Jagged Heart (Broken Bottles Series Book 3)

by Taeuffer, Pamela

  “I’m only asking you to come to the game with me,” he repeated. “Will you?”

  He pushed away from my body.

  His nakedness filled every space.

  His arms gathered me inside them once more.

  “I don’t know.” I looked down at the floor.

  “Nicky, I know your responses scare you. I’m only asking you to come to the game. It's only one day. Next week will be hell and too long before we see each other again.”

  Just as he’d given in to me, I gave into him. I didn't want to fight any longer. We’d worn each other down.

  “Okay, I will. I have to change, though. I heard everything you said. I’ll come to the game. I just want to go home and change into some clean clothes.”

  “I’ll drive you.” His face seemed to relax. “It’ll give me a chance to say hello to your folks.”

  Sometimes it's best to avoid doing that.

  Ryan went into the bathroom to change. I put my T-shirt on. He came out wearing light blue jeans and a red T-shirt. His body showed the definition of someone dedicated to maintaining it at a high level.

  If you just stand still, I can run my hands all over you.

  “Do you want a coffee for the road? I'm going to turn off the coffee maker."

  "Sounds good."

  "I’ll get the commuter mugs so we can take them with us. You're already dressed, but do you want to wash here? I’ve got plenty of washcloths for you.”

  "I'll do it at my house, where I’ve got all my junk. God, Ryan.”

  “Wait for you in the kitchen,” he chuckled.

  “Thank God.”

  “Don’t forget to leave my pen,” he teased.

  “What pen?” I’d forgotten about my made-up excuse.

  “The pen you borrowed last night. I think you were going to leave it in my laundry hamper.” He got a big kick out of himself and stared at me until the light bulb went on.

  “Funny, Ryan. You just can’t let anything drop, can you?”

  “Not if I can embarrass you,” he said. “You’re just too cute when your adorable cheeks flush.”

  Chapter 37

  Discarded Sighs

  I wasn’t about to enter my house parading around in Ryan’s clothes. Their imaginations would travel to places they didn’t need to explore.

  On the other hand, perhaps it’s time to show them you’re not their good girl?

  Wearing the dirtied sweats and T-shirt from our afternoon at Pismo Beach, I quickly ran a brush through my hair and turned out the light. When I walked into Ryan’s bedroom, I thought I heard a faint laugh from my Evil Twin. As I looked at his bed, I felt a sensual shiver go through my body.

  What if he was my boyfriend? Would I spend nights here on a regular basis? Would he expect me to? Would each time we saw each other result in sex? Was it expected to be that way?

  I grabbed his comforter, squeezed it in my hands and walked into the kitchen. Still on edge from our earlier conversation, I wanted to talk more about the actions of his past.

  And then . . . the passive me returned.

  My love for Ryan was exploding and I didn’t want to rock the boat while he was on the road. I held back—for a little while.

  Careful not to challenge anyone you love—they’ll leave you.

  “You’re beautiful in the morning. I guess you know that.” Ryan watched me as I stood waiting for my cup of coffee.

  Poor guy, he’s losing his eyesight. I wonder how many years he has left in baseball.

  “In my dirty clothes?” At first I laughed. When I saw his serious look, however, I didn’t want to dismiss his compliment. “I don’t ever look good to myself. Thank you.”

  “Guess I’m good for you in some ways,” he smiled. “A little cream, right?”

  “You’re good for me in a lot of ways even though I don't let on,” I acknowledged. “You’re already too confident. Yes, a little cream is perfect. Where are your suitcases?”

  “I've already sent them ahead.” After he stirred my coffee, he capped the mugs for both of us. We left his apartment hand in hand, stepped into the elevator, and began our descent back to the real world.

  I saw my sigh rise into the air and I wondered how many sighs from other women might be circling above me from a night of pleasure with Ryan. I could almost see them hovering, lips and eyes waiting for a promise to be fulfilled after they were seduced. Perhaps they thought the man standing next to me wanted more of them. Maybe they even left their panties in his bed so they could remind him of the gift they'd shared. I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to brush away the irrational thoughts.

  Come on, Nick, stay in the moment and don’t create another wall around your heart.

  It was an unpleasant daydream.

  Ryan pulled me close and he kissed me as if that would still my fears. It wasn’t nearly enough.

  Will anything ever be enough to calm my anxiety?

  “Where are you, Nicky?”

  "I'm here."

  "No, you're somewhere else. Tell me."

  “I’m wondering how many other women have come out of your apartment, bathed in promises, your arm around her in this elevator, hoping for more of your attention.” I rubbed the lid of my coffee mug with my thumb. “Then they land in the lobby, back to reality, you tell them goodbye."

  “Nicky, come on.”

  “Sorry, it’s what I was thinking." He couldn’t reassure me enough. "You asked.”

  He could’ve told me I was the only one a million times, and still, I wouldn’t have trusted him.

  I knew I’d be abandoned—I was certain of it.

  No matter how many times my father had promised to stop drinking, he hadn’t. He reassured us he’d be home for our birthdays, school events and would come home sober on holidays.

  He wasn’t.

  All of his promises . . . broken.

  Each new day we knew that this time, this birthday or this Christmas, we’d be a happy family, open presents, laugh, talk about our day, and have a great dinner together.

  Those dreams seldom came true.

  Believing promises, especially from someone who said he loved me, was almost impossible.

  Dad left us waiting for him to come home. It would get so late that we’d turn out the lights and go to bed, hoping he hadn't killed anyone including himself.

  “Nicky, I’ve never promised any woman anything about the future or misrepresented my intentions, tricked her, or played with her emotions. You must know by now that some women, like at the Waterfront—”

  “At the Waterfront where they try to sit on your lap or let you peek down their shirt, at the Embarcadero Hotel Lounge where they remind you of their striptease dance, and at the railings where they flaunt their breasts to you. Those women you pick up in the tunnels where no one can see, the T-shirt girls smiling as they dance and jiggle on top of the dugout for you . . .”

  “They,” he cleared his throat. “They have expectations but it's been mutual. Some have wanted more but I’ve never promised them anything. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes, I believe you’re being honest with me. I also imagine how they thought the world of you because you're so lovely. You have to say it to us, Ryan. Women need to hear a man's thoughts in black and white. Don't soft shoe it. Tell them you only want sex. Something tells me that you still have plenty of hangers on wondering when they'll hear from you again.”

  “I’ve always been right out there with what I wanted." He squeezed my hand. “I've never minced my words.”

  I believe you think you spoke clearly, but you hypnotized them.

  “I don’t have any reason not to believe you. All the things you’ve done, the people you know, and the women you’ve been with—I’m afraid someone is going to jump up to bite.”

  He put his arms on my shoulders and let his hands fall loosely over my back.

  “We control our relationship. How we react and communicate will determine our outcome. Sweetheart, of all the people I’ve
ever met, you’re the most intimidating. With anyone else, I never gave a shit how things turned out. I didn’t care how they felt or what they thought—”

  “But you said—”

  “If you let me finish,” Ryan interrupted. “I wasn’t interested in talking about feelings—theirs or mine. I just wanted what I wanted. I guess I was kind of selfish that way.”

  “Kind of?” I raised my eyebrows.

  “Boy you are sarcastic.” He pulled back.

  I looked away.

  “That's okay, but please try not to let your mind create stories where there aren’t any.”

  “I’ll try.” I put my arms around his waist and while carefully balancing my coffee, turned my head to the side so I could lay my cheek against his chest.

  “Ryan?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Why do you still have all those women’s clothes?”

  I can’t let this go and you’re not getting off that easy. I imagine everyone has let you off the hook because of your sexy laugh and handsome face.

  “I don’t know.” I knew he’d answered seriously. Was he finally searching himself, perhaps even looking through his past, and examining why he expected them to accept his ending?

  “That’s no answer,” I persisted. “Why?”

  See how it feels being pushed?

  “Habit, a ritual, lack of a father . . .” Ryan pushed every button in the elevator so we’d stop at all floors, giving us the chance to finish our conversation—if we could.

  “Ever since high school, I’d play baseball and afterward I’d either go out with the guys, a group of friends or a girl. When I was older, it was a woman at the ballpark. As I became more known, women came up to me socially, outside of baseball. That routine became a night at a club and having sex. It was just something to do.”

  “You counted pussy?” I repeated my sister’s concern.

  “No, that wasn’t it." His mouth thinned into a line. “It was staying detached from people. My only focus was baseball. I didn’t want to take a chance on complicating my life with relationships getting in the way of my goals."

  And yet you're expecting me to do that for you.

  "I’d had enough of being serious after my dad died. Playing adult games and having sex was just a way I could stay detached and in my fantasy world. It kept me away from facing my grief. I lived fast and furious for years just to stay away from the sadness of my dad’s death,” he continued. “I had no parents at my games, no one to tell me how proud they were, and no one to set boundaries. So I drank for a few years and partied a lot with women to get fulfillment in other ways. When the clothes were left, I thought—”

  “They could be discarded, because you’d already discarded the woman who wore them. It happened before they even left your apartment,” I completed his thought with my own. “Instead of calling them so they’d understand there wasn’t a possibility for anything further with you, they piled up like trophies.”

  Chapter 38

  Boxes

  “I never thought about it like that."

  “Oh, come on, Ryan,” I complained. “You’re intuitive with people. I wouldn't be with you if you were a typical jock.”

  “Those clothes mean nothing,” he said again. “Jeanne just takes care of it.”

  “So you say, ‘Hey Jeanne, those clothes are stacking up, get them out of here?’” I waited anxiously for his answer.

  “She takes care of it,” he repeated.

  “Yuck. I wonder what she thinks as she gathers them. Crap, I wonder what she thinks about you leaving them in a heap like that.”

  “She does her job,” he said too casually for me to let it go.

  “She does it to appease you and keep her job you mean. Internally, I'll bet she's disgusted that she has to take care of the remnants of your sex.” I turned away.

  “Maybe," he sighed. “If she's so disgusted with me, I wonder why she's been with me for three years."

  "Heaven only knows." I clicked my tongue.

  "I know you were quite the angel in school," he mocked. "You never did anything you knew you shouldn’t have just to fit in?”

  I hadn’t done much, but I had smoked a couple of cigarettes and played hooky a few times so I wouldn’t be made fun of when all my friends did it.

  “Yes, I admit I did.” I paused and then said pointedly, "Although I cleaned up my own messes."

  "You don't think I did that?" His stare drilled into me.

  "Yes," I stammered, regretting my sarcasm. "I . . . I'm sure you did."

  “I needed to fit in, except on a much bigger scale than in school, that’s all. It was a way to feel normal. In the locker room—women, pussy, sex—those are the things men talk about. It’s not only cool in my world; it’s normal."

  "What?" I challenged. "It's normal to make women objects?"

  "You and your friends don't talk about sex?" He raised an eyebrow.

  "Touché." I couldn't argue that defense.

  "I’m sorry it offends you. I’m only trying to help you understand by talking openly, even though I see you start to turn off when I do it. You make me hesitate to be honest about everything because of your severe reactions."

  That's a bold statement. I have to give him props for that. Gutsy move, Mr. Tilton.

  “Are there so many women, you can’t even remember who the clothes belong to?” I asked timidly.

  “It’s not like that.” He slipped his arm around my shoulder.

  “What’s it like?” I turned to face him once again.

  “I didn’t see women, or what they wore. I don’t remember anything about them. I saw a body, a wink, and a smile—that’s it. I never saw the whole person."

  "You said to that boy in the theater, you're good with names."

  "Yes, with people I want or care to remember." He closed his eyes and then reopened them. "I didn't care about their personalities, who they were or what they did. Jesse was comfortable because we had a history. She was a friend of sorts. I didn’t have to put on with her—"

  "Except when—"

  He put his thumb on my lips.

  "Except when we were in public. Yes, Nicky."

  "How many phone numbers do you have for booty calls?"

  "I never kept anyone’s number," he answered quickly. "Am I making sense?”

  “None of this makes sense," I shook my head. "If nothing about them stood out to you, what attracted you to them? You make it sound like they all were robots.”

  “Uh . . .” he hesitated.

  “Never mind." I covered my eyes with one hand. "I hear what you’re trying to tell me. Why didn’t they have your number?”

  “I never gave it to them.”

  “Why not?” I shoved my hands in the pockets of my sweatpants.

  “I didn't want to hear from them again,” he admitted.

  "Once and done?" I eyed him cautiously. "How many times?"

  “Don't ask me a question you really don't want answered."

  "Too many to remember," I sighed. "That's what I thought."

  "They knew what they had with me—I was an uninterested athlete looking for sex and an escort for the evening if I needed one. You know, Ms. Woman, you're making me out to be a sex starved jerk, but ninety-nine out of a hundred times I didn't have to try. Women came up to me. They're not bashful."

  "No, I guess not."

  "I’m just a fantasy for them," Ryan suggested. "It never was a real connection for either of us—the woman or me. And if they really wanted their clothes, they could have gone to the front desk or flagged me down at the ballpark. They never did.”

  “Because they thought you’d call them back," I pushed.

  “No. We only wanted sex from each other. It was mutual.”

  “Did you find their panties tucked in your sheets?”

  Oh, damn. Why did I ask that?

  “No.”

  “Because your housekeeper did.” My jaw stiffened. “I bet she has some stories."

 
“I don’t know how to reassure you. I’ve tried to explain it the best way I know how,” he said quietly. “It was the past and unimportant.”

  “You threw them away and boxed them up."

  "Would you rather I say that I was hoping to reunite with them?" His voice carried notes of sadness.

  "Would it be a lie?" I shot another bullet at him.

  "Please don't do that to me." He closed his eyes.

  "I'm sorry." I know I have to stop throwing my arrows.

  "Don't continue to apologize if you don't mean it." His expression turned to a frown.

  "I mean it," I held his wrist. "It's all the years of bad habits from dealing with my family. All we do is attack each other through sarcasm. I'm trying to become more aware of it but it's a gut reaction. I'm sorry."

  "You make what I did sound awful. It was only sex. It wasn't a sin and no one was hurt.”

  “You sure about that?” I asked. “You just said—”

  “Yes, I’m sure. They may have wanted more, but they knew.”

  “Knew what?” I countered.

  “I didn’t want anything but sex,” he repeated.

  “How do you know?” I asked. “You weren’t interested in talking, so what makes you so certain you were never with a woman who thought you wanted more? Tabitha came to the table and talked about a whole summer of hanging with you and your friends. That's more than casual, Ryan. And what about that one in ten who you approached?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I guess it’s my problem,” I continued.

  "No, it's our problem. If you're not happy then obviously I'm not. I'm doing my best to make your comfortable."

  “I’ll think about what you said. Can you at least get rid of those clothes in your closet?”

  “I’ve already called Jeanne. She’s taking them to Goodwill.”

  “When did you call?”

  “You were in the bathroom. When I get back, they’ll be gone. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it before now. I just don’t relate to sex and women the way you do.”

  “Thanks.” I gave his waist a squeeze to bring myself out of the negative frame of mind into which I’d drifted.