PLAYER

by Pamela DuMond

  Amelia’s words echo in my brain, ‘Tell his mother you love anything she cooks.’

  “I bet your cooking is great,” I say.

  “My cooking sucks. Tell me about your upbringing. Where’d you grow up?”

  “Wisconsin. Illinois. Iowa for a short stint. We moved a lot.”

  “Military brat?”

  “Nope. Mom, my sister Ruby and I bounced around a bit. The houses were small. The apartments dingy. Not very many chicken casseroles.”

  “Sounds interesting.” She removes the baking dishes from the oven with fat potholders and places them on racks on the large stove. “Was there love?”

  “Yes. I just never knew how it would present itself.”

  “Did your parents have a drug problem?”

  “Mental health.”

  Rosemary dips a tablespoon into the casserole, scoops out two generous helpings and clack-clacks them onto plates. “That’s tough, honey,” she says. “Look, I know coming here is a change in Dylan’s plans. Patrick intercepted you at the airport and laid some guilt trip on him. I wish I could tell you I wasn’t happy to see him, but honestly, I am.”

  “He talks about you a lot.”

  “I wish he visited more but he’s still uncomfortable and I don’t blame him. Do you know what’s going on with him, Evie? He doesn’t share all that much with me. If I poke the bear he’ll go into his cave and hibernate. Then I don’t talk to him for a month.”

  “He’s definitely going through something. I don’t want to break his confidence, but if you ask him directly, I’m sure he’ll tell you.

  “Do you think he’ll figure it out?”

  A rush of sadness and raw need hit me like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Rosemary McAlister needs to make sure everything’s going to be all right.

  “I think so. I’m doing my best to help anyway I can. I’d never bet against Dylan McAlister figuring things out.”

  “Good. Keep helping him, Evie. He needs no bullshit people in his life. Did he tell you about his ex? Dixie?”

  “A little.”

  “What a fucking disaster she was. A gold digger with dollar signs popping out of her blue contact-tinted eyes.”

  I cough, nearly choking on my chip.

  “Oops, did I say the F word? My husband hates when I swear. But he’s not here, is he?” She sets two small plates of casserole on the table and sits back down. “I don’t know how much longer I get to be here. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be around to make things right.”

  “Mrs. McAlister …” My phone pings repeatedly.

  “Dotting my I’s and crossing my T’s, honey. You take that,” she says. “Maria! Freshen up the cottage for Dylan and his girlfriend.”

  I walk onto the patio, pluck my phone from my purse, and read my texts.

  Madame: Call me. Now.

  I dial her number and she picks up.

  “I don’t even have the words to tell you how angry I am,” she says.

  I walk away from the house onto the lawn. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re literally taking money out of Ma Maison’s pocket,” she says. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t fire you.”

  Damn. “I’ll never do this again. I promise. This is a one time thing.”

  “Oh, please, Evelyn,” she says. “I wasn’t born yesterday. Once a thief always a thief.”

  “I’m so sorry. How can I make it up to you? What can I do to make this better? Just tell me and I will do it.”

  “Prove you still want this job. Prove you still want to work for Ma Maison.”

  “I’ll be home in a few days. Book a client, keep my fee. I’ll do a freebie. I won’t take a dime. Will that make you happy?”

  “It’s not about my happiness, Evelyn. It’s about boundaries. It’s about knowing your place. Clients come to Ma Maison because of our reputation. We vet clients, assign them to the escort we think would be the best match. We help you, but we do not work for you. You work for Ma Maison. And if you stop abiding by our rules, you are free to find other employment.”

  “Fine.” I grit my teeth. “I’ll do it. Book it. Tell me where and when.”

  “It’s already booked. The client’s in Texas. Dallas actually. Considering you’re in Dallas I thought this was meant to be.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow night. A wedding. A new client wants a date for a wedding.”

  How am I going to get away from Dylan? “He can’t go stag?”

  “Does it concern you why he wants to drop five thousand on a date that lasts six hours?”

  “Where and when?”

  “The Sycamore Pines Country Club. He passed background checks. You’ll meet him at the club. 6 p.m. It’s a society event. Wear something upscale. Conservative cocktail attire. I’m thinking you packed that for your road trip with Dylan McAlister, who I’d love to throttle by the way.”

  “Leave Dylan out of this.”

  “That’s difficult, Evelyn.”

  “It was my decision to travel with him.”

  “It was a bad decision.”

  “It was the best decision of my life. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

  She hangs up.

  How in the hell am I going to explain to Dylan that I’m leaving? I’ll just tell him I need a few hours away. That I need a few hours to talk privately with Mom. Facetime with her.

  A text comes in from Amelia.

  Amelia: All’s cool with your place.

  Amelia: I’m watering the plant in your kitchen.

  Evie: Great.

  Evie: Hey, can you do me a favor? Text me tomorrow around 5:30.

  Evie: Need an excuse to get out of something.

  Amelia: Sure thing.

  Amelia: By the way you got a letter.

  Evie: My name typed. No return address?

  Amelia: Yes.

  Evie: Open it.

  Amelia. K.

  Amelia: Another letter from Fan.

  My stomach flip-flops.

  Evie: Send pictures please.

  Amelia: K.

  I look at the guys sitting around the pool. Dylan’s in the shallow end tossing tennis balls, the dogs paddling to fetch them. His Dad’s leaning back in his chair sipping from a longneck beer and talking about how church needs to stay off the political bandwagon and stick with Jesus’s original message about ministering to people. Patrick’s sitting next to Pastor McAlister hanging on his every word.

  The photos arrive thirty seconds later.

  Dear Evelyn,

  * * *

  I hope you got my first letter. Not everyone checks their mailbox anymore.

  I’ve thought about this for a while now. I’ve run it past a few people. Smart, educated people. They say it’s healthy to get things out in the open. Properly communicated feelings do not percolate or fester. They do not become a problem. Even though I’ve decided to share with you how I feel, I have so many feelings that I don’t know where to begin. So, I’ll start with the obvious.

  Affection.

  You’re easy to like, Evelyn. I love your smile. I’ve always loved your smile. Remember when your softball team won that game against the Southside Tigers a month ago? There was a photo on Instagram of your team celebrating. In one photo your head was tilted to the side and I spied a few freckles across the bridge of your nose, spreading onto the apples of your cheeks.

  That picture’s so sweet.

  You weren’t wearing any makeup. You looked so innocent. You could be a thirteen-year-old girl.

  That’s all for now, really. Hope everything’s okay by you.

  By the way, I haven’t seen you in over a week. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on your place. I don’t want anyone messing with my favorite person.

  * * *

  Best,

  Your Fan

  A shiver runs up my spine. I text Amelia.

  Evie: You took someone with you to my place – right?

  Amelia: No.

  Evie: R U still there?<
br />
  Amelia: Yes.

  Evie: Get out.

  Evie: Get out now.

  16

  Magical Thinking

  MAGICAL THINKING

  The cottage is private, at the end of the property just a few yards from the lake, which is tranquil at night. Dylan’s sitting quiet in the corner, his eyes closed. He’s finally meditating and I’m not going to interrupt and tell him about creepy Fan. I read the letter three times and each pass it feels a little less weird. It’s probably nothing.

  His eyes blink open and for a change he looks relaxed. “How do you feel?” I ask.

  “Good. Calm, centered. I can think more clearly.”

  “Excellent,” I say.

  “I have a few questions.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Do I have to empty my mind completely when I meditate? Or can I imagine kissing you, then sinking my cock into your sweet, wet pussy?”

  I bite back a smile. “The goal is to release all thoughts. Concentrate on one word that brings you back to peace.”

  “What if my word is ‘Evie’s sweet wet pussy?’”

  “That’s four words. Besides, that’s not the best way to empty your dirty mind of dirty thoughts.”

  “I’ve got a way. Come here,” he says, pulls me to him, pulls me on top of him and kisses me thoroughly, teeth scraping my lower lip, tongue exploring my mouth. He tangles his hands through my hair, pulls back a little and tugs on one long lock. “Mom likes you.”

  “I like your Mom,” I say.

  “I like you in a different way than Mom,” he says, his erection growing in record time, pressing insistently against my pelvis and the V between my legs throbs. He pulls my top over my head and tosses it onto the braided rug on the white wooden floor.

  “I hope so,” I say, and tug the zipper down his jeans, his erection springing free. We make love like furtive teenagers, quietly, passionately, trying not to wake the folks in the main house a few hundred yards away. I come in soft moans and he follows shortly thereafter. We lie spent and sweaty, limbs entangled on the bed in his parents’ bungalow.

  “Turns out coming home wasn’t all that bad after all,” he says. “Turns out coming home is pretty sweet with you here. You might be a miracle worker, Evie.”

  The Saturday Summer potluck at Lighthouse Cathedral has been on the calendar for months.

  Dylan plunks our beers down on a picnic table in the middle of the tree-lined park between Lighthouse Cathedral and a modern building with ‘Prayer Hall’ painted in giant metallic gold letters on the side. “You sit here. With Mom,” he says. “I’ll get us plates from the buffet table. Anything special you want, Evie?”

  “You pick,” I say.

  “Mom, you want anything?” he asks.

  “Danica already took my order,” she says.

  Ten minutes pass. Rosemary’s surrounded by friends and parishioners hanging on her every word. I doubt any of them knows her surgery’s coming up in a few days, and she’s not the kind of person to play the sympathy card.

  A short, pretty brunette wearing jeans, platform sandals, and a cotton floral print peasant shirt walks up to our table and drops off a plate of food. “Can I get you ladies refills on drinks?” she asks.

  “We’re good, Danica,” Rosemary says, and holds out her hand.

  Danica squeezes it tight.

  “Thank you. Have you met Evelyn?”

  “No,” she says and extends a French manicured hand, diamond tennis bracelet sliding over her chunky gold watch. “Danica McAlister. Pleasure to meet you, Evelyn. If I knew Dylan was going to leave you here so long with the prayer ladies I would have prepared a plate for you too.”

  I get a sweet vibe from her. “Call me Evie.”

  “Evie it is. How long are you in town for?”

  “Not very long.”

  “Danica!” Patrick calls from a dozen yards away on the opposite end of the park and beckons. He’s surrounded by doughy middle-aged men who look like they were just carted in off the golf course.

  She rolls her eyes. “The ball and chain beckons. Chat soon?”

  “Yes.”

  She walks in Patrick’s direction.

  I crane my neck and see Dylan a dozen yards away holding two jumbo-sized paper plates heaped with food, talking with three guys his age. He meets my eyes and nods.

  “I’m Becky Littlefield.” A coiffed thirty-something woman with dragon red lips and fingernails plunks down opposite me at the table. “Pleased to meet you.” She extends her hand and we shake.

  “Evelyn,” I say, and try not to cringe. Her acrylic nails press so hard into my palm I fear they’re leaving indentations.

  “Becky Littlefield of the North Dallas Littlefields,” she says. “Not to be confused with the Houston Littlefields.”

  “Right.” I pull my hand back, wondering if it needs triage.

  “I took back my maiden name after I got divorced. It’s so nice to see Dylan again. It’s been too long. How’d you two meet?” She sips from her fruit-adorned red plastic cup.

  “A set-up.”

  “A matchmaking service? I’ve been thinking about doing that too. Is that how Dylan finally got past the whole Dixie debacle?”

  “I’ll let Dylan tell that story.” I sip from my beer.

  “I don’t know if he shared with you or not.” She stares at Dylan and when he glances in our direction and waves, she says, “But the four of us hung out together during college summer breaks.”

  “The four of you?”

  “Dixie, Dylan, Patrick and me.”

  “Oh.” She hung out with Dylan’s ex-wife? Awkward.

  “We boated on Lake Grapevine. The McAlister brothers talked us girls into skinny dipping with them more than a few times. They’re so handsome. A little wild for pastor’s boys.”

  I glance at Dylan. He smiles at me and winks as if we have a secret. I guess we do. I doubt he’s told anyone about how we really met.

  “I got separated right around the time Patrick got married,” Becky says. She stares at Patrick who’s standing next to Danica, her bejeweled hand resting on his arm. “Bummed I missed my window, but Danica’s seems sweet, and she’s from a good family, you know.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “The Dixie thing. Don’t believe every story you hear about how that went down.” She picks at the potato salad on her plate. “In my humble opinion, I think everybody was a little to blame. Where are you from again? Obviously, not from around here.”

  “Chicago,” I say and tip back a cold beer, staring pointedly at Dylan, wishing he would get his ass back here.

  “Dixie had her eyes set on the McAlister boys since freshman year in college. She wanted Patrick but he wouldn’t pay her the time of day. He wanted someone with a better pedigree.”

  “Pedigree?”

  “Respectable parents. Breeding. Background. Dixie’s parents were trailer trash. Patrick always planned on taking over the family business and he wanted a girl who came from a good family.”

  “Patrick’s a pastor?”

  “No, sugar.”

  “Isn’t the family business…” I gaze up at the Je-normous cross on the lawn, “Lighthouse Cathedral?”

  “Oh, Patrick’s not interested in the preaching part,” Becky says. “He’s got an MBA. He wants to manage the money. He wanted to marry a girl who came from a good family because he knows how judgmental church people can be.”

  “Got it,” I say, glancing around the crowd of at least a hundred people ranging from squidgy babies in bouncers to octogenarians in wheelchairs. The babies look the least judgmental.

  “Are you and Dylan an item?”

  “Yes, Evie and I are an item, Becky.” As if on cue he hustles up and unloads the plates heaped with casserole and salads, fried chicken and biscuits. He takes a seat next to me. “Sorry! I got stuck in the deadly Texas triangle of former high school football friends one hasn’t seen in forever.”

  “Nice to see you, Dylan,” Becky sa
ys. “Can’t blame a friend for asking. I didn’t hear you were dating anyone special after, well, you know, your unfortunate breakup. I never forgave Dixie for that, just so you know who’s side I’m on.”

  Well clearly she’s on Dylan’s side. As well as his front, back, center, and any other square inch of him that she can eye fuck right now while she leans across the table, touching her throat and batting her eyelashes.

  “Evie and I also go way back,” Dylan says, leaning in and kissing my cheek. “Right, honey?”

  “Right.”

  “Evie says you all were set up.”

  “Yes. A mutual acquaintance. I spotted her and thought, ‘That girl’s special. She’s got a look in her eyes.’” He squeezes my arm and grins.

  “The look was a smudge of eyeliner and mascara,” I say.

  “And super cute on you. Technically, we didn’t start dating until recently.”

  “I had a feeling it was recent,” Becky says, a relieved look washing over her face. She scoops up her designer bag from the picnic table. “Gotta say hi to Patrick. Other folks. Great meeting you, Amy.”

  “Evie,” I say.

  “See you around Dylan.” She walks away, then pauses. “I told you I got divorced, right?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  I lean into him and whisper, “The hot stripper vibe is already working its magic back in your home town.”

  “I’m spanking you when we’re back at the cottage,” he says and we both cover giggles.