Maybe she was right, but Terrance was nuts; the Indians had two on now. The next batter connected with a crack — straight to the shortstop, who made the double play. Carolyn’s relief showed in a whole-body slump in her seat when the ball landed in the first baseman’s glove.
“He was starting to pitch wild,” she said, and Rick took her word for it. “He could have loaded the bases … walked in a run … and then … ”
That would have been bad for the home team.
The Yanks scored on a solo home run — finally — and Carolyn was overjoyed, so Rick thanked them for that. Then the Indians were back to bat with the same results from every other inning, nothing. But when this round was over, Carolyn hauled him up by his elbow. Then she put her hands together, reached up over her head, breasts lifting, straining the stripes on her shirt, which didn’t rise enough to catch a glimpse of the skin, only enough to imagine it.
She smacked him on the shoulder when her arms came down. “It’s the seventh inning stretch.”
“I’ve heard of that.”
She smirked. “Congratulations.”
The announcer rambled about singing “God Bless America” then “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and fifty thousand people had a communal love fest then went back to their seats as the other team took the field. Rick caught the kids looking back, but forgot about them when he glanced at Carolyn. She called her father ‘Daddy.’
Sorry, Daddy. I want your baby real bad. Even if she was a Yankee fan. Who would only go to the Jake when the Yankees … only go to the Jake … Jacob’s Field?
“Where do you live?” he asked.
She turned at his out-of-left-field question. “Akron.”
“Ohio?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he asked.
“For assuming that because I know where you’re from, you would know where I live.”
“Well, I know now.”
Carolyn studied him for a second. “Does that bother you? When people assume you know as much about them as they know about you?”
“No.” He stood up to let someone piled with food go by. “Mostly it’s true.”
She stayed standing after the guy passed her, looking at him.
“They do know,” he said, “as much about me as I know about them.”
She nodded slowly and sat down. He didn’t know if she understood, but the game was back on. He watched her for another scoreless inning, the pitcher left to thunderous applause, then a couple more swapped in and out, which took forever. When the Yankees took the field, the new pitcher turned to throw his first warm-up.
“Hey, that’s your number,” Rick said.
Carolyn was already leaning forward, watching.
“Who’s he?”
“Mariano Rivera.”
Rick glanced at the 42 on the field. “Don’t they retire numbers in baseball?”
“It was, in ninety-seven. They grandfathered in whoever … ” She turned. “I thought you didn’t know baseball.”
“I know Jackie Robinson.” Her eyebrows lifted and he shrugged. “So who’s Rivera?”
“The best closer who ever played the game. Got a cut fast ball like … just watch him.”
He watched, but didn’t figure out what a cut fastball was. Rivera did shoot down three Indians in no time flat, and the whole stadium was on their feet, Rick included for no reason other than mob mentality. Sinatra played over the speakers and she shot Rick an embarrassed looking grin, but he was pretty sure she couldn’t not do it — double negative — even if she wanted to.
Carolyn threw her arm around his shoulders. “Come on, this is great. Admit it.”
It was great because when his arm slid around her waist she didn’t even seem to notice. He did. Her shirt was smooth, her body warm, and the curve of her hip was under his hand. Her touch on his neck sent a shot of desire straight through him in a cramp he couldn’t work out.
Carolyn grinned, her eyes golden as a sunrise. “Thanks. For coming with me.”
Rick felt the smile that he couldn’t hold back.
Her gaze flicked up to his head. “You look like a fan at least.”
She didn’t move away, stayed there under his arm. Her eyes shifted to his mouth.
“’Scuze me, but are you — um — can you — ”
Carolyn jumped and his shoulder ached when she slipped away.
“I told you it was him,” another voice said.
Carolyn’s eyes went wide, and he turned to see the same four teenagers who’d been sitting down below them. One of the boys said, “You’re Ricky Rain, aren’t you?”
No, go away. But the damage was done, Carolyn a full seat away in the emptying row.
Rick nodded.
“Oh, man, I can’t believe it.” The dark haired boy smacked the blond one on the shoulder. “I told you.”
“Shut up, Nathan.”
Sounded like him and Terrance. Rick held his hand out. “How you doing, man?”
Nathan grabbed his hand. “This is so awesome. I have all your albums, the songs you did with Scorpion, everything, man. I can’t fucking believe this.”
That made two of them. “Well, thanks.” Rick glanced at the blond one who seemed to want to be a little bit cooler. “What’s your name?”
“Tommy — Tom.”
Tom’s grip wasn’t any looser than Nathan’s had been. “We couldn’t go to your show.”
“Had to be eighteen,” one of the girls said. “Right in Connecticut, he stayed in bed all weekend.”
She slipped around Nathan, and Rick took a step back. She was fifteen. Maybe.
She smiled. “Can we get a picture? Please?”
Carolyn was beside him, holding her hand out. “I could take all of you, if you want.”
The kid immediately handed over his phone. Carolyn took that shot, then the girls asked for one just themselves, and Rick tensed when their arms went around his waist. Nathan took over the camera phone. Rick watched Carolyn, wanting to communicate that he was just going along with these a) giggly; b) teenaged; and c) who let you out dressed like that? girls who posed with him, like he was some kind of … rap star.
Carolyn mouthed, Smile. She grinned when he glared at her. Then she tapped her finger to the corner of her eye, saying she could still see the smile there. She probably could.
* * *
“That was cool, don’t you think?” she asked.
Carolyn glanced back from the step above him. They were almost to the train platform, flowing with the heavy foot traffic. Better up the stairs than down, if only he didn’t know the train would go under. They cleared the next flight and passed through the turnstiles. The first train was jammed, so they waited for the next one with a million other people.
He thought of an answer. “I guess so.”
“But isn’t that good? I know it was just a few of them, but running into people who know you … that’s good, right?”
“Yeah,” he said, but she seemed to catch his uncertainty. Maybe he was an easy read for her, too. That wasn’t good.
Her hair blew away from her face as the train rushed in, and Carolyn seemed to be sure it was the right one. Even this close to the front of the line, inside the car all the seats were full. So they stood, packed like sardines in a tin can, soon to be interred.
“Well,” she said. “I thought it was cool.”
She didn’t know what he knew, but she meant cool for him. Except for when she offered to take the picture, they’d ignored her, and she didn’t care. That was cool.
More people crammed into the train. Rick put a hand on the pole when he saw the doors slide shut. The train started, and he gripped the pole just before he lost his balance. He’d been so disoriented by the conversation and the bodies pressing in around him — some fat guy’s damn gut right in his back — that he’d somehow managed to miss …
He wasn’t missing it now. The Yankee fans packing into the car had pushed Carolyn right up against him. Her ass righ
t into his groin. And there went the hard-on again, full steam with actual physical stimulation this time. She half-turned her head, a millisecond of something on her face, before she turned back. Silently, which was fine with him. He didn’t think he could speak if he was getting paid.
They were facing backwards, opposite the arrow on the board overhead. People chattered all around them, sometimes in English, as the train dipped underground. Rick held onto the pole above Carolyn’s hand, watched the lights on the board blink by, and wondered how long he could stand still like this without doing something he’d regret.
The subway flew through the Bronx, the lights dimming and shutting off every so often. The air conditioning fought the body heat in the car more successfully than Rick could fight the thoughts running through his head. He gripped the pole tighter and tried to breathe. The ride was smooth until the train slowed — hard.
Carolyn stumbled. As she grabbed the pole, he caught her with his arm around her waist. It was automatic really, he wasn’t going to let her fall, but goddamn.
She flashed him an embarrassed look and tried to pull away, but he couldn’t let go. His grip around her tightened, he settled her back against his chest, and every ounce of tension drained from his body. She turned her head slowly, her face inches away. Not happy. Or maybe she was.
She was definitely something.
The train stopped as the voice announced 125th Street, but not enough people got off in Harlem to clear more space around them. He felt her stomach muscles tighten under his hand as the doors slid shut again, and he exhaled very slowly. She tried to shift away, but she could only move her neck, so she looked at him over her shoulder.
“This is better,” he said, “for the claustrophobia.”
“Oh, now you’re claustrophobic.”
Her body was rigid, a complete contrast to every muscle — almost — in his. No way of knowing if the ass in front of him was feeling that. He guessed yes.
“Shhh.” He settled his chin on her shoulder. “Talking about it makes it worse.”
She turned as much as she could, her cheek brushing his as he caught the sideways glance in her eyes. Like he’d arranged it so the train would slam on the brakes like that.
“You know what,” he said into her ear. “I think I’m okay with the subway thing now.”
“I’m taking a cab next time. This is too crowded.”
So crowded that she had to stay where she was. She couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with the arm that wasn’t holding onto the pole. Every now and then she turned her head, like she was watching for some warning about what he planned to do next.
Absolutely nothing, except stand here and ride back to 59th Street.
He eased up on his grip, and she didn’t move away. All the way down his body he felt her relax. Her right arm found somewhere to go, on top of his arm around her waist. Her hand curved around his wrist. Rick closed his eyes when her shoulders settled back against his chest. Her hair smelled like coconuts. In the middle of the crush of bodies, in the middle of a train running under the damn ground, in the middle of all the shit hitting the fan of his life right now, he thought nothing — absolutely nothing — could ever go wrong again.
His fingers spread open, like they wanted to feel more and hadn’t asked him if he thought that was a good idea. The muscles under his hand tightened, and she gripped his wrist. He fought back the grin and swiped one quick rub across her belly, before he patted her in the most harmless place he could find. She settled back down when he tapped her hip once more. Then, without thinking, a double …
She turned again to question the ‘one-two-three-and-four’ rhythm against her hip.
His mouth was right next to her ear; he didn’t need much voice. “I said a taxi, but she said no. Only one way we allowed to go.”
She smiled, just like she had on that third strikeout by number 42.
“You get yo ass on the underground train … ”
Her smile widened. Beat you, Rivera. Damn.
“She got some brass bossing round Ricky Rain.”
Her mouth opened, faking offense. Then she wrinkled her nose. “Who’s Ricky Rain?”
Oh, nice one. She grinned, like she read his mind and agreed.
The train went dark then light again. Rick glanced around. “Couple sardines, jammed in tight.” He leaned closer to her ear, which brought everything else closer. She was listening, though, and didn’t seem to notice. “It’d be all right — but she putting up a fight.”
Carolyn’s smile faded. “I’m not fighting.”
She sounded like she believed that, but he felt her warm, soft body tense up, her hand tighten around his wrist.
“Hell you ain’t.” Even though he made it sound like maybe or maybe not, her eyes flicked away after what looked like a half-second of panic. They slowed into the next station. She pressed back against him once more, involuntarily, not as hard as before.
He let her go, and she flashed him the slightest smile … of gratitude.
Shit, Carolyn. Any time.
Rick glanced out the windows as more people got off at 86th Street and the air conditioning moved through the spaces they left behind. Between him and Carolyn, too, as she eased around the other side of the pole. She didn’t look at him until the train pulled in to the 59th Street station, then he followed her up the long escalator, listening to some heavy boots on the stairs heading down next to them, the thumps echoing through the tiled tube on a four/four beat that sounded …
Haunted.
18: Black & White
The 59th Street exit was closed. Carolyn turned around when she saw the sign and almost ran right into him. He actually backed up a step so she wouldn’t. She gutted her way through a non-verbal communication of ‘we have to go this way,’ because she couldn’t find her voice. He nodded and followed her, probably wondering what the hell he was doing with someone who was putting up a fight.
Rick stopped at the newsstand in the middle of the station. “You mind?”
She shook her head once, then again when he asked if she wanted anything. She backed up against the wall and watched him, grateful for the passengers who interrupted her line of sight every so often. A constant stream of visual input was too much, even at this distance.
He dropped a pack of gum on the counter and reached for his wallet in his pocket. For a second, the white t-shirt slid up his hip exposing a dark blue plaid waistband of his shorts. Carolyn took a slow breath of the still warm air. Rick collected his change and turned around. His eyes roamed for a second, until he found her, and she hated how thrilling that felt.
They passed through the turnstiles and climbed the steps into the cool night air. Had he really thought she was resisting? She’d barely had the strength to not throw her arms around him and say, The hell with common sense. I want you.
Ironically, that was reasonable. She dealt with women enmeshed in bad relationships, but her life could never get tangled up with the man trudging down Lexington Avenue beside her, because the sum of the numbers would only add up to one. One time, one night — probably not even that — and then zero. Even if he did live less than an hour away.
He had seemed pleased by that.
And now she was inventing feelings behind words that hadn’t actually been spoken.
Time to go back to reality. Carolyn glanced over, startled to see the same expression he’d worn when she’d asked him about the kids recognizing him. “Why did that bother you?”
Rick’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Back at the stadium — those teenagers. It should have made you happy — I mean, not externally, God forbid — ” the corner of his mouth twitched “ — but you didn’t seem to think … ”
She knew why as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Four kids, out of a whole stadium and an entire trip through New York. Four kids. And they were a fluke.
The red light at 59th Street stopped them. “It’s not enough, is it?”
He nodded at th
e light turning green, and they started across.
She tried again. “How many CDs have you sold?”
“They call ’em units.”
Evasive, but interesting. “That’s what they call books, too.”
“For real?” He shrugged. “Guess that’s all they are. Just like key chains or ice cube trays.”
He sounded like he believed that, and still managed to make it sound ridiculous.
The street they walked was filled with brownstones and iron grates, well-lit with only scattered pedestrians. No longer in the high-speed flow of traffic, she matched Rick’s slower pace, past the who-knew-how-expensive homes that lined the street.
“So,” she said, “how many key chains have you sold?”
“Not enough.”
Enough for who, enough for what? It had to be like publishing, a few at the top selling millions, everybody else working day jobs, never hitting the bestseller lists. She’d submitted her book proposal to twenty-seven literary agents before Liz called her. After the tenth rejection — another form letter — she’d moaned to her mother. If I only knew someone.
“Way it goes,” Rick said, as if he were reading her thoughts.
Sixteen more letters and she knew Liz. With all her connections.
But Rick had Zeus, who’d shot Guillotine right to the top.
“Well, it shouldn’t go that way,” she said.
He shrugged.
“I just mean you have to want it to be based on talent.”
“Who says I’m talented?”
“Me,” she said, and he grinned. “And you, if I heard right. Every third line.”
“Oh, right,” he said. “That’s ’cause I am.”
“Either way,” she said. “It’s still not fair.”
“Fair?” Rick looked at her. “This is the music business, Carolyn. ‘Fair’ ain’t even in the dictionary.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re being facetious.”
Rick was quiet for a moment. Finally, he sighed. “I knew you was gonna get me eventually.”
She didn’t know what he meant, until he held out a hand, palm up, like he was waiting for something. A definition.
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