“I’ve seen the food.” I glance down at Avery’s best friend. “Far less appetizing than she is.”
“You do always look at her like she’s dessert.” Sadie giggles. She’s not usually a giggling kind of woman, so I attribute that tinkly sound to the glass of champagne. Probably not her first.
“I don’t look at Avery like she’s dessert.” I drop the smile so she knows my intentions aren’t of the short-lived, guilty pleasure variety. “I look at her like she’s the main course.”
That penetrates her tipsy bubble enough to widen her eyes with surprise.
“Hmmm.” She takes another sip, brows up. “Tread carefully, if that’s the case. You’d be better off settling for dessert, Deck. Short and sweet.”
“Do I seem like a man who settles to you?” My laugh is humorless because I’m afraid this time I might have to.
“Avery’s been through a lot this year.” Sadie’s eyes appear suddenly slightly sober. “And she doesn’t need some player making things more complicated than they already are for her.”
“Former player,” I say. “In every sense of the word.”
“Would your ex-wife agree on the former?”
“What the hell does that mean?” We trade glares over her presumption.
“Meaning I know they don’t take the trash out of those tunnels every night, and ballers like you scoop it up, take it home, fuck it, and don’t let a wedding ring stop you.”
“I never cheated on my wife.” I check the anger and frustration her assumptions are burning under my collar. “If you’re asking if I got ass when I was single, then let me assure you, I got ass. If you’re asking if I still get ass, then yeah. I still get ass, but if I’m in a monogamous relationship, I play one-on-one. Not that it’s any of your damn business.”
“Avery is my damn business.” She mutters under her breath what sounds like “carbon.”
“If you’re gonna call me a motherfucker, you can do it in English.” Humor relaxes my shoulders a little after the last few tense moments.
“You speak Spanish?” She doesn’t look chagrined at getting caught.
“Only enough to realize I’m being insulted from time to time.”
Her mouth loosens into a slight grin before she looks up at me frankly.
“Look, Ave may seem like she’s having a great time.” She waves her hand at the dance floor where Avery is dancing her ass off while managing to hold a Cosmopolitan. “But like the song says, blame it on the alcohol. The last thing she needs is some one-night stand holiday cheer.”
“I know that.” I hate the defensive note in my voice, but I resent her thinking I’m like Mike Dunlov, looking to capitalize on Avery’s vulnerability.
“But do you know that today is the day?” Sadie asks softly. “That her fiancé died a year ago today?”
“Shit.” I swipe a hand over my face. “I didn’t know that.”
I return the assessing look Sadie’s giving me, and then some. Can I trust her? Can she trust me?
“What can you tell me about him?” I finally ask. “About his death?”
“Nothing.” Sadie’s mouth tips in a wry grin. “If you’re serious about Avery being the . . . how’d you put it? Main course? Then that’s a story she needs to tell you herself.”
“Sadie!” Jerry, a cameraman I’ve seen on set, calls from a few feet away. “Get out here and shake what your mama gave you.”
“This may take a while.” Sadie laughs and hands me her glass. “’Cause Mama gave me a lot!”
She shuffles off toward the dance floor. As soon as a server passes by, I set her glass and my barely-touched Jack and Coke on the tray. The party is in full swing, but I’m already thinking about the bed upstairs in my borrowed penthouse suite. Knowing how hard today has to be for Avery, there’s no way I’m leaving her at the mercy of these wolves.
Some Mariah Carey Christmas song comes on. The one from Love Actually. Everyone starts singing along and dancing even harder. I hate dancing. I was that guy sitting in VIP balancing a girl on each leg since I didn’t really drink and definitely didn’t dance. Just posted up, which is all I plan to do tonight, too. Besides, the wall gives me a great vantage point to keep an eye on Avery. If the final stage of grief is horny, I may have to protect her from herself. With Sadie off shaking what her mama gave her, it’s up to me to keep Avery’s virtue intact. Ironic since I’ve wanted in those pants for a very long time.
Another Mariah Carey Christmas song comes on.
What is up with Mariah Carey and the holidays?
Some other guy steps in to dance with Avery. She’s good, her body moving gracefully, that dress hanging on to her curves by a literal thread. If she pops it one more inch, I think we’ll have a wardrobe malfunction on our hands. Her expression is open and free like I’ve never seen it, but that could be because of the drink in her hand every time she dances by.
A slower song comes on, and the guy pulls Avery close, his hands slipping to her hips and his palms drifting lower. She laughs up at him and steps back, shaking her empty glass and heading to the bar.
My turn.
“Merry Christmas.” I lean against the bar and block Avery’s view of the rest of the room.
The smile she’s been wearing since she walked through the door wavers. Her lashes drop before she looks back up at me, that fraudulent grin firmly back in place. We’ve seen each other on set and in meetings, but since that kiss, I’ve given her the space she requested.
“Not quite Christmas.” She sips the drink the bartender just handed her. “Another few days.”
I glance from the alcohol to her dark, glassy eyes that, up this close, are rimmed with sorrow. “What you drinking?”
“A lot.” Her laugh comes loud and hollow. “I’m drinking a lot.”
“I can see that.” I clear my throat and lean a little closer. “You might want to ease up. Some of these guys are on the prowl tonight.”
“They’re on the prowl?” The hazy eyes turn defiant. “Maybe I’m on the prowl, Deck. Maybe I’m not the prey, but the hunter.”
“Huntress, I think you mean.”
“Hunter, huntress, whatever. I just might be prowling, so don’t worry about me.” She straightens from the bar and starts past me back to the dance floor. “Just stay out of my way.”
I watch the steady sway of her hips as she resumes her place on the dance floor, immediately joined by Mike Dunlov. The asshole.
“Hey, homey.” I proffer a hundred-dollar bill to the bartender between two fingers. “This is yours if you can water down her drinks when she comes back for more.”
His eyes widen and then crinkle with a smile while he pockets the cash.
“Sure thing.” He pours vodka into a cocktail shaker. “I feel for her. I do all SportsCo’s parties, and she and her fiancé were great together. It’s only been a year since he passed. Gotta be hard.”
“Yeah,” I say without offering more.
I hate discussing her like this. I’ve found myself in three conversations about how she’s handling her grief, and none of them with her. I know she’s not ready for what I’m ready for. Hell, I’m not even sure I’m ready for what I think things could be with Avery. I don’t have to be in her bed tonight, but I’d love to be in her head; to know what’s behind that hollow laugh and that out-of-body look. Like she’s here, dancing, drinking, flirting; going through all the motions, but she’s somewhere else, alone and miserable. Not really here at all.
The deejay gears the tempo down again, and Sam Smith’s cover of “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” comes on. Avery freezes in the middle of the dance floor, but Mike Dunlov keeps rocking, talking incessantly, barely noticing that Avery stands rigid in front of him. He misses the look of absolute devastation that twists her expression and floods her eyes. She walks off, leaving him alone wearing his confusion all over himself. I follow her path past Mike and around the corner. A few feet ahead of me, she grabs a bottle of champagne from one of the servers a
nd steps out of sight onto the balcony.
Cold wind slaps me in the face when I join her at the rail. Noticing gooseflesh prickling the skin of her arms and back, I slip my jacket off and drape it over her shoulders. She jumps, spilling champagne down the front of her dress.
“Shit.” She holds the glass and the bottle away from her body, assessing the damage.
“Sorry.” I pull a cocktail napkin from my pocket and pat the wet spot on the front of her dress. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
With a half-hearted grin, she watches my hands moving over the scarce material of her bodice and skirt.
“If this is some elaborate scheme to get to second base,” she says. “It might actually work tonight.”
My hands pause just under her breasts, and I glance from the stain on her dress to the stain on her face. The stain of sadness with a shade of inebriation.
“As much as I’d like to take you up on your offer,” I say, crooking one side of my mouth even though I don’t feel like smiling, and it looks like she doesn’t either. “I’ll take a rain check.”
She narrows her eyes for a second before shrugging, setting her glass on the balcony ledge and tipping the bottle to her lips, eyes never leaving mine.
“Some other guy’s lucky night then,” she drawls.
I grab her wrist before she can take another sip, and the rim of the bottle is poised at her lips.
“No.”
It’s one word, but it covers a lot. No, she doesn’t need to drink anymore. No, it’s not some other motherfucker’s lucky night if I have anything to say about it. And no, I won’t let her drown her sorrows in champagne and meaningless sex tonight.
“No? I’m a grown-ass woman, Deck,” she snaps, a shadow flitting across her face. “Grown and fancy-free.”
A lone tear streaks through her flawless makeup. “God, I hate this song.”
I tune into the music drifting out to us from inside.
“Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas”? I ask.
“It was his favorite Christmas song,” she whispers and clunks the champagne bottle down on the balcony ledge. “It’s awful.”
She squeezes her eyes closed, but more tears slip over her cheeks. I want to put my arms around her again like I did at her apartment, but she’s been so unpredictable tonight, I don’t know how she’ll respond. I hesitate, not sure what to say. I hate it when people say stupid shit to a grieving person. I don’t want to be that guy, and I’m not known for my sensitivity.
“I know this is a hard time for you.”
She stares at me, sadness and uncertainty suspended between us like a rope bridge, before bringing the bottle to her lips and chugging without answering.
“Hey, hey.” I urge the bottle down and away from her mouth. “That won’t solve anything.”
“Oh, you’re so acquainted with grief, are you? That you know just what to do in these situations, huh? I’m so damn tired of being a situation. Of knowing everyone’s wondering how I’m holding up, and wondering if I’m ready to date again. Wondering if I’m still . . .”
“Still what, Ave?”
She draws a deep breath and clutches the bottle to the smooth skin between her breasts displayed by the dipping neckline.
“You still on the top floor?” she demands. “Or has the network kicked you out already?”
“Nah.” I draw the word out a little, buying a nanosecond to figure out where she’s going with this. “I’ve got the penthouse for few more days.”
She nods, draws her brows together like she’s processing what I’ve told her; like she’s working out some problem. And then she says the words I would have given my first-year salary to hear the night we met, but now have no idea what to do about.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says. “Take me to your place.”
9
Avery
I know this is a mistake. I’m huddled in the corner of the elevator, my eyes fixed on the illuminated ascending numbers taking us inevitably to the top floor where Deck has been living the past few weeks. If I knew what was good for me, I would push the red emergency button; alert maintenance that there’s an accident in progress right inside this elevator car. But I can’t. I woke up with this numbness spreading over my body like a plague. It’s even frozen over my heart. I knew today would be painful; that it might hurt like a fresh wound, but nothing hurts and nothing feels good. Not the deceptively innocuous champagne bubbles zipping through my bloodstream. Not the many guys I danced with tonight or the secret touches they stole while we moved to the music. Nothing has made me feel all day.
Except him.
Call it lust. Animal attraction. Whatever it is, I felt it like a shot of adrenaline as soon as I saw Decker tonight. I study him from under surreptitious lashes, roving my eyes over silky hair the color of nutmeg brushed with honey. The slightest curl of it at his nape softens the hard line of his neck. His brandy-flavored eyes watch the climbing numbers, the bold nose and thick brows and wide, mobile mouth harmonizing his features into handsome. I study the impressive width of his shoulders and the bulge of his arms straining against the dress shirt. His jacket around my shoulders douses me in his scent and his warmth. I discretely snuggle deeper into its embrace, even though the arms hang limp and empty at my sides.
Yes, he makes me feel something. I want it to be as simple as lust; as the sad, horny girl who woke up with her dead fiancé on her mind and her hand between her legs, but it’s not that simple. I’ve always known with Decker it wouldn’t be.
“I don’t think . . .” I struggle to wrangle my thoughts set on a wild goose chase by the alcohol I’ve consumed. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
He looks at me sharply just as the doors open to his floor. We consider each other, neither making a move. The doors start closing and he catches them with one long arm.
“Come on.” He tilts his head toward the landing beyond the elevator doors. “At least let me get some coffee in you. Sober you up and save you from bad decisions you’ll regret tomorrow.”
He thinks the bad decisions are back at the party with idiots like Mike Dunlov. No, the bad decisions are behind his closed doors, but I find myself half-stumbling after him to the penthouse. As soon as we’re inside, I lean my palm onto the wall for balance and take off my stilettos. I lose another four inches, and now have to tip my head farther back to see his face.
“You’re tall.” I want to retract the obvious statement to a basketball player as soon as it trips past my liquor-loosened lips. Humor flits through his eyes briefly before concern swipes it away.
“Comes with the territory.” He walks toward the small, neat kitchen. “Come on. Coffee.”
I very carefully climb onto the leather stool at the counter, looping my bare feet on the slats. Decker makes even a simple task like making coffee look tantalizing. The play of muscles under his thin white shirt when he reaches for a mug. The efficiency of his big hands, quick and deft in the mundane preparations. There’s a rugged grace to him; like rough metal that’s been polished and chiseled until it gleams.
“You’re beautiful,” I blurt, causing him to stop what he’s doing and stare at me.
I really am drunk. I’d never say that sober.
“Wow, you really are drunk.” He echoes my thoughts, laughs and shakes his head, sliding the coffee across the marble counter top. “Drink this and I’m sure I’ll be less beautiful soon.”
I hope so because if he keeps looking like that, I can’t be held responsible.
And isn’t that what I want? For one night not to feel responsible? Not to feel guilty or condemned? Ashamed of my part in Will’s irreversible decision? All night I’ve wanted to feel something, and in this moment, I feel everything. Like a wall dropped and every painful thought and emotion rushed in before I could get my guard back up.
“It’s today,” I speak into the quiet filled with only the hum of appliances.
“What’s today?” Decker leans his elbows on the counter,
gathering both huge fists under his chin and watching me closely, waiting for more.
I think he already knows. I feel like all night everyone knew that I was desperate to forget the significance of this day.
“Um . . . a year ago today, Will died.” I run a fingernail over the silky material stretching across my thighs.
“I’m sorry, Avery.” Sincerity lays heavy in the dark eyes, unlit by his usual good humor.
“Did you know it was suicide?” The words cut my tongue like a razor. “That he took his own life? Right in our apartment.”
“I didn’t know. Did you . . .” His compassion reshapes to horror. “Did you find him, Avery?”
The horrible tableau plays out across my mind again like it has countless times before.
“Yeah.” My whisper breaks. “I found him, but I was too late.”
Despite the warmth of his jacket around me, I shiver like I’m back there; like the premonition that slid over me when I entered our apartment that night is revisiting my skin and reminiscing with my bones.
“Shit, Ave.” Decker crosses around the counter to me, his taut stomach hitting my bent knees while I sit on the stool. “I’m so sorry.”
“He was . . . he was . . .” My teeth rattle, shock shaking me like I’m standing in that bathroom again. “In the water. In our bathtub with so much blood.”
Deck pulls me closer by the shoulders while tears course over my cheeks and dampen the fine cotton of his shirt. I can’t catch my breath. Weeping quakes my body with the stupid tears I promised myself I wouldn’t shed today. I was so determined to forget all of this tonight, and here I am a sloppy mess all over Mack Decker. His wide, warm palms roll over my arms when his jacket falls from my shoulders and hits the thick pile carpet. He rests his hands at the curve of my neck and shoulder when my tears finally subside, his thumbs under my chin, lifting, forcing my eyes to meet his.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks softly.
I concentrate all my senses, all my focus on where his hands have been. My arms are warm from his touch. The sensitive skin of my neck tingles where his thumbs caress. The faint smell of alcohol and his expensive cologne, flares my nostrils. My heart slams into my ribs like I’ve run and leapt and landed. Wordlessly, I scoot forward on the stool, widening my legs until he’s between them, bracketed by my knees. The bold action forces the dress up to the juncture of my thighs, offering a glimpse of my black panties. His eyes drop between my legs and snap up to my face. He tries to step back, hands falling away and jaw ticking, but I latch onto one leanly muscled arm.
Team Player: A Sports Romance Anthology Page 51
