the kitchen doorway I expect Jet, Deirdre, and Greg to walk through at any second. “The truth is, I’m scared. There. Are you happy?”
Rae scoffs. “Scared of what? It’s not like it’ll be your first time.” She laughs but quickly sobers. “Oh, Lord. Did you tell Jet it would be your first time? He’s stupid enough to believe that.”
“He’s not stupid. And no, I haven’t lied to him. But the thing is, he’s not just another piece of ass, all right?”
“Romantic,” Rae grumbles under her breath, earning her another murderous look from Colin.
I ignore both of them and continue, suddenly needing to say it out loud, but needing to do it quickly, before I lose my nerve. “Every relationship I’ve ever had has fallen apart, and most of the time, I haven’t cared, because I wasn’t serious about those guys. But this time, I’m actually afraid of screwing it up. Like, lie-awake-in-the-middle-of-the-night scared. I care what happens next, despite being unsure what I want to happen next. So sue me if I’m delaying the inevitable for a while. I’m paralyzed, worried that whatever decision I make next will be the one that sends Jet running.”
“Lady Maura, take my breath away! That’s quite a statement.”
“Well, it’s true,” I grouch at the floor. “And you know what? It sucks to feel this way. So if you don’t mind, shut up about it.”
Colin claps a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve got it. Not another mention of it. Didn’t mean to upset you. Sorry, mate.”
Eyes wide, Rae mutters, slightly less contrite, “Sorry. Geez.”
Before I can accept either apology, the others arrive. Jet grins at Colin, Rae, and me. “Hey, guys! The second half has started. What’s going on in here? Looks like a meeting of the minds.”
We mumble separate things at our feet.
Greg saves us by saying, “That bed is incredible! I’m telling you, Deirdre and I are going to get one of those. It goes on for miles!”
Jet pulls beers from the fridge and passes them around. “Like I told Greg, I need a California King because I’m too tall for standard beds. But it’s also come in handy for other things.” He turns, closes the refrigerator, and wiggles his eyebrows at us. “Torzi’s kind of a bed hog.”
Everyone laughs but me.
The party’s over, the leftovers are in the fridge, and the guests are gone. Jet and I lie on our backs on separate couches, recapping the game. Well, Jet recaps the game. He’s still stunned—and not as disappointed as he thought he’d be—that the Cowboys did what hardly any other team, including his, was able to do this season, and on the biggest stage possible: beat the Patriots. By a field goal. In overtime.
It was an epic match. But after halftime, I wasn’t as interested as I normally would be. My kitchen conversation with Rae and Colin left me queasy, and the couple of beers I’d had until that point made me sleepy. For the rest of the game, I sat on the floor at Jet’s feet, where I could doze, unnoticed, with my head against his legs. Occasionally, a roar from the others would rouse me, and I’d animate long enough to figure out what was happening, but for the most part, I didn’t care.
And when I don’t care about the Super Bowl, that’s telling.
As the guests were leaving, Rae was too busy yammering at Jet about what a great game it turned out to be—“Much better than I anticipated, and—hey!—revenge for the injuries those a-holes gave us. How’s that shoulder doing, by the way, Knox?”—to notice I barely said goodbye to her.
Greg and Deirdre were falling all over themselves to try to secure their next invite to Casa de Knox.
Colin, however, pulled me in for one of his three hugs of the day and said, “Tell him. You’ll sleep better tonight for it.”
I nodded my agreement, but I’m not sure I have it in me right now to have that conversation. Plus, Jet’s in such a good mood. It would be a shame to ruin that with heavy talk about feelings.
More than anything, I’d like to go home and go to bed. But the thought of moving right now seems like an impossible task. Nodding and grunting at the right times during Jet’s enthusiastic monologue is much more doable.
“And we’ve talked about it so many times, but the field goal kicker,” he says from the other couch. “That’s what it came down to tonight. Dallas’s kicker was clutch; New England’s guy had a great night but
missed that one in regulation that would have won the whole shebang for them. Bam. Most important guy on the team. Not the quarterback. The kicker.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Awesome. I still think New England was the better team—they lost a single game in the regular season. But Dallas showed up today, and that’s all that matters.”
“Yep.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say the Patriots underestimated their opponent.”
“Totally.”
“And when New England’s coach substituted that Elvis impersonator in place of Hal Norton, that was cool, too.”
“Right?”
“Maura.”
I blink and turn my head to transfer my eyes from the ceiling to his face. “Huh?”
“You okay?”
“What? Oh. Yeah. Fine. Tired. Being around my brother is exhausting.”
He sits up, swings his legs forward, and plants his feet on the floor. Resting his elbows on his knees, he asks, “Did he say something to upset you?”
“I’m not upset.”
“You’ve been quiet since the beginning of the second half.”
I resume my study of the wooden beams above us. “Beer makes me sleepy.”
“Ah. Okay. Well, you’re welcome to sleep here tonight.”
“Thanks. That would be… nice.”
He pops to his feet. “Let’s go.” Grabbing my hand on his way past me, he leads me to the stairs. “This way, ma’am.”
When he shows me to one of several guest rooms, I don’t question it. I’d assumed we’d sleep in the same bed, like we did in Hawaii. I’d wake up to the early morning smile I’ve missed so much since returning to real life. But I don’t want to make a big deal about it.
He shows me the extra supplies in the en-suite bathroom like the businesslike proprietor of a boarding house, then steps back into the hallway after a platonic peck on my cheek.
With a bob of his head toward the door a few feet down the hall, he says, “I’m right next door, if you need anything. Sweet dreams.”
Okay, then.
Alone, I strip until I’m wearing only my panties and the t-shirt that was under my Knox jersey, then brush my teeth and return to the bedroom, where I stare at the standard king-sized bed in the middle of the room. I can’t help but wonder how it compares to the one in Jet’s room that had my brother foaming at the mouth. Crossing the room and sliding under the covers, I moan at the sensation of the ten-thousand (give or take) thread count sheets against my bare legs. Oh, luxury, how I’ve missed you!
I miss my bedmate more, though. I turn my head and look at the empty pillow next to me. Without thinking about it, I’ve occupied the same side of the bed I slept in at the Pro Bowl, the opposite of where I sleep when I’m alone at home.
I sigh. This sucks.
Eighteen
Reality Beckons
Before I can dwell too much on my disappointment, I hear hissing in the hallway. “Torz! Here, boy. C’mon, Torzi.”
There’s a scratch on my door.
“No! Torz! What the hell? Since when? C’mon. Here. Come.”
Scratch, scratch. Whine, whine.
“Have you lost your mind? Get over here now.”
Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch.
I rise from the bed, cross the room, and flip on the lights. When I open the door, I come legs-to-face with Jet, who’s bending over to pick up his stubborn dog and carry him to bed. For about the hundredth time, I consider what a lucky bastard that pampered pooch is.
Jet smiles sheepishly and stands at his full height. “Maura. Sorry. Torz is obsessed with this room tonight, for some reason.”
I laugh. “If he wants to sleep in here, that’s fine. I guess.”
“Then who’s going to sleep with me?” he quips, his ears reddening as soon as the words are out.
And there it is. The perfect opening. I grab it before I have a chance to let my fear dictate yet another decision. “I can.”
Torz wiggles from Jet’s grasp and shoots past me, flinging himself onto the bed and circling three times on the pillow I was using. Then he curls up for what looks like the duration.
We both watch him for a while before I turn back to Jet. “Well. I guess that’s settled. I was lonely in there, anyway.”
He studies my face, as if trying to interpret what I’m saying. I’m still on the fence about my meaning, so I keep it ambiguous, giving myself an escape route. “Do you want some company?”
With a stunned, “S-sure!” he leads me to the next door down the hall.
On the threshold to his room, I stop short. “Holy bed, Batman.”
He laughs as he pulls back the covers to reveal layers of pillows. “Crazy, huh?”
I round the other side of the bed and look across the mattress at him. “You could fit a whole family in this thing.”
“Funny you should say that. It comfortably fit five of my nieces and nephews for nap time once. Some of them are still pretty little, though.”
“You got a picture of that, I hope.”
“Definitely. Remind me to show it to you sometime. It’s adorable.”
We look awkwardly at each other across the expanse of sheets for a few seconds until I realize he’s practicing a form of unchartered celibate sleepover manners and waiting for me, his guest, to get into bed first. If I tuck myself under the covers and stay on my side of the mattress, he’ll lie there all night and not touch me, exactly like he did in Hawaii. But if I make the first move, he’s all mine.
Suddenly, it’s obvious he’s just as afraid as I am; only he’s afraid of rejection, not of making the wrong decision. Trusting him is one of the safest decisions I could ever make.
My heart races, but I climb onto the bed and walk across it on my knees. Instead of simply watching him watch me while I make what’s sure to be a long, slow journey, I peel my shirt over my head. When I toss it aside, he takes that as his cue to scramble onto the bed and meet me halfway across the mattress, catching my face in his hands.
“Maura,” he breathes into my mouth before devouring it.
I clutch the front of his t-shirt for balance while using my other hand to slide my panties to my knees. He pushes me back on the pillows and removes his clothes as if the play clock’s about to run out. Frantically, feverishly, he yanks my underwear the rest of the way off and tosses them off the end of the bed.
Then everything slows. He stares into my eyes for what feels like forever, his hand trailing from my hip to my breast. I watch the pulse in his neck, much faster than usual, before moving my attention to his lips, his nose, and finally his eyes, still on mine.
“Maura?”
The thought of him stopping makes me want to cry.
“Yes,” I whisper, then repeat louder, “Yes.”
Several minutes (hours, days, weeks, lifetimes?) later, too spent to move anything else, I find the energy to purse my lips against his neck in a default kiss. Then, as more feeling returns to my limbs, I drag my arm up and cradle his head against it, raking my fingers through his hair. He shudders and shivers under me, where he ended up after much tumbling and rolling. Our heartbeats pulse where we’re still joined.
He holds me firmly against him while he shifts to his side. Nestling my head under his chin, he runs his index finger up and down my spine. I fade and drift, my cheek against his rising and falling chest.
After a few minutes of silence, as I’m dozing from sheer exhaustion and deep satisfaction, he wakes me by softly saying, “Maura?”
Rendered speechless, I wait, but he doesn’t say anything else. Figuring he’s changed his mind about any pillow talk, I close my eyes and match my breathing to his, deciding I’ve never felt more wonderful in my entire life. It’s not that my former boyfriends were slouches in the sack, but it was never like this with any of them our first time. It took several encounters—and a few miscues—for us to figure each other out. But this… This was inspired. The man is a sexual savant. And I wasn’t t
oo shabby, myself, if I do say so.
I’m far away, analyzing the phenomenon and chalking it up to amazing chemistry, athletic prowess (on his part), and extreme horniness, when Jet’s breathing quickens slightly, and his heartbeat stutters against my ear. I open my eyes, prepared for him to shift position, ending our cozy cuddle session. But he squeezes me more tightly, kisses the top of my head, and says, “I love you,” then tugs the covers over my shoulders.
My eyes wide, I stare at the crease where his arm meets his body until he loosens his grip on me by degrees as he falls asleep and I fall something else entirely.
It’s still dark outside when Jet gently shakes me awake a few hours later. I open one eye but keep the other pinched tightly closed, hoping my face doesn’t look as unattractive as it feels, mere inches from his.
“’Morning, Beautiful,” he whispers, kissing my shoulder.
“What time is it?” I ask, trying as hard as possible not to open my mouth too much in the process.
“Five-thirty.”
I roll onto my back and groan, closing my eyes against the day. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“You told me to wake you at five-thirty.”
“I’m not mad at you; I’m mad at the morning.”
He laughs. “The morning doesn’t care. You want to sleep another half hour? I’ll work out and take a shower, then get you up again.” Rolling away from me, he moves to sit up, but I reach out and, making blind contact with his wrist, wrap my hand around it.
“No. Don’t go.”
“Okay.” He settles against the pillows once more, on his side. His eyes leave tracers as they roam my profile. His foot runs up my leg, raising goose bumps.
I roll to face him and open my eyes.
His grin rewards my bravery. “There she is!”
“Hey. Good morning.” I mirror his pose, propping my head in my hand, my elbow jammed into the pillows against the headboard. Torn between flattening my bedhead and pulling the sheet high enough to cover my not-so-pert bits, I wind up doing a half-assed job of both and probably look like I’m having a seizure.
