by E. R. Whyte
I’m here because it’s Homecoming. That’s the reason I put on these skinny jeans that make my butt look luscious instead of merely big. It’s the reason I’m wearing stripes of ink on my cheekbones, and this snug-fitting gray sweater.
No other reason.
Ahead, there’s a red and gray canopy set up for alumnae. I head in that direction, smiling weakly at a few faculty members as I pass by.
Homecoming is a huge celebration each year. Former cheerleaders, football team members, and student government volunteers put up the canopy, stock coolers with drinks, and set up a display of the twenty-year alumnae’s memorabilia, such as yearbooks and uniforms. It’s always been a fun night.
Tonight’s twenty-year group is the graduates of ’99. I don’t know these people. I scan the group in the tent with a cursory look and continue toward the bleachers.
“Shiloh!”
I stop, trying to find the person hailing me. Then I see him, shouldering politely through the group in the tent, dark hair gleaming in the stadium lights. It’s Dr. Adams, Sammy’s doctor at Thurston House. He looks different, dressed casually in a sweatshirt and pair of dark wash jeans.
“Dr. Adams, hi.” I wave my hand at the tent behind him. “You’re an alumna, I take it?”
He looks down at me, hands in pockets, and shifts his weight on to his heels. “I am.”
We chat for a few minutes, me working the math while I pay attention. For a thirty-eight-year-old, he is an attractive guy.
“I’d better go grab a seat,” I tell him, turning away. “It was nice seeing you.”
“Are you here alone?” His question makes me pause. The gleam of interest I see in his eyes is unmistakable. Unfortunately, I’m not interested in him like that.
“No. I’m meeting someone,” I lie. “Enjoy the game.”
“Please call me Jason,” he corrects. He’s been correcting me for the past two years, but I can’t bring myself to call my brother’s doctor by his given name. Even if he is good-looking. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
I always visit Sammy on Saturday afternoons. “Yes, I should be there as usual.”
With a final wave, I leave, conscious of his eyes following me as I cross the short distance to the stands.
At the top of the stands, I stop and search for a place to sit. The bleachers are full, the student section dead center at the fifty-yard line filled with movement and noise.
I find a seat a bit off-center on the end of a bleacher around four rows up from the fence that divides the stands from the field and sit, aware of my aloneness in the throng of people.
I haven’t been to a football game in ages. I used to be one of those carefree kids in the student section, cheering on our team and dancing to Chicago’s 25 or 6 to 4. After the accident that killed Mom and injured Sammy so severely, I lost any desire to attend things like football games or parties. Hell, I haven’t even been on a date in three years.
It’s too much effort.
And I feel guilty enjoying myself and living life while Mom’s dead and Sammy’s still working on recovery. It’s not right, especially considering what they were doing when they had the accident. Considering I should have been there with them.
I start to rise, my interest in being here gone. I’m startled when everyone around me rises at the same time, cheers going up. We just scored a touchdown.
Looking down at the field, I see Gunner standing on the forty-yard line, hands on hips as he watches the guy who scored the touchdown celebrating with teammates down field. He’s huge in his pads, even at a distance. As I watch, he turns his head toward the bleachers and his eyes catch mine unerringly. A slow smile curves his lips, just visible through his helmet.
I shiver, start to smile back, and then catch sight of Shane. He’s standing on the sidelines with a clipboard in his hand and his face to the crowd. As I watch he glances back at the field and then at me. His lips twist, mocking me, and he shakes his head.
Realization hits that while the crowd around me has settled back into the stands, I’m still standing. I drop abruptly back to my seat.
I guess I’ll stay a little longer.
20
Shiloh
“How’s the shaping of young minds going?” my brother asks. Sammy’s words are labored as he voices his thoughts, the process of getting them from brain to speech an involved one. It’s improving, though, every time I come to see him.
Sammy lives in a place that looks more like a big southern plantation than a specialized care facility. He shares space with other patients recovering from brain injuries, relearning things like how to tie his shoes, put on his clothing, and even speak to some degree. He emerged from the accident that killed our mother alive, but so broken as to be almost unrecognizable. He was touch and go for months, remaining in a medically induced coma for most of that time. It was a few months past that before he was even able to begin the rehabilitation process. He’s healing well now, but with excruciating slowness. I’m hoping that now that I’m finished with school and on-campus life, he’ll be able to come home to live with me
“Meh… fine, I guess. Guess who’s in my senior English class?”
Sammy raises his eyebrows. “Who?”
“Gunner Ford. And Miles Kendrick.”
“Those fuckers.” Despite his words, there’s no ire. Instead, there’s honest affection in his tone. “What are they up to?”
“Miles is busy with his girlfriend, Sherry Jane. Gunner is busy playing football and being a flirt.”
“Flirting with you?” Sammy teases.
My eyes widen. “Why on earth would you say that?”
“He’s had a thing for you since we were kids, Shy. I know he’s not giving up now that he gets to see you in class every day.”
If only you knew, I think. “No. He hasn’t given up. Unfortunately for him, though, there’s that age thing. And the teacher thing.”
“You’d do him otherwise, though.”
“Sammy!” I didn’t think people actually gasped, but I do. I feel my cheeks heat with a blush and keep my gaze focused on the knitting in my lap. Undeterred, he continues. “And you’re not that much older than him. Remember, he flunked kindergarten, so he’s always been a year older than the rest of us. So there’s what… three years' difference?”
It always amazes me how Sammy’s brain works. Cognitively, he’s brilliant. While he remembers trivia and things that happened years ago, randomly and in perfect detail, he has trouble processing some of the simplest of tasks.
He’s getting closer to a full recovery every day, though.
“I don’t know,” I lie. “I don’t think about things like that.”
Sammy laughs and slaps his hand against his knee. “Right. So what interesting things happened this week?”
“Nothing much. I went to work. I went to the Homecoming game yesterday.” I look up at him from the knitting. “I saw Dr. Adams there. He’s a twenty-year alum.”
“Did I hear my name?” As if he’d been waiting on his cue, the doctor strolls through the open door.
He’s just a bit over six-foot, with a lean but muscled build. I rise and greet him, trying and failing to sidestep the side hug he pulls me into. He’s been doing this more and more frequently lately. I feel that with the smallest encouragement on my part he’d be asking me out, so I’ve been trying to keep things on a professional level.
“How’s Sammy doing?”
“He’s making incredible progress. I think he may be able to come home soon,” he says.
“Really?”
“Indeed. I think we’ll be able to discuss it further after I see his work this week.”
“Oh, my goodness. This is amazing.”
“We’ll set up an appointment next week to talk about your part in his continued recovery. The caretaker role is very important.”
I nod and look over at Sammy. He’s beaming.
Dr. Adams excuses himself and S
ammy and I spend the remainder of my visit talking about the future, our excitement palpable in the air.
I’m climbing into my car when I receive a text alert. I start the engine and glance at the screen.
Gunner: you came to my game last night
Me: I went to the school football game, yes.
Gunner: shot through the heart
Me: Did you need something?
Gunner: I need you.
Me: something else
There’s no response for a long minute, and I realize that I’ve been sitting in my car, unmoving, for several minutes. I look around to see if anyone’s noticed, but aside from Dr. Adams sitting on the porch with a patient, there’s no one. I back out of the parking space and begin to drive.
Gunner: what are you doing right now?
With a sigh, I pick up the phone and call him. I can’t text and drive. When he answers, the low, masculine tones of his voice make my insides tighten.
“Dolcezza.” He says the Italian word with a lazy southern inflection, an odd combination that shouldn’t be attractive.
And yet it is.
He sounds like he’s lying in bed still, and the picture that comes to mind is vivid. Bare chest, tousled dark hair, sleepy eyes. My mouth goes dry, and for a moment I can’t speak.
“Driving. I’m driving right now.”
“Ah. What have you been up to?”
“I went to visit Sammy. What do you want, Gunner? And don’t say me.”
I hear the low hum of conversation in the background. “Just thought I’d request the pleasure of your company this evening, ma’am. My nonna would like to meet you.”
“Gunner…” I run my hand through my hair, suddenly weary. “We are not in a meet the parents relationship.”
“But we’re in a relationship?”
“No! Don’t twist what I’m saying. You know what I mean.”
“So, you’re saying I have a chance.”
Smiling, I shake my head at his good-humored insistence. “It’s a no. I’m busy tonight, anyway.”
“Oh. You working? My nonna does want to meet you, but really I wanted you and my dad to meet, get stuff settled for the tutoring.”
“It’s none of your business what I’m doing, Gunner. And I’m sorry; I do need to meet with your father, obviously, but tonight isn’t good. I’m just busy.”
“Next time, then. Bye, dolcezza.” Shaking my head and fighting a smile, I disconnect.
“What’s wrong, kiddo?” Leila steps up behind me in the mirror of the club dressing room. She runs a hand under the heavy fall of my hair and fluffs it a touch, then settles her hand on my shoulder and eyes me in the reflection, waiting.
“Apparently I’m scheduled for a lap dance tonight,” I say. “I don’t do those, Leila. I don’t like to get that close to the customers. Danny knows this.” I know I sound whiny, but inwardly I’m freaking out. I’ve never done a lap dance. Shit — I’ve never even had sex — I was a virgin all through high school, and there was never any time for connections of that nature after my mom died. I’m wishing now I had done more exploring in high school. I’m the biggest fraud out here. I lower my head into my hands. “I’m not even supposed to be on schedule tonight. I don’t know how to do this.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know how to do this? It’s not rocket science.”
I stay silent. I’m not about to tell her I’m a virgin. She’d advise me to get myself laid so my moves would be better informed.
Danny had informed me that I needed to get my ass back to work if I wanted to keep a job. Reluctantly, I was here.
Leila squeezes both my shoulders. “You had to know this was coming, kiddo. It’s part of the gig. And Monica taught you the moves. I watched her. You’ll be fine, Shiloh.”
“What if it’s someone I know?” I whisper. “It’s not even a normal lap dance. This guy must be loaded because he’s commanded a full evening’s performance. What am I even supposed to do for an entire night?” She raises her eyebrows at that, a silent answer. “Am I supposed to let him touch me?”
“You don’t do anything you are not comfortable with. You know we don’t allow touch for money. And as far as him being someone you know, that’s a risk every one of these girls takes, Shiloh. If you’re ashamed or you’re not prepared to put on your big girl panties and deal with it, then maybe this isn’t the job for you.” Her expression is taut, and it’s obvious I’ve offended her.
“It’s not that, Leila. I’m a teacher, though. They’ll fire me. I can’t afford to lose that job. I won’t be able to pay Sammy’s medical bills.” Her expression softens.
“Ah. How about this?” She rummages in a nearby bin of props and pulls out a black half mask and a blonde wig. We fasten the mask around my face and pull the wig over my reddish hair and it’s the perfect addition to my chosen costume, rock groupie. I’m wearing denim hot pants over fishnet stockings with garters, studded half boots, and an almost transparent Def Leppard cropped T-shirt over a black bra. I stand up and do a slow twirl.
“Thanks. That helps, I think. How do I look?”
She eyes me critically before unbuttoning the denim shorts and folding the plaquettes down to reveal the top of my lacy red panties. “There. Perfect.” She gives me a gentle shove toward the hall that leads to the VIP rooms. “Go make some money.”
“Right.” Nervously, I make my way to my destination, giving the bouncer at the door a tight smile and the door a brief knock before plastering what I hope is a seductive smile on my lips. At the mumbled reply, I walk in. “Hi, there, I’m… you’re —” my greeting trails off as I get a look at the man sitting back on the couch, arms spread along its back and legs sprawled wide.
He’s big, with lean muscle in all the right places. He has thick wavy hair in a distinct shade of blue-black, and his jaw is already starting to shadow with evening bristle. His eyes, fixed on me standing there, are a clear gray that have always reminded me of winter skies.
Gunner Ford.
“Come in,” he says, when I continue to stand motionless half-in and half-out the door, not so much an invitation as a demand. His voice rumbles through me, awakening a response along nerve endings I’d never known to respond to auditory stimulation before now. “What’s with the mask?”
Shit. Closing the door behind me, I force myself to walk to the stocked bar present in every VIP room. “I value my privacy,” I reply, trying to pitch my voice low. He hasn’t recognized me yet, thank God. “Would you like a drink?” The tinkling of ice in a glass alerts me he’s already indulged.
“I’m good.”
“Okay.” I move to fiddle with my music, keeping my back to him. Outwardly collected, inside I am scrambling. What the hell am I supposed to do? What the hell is he doing here? How did he even get in? He’s not twenty-one. Is patronizing strip clubs something high school guys just do these days?
Clearest of all in my head is the rock-solid awareness that I cannot dance for Gunner Ford. Attraction already buzzes between us, sparks like static electricity flying from his skin to mine every time we near one another. Add the catalyst of the dance and it’s gasoline on a fire.
There’s no way he’s not going to recognize me, even with the mask and the wig. The mask was a dumb idea. It draws attention to my face. I’m like that idiot in the commercial where they rob the bank and he wears fishnet pantyhose on his head… dumb, dumb, dumb head. My hands are shaking, I notice, as I start punching buttons for my set.
“Are you nervous?” The question, or more particularly the insight behind it, disturbs me. He is watching me closely. I glance over at him to confirm and find that gaze locked on me.
That’s when realization strikes. I turn back around so he will not see the awareness in my eyes. He knows exactly who’s under this wig and behind this mask. He requested me, specifically. He’s seen me here before. In all likelihood, he was the eighteen-year old in the peep show.
Gunner Ford
bought me. Or as good as.
Anger has me fixing myself a vodka shot with jerky movements and tossing it back swiftly before I face him.
“May I be honest with you?” He nods, a single lift of his chin. “I’ve never done this. I don’t do private dances. But you, apparently, paid enough money that it doesn’t matter.” He starts to reply, and I raise my hand to halt him. “So, yes. I’m nervous. More to the point, I’m angry.” I pause to draw a breath. “I have every intention of giving you the absolute worst lap dance you’ve ever had.”
“I just want to watch you dance again. For me and no one else.”
“You’ve watched me dance before?”
“Many times.”
“I see.” Somehow, I know he’s not talking about here at the club. A flicker of memory teases me: a humid gym, a thumping beat, a boy watching from the bleachers. I need to make him drop the pretense, even though part of me recognizes I’ve given him little incentive to do so.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” Be real with me. My fingers curl around the edge of the counter and I keep my back to him. “I’ll find you another dancer.”
“I don’t want another dancer.” He doesn’t raise his voice but there’s an edge to it. “Just you. Look… just dim the lights until you’re comfortable. I’ll wait until you’re ready.”
I sigh, the sound a susurration in the silence. Using the provided remote, I dim the lighting to its lowest setting and turn the music on. The sultry notes of Portishead’s ‘Glory Box’ fill the small space and I begin with a measured walk behind Gunner, approaching slowly. This will be easier if I don’t have to look him in the eye. I pause when I’m behind him, uncertain, and then hesitantly place my hands on either side of his head and run my fingers through his hair. It’s thick and soft to the touch, and I can feel nerves radiating up through my hands as I connect with him. He’s nervous, too, I realize.
The realization gives me courage, and I continue.
