PLAYER

by Pamela DuMond

  “How was your week?” he asks. He drives down Route 34 and we motor past shopping plazas filled with parking lots bigger than the actual grocery and sporting goods stores.

  “Same old, same old. Yours?”

  “Nothing to write home about.”

  We cruise past VFWs, White Hen Pantries, Thai food take out joints, and gas stations on every other corner. The air is warm. It smells different than big city air. Fresher, greener, if that’s possible.

  “How’d the game go in Tulsa?” I ask.

  “‘How was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?’” His handsome facade cracks. Weariness seeps out.

  “That good,” I say, my updo breaking apart. My hair blows in the wind. I push back strands of hair.

  “I missed you, Evie.”

  He might be tired but those reflective Aviators make him even sexier.

  “I missed you back.”

  His thigh muscles contract and release under the black khaki pants when he shifts gears. I wonder what they’d feel like under my hand? I vote for hard and ripped.

  He turns down a smaller four-lane highway. In a few miles it narrows to two lanes. We zip past subdivisions filled with upscale tract houses on large grassy lots surrounded by marshland. Ducks and geese make their homes here. Another ten minutes and we’ve left the suburbs behind for the country, passing farmland and hacked off corn fields.

  It’s yellow and green and lush and relaxed out here. So different from the grit, grime, and hustle of the city. Wouldn’t it be nice to be doing this for real? Motoring down a rural road in a convertible, sunshine bathing my shoulders, hair flying about in the breeze, a handsome guy who seems to like me seated next to me in the driver’s seat? I could get used to this. “Where’s the game?”

  “The Schillinger Batavia Estate and Inn. Historical landmark. Pretty place. Built by a robber baron as a summer home for his beloved mistress.”

  “His mistress?”

  “Yes.” He turns into a driveway and cruises up a black top road toward a three story Victorian mansion. “Schillinger kept the wife and kids tucked away on a lake front estate north of the Chicago,” he says. “There’s sixty miles between the two properties – a proper distance between his two lives.”

  A former 1800s mansion lies tucked back from the road on twenty-five acres of thick, lush Midwestern woods and farmland that now looks like an arboreteum. I didn’t grow up with money, but I’ve seen plenty of it in pictures. This place could pass for one of those magazine spreads – it’s big money – no wonder Dylan’s request was for country club casual. I twist my hair back up into a loose updo and secure it with a few clips.

  “Nervous?” he asks.

  “Not really. Why?”

  “Lots of hair fiddling going on.”

  “Good thing you’re the one playing poker and not me.”

  He smiles. “That remains to be seen.”

  We sip on bubbly water in a cozy dark bar inside the 1800s mansion, sink back into old, comfortable leather chairs and fall into easy banter, just like the first time we met.

  “Do anything interesting and different since last time I saw you?” he asks.

  “Kind of.”

  “Cheer me up. Share.”

  Probably best not to confide I rocked out an orgasm fantasizing about his mouth on my sex. “Drinks at a sports bar with some friends.”

  “Sounds like fun,” he says.

  “It was. You?”

  “Nothing all that interesting. I’ve been having difficulty concentrating lately.”

  “Tell me more.”

  He checks his watch and rises from the table. “I will. After the game.”

  We make our way down a cedar-chipped path through manicured lawns with a smattering of flowers, to a refurbished barn on the back of the property.

  “Sorry,” he says. “No gift for you this time.”

  My hand flies to the diamond pendant resting on my breastbone. “I’m already wearing the pretty one you gave me.”

  “And yet you’re missing something.” He reaches down into a bed of flowers, and plucks a daisy. He catches strands of hair between his fingers and smoothes them behind my ear. “Thanks for coming out to see me again. I think I gave you mixed signals the last time we were together and for that I apologize. The game’s getting to me.”

  “We’re cool.” Wow – he realized it. This is good. Better than good – excellent. “Can I help?”

  “You’re already doing that. You make me calmer.” He tucks the flower into my hair on top of my ear. It feels like an apology of sorts. “My beautiful, Evie. Ready?”

  “Yes.” We reach the door that mysteriously opens before he even knocks.

  A pretty young woman smiles at us. “Mr. McAlister?”

  “Dylan McAlister. And Ms. Berlinger.”

  “Great,” she says. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  Sixteen hours pass. Monetarily Dylan’s up and down – winning some, losing more. The stacks of chips in front of him dwindle. I’m chatting with one of the hostesses in a far corner of the room, not even watching the table when an empathic reaction rolls in, striking with a cold fury like I’ve been stabbed in the chest with a fat icicle. My gut twists. My heart hurts. And I know the game is over for him. I break out in a sweat and sink in a quicksand of crappy sensations.

  “You okay?” the hostess asks. “You look a little green.”

  “I’m good. Just tired.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a few seconds and pinch the thick acupuncture point on the fleshy web between my thumb and forefinger, the stabby sensation rooting me to reality.

  ‘This isn’t your swamp,’ Queasy says. ‘Don’t drown in it.’

  I’m not sure I want to shut this empathic hit down. It connects me to Dylan and if I hold on tight I might find a pony under this pile. It would be nice to do that before the skin crawls off my bones.

  ‘Everything’s a teachable moment,’ Hope says.

  ‘How so?’ I ask.

  ‘Identify the feelings. Name them,’ she says. ‘That way you own the pain, it doesn’t own you.’

  If I get a grip on these emotions maybe I can mitigate the damage they’re wreaking inside me, and help Dylan as well.

  Three. Two. One.

  I sink into the empathic layer and the world spinning out of control around me slows down. The twists in my gut soften, untangle and in the murkiness I identify the sensation: desperation.

  Dylan’s desperation.

  Weird. As soon as I name it the feeling within me dissipates only to be replaced by the next wave. A bitter taste of bile blossoms in my mouth. I pull back, grow space, and identify it. The sensation is shame.

  Dylan’s shame.

  Wow. I might be able to do something with this.

  This time the poker marathon lasts twenty hours instead of twenty-three. Dylan folds at the end, hustled by a guy my age who made a fortune in a social media company. I catch myself the second before I cringe in regret and keep a poker face.

  The players tip the help and the event organizer. Folks use the bathrooms, gather their stuff, and wander out of the bungalow. Dylan and I walk back down the cedar-chip pathway toward the main building and the parking lot. It’s late afternoon, not as hot as the day before, and a gentle breeze rustles the greenery. I’m wiped – for both of us. I’d lay money that sex is off the table but my heart still sinks when he confirms it.

  “I’ll order you a car, or you can train it back to the city,” Dylan says, slipping an envelope inside my purse. “I can drop you at the station.”

  Anxiety bubbles and I finger my necklace. Here we are again. What if this is the last time I see him? “Are you blowing out of town?”

  He shakes his head. “I couldn’t get a direct flight. I’m staying a day to recoup.”

  Hope pinches me. ‘Opportunity knocks…’

  I square my shoulders. “What are you doing between now and then?”

  “Sleeping. Talking to my mom. Doing something that involves nature. I miss natu
re. These games just keep going and going and eventually you forget to get outside and move. The great outdoors is literally a stone’s throw away from where I’ve been holed up in a room breathing crappy recycled air but I forget about that because I’m going over the game in my head, or thinking about the next one.”

  “Do you over-think everything?” I bend down and pluck a daisy from a fat, happy cluster.

  “Yes. For the most part, I do.”

  “Ever consider mixing that up a bit? You know, playing it a bit different?” I bring the flower to my lips, kiss it, and tuck it behind his ear.

  He coughs and blood floods his cheeks. He looks healthier already.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Good.” I give voice to the words that have been bumping around my brain since the last time we parted. “Want company?”

  9

  Sugar Grove

  SUGAR GROVE

  “Of course, I want your company.” He trails a finger across my face, my lips. “I’d be a fool not to want your company. But I can’t pay Ma Maison any more than I already have.”

  “Happy to say I don’t care. Besides, it’s not like Ma Maison owns me.”

  “You sure you want to do this?” His eyes sweep over me.

  My heart bangs on my chest with a resounding thumpity-thump-thump and the V between my legs throbs. “I’m very sure.”

  “What if I told you I wasn’t staying at this gorgeous hotel?”

  I glance up at Schillinger Batavia Estate’s main lodge. Posh. Beautiful. The epitome of country club casual. Yet I get a feeling what Dylan’s offering might be even more refreshing. “I’m not interested in the gorgeous hotel. I’m interested in the gorgeous man standing next to me.”

  He’s booked a room at an impossibly kitschy lodge twenty minutes away on the outskirts of a small town. “It’s not a roach motel but it’s not my usual 5 star gig,” Dylan says, pushing open the door to the tiny wood-paneled lobby that looks like we time traveled to the seventies. Travel posters of Greece beaches, Italian food, and Roman ruins line the walls.

  “It’s adorable,” I say and walk inside as he follows.

  “Visiting on business or pleasure?” the middle-aged female motel manager asks, running his credit card, curiosity hanging thick and heavy on her plump cheeks just like her rouge.

  “Business,” Dylan says staring at the credit card machine, blinking when it flashes ‘Approved.’

  “Pleasure,” I say, taking his hand, squeezing it. “Right honey? You always have business but you promised me some fun this trip. It can’t always be about work, you know.”

  “Yes… honey.” He plays along, leans in, plants a soft kiss on my lips, and I startle. “What is this foreign word ‘fun’?”

  “Um…” A rainbow of tourist brochures in a metal stand against the wall spark an idea. I focus my attention on the manager. “My first time to Sugar Grove. I hear there’s a lot of fun things to do around here. Outdoor things. What do you recommend, Ma'am?”

  Her eyes light up. “Oh, there’s so much. Kane County Flea Market. Check out the Fox River bike path. We’ve got gambling at the casino. That’s not outside but it’s legal.”

  “Gambling!” I tug on Dylan’s arm. “You’ve always wanted to try gambling.”

  “Nope. I’m a church goer. Whatever gave you that idea?” He kisses me again, teeth grazing my lower lip for a longer second.

  I blush and smooth a hand over my hair. “I could swear you mentioned it recently. What else do people do around here for fun?”

  “The game. You don’t want to miss the game. The Kane County Cougars are playing the Wisconsin Timber Raccoons tomorrow night at Northwestern Medicine Field. It’s the best of minor league baseball.”

  “Thanks.” I squeeze Dylan’s muscular shoulder and his eyes light up. “Do you want to go to the casino? We could play the slots. Try our hand at blackjack. Poker --”

  “There are sharks at those places. Besides, who can trust a gambler?” He brushes strands of hair off my face, his breath warm on my face. “Shady characters. Total players.”

  “I met a gambler recently.” I shake my head. “He was sexy. Seemed nice, too.”

  “Really?” He asks quirking a chestnut eyebrow.

  “Yup. Something intriguing about his intensity. His focus. All his smarts. You know -- I’d never go behind your back or anything – but he was hot.”

  “Newlyweds?” the manager asks seated behind the counter, her chin resting in her hands, snapping her gum, watching us like we’re a tennis match.

  “Not yet,” Dylan says.

  I blush.

  “First date?” the manager asks.

  “Nope,” I say.

  “I totally agree with your girlfriend,” the manager says, “You know Kenny Roger’s song, “The Gambler?” Who doesn’t hear that song and not long to be a gambler? Or at the very least -- be with one?”

  “Me,” Dylan says.

  “Not all gamblers are creeps,” I say. “Come on, honey. Let’s hit the casino!”

  “Not up for that,” he says finishing the registration, signing his name with a flourish. “Besides, I’m more a minor league ball kind of guy.”

  “If I had to pick one,” the manager says, “I’d vote ball game.”

  “Ball game it is. ’Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack?’” I ask waggling my eyebrows.

  He bites back a smile, opens the lobby door, and gestures. “Yeah, yeah, I have a feeling you’ll talk me into it.”

  Dylan closes the door to our small motel room. The window AC unit makes grindy noises, chugging along more enthusiastically than the half-assed one at my place. I take this as a good sign. “Have you thought about what you’re doing?” He asks. “Staying overnight isn’t in your contract.”

  “I know.”

  He approaches me, releasing the decorative clips and my hair falls down my shoulders, my back, hitting my waist. He loops a thick lock around his hand, pulling me closer to him with each turn. We stand just inches away from each other, heat sparking between us. I’d have to be blind not to notice the sizeable bulge in his pants. I wet my lips.

  “Full disclosure?” he asks.

  “Yes.” My pulse races.

  “I don’t get involved with women I hire to accompany me to games. Say the word and we’ll keep it PG-13.”

  “Got it,” I say, staring at his full lips. Dying for them to be on my body. “Full disclosure?”

  “Yes.” He twirls my hair around his hand, reeling me toward him until my breasts flatten against his chest, his thick erection presses into my pelvis. He places one hand behind my head, leans in, and his mouth is on mine. The stubble from his unshaven beard scrapes my face. His tongue explores my mouth, and I moan softly, twisting my fingers in his thick chestnut hair pulling him closer to me if that’s even possible.

  His kiss isn’t playful like in the motel lobby, not light like the first time he brushed them against mine at the fancy five star Chicago hotel. He’s claiming me. Kissing him for real is exactly what I suspected: magical – lips tingling, cheeks flushing, my body bathed in stardust after a meteor shower blows through.

  This man. This sexy man. “Full disclosure,” I say, my breath ragged. “I’ve never slept with any of my clients.”

  “Really?” He stops and regards me quizzically. “But you’re so smart. Pretty. I don’t get it.” He slides the strap of my dress off my shoulder with one finger, his touch raising goosebumps on the backs of my arms.

  “Sleeping with someone isn’t a given.” My fingers fumble as I unbutton his shirt, each button popping open gives me pleasure, my breath coming faster. “FYI, not once in the history of the world has any guy said, ‘Good God, I must fuck that woman. She’s got tits to die for, but the best part is she’s so smart.’”

  “Hah!” He feathers kisses and bites down my neck onto my bare shoulder. My breath quickens. His hand finds the back of my dress and unzips it. My country club casual dress slides awkwardly down my body a
nd he tugs on it with one impatient hand until it lands pooled on my calves. “Lose the dress, Lucky Charm.”

  I place one hand on his shoulder, balance on a summer sandal, and step out of it. I stand next to him wearing only my shoes, lace bra, and matching panties. Feeling nearly naked. Vulnerable.

  Dylan inhales. “Wow.” He takes me in from head to toe, one hand grazing my cheek, my neck, skimming my breast, my nipple already pebbling before he even touches it. “Good God, Evie, you’re beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” I shiver.

  “Bed.” He tugs me toward the queen-sized bed at the far end of the small room.

  “Lose the shirt,” I say. I’ve been dreaming about running my hands across his bare chest for over a week now.

  He unfastens the remaining buttons, shrugs it off and thank you Jesus, this man’s just as gorgeous as I imagined two nights ago when I strummed my fingers across my sex and rocked out an orgasm. I run an appreciative hand over his chest, his muscles sculpted and hard just like I imagined. The V between my legs grows wetter, warmth flooding my pelvis, my clit tingling.

  He seizes my hand, walking backward, leading me.

  “Are we’re putting all our cards on the table?” I ask, following him willingly.

  “Sure.”

  “I haven’t slept with anyone in a while.”

  “What’s a while?”

  “Two years,” I say. “Not because of anything horrible. Simply my choice.”

  “Oh, darling,” he says, sitting on the bed, pulling me onto his lap on top of him. “You’re so sexy, Evie. What’s wrong with these Chicago guys?”

  “Not their fault,” I say, “It’s just, well, before I started at Ma Maison, I was finishing up school. Dating was pretty random. But that doesn’t matter because I can take care of my own needs, if you know what I mean.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can come on my own. Girl’s got different ways to get that done, thank you very much.”