Stealing Sawyer

by Samantha Christy

  I turn to Bass, “Why don’t you and I go get the rest of Aspen’s things? The girls can stay here and put stuff away.”

  Aspen narrows her eyes at me, giving me a scolding look. “Uh, why don’t we just pile my boxes in your spare room? That way we won’t junk up the master and I can take my time unpacking.”

  Right. Damn. If she unpacks with Brooke here, she’ll have to put all her shit in my bedroom and then move it later. For a minute, I forgot she’s not moving in for real.

  “I don’t mind helping you,” Brooke says.

  “No, that’s okay. I think I’d like to check out the piano and get the lay of the land so I know where to put all my things.”

  “You haven’t been here before?” Brooke asks, curiously.

  “Of course I have,” Aspen says quickly. “But now that we’re making it permanent, everything has changed. Like that monstrosity on the wall. I think it will have to go.”

  She knows my signed and framed Rickey Henderson jersey is one of my most prized possessions. I look over at her to see the smirk on her face. She’s just messing with me.

  “Come on, Bass, let’s head out.” I walk over and give Aspen another kiss. Then I point to the wall with the jersey. “It better be here when I get back.”

  “Or else?” she says with a cocky smile.

  “Or else I may have to give you a spanking.”

  Her face flushes when I say it. My dick twitches. Oh, Lord, these next months are going to be torture.

  ~ ~ ~

  “So you and Brooke seem pretty chummy,” I say to Bass, on our walk back to their place.

  He shrugs. “She’s okay.”

  “But she’s not Aspen,” I say knowingly. All too knowingly.

  He stops walking and looks at me.

  “Oh, come on,” I say. “It’s obvious you want her.”

  “I – I …”

  “It’s okay, man. I get it. She’s nice and gorgeous and talented. Who wouldn’t want that?”

  “You,” he says belligerently. “You wouldn’t want that. You’re going to hurt her, Mills. This may be just a game to you, a way to keep your job, but you must know women can’t separate their feelings like we can. I see how she reacts when you touch her. That’s not just acting. She’s into you. And it’s not going to get any easier for her. She’s doing this for her brother. She doesn’t have a choice. She can’t just walk away no matter how much this will hurt her in the end.”

  I take a step back and run a hand through my hair. “She told you this?”

  “Not in so many words. But I’ve known her for four years.”

  “But she thinks I’m an asshole.”

  “You are an asshole,” he says, shaking his head. “Apparently she’s attracted to assholes.”

  I absorb what he’s telling me. She wants me? Like I want her. I look to the sky. This is bad. I knew it didn’t matter if it was just me who was doing all the wanting. That I can handle. I know it can never go anywhere and I know how to handle it.

  Hurting Aspen was not part of the plan. But we’re in too deep now. She’s moving in. Things are going perfectly.

  We walk up to their apartment to pick up two more boxes and her keyboard. Bass hits the bathroom before we head out. While I’m waiting, my phone rings and I see that Danny is calling.

  “Hi, buddy,” I say, keeping my voice down until I can walk into Aspen’s room.

  Standing in the doorway, I realize I’m back in Aspen’s bedroom for the first time. It looks different. There aren’t any sheets on the bed. No clothes strewn over the chair. But the smell – the smell of her is still here. I sit on the mattress and take it in.

  “I caught a fish,” Danny says.

  My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “What? That’s great. Did your mom take you fishing?”

  “We went to the zoo. They let you fish there. But you gotta put them back, so they can keep swimming.”

  “That sounds like a lot of fun. Did your mom tell you I’m coming to see you tomorrow?”

  I hear a thump and surmise he dropped the phone in excitement. I can’t get over how excited he always gets when I visit. I thought that would have worn off by now.

  “Can we throw the football?” he asks.

  “Sure. We can do whatever you want to do.”

  “Can we throw a baseball?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay, see you tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow,” I say, just as I look up and see Bass walking past Aspen’s doorway.

  He stops and puts his hands up on the door jam, looking at me accusingly.

  “How much of that did you hear?” I ask.

  “Enough to know you’re going somewhere with someone tomorrow and that you’ve promised to do whatever she wants you to do.” His face turns red in anger. “What the fuck are you up to, Mills?”

  “It’s not like that,” I say.

  “You seem to be saying that a lot lately. How can you expect Aspen to hold up her end of the contract when you aren’t upholding yours?”

  “I’m upholding the contract. I’m not seeing anyone. That wasn’t even a woman on the phone.”

  “You’re lying,” he says.

  “I’m not, but I don’t have to answer to you, Briggs.”

  “The hell you don’t if it has to do with hurting my best friend.”

  “You mean the woman you love.”

  When he doesn’t respond, I tell him, “What I’m doing tomorrow will not hurt her, or anyone. I assure you. Just leave it alone.”

  “I don’t trust you.” He shakes his head and turns to walk away. But then he spins around. “You have to tell her you don’t want her. You have to tell her every day and make her hear it. It’s the only way you’ll keep her from getting hurt when this whole thing ends.”

  I’ve never been a guy to talk about my feelings with other guys. But Bass loves her. He loves her in every way and he’s just looking out for her. I walk back into the living room and sit on his couch.

  “What if I said I’d be lying if I told her that?”

  He closes his eyes briefly and sighs. He’s the one I’m hurting now.

  He walks over and sits across from me. “Don’t mess with me, Sawyer. Tell it to me straight. Do you want her?”

  I laugh, because it’s really all I can do at the irony of it. “I do,” I admit. “But I can’t have her.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I can’t have her or anyone. Not ever. I won’t ever have a girlfriend – not a real one anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  I shake my head. “I just can’t.”

  “A lot of guys think that. You’re what, twenty-five, twenty-six? Of course you’re not ready to settle down. No one ever is until they find that one person. Don’t get me wrong, I really don’t want Aspen to be that one person, because I know based on your past that it can’t last. But to say you never want a girlfriend is a bit obtuse, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not being obtuse. When I say I will never have a girlfriend, I mean it.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “Aspen mentioned a while back that she thought you might be a sex addict – are you?”

  I belt out a thunderous laugh. “I like sex a lot, I’m not gonna lie. But I’m no addict. I’ve gone over a month, I’d think that would prove it.”

  “Then what? Did you lose someone? Are you scared?”

  I shake my head because I’m so over this conversation. I’m sorry I even brought it up. “I just know it can never happen, not without someone getting hurt.”

  “So you shouldn’t even try?” he asks. Then he slaps his hand on his thigh. “Look at me, now you’ve got me arguing for you to be with her. Shit. That’s not what I’m doing and that’s not what I want. But I’m just saying you shouldn’t let one bad relationship, or whatever it was, determine your entire future.”

  I stand up and pick up the keyboard. “You don’t know anything about it, Briggs, so just shut the fuck up and get t
he rest of her boxes.”

  Before I walk out the door, I glance back at Aspen’s old bedroom. The bedroom where we had sex. Where she was just another one-night-stand. Where I had the best sex of my life. Where I had no idea who she was or what we would become.

  Then I stare at the couch. The couch where I kissed her last weekend. The couch where I realized just how true that toast at graduation really was.

  Then I walk out the door knowing how totally fucked I am.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Aspen

  My fingers are sore, but I don’t care. They continue pounding out piece after piece. I play everything I can from memory, savoring how my fingertips flow over the black and white keys.

  It’s been weeks since I played on a piano this nice. I didn’t know how much I would miss it. My keyboard is no substitute for the real thing. I still can’t believe he bought a piano. For me. He bought a piano for me even after all the money he’s depositing into my account. Even knowing I don’t have to pay my own rent again until this is over.

  Why would he do that?

  Something moves in my periphery and I turn to see what it is.

  “Don’t stop playing because of me,” Sawyer says, walking by with a bag of what smells like take-out food.

  My stomach grumbles. “What time is it?”

  “After seven,” he says.

  “Seven?”

  I’ve been playing for four hours. I look down at my screaming fingers and wrists that are about ready to fall off the ends of my arms. I fist and release my hands.

  “Come on, I have enough for two,” he says, putting the food on the table before he grabs a few beers from the fridge.

  I walk into the kitchen and open the cabinet he had designated as mine. I pull out my prescription bottle with my muscle relaxants.

  Sawyer eyes my movements and then he looks at the beers in his hands. “Okay, then, no beer for you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you can’t drink when you take that shit,” he says, looking guilty.

  I reach for a beer. “One isn’t going to kill me. And, oh my God, what food did you get? It smells divine.”

  He pulls out several Styrofoam containers. “It’s from Mitchells. You know Mason Lawrence’s wife, Piper? Her family owns a few restaurants. Their food is good. But I didn’t know what you’d like, so I ordered three of my favorites and I figured I’d let you choose.”

  I smile, knowing that he was thinking of me. We never discussed how this was going to work. Would we eat together? Prepare meals? I guess I’d assumed we would each do our own thing when people aren’t watching.

  I open the three containers, choosing the pulled pork entrée.

  “Good choice,” he says.

  “I’m sorry, did you want this one?”

  He takes a bite of lasagna and says around his food, “I told you, I like all of them.” Then he pushes his container towards me. “Here, you have to try this one.”

  We spend the next half hour sipping beer and sharing the three meals. It feels so … normal.

  “So, Brooke and Bass seem to be getting along well,” he says.

  I wrinkle my nose. “Yeah, maybe a little too well.”

  I don’t bother telling him that Bass declared his love for me last weekend. And that right after, when I didn’t return the gesture, he said he was moving in with Brooke. And then all the whispering and hand-holding and touching they did yesterday. It just seems too fast.

  “Jealous?” he asks.

  I snort through my nose. “Hardly. I love Bass like a brother. I’ve told you that before. I just don’t want him jumping into anything he’s not ready for.”

  “He’s a grown man, Aspen. And Brooke is a great girl from what I’ve seen. I think they make a good couple. Don’t you?”

  I shrug. “I guess so.”

  “We should have them over for dinner,” he says.

  I cock my head, wondering why he would bother. “Why?” I ask. “Bass knows about us, and it doesn’t do you any good to put on a show in front of Brooke.”

  Then I wonder if he’s scared to be alone with me. Every time we’re together, things seem electrified. The tension between us is palpable. Maybe he feels it, too. Maybe he knows I’m into him and doesn’t want to be alone with me more than necessary.

  “Just trying to be friendly,” he says. “But if you don’t want to—”

  “No. I do. It would be nice. I could cook.”

  “You cook?” he asks with a raised brow.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Tom Sawyer. I happen to be a very good cook.”

  “Is that so?”

  I nod. “I’d be happy to cook for you,” I say, looking over at his immaculate kitchen. “I haven’t cooked in a kitchen this nice since we sold my parents’ house.” Then I laugh, as my eyes wander over his double-sized refrigerator, his stainless steel six-burner gas stove, his high-end quartz countertops. “Who am I kidding? I’ve never cooked in a kitchen this nice.”

  “You’d cook for me?” he asks.

  “Sure. Why not? And from the looks of things in your cabinets, you haven’t had a home-cooked meal in a very long time.”

  “You noticed that, did you?”

  I laugh. “I think it was the over-sized refrigerator containing only beer and condiments that gave you away.”

  He looks down at our three half-eaten entrees. “As much as I like the food from Mitchells, it will be damn nice to have a home-cooked meal from time to time.”

  “It’s settled then. Why don’t you leave me a list of your favorite things and I’ll go shopping in the morning.”

  He shakes his head. “No list necessary. I’ll eat whatever you make.” He pulls out his wallet and throws several hundred-dollar bills on the table.

  “What’s this for?” I ask.

  “Groceries.”

  I push it back to him. “Sawyer, you are paying me half-a-million dollars. I think I can afford to buy provisions.”

  “Take it,” he says. “I would have spent a lot more than that on take-out.”

  “I’m not taking it.”

  “Well, I’m not taking it back.”

  “Fine. It’ll just sit there on the table then.”

  “Fine,” he says, standing up and gathering the remains of our dinner. He puts them in his trashcan.

  “What are you doing?” I shout.

  He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Cleaning up. What does it look like?”

  “But there was so much food left. We could have had a whole other meal with what we didn’t eat.”

  He looks at the trashcan and back at me, laughing. “You want to fish it out and keep it?”

  “Well, not now,” I say. “But next time, save the leftovers.”

  “You want to feed the starving kids of Africa?”

  “I want to feed me,” I say.

  “You don’t have to do that as long as you’re living here,” he says. “I’m happy to provide whatever you need.”

  I get up and put my empty beer bottle in the trash on top of what must be forty dollars of un-eaten food. “I don’t want to get too used to things being this way, Sawyer. You may be set for life, but come October, I go back to being a struggling college student.”

  “A struggling master’s student,” he says.

  I could swear I see a hint of pride behind his eyes.

  “Same difference,” I say.

  Then I walk over to the pantry and pull out a cake I bought earlier today when I was exploring the neighborhood. I place it in front of him. “How big a piece do you want?”

  He looks at the mouth-watering red velvet cake with disgust. “I don’t like cake.” Then he points his thumb to the basement stairs. “I’m going to go work out and then hit the shower before bed.”

  “It’s not even eight o’clock. How long does it take to work out?” I take in his athletic shorts and shirt and look over at the duffle bag he dropped by the back door on his way in. “And it looks like you alre
ady had a workout today. What were you doing all day, anyway?”

  “A lot of things. I played some football. Tossed around a baseball. Went fishing. Stuff that helps me relax on my days off.”

  I eye him suspiciously. “But you took your car. You once told me you never drive unless you leave the city.”

  “Yeah? Well, I did all that stuff out of the city.”

  “Where? With who?”

  He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

  Then I realize I’m not his wife. I’m not his girlfriend. He doesn’t need to answer to me. “Forget it,” I say. “It’s just … please don’t violate the contract and make me look like a fool.”

  “I’m not,” he says. “I won’t.”

  As he makes his way to the basement stairs, something dawns on me. “Sawyer?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s not good to work out right after a meal, is it?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I have other things I can do down there for a while until I’m ready. I may not be back up before you go to bed. Goodnight, Aspen.”

  “Goodnight.”

  I gravitate back to the piano. My hands still hurt too much to play, but I sit on the bench and look at the door to the basement. It’s the one place I didn’t explore. I’m not a fan of basements ever since Denver played a prank on me when I was five and I got locked in ours for a few hours.

  I spent quite a lot of time checking out the rest of the place. I even peeked in the master bedroom. It’s a nice bedroom for a guy. Masculine yes, but not dirty, smelly and riddled with heaps of clothing on the floor as I’d pictured. In fact, the whole house is clean. He must have a service. Of course he does. He’s paying me half-a-million dollars. Paying for a cleaning service must be like buying a cup of coffee for someone like him.

  In addition to the master and my bedroom, there is a third room on the second floor. It’s a study. But it’s much more than that. While there is a laptop on the desk, most of the room is dedicated to baseball memorabilia. There are jerseys on the walls, signed baseballs on the bookshelves, trophies and rings in a display case. Many of these items are from his own career, but he has a good collection of other memorabilia as well. I wonder why the Rickey Henderson thing is the only one he keeps downstairs.