Winner Takes All

by Sandra Kitt

  “Jean, you don’t have to do that. I’ll be okay. Promise.”

  “If I’d never met you before, I’m not sure I would even make the offer. I’m not sure how I’d handle something like this if it were anyone else. We don’t really know each other…but you’re not a stranger.”

  For a few moments, they stared at each other, assessing the situation in a silent standoff. Jean had surprised herself with the spontaneous offer, but she wasn’t uncomfortable having made it. Patrick’s gaze was very intense. Finally, he let out a long breath.

  “Okay. Okay, I accept. I can drive myself home, mind you. I think I’m relieved I won’t have to.”

  “You’re welcome,” Jean said easily, turning to walk ahead of him. Honestly, she just wanted to get home.

  Patrick’s SUV was in a guest spot in the exclusive lot designated for use by the mayor’s office. His was the only one left. Jean showed her ID to the night attendant, and Patrick clicked the door open. The headlights blinked and the car beeped twice. Then the engine started. It was a man’s vehicle with all the bells and whistles. Jean stopped by the driver’s side door and held out her hand to Patrick for the keys.

  “Oh, no. No one drives my car,” he said.

  She waited, hand out.

  “Jean…”

  “Keys,” she said firmly.

  “This is ridic—”

  She snapped her fingers, waiting.

  “Fine.” Resigned, he dropped the keys into her palm.

  Getting in was a challenge for her, however, the shape of the slim skirt calling for her to hitch the fabric up her thigh to give her enough room to step up on the running board. A quick glance at Patrick indicated he was enjoying the display.

  But once she drove out of the lot, he immediately relaxed, apparently comfortable that she could handle a vehicle a number of sizes bigger than she was.

  Jean’s high-rise was on a quiet, residential, tree-lined street just on the edge of Park Slope, less than a mile from Red Hook and the feed into the East River. They found a parking spot a block away from the building. Patrick seemed fascinated with the neighborhood as he looked around, finally commenting as they approached her building.

  “Nice neighborhood. Seems a bit dark. There should be more streetlights. Especially when you’re coming home this late. Do you have a doorman?”

  “Yes, there is a doorman.”

  “Good,” he said, satisfied.

  “I’ll take up your observations and complaints with the mayor’s office,” she said.

  “No need to be sarcastic. Just thinking about your safety.”

  By the time they got into the elevator, Patrick had fallen thoughtfully silent again. She didn’t try to fill the void. Neither one of them was up for conversation.

  Jean unlocked the door and walked into the darkened space. Straight ahead, light from streetlamps shone through the living room windows. She hit a wall switch, brightening the entrance. Patrick blinked and walked into the center of the room, looking around. She watched his reaction.

  “There’s only one bedroom,” she explained. She pointed to the love seat that was positioned to divide the length of the space into two, creating a living room and dining area. “The love seat opens out into a full bed. I’ve never slept on it, so I don’t know how comfortable it is.”

  Patrick looked at Jean with a tired but satisfied expression. “I’m not going to complain.”

  Suddenly nervous and feeling awkward, Jean began showing him around, pointing out the bathroom and kitchen. She kept up the patter while pulling out fresh linens from a narrow hall closet, finding extra pillows. Together they pulled out and made up the convertible sofa, and Jean realized that Patrick was no longer listening. They finished, facing each other on either side of the love seat, opened between them with fresh sheets.

  “Good night,” Jean said, turning to her bedroom.

  “Night,” Patrick said behind her.

  “You can sleep as late as you like in the morning. It’s Saturday.”

  “I don’t want to get in the way. You probably have plans.”

  Jean turned away, hand on the doorknob to the bedroom.

  “Wait a minute,” he called out behind her.

  Jean turned back as Patrick shrugged out of the leather jacket and advanced toward her, arms spread. For an instant, she was caught off guard and was cautious. Patrick pulled her into an embrace that curved her against him, but then he did nothing more than hold her close for a long moment. Jean raised her arms to circle him as well.

  Her sigh of pleasure was inaudible.

  Then he stepped back, as did she, not meeting each other’s gaze.

  She heard “Thanks” as she closed the bedroom door.

  Jean had had a crush on Trick Bennett in high school. She had been careful not to let him know. He was so out of her league, and they seemed to be polar opposites, which made tutoring him so much easier than it might have been otherwise. But seeing him again was like a jump through time and space. The changes in him were dramatic and very attractive. Jean found herself responding to them.

  Now what?

  Chapter 3

  Jean lay awake, staring into the spinning blades of the ceiling fan over her bed. It was almost hypnotic. Every nook and cranny of her head seemed to be filled with images of Trick Bennett. Patrick. Several times the day before she’d called him by his high school handle. But he’d been clear that he didn’t go by the name he’d used when he was a kid. He’d laid claim to his full name, and she respected that. And she liked that. She was probably the only person at his party who went back far enough to even recall the nickname from high school.

  He was no longer the lanky youth with a lopsided smile and inquisitive gaze. He’d given up on the messy, too-long, dark hair that he’d habitually swept from his forehead with both hands…a signature move much copied by other boys but lacking his casual flair of spontaneity. His face had filled out, too, and was now heart-stoppingly masculine in its angles, jawline, and sharp, gray eyes. Jean remembered all of that early stuff. And even though she’d spent only three months, twice a week, secretly tutoring him for senior finals, she’d committed to memory every physical thing about Patrick Bennett she could make herself aware of. By virtue of their grade levels in school and the imposed school hierarchy that she had no say in, they were platonic friends by special arrangement and without benefits.

  He’d sought her help through the recommendation of a teacher, and they had an association that they’d both managed to keep secret, for fear of the social consequences and unwarranted gossip.

  Jean sighed and closed her eyes, but she couldn’t go back to sleep. As was her normal inclination, she’d fallen into a deep sleep the minute her head hit the pillows. As was also her inclination, she came instantly awake a few hours later because something was on her mind. It was Patrick. If he’d never recognized her during the press announcements, she would have remained silent and never hinted that they were acquainted. But he had noticed and remembered her first and acted on it. Mouthing silent greetings, grabbing her hand and holding on, smiling at her with a light in his eyes that she had not seen, at least for her, in high school.

  What was up with that?

  Jean slowly sat up on the side of her bed, staring at the closed bedroom door. On the other side, Patrick was a guest on her pullout sleeper. Was he naked beneath the top sheet? She could hear nothing, but wondered if he snored. Or was Patrick a peaceful sleeper? Was he dreaming about her?

  Jean went to the door and carefully opened it. She had a flash of second thoughts about what she was going to do and then tiptoed to the living room. She approached the back of the love seat and peered down onto the prone, sleeping Patrick. She could hear his rhythmic breathing, and see the rise and fall of his chest. He was long and lean. One leg was stretched out beyond the end of the mattress. The other bent at the k
nee, partially exposed. Even in the dark, she could detect the hair on his leg.

  Jean walked slowly along the back of the sofa to the end. Her perspective of a sleeping Patrick changed with her position. At one end, she stopped again, afraid her movement had been detected as he made a subtle adjustment with his hips and upper thigh. She continued around the sofa to the front and stared through the dark at Patrick, unable to see his facial features, but that didn’t matter. She knew exactly every facet of his face. She couldn’t believe he was actually in her home, peacefully asleep. And here she stood, wide-awake with wild, erotic fantasies dancing in her head.

  Jean was reliving the way he’d pulled her unexpectedly into his arms, just to hold her before they’d separated for the night. It stunned Jean that she wanted so much more. She desired to be pressed against him again and feel the hard width of his chest, the solid pressure of his arms, the columns of his legs. She wanted him to know how he made her feel. Jean stood and daydreamed, and Patrick slept.

  She stood there only a moment. Patrick let out a deep exhalation and started to change his position, taking the top sheet with him. Jean wondered what she would do if he suddenly awakened and found her watching him. Would she hasten back to her room, embarrassed? What if he made a move for her, inviting her to join him on the bed? What if she accepted?

  Her intense thoughts and wishes began to wear Jean out, until she wanted to return to her bed, go back to sleep. Just as quietly as she’d come in, she crept back to her bedroom, again putting the closed door between them.

  * * *

  Patrick winced at the stab of light through his eyelids that pulled him from sleep. He was awake. It was almost 11:00 a.m. He was alone in a strange apartment. Jean’s place in Brooklyn. He stretched with abandon, yawning wide from a deep and restful sleep. He felt very relaxed. But he was not one to languish in bed. Patrick was very much the get-up-and-hit-the-ground-running type. His twenty-four-hour days were actually twenty-five.

  He got up, glancing toward the still-closed bedroom door. Curiosity guided him around Jean’s living/dining room combo space. The unit was neat, comfortably furnished, and bright. She favored framed posters on the walls, meaningful printed slogans, and lots of photographs. Patrick scanned every one, trying to guess at the connections between the diverse group of men, women, and children that made up family and friends.

  He looked to identify Jean in images that showed her as a very young child with, presumably, her parents. A handsome, boyish white man and a petite African American woman with one of the brightest smiles he’d ever seen. It was open, drawing you in. If these were Jean’s parents, they were an incredibly good-looking couple. And now Patrick absolutely understood what the supposed controversy had been about Jean circulating through school. He couldn’t understand any significance to her being biracial.

  Then there was a series with Jean as she grew older, photographed with one or the other of her parents. Photos of her in her cap and gown, from her high school graduation. And then from college. But no pictures from a high school prom. Finally, there were more recent pictures showing how she’d evolved into the very attractive woman he’d encountered the day before. A scattering of framed pictures he presumed to be cousins, aunts, and uncles from both sides of her family, judging from the ethnicity and hair, skin, and eye colors. He smiled to himself with a kind of Wow response to the display.

  Jean Travis was very twenty-first century. He did not have that distinction.

  Jean Travis had most definitely come of age.

  * * *

  Jean quietly opened her door so as not to disturb the sleeping Patrick. Except he wasn’t asleep. The bed had been folded up, the linens folded neatly. There was not a sound anywhere.

  “Patrick?”

  Immediately there was movement from the kitchen. “In here.”

  She walked toward the kitchen, and Patrick appeared in the doorway, somehow looking much taller than he had the day before. He was barefoot. He was dressed in his slacks…and nothing else. Jean’s gaze shifted to stare at the silky covering of dark hair on his chest.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, rushing around her to the living room. He returned moments later with his pullover Henley shirt on.

  “You’re already dressed,” he observed.

  She’d pulled on slim, jean-like leggings and a boxy, tangerine-colored top that complemented her complexion. She was also barefoot. She’d done something to her hair to make it look fuller, gathering it up in the back so it was bushy and curly.

  “I tend to strut around in jammies or very little when I’m home.”

  “I could have handled jammies,” he said.

  She smiled broadly at his humor. “How did you sleep?”

  “Like it was going out of style. The pullout was more comfortable than I thought it would be. But…”

  Her stomach roiled. Had Patrick heard her, seen her staring at him in the dark?

  “I know. Not long enough for your legs.”

  “I wasn’t complaining, Jean. And you?”

  “Me? I always seem to sleep well.”

  “Ah…the sleep of the innocent.”

  Now she did laugh. “I don’t know about that.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence.

  “Thanks again for putting me up last night. It was really an awesome gesture.”

  “I’m glad I thought of it. Were you rummaging around my fridge?” she asked, joining him in the kitchen.

  “Actually, trying to figure out how your coffee maker works. Mine, you just add water and coffee and plug it in. Yours has a digital timer, a light that blinks, a buzzer… I’m a simple guy. Your machine defeated me.”

  “I’ll do it. You’ll want to get started for home…”

  “I’m not in a hurry.”

  “I could make a little breakfast.”

  “You say that like you don’t usually eat breakfast.”

  “Something light.”

  Patrick grunted and made a face. “That sounds like berries and oatmeal. Or yogurt with granola.”

  Jean laughed.

  “Don’t you know breakfast is the most important meal of the day?”

  “Well, what would you like?”

  “Do you have eggs? Cheese? Tomatoes? Bread? Butter?”

  “Yes to all but tomatoes.”

  “Then we’re having cheese toast with an egg over easy. Where’s your skillet?”

  “Under the cabinet to your right.”

  “Do you mind? Since obviously you don’t cook.”

  “I do, but…”

  “Not breakfast.”

  “Let me get the coffee started, and I’ll get out of the way.”

  “There’s plenty of room. I like it. It’s cozy,” Patrick observed.

  Jean imagined that there were probably plenty of women more than willing to cook and feed him. And if the women of last night’s party were any clue, they were all like heat-seeking missiles. They knew where to find him.

  But the strangeness of their situation did not completely wear off just because they were seated opposite each other for breakfast. Jean covertly watched Patrick before speaking up about something that had been on her mind since the party the night before.

  “I noticed that you haven’t said anything about your lottery winnings. Do you have a short list of what you’re going to do with the money? Are you happy about it? Are you in shock that you even won?”

  “Tell you what,” Patrick began after a moment of considering her questions. “When I actually get the check and can cash it, then I’ll start seriously thinking about what I’m going to do with seventy-five million dollars. Right now…I’m not sure it really happened.”

  “It’s real, Patrick,” Jean murmured.

  Patrick put down his fork and leaned toward her across the table. “Jean, right now I can only say I�
�m not ready to talk about it,” he said quietly as he shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. Let’s do a rain check on this discussion, okay?”

  She raised her gaze to his. She was surprised to detect a worry frown between his gray eyes.

  “Fair enough,” Jean said. “To be continued.”

  But she was curious about how uncomfortable Patrick appeared. Jean wondered what could be causing his reticence. Why would he have purchased a lottery ticket if he wasn’t going to be happy about actually winning? The most important aspect of Patrick’s win, hands down, was that it miraculously brought them together again, here in her home.

  Jean sighed quietly. This had been a fortuitous interlude, and they would separate with warm memories of their mini reunion. She used to daydream about Trick asking her out. She used to imagine him kissing her like he really cared. Maybe she would have gone all the way, if he’d asked. He never did get fresh or bold. She’d imagined dozens of iterations of the possibilities in full Technicolor detail after he’d graduated and there was no chance of them seeing each other again. For several years, she’d built a very rich fantasy life around him. Over time, it faded…and she grew up. Now she could say she’d finally gotten to sleep with Trick Bennett.

  Sort of.

  The night also fell into the categories of the most natural thing in the world and a dream come true.

  Sort of.

  Jean loved being with Patrick in the Saturday-morning messiness of him unshaven, hair tousled, in bare feet, seemingly at home in her home.

  They finished breakfast, and Patrick piled up their used dishes and went right to the sink to wash them.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Jean said, removing condiments and flatware from the table.

  “My parents didn’t raise any slackers. They both worked. My sister and I had chores.”

  “I have a dishwasher.”

  He finished and dried his hands on a dish towel, turning to face her, amused. “I don’t mind getting my hands wet.”

  The comment was simple enough, but Jean felt heat rushing to her face. Patrick was standing right in front of her. Her sight line was only a little higher than the opening of his Henley and his bare chest. She couldn’t pull her gaze away and hoped he didn’t notice.