by Shandi Boyes
Something crosses her features, maybe desire, perhaps anger. I’m really unsure. “Lorenzo…” she whispers on a purr, her voice as welcoming as a gentle breeze on a hot summer’s day.
“Yes, amore mio.”
With the tension between us at breaking point, I’m anticipating for her to say something more profound than she does. “You’re squishing my toe.”
I step back before dropping my eyes. Horror rains down on me when I realize the thick tread of my shoes had me mistaking her big toe as a ridge in the carpet pile. “Sono così dispiaciuto. I didn’t mean to tread on you.”
Skylar shoos off my worry with the swipe of her hand. “It’s fine. I’m fine… but perhaps next time when you get height insoles, go for the two-inch instead of the four. I’ve yet to experience it, but I’ve heard altitude sickness is very problematic for shorties like us.”
Her comment is witty, but I’m feeling anything but playful. Your feet take you where your heart wants to go. If she can’t walk, she’ll never meet me at the crossroad I’m endeavoring for us to convene at.
When I scoop her into my arms and make a beeline for the washroom at the back of the suite, her eyes bulge out of her head. “Woah, Lorenzo. What are you doing?”
“I broke your toe, so it’s only right I fix it,” I answer, my speed unforgiving.
“You didn’t break my toe. You stomped on it with your big hoofer…” Her words trail off when we burst through the varnished door of the restroom. I demand the man using the urinal to leave immediately. Since my tone is as high as my annoyance is rising, he jumps to my demand.
Skylar’s big blue eyes stray from the swinging door to me when I set her down on the vanity stretching across one wall. “You just kicked a man out of the washroom he paid seven thousand dollars to use—”
“Twelve thousand.”
She frowns in confusion. “Huh?”
I carefully undo the straps of her dangerously high stiletto before locking my eyes with hers. “You said seven thousand. This particular suite cost twelve thousand per ticket. It’s a little cheap, but you get what you pay for. This isn’t Milan.”
“For a janitor, you have an extremely elaborate palette, Shortie J.” My nickname comes out with a hiss when I slip the band of her exposed pumps over her angry pink big toe. I doubt it is broken, but it’s swollen and harboring some angry welts.
“Does it hurt?”
She shakes her head, preferring to lie without words.
“Would you tell me if it did?”
Her lips furl into a heart-pulverizing smile before she once again shakes her head. “If you fall seven times, you must rise eight.”
If I didn’t love my mamma as much as I do my next comment would irreparably scar me. Fortunately, I love my mamma with every fiber of my being. She’s strong, determined, and a force to be reckoned with—very much like the woman in front of me.
“Being brave also means it’s okay to fall, amore mio, because you know it will only be a matter of time before you once again stand.”
Her smile is more rewarding than any win I’ve ever succeeded. “Have you been sneaking into my philosophy class? That sounded very much like a Professor Winchester quote.”
Pain constricts her features when I gently squeeze her toe to check for any breaks. “No, but if you give me the location and time, I’m sure I can add it to my schedule. I only have one measly boxing class taking up my free time.”
Skylar waits for me to gather the first-aid kit every bathroom in a football stadium has before returning to our conversation. “Your accent is too thick to be an expat, and your eyes are too honest to use it as a ploy, which can only mean one thing… you just arrived stateside.” When I nod, agreeing with her, her lips twist. “Then why do you only have a boxing class on your to-do list? This is America, the land of the free, so why aren’t you gobbling up the opportunities it presents you?”
I back up her claim about my honest eyes by saying, “I saw an opportunity, and I’m running for it.”
“You saw my boobs, Lorenzo. That wasn’t an opportunity. You just got lucky.” The throb in her throat is heard in her reply.
“Lucky to be walking? Yes. I’ve been… ah… what do you Americans call it?” I thrust my hand at the lower half of my body, acting daft. “It’s not working right.”
Her throat only works through half its swallow before she squeezes out, “My boobs broke your penis?”
I should be more mortified by her shouted question than I am, but the fact it’s keeping her focus off the pain associated with me dabbing iodine onto the graze on her big toe, I’m not. I’d rather make a fool out of myself than hurt her again. “No. They’re colored. I have colored testicles.”
Skylar’s laugh roars around the bathroom, amplifying the uncomfortableness I’m trying to explain. “Do you mean you have blue balls?”
“No.” I take a mental note to contact my English teacher when I return to Milan. Clearly, I’m in desperate need of a refresher course. “They’re the same color they’ve always been. My… testicles, they’re—”
“Full? Weighing you down? Feeling mighty heavy?”
This is not the direction I anticipated for our conversation to go, but I’ll run with it. Sometimes the most unexpected things occur when you take a chance.
“Yes, they’re all those things.” I dump a stained cotton ball into the trash next to the vanity before securing a Cerotto out of the first-aid kit. “Since you caused the dilemma, shouldn’t you fix it?”
Skylar arches a brow as her mouth falls open, shocked. “Please tell me lines like that don’t work in your country?”
“Eh…” I shrug. “Would you rather me click my fingers.” After securing the Band-Aid into place, I click my fingers together two times like I’m demanding a dog to my side. “It works just as well.”
She stares at me for several long seconds before the penny finally drops. “You’re teasing me to distract me.”
Since she’s not asking a question, more stating a fact, I smile instead of answering her. When I help her down from the counter, the difference in our heights is more notable since she’s minus a shoe. The top of her head barely reaches the tip of my nose, making me convinced she’s a good four to five inches shorter than me.
I’d tease her about it, but her next set of words has my mind blank of thoughts.
“It’s a pity you were playing. I’ve never been one to shy away from my responsibilities.”
Chapter Eight
Skylar
I race out of the bathroom as fast as my quivering legs will carry me. Have you ever heard of the saying, ‘You can’t play with fire and not expect to get burned?’ That saying resonates with Lorenzo in more ways than I can explain. His eyes were as hard as ice when he told me chasing me was a game he intends to win, but instead of using his arrogance as a repellent, I acted like I was a moth, and he was the flame.
I’ve never had a man tell me he wants me so blatantly before. It was hot and had my panties in all types of a mess. Thank God he trampled on my toe when he did, or who knows what catastrophe I’d be facing right now.
“Don’t.” I point my finger at Danny, halting whatever scorn he’s about to give before it’s halfway up his throat. We may have only met last week, but I already know him well enough to read his mind. “I’m aware that was the gentleman’s restroom. I don’t care.”
I scan the thrumming space, seeking Willow. She disappeared the last quarter as she did weeks ago. At least now I know it isn’t outdated wieners giving her the runs. I spent the train ride home after that match evaluating every grumble my stomach made, certain I was about to spend my weekend on what Willow likes to call the ‘crapper.’ Now I know better. She wasn’t sneaking off for a poo while everyone was fixated on the game, she was prepping for a raunchy rendezvous with a star player.
Lucky bitch.
When I fail to find Willow, I pivot around to face Danny, slipping into my heel on the way. My big toe is still tender, wh
ich isn’t surprising. Lorenzo has ginormous feet.
If the rumors about big-footed men are true, I know where Lorenzo’s missing inches went.
“Did Willow say where she was going?”
Danny peers at me as if I asked him to kiss me again. “Ah... yeah. Multiple times. Did you not hear her?”
I hobble his way, taking in the pristine conditions as I go. The sky suite was everything I imagined it to be. It’s luxury, high-class, and the air has an edge of arrogance to it, but I’m regretful to say, I’m leaving disappointed. The view of the field from my seat was fantastic, but the glass they use to keep superstars away from the public ruins the vibe.
You don’t go to a football game to watch the game. You go for the experience, the energy, the crack you can take without touching an illegal substance. Football is a drug lord, and women like me are abusers. We feed off the hype.
As much as this kills me to admit, I got more buzz from my exchange in the bathroom with Lorenzo than I did watching my team come away champions.
That sucks.
The buzz I mentioned a mere second ago doubles when I spot Lorenzo approaching Danny and me on our right. He’s weaving his way through a group of jubilant partygoers unaware he’s disinterested in their gloating. His eyes weren’t even on the field during the final whistle. If that doesn’t announce his dislike of a great American sport, I don’t know what will.
With my heart in my throat, and my clit pulsating like I’m charging for the end zone instead of facing the defensive lineman, I loop my arm around Danny’s waist and guide him toward the exclusive suite elevators.
No ten thousand stair climbs for me today.
I think I’m in the clear until Danny’s cock loses its morals for the second time today. “Enzo, over here!”
When his arm shoots out to hold the elevator doors open for Lorenzo, my foot gets super friendly with his toes. He squeals like a banshee when I stomp and twist his leather loafers like I’m squeezing the last of the toothpaste out of the tube, but he doesn’t release the doors before Lorenzo steps into the space, killing it of its sanitary scent.
“Saved twice in the one day, how could I ever thank you, Danny?”
I should feel sorry for Danny when he says, “I can think of a few ways,” while twirling on the spot like a girl scout pedaling cookies to diabetic patients when their wives aren’t looking. Instead, I help a fellow cock-lover out. It’s a wing-woman’s job.
“From what I overheard in the bathroom, you wouldn’t be the only one awarded a badge of honor, Danny. Enzo is in a bit of a dilemma.” It feels cheap using Danny’s nickname for Lorenzo, but with Lorenzo’s scent incapacitating half my brainpower, I go for it. “His testicles are colored.”
Danny appears as confused as I was when Lorenzo spat out his analogy, but he clicks on a lot faster than me. “You have blue balls? Say it isn’t so.” I swear to God, I’ve never heard another man growl his words like Danny did his last four. “I did, too, until Elvis gave me an out.” When my eyes bulge, Danny slaps my forearm. “Not like that, you little wench. He taught me there’s no shame in taking care of business without a partner.”
Jesus, a straight woman should not get this hot over a gay man telling her how he masturbates to relieve tension.
Lorenzo adds another chunk of wood into the furnace in my gut by saying, “I shall take your suggestion into account. Thank you, Danny.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Don’t ask me how he does it, but during Danny’s salacious acceptance of his praise, Lorenzo somehow ends up switching positions with him. He’s now standing extremely close to me. If my eyebrows replicated the caterpillar ones people wrongly believe are fashionable these days, we’d be touching. That’s how close he’s standing to me.
Goosebumps follow the track his finger makes when he glides it up my arm. He’s not touching me to prove a point. He’s returning my serve, exposing that our game is only just getting warmed up.
I should bow out and let him believe he’s won.
I should let maturity reign supreme for once in my life.
I should not return the ball to his side of the court by throwing an unsuspecting victim under the bus with me.
“Why continue going solo?” I lock my eyes with Danny, who’s staring at Lorenzo like he’s cake, and he has been on a diet for the past decade. “You have a dilemma, and Lorenzo has a dilemma. Together, you won’t have any dilemmas.”
Lorenzo attempts to speak, but Danny beats him to it. “Baby girl, have I told you today how much I love you?”
I pout when the elevator dings, announcing our arrival at the lower level of the stadium, pretending I’m devastated I’m about to miss out on Danny’s praise. “No, you haven’t, but you should save your breath. I’ve heard Italians are very handsy when they speak.”
Lorenzo growls something in Italian, but since I’m hot-footing it out of the elevator like my ass in on fire, I miss what he says. I also don’t speak Italian, although the pitch of his words has me seriously reconsidering my major.
Chapter Nine
Skylar
“That’s Shortie J?”
Willow slots into the seat across from me, her eyes focused on Lorenzo, who has the attention of all the 69ers’ cheerleaders. He’s sitting on a barstool, so they have no clue of the disaster they’re walking toward. They think they’re safe since we’re in the underground bar the 69ers regularly frequent after a win.
They’re dead wrong.
Even the bouncer cited Lorenzo’s ID as he didn’t believe any male under the age of twenty-one should be capable of cleaning the lint from his belly button.
When Willow’s head flops onto the booth’s lining, I scan her face. She’s sweaty all over. However, I’m wary not all her perspiration is from bumping and grinding on the dance floor as we celebrate the 69ers’ victory with a team I’ve admired for years. Her cheeks only get this amount of hue when she’s participating in extra-curricular activities, aka the beefcake she calls her boyfriend.
“I’d shave my legs for him, and I’m not just referencing the fur coat you’re adamant we can grow in the offseason.”
Willow is saved the scorn of my vicious eyes by Elvis sliding in next to her. “You better be referencing me, Will.” He has visited our dorm numerous times the past week, but I still struggle to keep my saliva in my mouth when he’s in the vicinity. It took me seven years to grow my fascination, so I’m confident it’ll take at least that long for it to wane—although my mouth isn’t quite as drenched as it was when Lorenzo lifted me onto the bathroom vanity without a strain fettering his ridiculously smoking features. “Or I’m about to go on a hulk smash.”
Willow’s smile is as blistering as the heat teeming between Elvis and her. “I thought you just did, old man?”
I sigh like a lovesick fool when Elvis tugs Willow’s head back so he can plant a peck on her kiss-swollen mouth. “I did, but this would be a different type of Hulk smash,” he murmurs over her lips.
She releases a husky breath when he yanks her head back a little further so he can ravish her neck. That’s one of the advantages of having a guy taller than you. He can act all caveman-like. Lorenzo had no issues throwing me over his shoulder last week, but he can’t curl over me on the dance floor like Elvis does Willow to ensure no man gets within two inches of her. Willow thinks it’s ridiculous for him to act so possessive, however, I friggin’ love it. He’s showing Willow what we’ve always known, but she’s yet to see. She’s perfect just the way she is.
After playfully nibbling on Elvis’s lower lip, Willow strays her loved-up eyes to me. “What’s the go? You’re usually bunging off the rafters for a win, let alone a championship trophy.”
I play down my excitement even with my insides jittering like I’m smuggling a pound of crack over the Mexican border. “I hurt my toe, so I’ve been benched.” I nudge my head to Lorenzo, who’s still watching me even with a dozen blonde bombshells vying for his attention. “For a midget
, he has big feet.”
“You had a run-in with Lorenzo Ricci?” I shift my eyes to Elvis, the questioner of my inquiry. When I jerk up my chin, his lips twist. “Considering his role, I thought he’d be light on his feet.”
“His role?” Nothing but inquisitiveness highlights my tone. I’ve known from day one that Shortie J isn’t a janitor, but for the life of me, I can’t place what he’d do for a living. Shelf-stacking is even off the cards for him.
“Yeah, he’s a big shot football player from Milan. Supposedly signed a one-season deal that has me reconsidering my negotiations with the 69ers.”
I swipe my hand through the air, cutting off Elvis mid-sentence. “Hold on. Go back. Lorenzo plays football?” When Elvis nods, I choke out, “For who? The Special Olympics?”
The cheeks of every woman in a five-mile radius burn when Elvis throws his head back and laughs. “No. He’s—” His comment is swamped by a roar. “What the fuck?” His eyes are on Willow, the person so eager to get him out of the booth he just slid into, she’s hitting him with everything she has. For someone almost as short as me, she has a lot of gusto in her shoves. She has Elvis on the dance floor quicker than he climbed the bleachers at the end of the game to lock their lips.
As quickly as they leave the booth, Danny enters it. He too has his eyes fixed on Lorenzo. “He’s not gay, is he?”
Even with my confession digging my own grave, I shake my head. When Danny drops his head into his hands with a whine, I try to ease his pain. “He could be bi. Have you seen his nails?”
“Yes.” His whine picks up, “Why do you think I was so interested?”
His gut-wrenching performance is worthy of an Oscar, only snafued when a waiter walks past with an overloaded tray of complimentary champagne. “For the love of God, they brought out the good stuff.” When I peer at him with an arched brow, he clutches his chest. “What? Do I have something stuck in my teeth?”
