Al Trunk Mahoney, Defensive Line

by Jean C. Joachim

  “Davida? What kind of name is that? Guess her parents wanted a boy. Had the name David picked out and just slapped an ‘a’ on the end.”

  “There’s nothing male about this chick.” Robbie gestured with his hands on his chest.

  “Big?”

  “Gotta be double ‘D’s.”

  “This I gotta see. Don’t remember seeing her on the squad. How can she cheer with all that in the way?”

  “Trunk, you’ve been married too long, buddy,” the kicker said, patting Trunk on the back.

  He smiled at Robbie and raised his hand. “See you there.”

  That chick’s rack can’t be better than Carla’s. His mouth got dry at the idea of touching her. Ain’t gonna happen. Forget it.

  When he walked into the bar, his gaze went straight to the counter. There she was, wearing a purple sweater cut low, hip hugging jeans, and boots. God, she looked good. Her hair hung loose. She flipped it over her shoulder as she brought her eyes to his. They locked for a moment before she lowered her lashes and returned to the task of filling a glass with beer.

  Trunk moseyed over to the bar. “Hi, honey.”

  “Don’t ‘hi honey’ me. Where the eff were you last night? I waited up until two for you to show.”

  “I’m sorry. I crashed at Bull’s.”

  “And for some reason your phone wasn’t working?” She rested her hand on her hip as she stared at him.

  “You know, I don’t even have your number.” He whipped out his cell. “Give it to me.”

  “I’ll give it to you.” She made a fist in mock anger as she recited it.

  “I’m sorry. I should have called you. Is the room still available?”

  “You’re lucky. I turned down fifteen people clamoring for that place, just because I promised it to you,” she said, her voice serious, but her eyes dancing with mischief.

  He laughed. “Okay, okay. Can you take five minutes and show me now, before the team gets here?”

  “Sure. Let’s go.” She wiped her hands on a small towel and headed for the back stairs.

  Trunk followed, his gaze glued to her rear, watching her climb. The urge to reach up and pat it was overwhelming. He slammed his hands in his pockets to keep from touching her. But he soon discovered you can’t do steps without your hands or arms being free. So, he let her get ahead, where it would be harder to reach her, before continuing.

  “This is my place. Off limits to you,” she said, indicating a door on the right. She walked down the hall to the end and opened a door on the left. “This is your room.” She stepped in and hugged the wall, making room for the big man.

  He stopped, his large frame filling the doorway. His gaze took in the faded light green walls. There were two windows, one facing the alley and the other facing the back, with a view of a meadow and woods. There was a small dresser, a chair, and a double bed—a bit small for Trunk. The bed had a white, chenille spread. One small nightstand supported a little lamp. A door in the back was ajar, indicating a closet.

  “This works. I don’t really need more space than this. The bed’s a little small for me.”

  “But if you’re sleeping in it by yourself, it’s not so bad.”

  “Oh? You have a double?”

  “I’m not talking about me. Oh, by the way, no overnight guests. I don’t want hot and cold running women in here. Okay?”

  “Only hot women?”

  She made a face.

  “Okay, okay. No women.” How about just you?

  “Bathroom’s across the hall. Please put the seat down.”

  Trunk sat down on the bed. “Mattress is a little soft.”

  “I’ve got a new one on order.”

  “Good. Looks fine. Don’t know how long I’ll be here. But thanks, Carla.”

  Before he turned to go, he spied a wastepaper basket. He looked at his left hand and slipped the wedding band from his finger. It came off easily, as he had always removed it before playing. Now, he tossed it in the trash can.

  Carla watched him.

  “Won’t need that anymore.” His hand felt funny, lighter. The two fingers on either side of his ring finger kept feeling around for the hard, gold band. I’ll get used to it.

  “You’re really gonna throw that out? Don’t you want to sell it or something?”

  “Nah. What for? Might as well get used to not wearing it.” He shrugged his shoulders, but sadness filled him.

  Carla gave him a quick hug. “At least you’ll be here, with friends.”

  Putting his hands on her shoulders, he nodded. “Thanks.”

  She preceded him down the stairs.

  “I’ll get my suitcase now. We’re going on the road next week.”

  “Mattress should be here by the time you get back.”

  He nodded again and headed for the door.

  * * * *

  Carla disappeared into the kitchen when Trunk went outside. She hadn’t realized how shabby that room upstairs had gotten. He’s too much of a friend, a gentleman, to say it sucks. Damn, how did I let it get that way? She knew how. No money. She turned on the hot water and started rinsing out glasses. When the drying rack was full, she slipped out the side door with her phone. A quick call with her credit card information to the local furniture store and a new mattress would be delivered the next day.

  Then, she dialed another number. “Hi, Stan. Got another project for you. I need a room painted. How much?”

  After a little negotiation, she hung up and smiled, then frowned. There goes his first month’s rent. She sighed. Getting ahead always moved slightly out of reach. Still, she’d have a spiffed up room, and when he moved out, maybe she could get another renter.

  Carla returned to the bar. Kings players and their significant others started coming through the door. She picked up her order pad and a pen. Then, she heard the side door open. She peeked in and saw Doodles Kelly putting on his apron. That brought a smile to her face. Her short order cook had arrived. Now, she could do serious business.

  After taking orders at the tables, she clipped the tickets on the shelf in front of Doodles and returned to the bar to pour beer and mix drinks. Trunk stood in front of her, smelling so good she almost fainted.

  He slipped a piece of paper across the bar. “First month’s rent.”

  “Thanks.” She took the check and stuffed it in her bra. “What’s that you’re wearing?” She hit the tap.

  He looked up and down his body. “Just jeans and a shirt.”

  “I mean the perfume.”

  “You mean after shave?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you call it.”

  ‘Like it?”

  “It smells like a French whorehouse.”

  The big grin he’d been wearing fell off his face. His brow furrowed.

  She let go of the tap and closed her fingers around his strong forearm. “I meant I love it.”

  “It’s Griff’s. Called Midnight for Men.”

  “It suits you.” She smiled.

  “Thanks. Maybe it’ll get me some action.”

  His words were like an arrow to her heart. But I knew he’d be on the prowl. Why am I surprised? “Looking to get laid?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Good luck,” she tossed off over her shoulder, as she balanced a tray of glasses filled with beer and walked to a nearby table.

  As she returned to the bar to make a batch of Cosmos, two young women walked in with Robbie Anthony. Carla knew all the players and most of their wives and girlfriends. While she didn’t have time for a lot of friends, she had become chummy with Stormy Gregory, Devon Drake’s fiancée. They sat with Brodsky and Samantha. Robbie strolled up to the bar with the women and introduced them to Trunk.

  Emotion choked Carla as she watched the ladies flirt with Mahoney and him flirt back. They talked and laughed. The one with larger breasts pushed them toward the defenseman. Carla wanted to throw up, but, instead, she turned her attention back to the Cosmopolitans. After she delivered the drinks, she punched bu
ttons on the jukebox to drown out Trunk’s conversation.

  They placed orders with her then found the last empty table. Resentment rose in Carla’s throat like bile. She didn’t want to serve these women, both making obvious plays for Trunk. He was hers, and they should move on.

  But he wasn’t hers—and didn’t even know she wanted him. Besides, he was a successful, wealthy, pro football player. What would he want with a barkeep, or worse, a barmaid in an old, broken down bar? She was beneath him, which must be obvious to everyone.

  Her eyes watered. She took several deep breaths to regain control over her emotions.

  Stormy popped over to the bar. She picked up a couple of napkins. “Hi, Carla. What’s up?”

  At the sound of her friend’s voice, the barmaid looked up with full eyes.

  Stormy’s face clouded. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Been slicing onions in the back’s all,” she lied, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

  “You’re such a bad liar,” Stormy replied.

  “Says you.”

  “I know you. If you don’t want to tell me, just say so. But don’t lie to me. Carla, you’re entitled to have feelings. I’m happy to listen and keep it to myself.” Stormy closed her fingers around Carla’s arm.

  “I’m just being stupid. Don’t know when I’ve got it good. I’m best off traveling alone.”

  “You’re hung up on someone?”

  Despite her reluctance to confide in anyone, she nodded.

  “Who?”

  Carla shrugged. Not yet ready to let anyone in on her private feelings, she declined to say.

  “Come on. I won’t tell. Is it someone I know?”

  The barkeep nodded again, compelled by her loneliness, burdened by her huge secret, to share. She prayed Stormy was trustworthy.

  “Shall I guess?”

  “Al,” Carla whispered.

  Stormy’s eyes widened. She turned to stare at him.

  Carla grabbed her arm. “Turn around! What are you doing? Stop staring at him.”

  Stormy obeyed her friend, but not before Trunk noticed them. He smiled, quirking his head slightly to one side, as if he wondered what they were talking about.

  Blood rushed up Carla’s neck. She gave Stormy a mean look then dashed into the kitchen, hoping Trunk wouldn’t follow. Fortunately, he didn’t.

  Doodles was flipping burgers. “What’s up, boss lady?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. Just looking for more glasses.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been too busy with burgers. I’ll wash some out now.”

  He joined her, and they got about eight clean. She put them on a tray and took them to the bar. The jukebox blared, people were eating and drinking—the place was a madhouse. Carla quickly became too busy to worry about Stormy. And too busy to think about Trunk, watch him, or the young women making a play for him.

  Whether or not Trunk Mahoney gets laid tonight has nothing to do with me. I could care less. I have a business to run and money to make while I can.

  Time raced by with Carla too crazed to do anything but get the next order, make the drinks, and keep an eye on her helper. By one o’clock, Doodles had cleaned the kitchen and gone home. Carla was washing glasses and putting them up for the night. The last few stragglers placed their dishes on the bar and bid farewell.

  Only Carla and Trunk were left. She wiped her face with a paper towel. Her feet ached, and her stomach rumbled. Forgot to eat again. She looked up to see a tipsy Trunk Mahoney swaying in front of her.

  “Time for bed,” he announced, ripping his shirt over his head.

  The sight of his bare chest woke her up. She’d never seen him without a shirt. She licked her dry lips. Obviously, he couldn’t make it up the steps unassisted.

  “Give me a hand, Carla?” he asked, gesturing for her to join him.

  She swallowed hard. Touch that body? Be that close to him? I can’t do it.

  “Come on, honey, I can’t be the first guy who needed a hand from you to get upstairs.”

  She did his bidding, snaking her arm around him, her fingers closing on his waist. The zing from touching his warm skin flew straight to her core. He toddled toward the stairs, singing, with his arm around her shoulders. On the landing, he fell against her, trapping her between him and the wall. Carla was helpless.

  He looked down at her with serious eyes. “You’re the love of my life,” he muttered.

  She sucked in air and stood staring as his mouth came down on hers.

  Chapter Three

  He’s drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

  Drunk or not, he sure knew how to kiss. Crushing her against his chest, he kissed her hungrily. He angled his head, swiped his tongue over her lips, and she opened. He delved in, exploring her mouth. Her knees grew weak. As she tried to steady herself with her arms around his neck, he gripped her tighter, holding her, lifting her until her toes barely scraped the floor.

  Carla had never had a kiss like that before. She melted, her body boneless, as desire flamed up inside. Her mind shut off, and her libido took charge. She pushed her hips up, feeling his erection through his jeans and hers. His passion took her breath away.

  Finally, he broke, glassy eyes staring at her, soundlessly mouthing, “I’m sorry.” He turned and stumbled up a couple of steps. Carla rushed to him, trying to steady the big man. He flattened his palm against the wall as she slipped under his arm. Together they staggered, bouncing from side to side down the hall. At his room, she turned the knob quickly.

  They fell inside. She guided him to the bed, a short distance from the door. He raised one knee onto the mattress. She gave him a gentle shove, and he sprawled out, his lips working, but still no sound coming out. Within a minute, he was snoring softly.

  “Whew,” she said, blowing hair out of her face. With both fists on her hips, she surveyed the situation. Al was sound asleep, but fully dressed. She untied then yanked off his shoes and placed them on the floor of the closet. She tried to roll him over, but the six foot two, two hundred twenty-five pounder wasn’t budging. She shrugged.

  Carla retrieved two fleece blankets from the closet shelf and spread them over the sleeping footballer. Gently lifting his head, she slipped a pillow under it. He never opened his eyes. Passed out. She made a clicking noise with her tongue, bent his knees, slipped his feet under the blanket, and then switched off the light. Before leaving, she kissed his cheek.

  “Goodnight, sweetheart,” she whispered, stealing quietly into the hall.

  Even though a cold January wind slipped through gaps in the old windows and doors, cooling the building, sweat beaded on her forehead and gathered under her arms. She smiled, proud she could get such a large man to bed without a disaster. Once in her apartment, she locked the door, not trusting Trunk, or herself.

  She turned on her electric mattress pad, which allowed her to keep the heat low at night and save money, donned a flannel nightgown, and slipped under her covers. She rolled over to gaze out the window at the moon. What was I thinking? I can’t have Mahoney staying here. This will never work. I’ll sleep with him, and he’ll break my heart.

  She sucked her lower lip between her teeth as she watched the cool moonlight kiss her trees, turning their bare limbs silver. She vowed to call Stormy in the morning. Women friends could help with so many problems. But was the answer with someone else, or inside her? Carla knew she needed to make up her mind. If she wanted Al, she had to make it clear, and then suffer the consequences. Should I take the chance? Or go on the way I am?

  Life alone seemed easy, but in reality, it wasn’t. She had no support from her family. Her father thought it was a disgrace for a woman to run a bar and was sure she was either a madam or a prostitute, using The Beast as a front. Her mother was sympathetic, but powerless to help her. Her eight brothers and sisters had their own lives, children, and problems.

  And each month was a struggle. When she managed to be a few dollars ahead, she didn’t dare spend it on anything for h
erself. She treated herself to a movie in the morning, when it was half price, but only once a month. Carla loved the bar. She had sunk every penny she had saved waitressing into it. She didn’t mind the hard work. Reward only comes from working hard, was what her grandmother used to say. And she had run a successful bakery.

  Carla had taken business courses at Monroe College. She kept her own books, managed her bank account, negotiated her own mortgage, and dealt with suppliers, dickering about price and delivery. She handled everything herself. Now, The Beast was thriving at least six months of the year, and she had passed the point where she could continue alone. She needed help, if she wanted to have a life. But she couldn’t afford it.

  So, Carla had decided to give up having a life. She was only thirty. There was still plenty of time. In the meantime, she spent her free time reading romance novels she took out of the library. That is, when she had any free time.

  As she lay there contemplating her decisions, she licked her lower lip, tasting Al Mahoney again. She touched the sensitive skin, recalling the nerve-tingling sensation of his pressed to hers. If he could make her head spin with one kiss, what could he do behind a closed bedroom door? She shivered at the thought.

  He was dangerous, but oh, how seductive, and oh so close to her. Just a hop, skip, and jump down the hall from her bed, from her dreams, from a magic carpet ride to heaven.

  She sighed as sleep overtook her.

  * * * *

  Carla awoke at ten. She usually slept later since she was up until two every night. She stretched and smiled at the cold winter sun, shining brightly through her gauzy curtains. Then, she remembered. Trunk is in the back room.

  She wondered if he was up. He must be hung over as hell. She got out of bed and ran across the icy floor to her dresser. She slipped on leggings, socks, and a fleece tunic top. Without bothering to add shoes to her outfit, she padded quietly down the hall. Outside his room, she put her ear to the wood. No sound came from inside. Is he asleep, still passed out, or dead?

  The last thought panicked her. She turned the knob slowly and inched open the creaky door. Trunk was in the same position she had left him the night before. The space was cold, and Carla left to ramp up the heat.