Need Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy Book Three)

by Dunning, Rachel

  “I’m sorry, Justin. I did some stupid things with her. Stoopid things! But I didn’t do...that! I’m not gonna settle.”

  He glares at me. “Deck, this chick is dangerous. You should know that already. You don’t fuck with her. Yes, legally, it’ll be a breeze...maybe. But you know how it goes, the firm with the most money keeps the case alive the longest. And then there’s the matter of her friends, corroborative evidence. They could say you guys got together and it wasn’t recorded, that you only recorded the consensual visits. This tape she’s got of you—that you also have—only proves, to a sympathetic jury, that you weren’t unwilling to play it rough. All she has to prove is that she said No to you—or ‘chickens’ for fuck’s sake—once. That she had her friends there means there’s witnesses on her side—”

  “Actually,” Brent cuts in casually. “I did some digging on the friends. I don’t think they’re going out for coffees on Saturdays anymore, Justin.”

  “For fuck’s sake, I didn’t do anything wrong, guys!” My voice booms.

  Justin sighs, puts his hand up, then runs it through his dark hair. “Deck, chill, we’re on your side here, pal. But that’s not the point. And I know, you being in the hot seat, you think it is. But, hell, boy, it’s not. This is America, my man! It’s a world of TV and public opinion! Look at how many crimes Bush perpetrated and no one did shit because Public Opinion was on his side. You will be ruined by this. Your entire life will go for shit! Look at OJ Simpson. He’ll never be ‘innocent’ in the eyes of the public. We can make this go away. We need to make it go away! Because, well, in a high-profile case, the woman’s side is always more sympathetic in the public’s eyes. It’s simply a fact of life. It’s not about justice. I know that’s hard to swallow when we all sing about the Land of the Free before a game, Deck. But it’s the sick fact of life in this country. Why do you think we have so many damned lawyers, for chrissake?”

  I rub my eyes. Blaze, quiet next to me, squeezes my knee under the table and it means the world to me. I look at her. “What do you think?”

  She’s suddenly stunned, unable to express herself clearly because she wasn’t expecting to be consulted. “M—me?”

  “Yeah, you. Do you think I should take the deal? Make this go away? You have to put your personal feelings aside, Blaze, for what she did to us. And for what I did. But I want your opinion.”

  “It’s your choice, Deck.”

  “No.” I put my hand on hers. “It’s our choice. I’m sorry, Blaze, but if they take me down, you’ll come down with me. They’ll equate you with me. They’ll make jokes about you. It might ruin your burgeoning career.”

  “That it might.”

  “So? What should I do?”

  “Deck.” Her gleaming eyes, green as emeralds, wrap me in much needed comfort. “Personal feelings aside, I need to ask you: Is there any truth to what she’s accusing you of?”

  The question itself is the worst penance a person could ever pay. A piece of my heart dies, and will forever be dead. Karma. It’s my personal Karma, my personal punishment for having done this to Blaze. “No truth at all, Blaze.”

  “OK. Then you need to do what’s right for you. I don’t care what the press says about you or me or any of that. Because you will know the truth, and I will know it. And that’s all that matters. So I’m by your side no matter what you decide to do.”

  “It’ll be hell, Blaze. The press is the final Judge and Executioner in this country.”

  “I’ve been through hell before. This won’t be hell. Hell is when you lose the ones you love. There is no other hell.”

  She puts a hand on my cheek, but doesn’t kiss me.

  The men on the other side of the table clear their throats. I face them, my decision made.

  “Justin, Brent, I’m sorry. But I won’t settle. And I’ll take whatever consequences come about from what this woman is accusing me of. Because I’m innocent, at least of what she’s accusing me of. I’m guilty of a lot of shit, maybe even of treating her wrong, but not of... I can’t even say the word. I won’t stand down on this. I know it might destroy my career. I brought it on myself. Karma. I don’t expect you guys to understand that. Maybe this is the Universe’s way of settling the score.”

  Justin rolls his eyes, looks at Brent. This wasn’t the answer they’d been hoping for. With a heavy sigh, Justin says, “You’re one hell of a new-agey motherfucker, Deck. Sometimes I wish you really were the dumb jock the press makes you out to be. Anyway. Fine. We’ll keep you posted. What I do need you to do is stay out of the limelight. Go to training, play your games, go home.”

  “I can do that.”

  We get up. I shake his hand, shake Brent’s hand. When Blaze is outside the boardroom, Justin holds me back, looks up at me. “Deck, if you change your mind tomorrow, it’s not too late. Think of this girl you’re with now. She doesn’t get what it’s like. The press will destroy what you have. It’ll destroy her.”

  So now he’s playing the Blaze Card. Justin will stoop to anything to make something go away. It’s why they hire him. “She’s tougher than you think, Justin. And we’ve been through a whole lot rougher stuff that could have destroyed us. But we’re still here.” I put my hand on his shoulder, tighten it. “Get some sleep, Justin. You look beat.”

  -3-

  The passion is cold when we get home. I couldn’t get turned on by seven Playboy Bunnies down on their knees and getting ready for me—

  Christ, Deck. Isn’t that what got you in this shit in the first place!?

  The point is: The heat is dead. Blaze and I sit on the couch. She doesn’t push me to make love. I appreciate it. Because if she asked me to, I’d do it. For her I’d do it, but only for her. And then, sadly, I would not enjoy it. Because I’d be thinking of someone else, like thinking of the Grim Reaper. And thinking of That Other Chick while making love to Blaze would be the worst thing that could happen to us. To me.

  Instead, Blaze slides her boots off, curls up next to me on the couch, and rests her head on my shoulder. She’s asleep seconds later.

  I’m tense, unable to rest, thinking of those afternoons and nights in Tatiana’s bedroom of sin, of how she played me after all. Playing the player. Of course I figured she’d be taking pictures and making videos. Which is why I kept my own copies, encrypted and stored at a safe deposit box in addition to in my own safe at home. She might have fooled me once, not twice.

  But this isn’t an act of fooling me. This is an act of pure audacious deceit. And why now, after all these years? Why now? We made it to the playoffs last year, and I played a key role there as well, so it isn’t that.

  What could it be?

  For this Lerrington to be under her finger she must’ve been doing him for some time already, so she could have asked him already months ago to have gotten the ball rolling, to be putting the case together. Yeah, that makes sense. It just took time—years?—to put the thing together. And all these years I was simply whistling past the graveyard, thinking I’d seen the last of Tatiana and her coven of witches.

  But still...it irks me. Why now? Why...after Blaze and I got together—

  Glacial ice settles in my chest. I actually feel my lungs squeezing down from its weight. My sudden gasp echoes in the room. “Fuck,” I mumble.

  Blaze, still asleep, turns her head. Her nose ruffles against my shirt. She mumbles something unclear, as if my statement nearly woke her.

  ...after Blaze and I got back together...

  “Fucking...shit!” The curse is whispered, but I want to shout it.

  Blaze. That’s the factor here. Tatiana, for whatever unbelievably incomprehensible reason, absolutely and unconditionally despises Blaze. She utterly, downright loathes her!

  But why? Is Blaze such a threat? Could Tatiana be that insecure? When I met Tatiana, she was living it up in Brooklyn Heights, married to a rich lawyer-man, every need of hers covered. Except, maybe, one...

  But otherwise she’d had it all. She also has a tight body, is
experienced, natural blond. Physically, she’s every man’s dream, so why did she feel threatened so much by Blaze, a girl who, in Tatiana’s eyes, would be no more than a “semi-poor girl from the north of Brooklyn”? If I were to do an objective comparison between Blaze and Tatiana, Tatiana has the harder assets, longer legs. She’s taller, her breasts are firmer (albeit, false), she had more money (once upon a time), she had the upper-class husband. I was, comparatively, in those days, not much of a catch. Sure, I was larger and stronger than Mister W, but so what? I was struggling with my tiny little business, worried about making it, about getting out of the rut. Mister W was, and is, a big shot, probably even remarried to another gold-digger.

  So why? Why did Blaze, the underdog in Tatiana’s eyes, cause such wrath to spew forth from this demented woman?

  And then it hits me. Maybe it didn’t hit me before because it’s an immodest statement, a proud one, an egotistical one. One that only a typical a-hole jock could come up with. But it makes sense, it’s the only thing that makes sense. A thought of that famous quote comes to me, the one about a woman scorned and all the fury she hath.

  I turned Tatiana down.

  I turned every other woman down since her as well. One-nighters are no “relationship.”

  But I never turned Blaze down. Not after all these years, not after everything Tatiana did to try and tear us apart.

  So Blaze won.

  And Tatiana doesn’t like to lose...

  -4-

  My tongue feels dry. I get out of bed, walk out into the main living area. I look over at the bar.

  What I wouldn’t do for a drink. Just. One. Drink.

  I move to the bar cabinet. Open it.

  There it is: Amber and gleaming. Good ole Jacky.

  I pour myself a glass, and then another. And another.

  And...another.

  When the bottle’s empty, I pass out on the floor.

  FIFTEEN

  LETTING GO

  ~ DEDCEMBER 20 ~

  -1-

  Blaze Ryleigh

  I find him on the floor of his penthouse the next morning, passed out so deeply that it can only mean one thing: booze. I get him to the bathroom, but he doesn’t spew it all out like Vikki did. He holds it in quite well. Then I slap water on his face because he’s so dopey, make him stand (he’s heavy!), shove his massive body in the shower, and douse him with cold water.

  That wakes him up.

  Standing there, naked and cold (and let me tell you that even the largest of tools shrinks down to downright nothing when you ice it up!), he covers said “tool” embarrassedly and, through shaking teeth, says only, “Fuck. Th-th-th-that’s c-c-c-c-cold!”

  I keep the water running. He stays under it, letting it wake him up, letting it pour icicles down his statuesque body.

  After five minutes (I don’t know how he managed that long) he says, “OK, OK, I’m cool now, Blaze. Th-th-th-thank you.”

  I put the water off, throw him a towel, sit on the bathtub while I watch him dry himself. Such a perfect body, I think, and such a troubled mind.

  He sits on the bathroom floor afterwards, still shivering, naked. Then wipes his hair.

  “Deck, you’re not missing practice. And you’re not gonna let them know you got drunk last night. Now I don’t know what you need to take or do or eat or inject to be in top shape to get onto that field and dance. But, baby, you need to do it. Tatiana is a witch, Wicked Witch of the West. She has all the cards now with nothing to lose. You have everything to lose. You gotta keep your act together, honey. If she takes us down, it won’t be because we let her. And giving in to...this...is handing it to her on a platter.”

  He nods. Looking down, he says, “You can back out, Blaze. It doesn’t have to be us. It can be me only. I deserve this. It’s a sick, twisted Karma. Let her take me out. Whatever. It’s not like I was a saint to her.”

  “Had your say?”

  He looks up at me. “I mean it.”

  “And so do I. Now we can go on and on about whether we’re in this together or not, but we dealt with all that shit already. We already proclaimed our love and desires for each other five years ago. That hasn’t changed, has it?”

  “No.”

  “Right. So what’s changed is the push-through. What’s changed is the proof, to ourselves, that we can do all that shit we said we could. That we can stand in the face of adversity. This is our own poetic justice, babe. It was she who destroyed us. I think we have to bust through this barrier to prove to ourselves that we really can stand against anything. It couldn’t have been anyone else. She’s actually shot herself in the foot. Because, just as she was the one who destroyed us, so will she be the one who will solidify us permanently together, Deck. If we didn’t face her, we’d always be looking over our shoulders, wondering, What if? But it is her. And because of it, if we push through, we’ll prove to ourselves that nothing can take us down. You understand?”

  He nods. “Yeah, I do.”

  He stands, like a marble statue, his manhood now back to normal size after the cold had shrunk it. I grin briefly. “Come over here.”

  He does.

  I put my hands around his butt, pull him against me, nuzzle my nose against his sac and give him a quick good morning peck. He twitches. Then, not pulling away, I mutter, “I love you.”

  I stand, cup his jewels in my left hand and fondle them. He’s growing, but I can see he’s not into it. Too much on his mind. I keep juggling him, enjoying the feel of him engorging and swelling below me. Up above, I kiss his chin, his lips. He grabs me by the shoulders, presses his lips down against mine.

  He’s harder now, almost completely erect. “I know you want me in general, Deck. And I know that now is not the best time for you to have me. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “It’s not—”

  “Shhh. It’s OK.” I caress him, rub my hand up the length of his shaft, move some of his pre-come over his head and moisten him. “I know it’s more than sex with us, that...it can’t be...tainted.”

  He kisses my ear, kisses the stars tatted on my neck. “I love you, Blaze. Love you so much.”

  My hand tightens around him, squeezes. He pulses once, softly.

  Then he gets on his knees, undoes my buckle, pulls my pants down. “Deck, what—”

  “Shhh. Now it’s my turn, Blaze. I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you like I love you. Because I do.”

  And almost at the same time, he shucks my panties completely off and to my ankles, and buries his warm tongue up into my center.

  And he kisses me.

  Like he loves me.

  -2-

  I spend the morning with him. I can see he’s jonesing for booze. I wonder if the first signs of his addiction hadn’t actually come on the night his father had been murdered, five years ago. He’d spent the night at my place when that had happened. We’d made love for the first time afterwards. And then, later, he’d turned to the bottle. CC Whiskey, I recall. And I’d joined him. And we’d made love. And then he drank some more. The next morning, the bottle was practically empty. Declan was passed out on my counter.

  The night after that, we all got drunk as well.

  Getting drunk when your father’s just died is OK, isn’t it? I’d thought back then.

  Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. But now, watching Deck hit the shivers at breakfast, seeing him want to reach for the bottle whenever some dark cloud enters his mind, shows me that his desire for the fermented fruit has moved beyond “Drinking Away the Dead”—if it had ever been only that.

  It must have been hell to get off this stuff before. But Trev pulled him out of it, gave him something to live for, the NFL, gave him a goal and a dream. Deck got himself clean without AA, just like he got himself off the harder stuff—Es and speed—without any rehab. Mr. Tough Guy. Going at it alone. That’s him: Carrying the burdens of the world on his shoulders, and his own ones on top of that.

  But I can see the burdens have gotten to him. Maybe he never
got over them, maybe he just found something—Pro Football—to keep him distracted from them.

  Tatiana is a burden, a major one.

  We take our chances and I go with him to practice again. When I get there, Coach Warwick takes one cold look at Deck and then at me, and I know that he knows. He nods tightly in my direction, then pats Deck heavily on the shoulder. “I’m gonna make you run extra hard today, Decky Boy! And I’ll let your girlfriend stay one more day only!” Deck runs off. And Coach looks at me with a fatherly feel of concern in his eyes. When Deck’s out of earshot, Coach says quietly to me: “Lawrence Taylor, Michael Irvin, Nate Newton, you ever heard of them?”

  I shrug, shake my head.

  “Well, don’t let him go that route. He’s got too much potential to go that route.” Coach turns, then starts bellowing out commands at the players.

  I google one of the names he gave me (the only one I remember) and it’s an NFL player who was busted for marijuana and then sentenced to two-and-a-half years in federal prison.

  I get the point.

  I’m still looking at the phone when a set of fingers eases itself firmly around my shoulder. The fingers grip tighter, and when I look up, I see it’s the coach, his white hair peeking out from his NY Giants baseball cap. I relax. He’s still looking out at the field. He says, with his attention still fully on his players, “You know them now?”

  “Uhm, yeah, I googled one of them.”

  “Good. Remember... BROWN WHAT THE FUCK YOU DOIN RUNNIN SO DAMN SLOW! MOVE IT! MOVE IT! MOVE IT! ...behind every great man, Blaze... Behind every great man...” Coach looks down at me on the bench, squeezes my shoulder once more, then walks away and starts shouting even more commands.

  ...is a great woman. Behind every great man is a great woman.

  I can see the training is good for Deck. It’s hard. And that keeps him distracted. When he’s with his boys, his teammates, he’s OK. Coach Warwick winks in my direction several times after berating Deck for “being too weak” or “running slower than my fucken grandmother!” Deck responds to pressure, to threats, and to achievement. I can tell that Coach knows that, and also that he knows things about the other players, about Trev, all of them. And he pushes each one differently. A hen and its chickens.