The Best Laid Plans

by Mataya, Tamara

He’d just played his song for her. Bared his soul through song and she’d seemed to like it. She’d gathered up her backpack and he’d coincidentally been leaving at the same time. The temptation to walk with her overcame shyness. He couldn’t bear to part from her so soon after playing her song. He needed to know what she thought of it.

  “Did you like my song?” Supremely lame of him to ask, but he couldn’t let the opportunity slip by. His face felt hot.

  She barely glanced at him. “It’s definitely pretty. You did a great job.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Was it for band?”

  “No, it’s just something I love to do.” Boldness surged through him, further freeing his tongue. “You know, it’s about a girl.”

  “Yeah, that’s obvious. Angel.”

  Maybe he could summon the courage to ask her out. Could he do that? Did he want to demote her from muse to human, and maybe his girlfriend? If she wanted to, yes. “Yes. Angel. An amazing girl.”

  Her face went alarmingly blank. No excitement or friendly smile. “I guess. I just don’t know why you’d write a song about the head cheerleader.”

  Angel Byrd? Jane really thought he’d written a song about that vapid cow? No wonder she wasn’t impressed. She’d seemed into the music, liked the lyrics until she heard the title. She thought the words were directed at someone else, someone—

  “What’s this about the head cheerleader, Dill-weed? You wrote a song about my girlfriend?”

  Jonathan Broughton’s bulk filled the doorway of a nearby classroom. Shit. Angel Byrd’s boyfriend. Oh, he wasn’t the star quarterback. No, that would have made it better. Jonathan was an offensive lineman. Huge, possessive, and arrogant. And he had a friend with him.

  Malcolm’s stomach turned to ice, and his legs felt shaky. “What? No, I never—”

  “Blondie.” Jonathan snapped at Jane. “What’s this about?”

  Jane rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, looking annoyed. “Just another idiot in love with your precious girlfriend.” She sent Malcolm a disgusted look, and slipped around the corner, leaving him alone with Jonathan, who looked angrier by the second.

  “Is this true you’re in love with my girl?”

  Malcolm’s heart began slamming into overdrive. “No, the song is about—”

  “Come inside, Dill-weed. Let’s talk in private.” He jerked Malcolm roughly inside what he’d thought was an empty classroom, and shut the door. Dill-weed. Such an original play on his name, though it was surprising they knew his name at all. The lamer the nickname, the harder the punches. He’d seen that with other kids who hadn’t managed to escape the football team’s wrath.

  “What makes you think you can write things to my girlfriend?”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Because a needledick like you shouldn’t even be thinking about my girl.”

  “I wasn’t!” This was bad.

  Jonathan snatched the sheet of paper out of Malcolm’s now-sweaty palm. Malcolm’s heart pounded from a beat into a prolonged drum roll. A rolling thunder of dread in a shitstorm of emotion that had invaded his chest.

  “Well, lookie here,” Bobby, Jonathan’s friend, and star kicker for the team, drawled, grabbing the page from Jonathan. Even while knowing he was fucked, Malcolm wondered if he’d grabbed it because Jonathan couldn’t read. “The love song is called Angel.”

  “It’s called Angel, but it’s not about Angel!” Malcolm tried to explain, fear making him stutter.

  Jonathan’s face turned red, and his nostrils flared. “There’s only one Angel, Dill-weed. I think that says it all right there. Bobby. Dropkick.”

  Bobby smiled as his foot connected with Malcolm’s crotch with enough force to lift him a couple inches before he crashed to his knees. His chin smacked the corner of a desk on the way down, but he wouldn’t notice that bruise until later when he got home. The kicker followed with a swift and brutal shot to the kidneys, sending him crashing against the wall back-first, knocking the air from his lungs.

  “Now.” Jonathan picked up the guitar case, set it on a desk, and unfastened the clips. “I wouldn’t have even thought a little faggot like you would pay attention to girls. So good for you.” He opened the case, and Malcolm struggled to his feet, reaching out.

  “Please, don’t—”

  Jonathan shot a look at Bobby, whose foot slammed into Malcolm’s knee, knocking his feet out from under him. He didn’t have time to dodge the following kick to his stomach. He threw up from the force of the hit. Jonathan laughed, and Bobby swore and jumped back out of the way.

  “I’m going to teach you a lesson, Dill-weed. Something so you won’t ever think about even thinking about my girl again.”

  “I never—”

  “Dude, just shut the fuck up!” Bobby swore and kicked him again, this time in the ribs. He’d have passed out if the fear hadn’t filled him with so much adrenaline. Jonathan walked to the teacher’s desk, rummaged in a drawer, and found what he was looking for. He grinned and strolled back to Malcolm’s guitar, and took it out of the case. He trailed the scissors along the body, deeply scoring the wood, scratching the varnish off.

  It was like he’d carved that line across Malcolm’s soul.

  Then he put the scissors on and twang! Snipped through one string. The small, nylon e. Twang! The B string. Twang! The G. Everything would be okay. Strings were replaceable and not that expensive. It sucked, but he could fix this. Even the scratches. It was all cosmetic.

  Twang! “Fuck!” Jonathan grabbed at his face.

  “What? What happened?” Bobby looked from Jonathan to the door, back again.

  Jonathan flung the scissors away from him, pulled his other hand away to look at it. A thin trickle of blood dripped down his face from a small cut under his eye.

  “Dude,” Bobby said. “That could have taken your fucking eye, man! Career over!”

  Jonathan prided himself on being tough, but from the neck up he was a pretty boy. His nostrils flared and he seemed to inflate with anger. “Your fucking guitar, man, just about took my fucking eye out!” He stabbed a finger at Malcolm.

  And then things moved in slow motion. Jonathan grabbing the neck, taking a step toward the wall, and swung the guitar like a baseball bat. Someone shouted no and it had to have been Malcolm because no one else knew this was happening, or felt this pain. Wood splintered and the remaining strings broke with a sound that was like a dream dying. Something that had the potential to make beautiful music became a pile of kindling.

  A piece of Malcolm died with it.

  Jonathan dropped the remnants of the guitar to the floor and turned to Malcolm.

  With Bobby’s help, he gave Malcolm the second-worst beating of his life.

  He’d pissed blood for two days.

  ***

  “Hey.” Gentle hands woke him gasping from the memory, from the dream.

  “What?”

  “You were talking in your sleep.” Jayne sounded amused.

  Fear spiked through his chest at the thought of what he might have said, but he struggled to remain sleepy-looking. “I was? What did I say?”

  “I don’t know, you were mumbling. Nothing coherent.” She stretched back out and flipped her pillow over.

  ***

  He looked so relieved when she told him he’d said nothing that she wondered what secrets lived inside him. She’d never dated anyone who talked in their sleep before. Well, still wasn’t, really, it was way too early for any of that, but it was interesting. Too bad he’d only mumbled and not said something juicy, or hilarious. Her roommate in college had been full of delightful little stories when she slept. It had been handy for finding out where her favorite top had disappeared to.

  Malcolm flipped over and settled with his back to her, the blanket gapped open between them.

  “Hey. Where’d you get that scar?” She trailed a finger down the seven-inch long silvery-white line running down his back.

  His skin shuddered under her finger, and he twitc
hed away from her touch. “Hockey accident.”

  Maybe it was still sensitive, but it looked like an old scar. “You play?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Do you play any sports?”

  “Not really. Why? You into jocks?”

  “Not particularly. You’ve just got an incredible body.”

  He laughed huskily. “Thank you.” He rolled over and ran a warm hand up her back. Face to face they laid on their sides. “You’re pretty outstanding as well.”

  “Yoga.”

  “I wasn’t talking about your body.” He kissed the tip of her nose, and the sensitive skin of her jaw.

  “Oh.” His words filled her with pride, and happiness, and fear. She hoped he wasn’t one of those guys who fell in love with her way too soon. Some men were serial monogamists, turning from sexy to clingy in just a few romps in bed. She’d had two marriage proposals from guys like that, and she half suspected that they were offered because the men could sense the fact that she didn’t want a commitment.

  If Malcolm turned into another one of those guys, then amazing lover or not, she’d have to walk away.

  He pulled back and looked at her. “Do you want me to call you a cab, or would you like to stay over?”

  Relief filled her. “Cab, please. I prefer my own bed.”

  “Done.” He sat up and pulled on a pair of jeans before walking to the living room. She grabbed her clothes and ducked into the bathroom. When she finished, she made her way to his kitchen where she’d left her purse on the counter. Her shoes were there too, laying on their sides after she’d kicked them off in her haste to get to him. They hadn’t marked the wall.

  She slipped them on and started back in his direction. Sliding a thumb to unlock the phone as she walked into the living room, she noted no missed calls. Good. No fires to put out with any clients. Whoa. It was eleven p.m. They’d been playing and dozing for some time.

  Her body felt deliciously tired. She’d sleep well tonight.

  “Cab should be here in about five minutes.” He’d grabbed his guitar and strummed something soft and beautiful.

  She was glad he hadn’t turned into a clinger, but couldn’t leave without his number. She handed him her phone. “Put your number in here.”

  He arched an eyebrow, but did as she said.

  She wondered if he’d ask for her number, or let her run the show. “Well, I should get going.”

  He set the guitar down and stood up when she did. “I’m glad you came over.”

  That grin gave her tingles. Geez, I thought I’d be all sexed out. This man is trouble. She was too heated up. Time to play it cool. “It was fun. Maybe we’ll do it again sometime.”

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  He got to the door before her, pulling it open and placing a firm hand on her lower back to guide her out.

  She felt a small pulse of disappointment that he was just ushering her out without asking for her number or email. Or anything. Maybe she’d played it too cool and he thought she wasn’t interested. Maybe he wasn’t interested. Then he tugged her hand and spun her back around, pulling her close. A slow smile curled her lips. He just did all the right things, didn’t he?

  “You going to call me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I can work with maybe,” he breathed and brought his lips to hers. He kept it soft and slow, and hot desire licked her insides like the flames of a large, low fire. His tongue stroked hers and he kneaded her lower back in that spot that made the bones in her legs disappear. Her ears began ringing. He pulled away and she realized it wasn’t her ears that were ringing – it was the phone.

  “Cab’s here.” He nuzzled her neck and she debated staying over after all. But that would be giving him the upper hand. She couldn’t just give in and buckle under the skill of his kisses.

  So she took a step backwards toward the elevator. And then another. He held her hand, not releasing it until the last possible second.

  “You’d better use my number, Miss Jayne.”

  She bit the smile from her lip and hit the button for the elevator, incredibly relieved that it had been there.

  If she’d had to wait, she’d have caved, and jumped him in the hallway.

  Jayne hadn’t called him. It had been eight days since he’d seen her. Eight agonizingly long days. He’d done everything he could think of for a distraction, but nothing worked. He turned down a few more offers from women, casual sex he had no interest in now that he’d been with Her. He’d even gone and gotten tested for STD’s in case he and Jayne … He was clean.

  He couldn’t get the sight of her, the smell of her, the feel of her out of his head. He drowned in the sensate memories of their sex.

  How would his plan work if she didn’t call him back? He supposed the fact that they’d been so intimate could be counted as a small victory.

  But it wasn’t enough. It solved nothing and she’d sunk further under his skin, driving him madder. He’d given her all the power, and she sat pretty while he was wrecked by insecurity. Would she call? Had something happened to her phone? Maybe she’d lost his number. Had he programmed it in wrong? Was she genuinely not interested? Had she met someone else?

  He slammed his fist into the heavy bag, followed it by a series of long and short-range jabs, adjusting for the swinging of the bag. When they didn’t improve his mood, he kicked, slamming his shins into the bag. When he’d first gotten into kickboxing seven years ago, his shins had been painfully sensitive, but he’d become used to it, nerves having been deadened enough in training that he hadn’t required pads for years.

  Kickboxing wasn’t the only martial art he’d learned, but it was his go-to for relieving stress.

  “Malcolm!”

  He pulled his punch and turned to look at the other man.

  “Hey, Lee.”

  The instructor shook his hand. “You up for some sparring?”

  Normally he’d have been all over the offer. He was too advanced to spar with most people and it frustrated him always holding back. Today wasn’t great for a match. A fight would definitely not improve his mood; he needed to release his frustrations, not take them out on someone.

  He shook his head. “Maybe another time, man.”

  “You sure?” He didn’t often get to spar with people he didn’t have to hold back with either.

  “Yeah, I just need to kill the bag for a while.”

  “I hear that. Rain check, but I’ll hold you to it!”

  Malcolm smiled at his excitement, and Lee walked over to correct another fighter’s stance.

  Malcolm had to accept the fact that he’d somehow misread the situation. Jayne hadn’t been interested and if she had been, she’d changed her mind. He’d failed. And he’d never get to be with her again.

  He kicked the bag as hard as he could, relishing the slight sting that spread over his shin.

  Make that, he’d never get to complete his plan for her. Best sex of his life or not, she was Just Jane. Just the woman who had almost destroyed him a decade ago. Jane with a ‘y.’ Why indeed? Why had she shown up now of all times, when things were going perfectly in his world?

  He pushed her from his mind and squared his hips.

  “Hey. I’ve seen you around.” A friendly female voice came from his left flank. He turned to look at the speaker. Five-ten and built like an Amazon. Jayne was petite with curves for days. The Amazon was wrapped in a tiny pair of green shorts and a grey tank top, and had brunette hair and light blue eyes. Jayne’s eyes were the deepest royal blue. Annoyance surged in him. Stop thinking about her!

  “Yeah?”

  Her eyes crawled from his abs to his feet to his face. “You’re amazing.”

  “Thanks.”

  She held out a wrapped hand. “Angie.”

  He shook it with his own stiffly wrapped hand. “Malcolm.”

  “Do you ever compete in tournaments, Malcolm?”

  “I did a few years ago for a while, but got out of it.”

&nb
sp; “Why? I’ve seen your technique, you’re so precise with the power to back it up.”

  “I’m a musician and couldn’t afford a hand injury.” One wrong punch, one hand wrapped just slightly incorrectly and his session days would be over. He’d loved competing and was great at it, but it wasn’t worth his livelihood.

  “Ah,” her eyes lit up. “Where do you play?”

  “I gig here and there, but it’s mostly session work.” He smiled, really only going through the motions. He felt no tug of chemistry making him want to pursue the conversation further. He couldn’t summon any attraction for her. It was a testament to how badly this whole Jayne thing had messed with his head. And his dick. He may as well have had a Ken Doll torso for the lack of stirrings he felt below the belt looking at this gorgeous, athletic woman.

  “Do you want to spar for a bit?”

  He shook his head. “I just wanted to smack the bag for a while.”

  “Ah. Maybe a drink afterwards? I’m all finished, but I can wait until you’re done.”

  “I’m sort of seeing someone … ” Sort of the truth, and the nicest way to say no.

  “So am I.”

  He wasn’t that into being in a committed relationship, but the few times he had been, he was completely loyal and monogamous. “I’m not like that.”

  “My loss,” she said, looking at him from head to toe again. “See you around.” She sashayed out of the gym, and he promptly forgot about her. Eight days. Jayne was probably being hit on by half the city. Where was she? Why hadn’t she called him back?

  For the umpteenth time, he pushed her from his thoughts, checked his stance and squared off.

  And then he whaled on the bag for the next forty-five minutes until he dripped with sweat and felt too tired to worry about Jayne.

  But he’d probably be back tomorrow.

  Eight days since Jayne had left his apartment. This was the fifth day in a row that he’d come to relieve stress.

  Nothing helped.

  ***

  Eight days. She’d almost broken down and called him on day two, but decided against it. He hadn’t asked for her number. What if that had been deliberate because he didn’t want to see her again? But maybe he thought since she had his number, that it was up to her to call. Was he letting her make the next move? God, she was overthinking it. If men were supposed to wait three days, she would almost double it, and call him in five. No sense cutting off her nose to spite her face. Unfortunately, work got hella busy right then and she was only now able to come up for air. Maybe a little cooler than she’d wanted to play it, but it was what it was.