Brooklynaire

by Bowen, Sarina

  By the time she lifts her face from mine, we’re both breathing hard. “You scare me,” she whispers in the dark. “And I’m not used to being scared.”

  Oh.

  I trace the top of her nightie with a fingertip, crossing the swells of her breasts. “I’m not scary. I’m not even very complicated. But I can be patient until you figure that out.” Actually, we both know that patience isn’t my strong suit. But I can try. I want to.

  She kisses me on the ear. “Now I got you all worked up.” Her hand slides down on to my fly, where my very hard cock is tenting my boxers. “What are we going to do about that?”

  “Not a thing.” I push her hand away. “I’m used to being worked up over you. I was for years. Thought it was a permanent condition.”

  “Oh, Nate,” she laughs. “That can’t really be true.”

  “Sure it is.” I can’t stop touching her, so I palm the curve between her hip and her ribs. “I mean, I didn’t allow myself to lie around fantasizing about you. But whenever we were in the same room I’d get distracted. These days? I’m all about the fantasies. In my dreams we’ve had sex in every civilized country. And much of the developing world.”

  Rebecca snorts. “Really? What’s your favorite fantasy?”

  “Mmm.” I shift my hips on the bed. I’m so hungry for her, and this will only make it worse. But that’s okay with me. “We’re on a private beach somewhere, playing in the water. And we start fooling around. And then we just can’t wait. I have to carry you out of the waves, shove down your tiny bikini, put you on your hands and knees and just fuck you right there on the wet sand.”

  “That does sound nice.” She strokes my abs, and I have to bite my lip to keep from begging. “Is there really such thing as a truly private beach? Or is this an exhibition fantasy, too?”

  “No way.” I remove her hand from my body because it’s torturing me, and kiss the palm. “It’s private because…” Just forming the sentence helps me articulate something that’s eluded me before. “…That’s what you do for me. My life is constant noise. Meetings and obligations and two thousand employees. It’s great, but it’s loud. When you kiss me, everything goes quiet. That’s the only time I can forget everyone else.” I roll to the side and put my lips right beside her ear. “And when I’m inside you, we’re all that matters. I crave it so much.”

  She turns her face toward mine, and we’re nose to nose. “I love that,” she whispers. “I didn’t know I could do that for you.”

  More kissing happens. I’m harder than rebar. This time when Rebecca sticks her hand down my boxers, I don’t push it away. She gives me a slow stroke and I groan into her mouth.

  “Bec,” I pant as she works over my cock with a smooth hand. “What’s your fantasy?”

  Her lips go still against my mouth. “It’s simpler than yours. You just push me face down on the bed. I try to talk to you, but you don’t listen. You just hold me down and go to town.”

  “That’s not…” It’s hard to form a sentence while Becca plays with my balls. “…Very polite of me,” I manage to get out.

  “I know.” She sucks on my earlobe and then runs her thumb over my cockhead. I’m dripping for her. “But some fantasies make more sense in your head than in real life.”

  She has a point. Beach sex usually results in sand in someone’s asscrack.

  That’s my last rational thought as she strokes me. God, I need to come. I pull Becca onto my body so that she’s straddling me, my dick between her legs. She leans down to kiss me, and I take her ass in both hands, encouraging her to grind on me.

  “Oh,” she moans into my mouth.

  “Can you come like this?” I pant.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s find out.” We kiss and grind like teenagers. I need it to end, but I never want it to end. Silence cocoons us. There is only the sound of our breath and the thudding of my heart.

  “Jesus,” Becca complains. Then she sits up, straddling my thighs, and puts her hand inside her panties, her fingers working, her breasts straining the red satin as she takes a deep breath.

  Hello brand new fantasy.

  Becca gasps and shudders, and I yank my dick out of boxers and come all over my chest.

  24

  Nate

  June 3, New York

  After we get back to New York there are two consecutive nights when I have to delete Bingley’s audio recordings instead of sending them to the team. Life is very good. When I’m not thinking about Rebecca, I’m picturing my boys beating up on Dallas.

  I like this picture a lot.

  Stay in my hotel suite in Dallas, I text Becca the morning she’s scheduled to depart with the team. There’s a Jacuzzi tub in it.

  Nope, she replies. This is a work trip. No canoodling.

  Ah, well. A man can try. Just to stir the pot, I call the hotel myself and ask them to swap Rebecca’s ordinary room for my hotel suite. Even if she won’t canoodle, I want her to enjoy the suite. It’s already booked, and she’ll be there for three nights while it looks like I’ll be flying out on the Gulfstream for games only, then flying home again.

  I still haven’t signed off on the sale of the router division. I’m leaning toward selling the division to Alex’s company, even though Alex herself still hasn’t shown up to talk to me about it in person.

  “Dude,” Stewart says, ducking into my office on Wednesday morning. “You never take this long to make a decision. I could start a new router company and sell it off in the time it’s taking you to figure this out.”

  He’s right. I’m not the kind of guy who spends a lot of time deliberating. But this is the first time I’ve sold off part of the company. “There are over a hundred jobs on the line,” I remind him. “Real people with families.”

  “That’s an honorable reason to take your time.” Stew grabs a desk ornament off my desk and toys with it. “But unless you’ve taught Bingley to read the future, there’s no way to know what the other company will ultimately do with it once it’s theirs.”

  He’s right. Businesses are bought and sold all the time. “I’m a control freak.”

  “You’re just figuring that out now?”

  “Don’t you have some ledgers to go over or something?”

  My best friend throws himself down on the leather sofa against the wall. “Wait, is this a safe place to sit? Now that you’re getting some action again, should I worry what happens on this couch?”

  I flip him off. What are we, sixteen? Although there was some pretty dodgy furniture in our first office. The mess was from Chinese food and pizza, though, not bodily fluids.

  “Dallas, huh? Can I tag along to game one?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not off with the team somewhere, watching game tape. ‘This is the guy you want to hit. Squash him like a bug.’”

  “Stew…”

  I’m about to evict him from my office when Lauren sticks her head through the doorway. “Nate—there’s a doctor on your line. Armitage. Does that sound familiar? He says you’ll know what it’s about.”

  “Ah. I’ll pick him up.” I point at Stew. “Go. Get out of here. I have to let the doctor shake me down for another contribution for brain injury research.”

  “Sounds stimulating. Later.”

  When the door closes on Stew, I greet my caller. “Hello, doctor! How are things going?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” he says. “We haven’t seen Rebecca in nearly two weeks. Has her number changed? I’d like to get a hold of her to see if she can come back to therapy, and also have a follow-up visit for testing.”

  “Back to therapy,” I say slowly. “She hasn’t been in?”

  There’s a silence. “Sorry. I assumed you knew that. I wouldn’t have asked…”

  “No, it’s fine,” I say quickly. “She’s traveling in Dallas right now.”

  “Right! Congratulations, by the way. Big news.”

  “The whole organization is
thrilled,” I hear myself say. But inside I’m boiling. Rebecca wasn’t supposed to stop going to therapy. She has an intern to cover her when she can’t be with the team.

  I manage to politely disengage with the doctor, promising to pass on his message. Then I hang up the phone. “What the hell are you thinking?” I ask my empty office.

  What I don’t do, however, is call Rebecca. I’m too irritated. And even though I’ve been told I’m shitty at relationships, “don’t yell” is a rule that even I understand.

  So I go over to the treadmill desk in the corner of the room and start walking. The computer screens sense my presence and light up automatically, showing me the same work I have open on the desk.

  But I’m not interested in work right now. I just need to burn off some energy so I don’t chew out my girl when I speak to her next. But—seriously. Blowing off her therapy? After all she went through to figure out a diagnosis?

  I program the treadmill for climbing at intervals and I skim the news headlines. They don’t help my mood, since it’s the usual shitshow. North Korea fired a missile. A polar bear starved to death in the wild. They’re predicting another drought in California. Healthcare costs rise twenty-seven percent.

  Healthcare costs. That one sticks in my brain as the treadmill gives me another fake hill to climb. I lean into it and breathe from my diaphragm while the idea percolates.

  “Hey, Bingley?” I call out toward my phone.

  “Hullo, Nate! What can I do you for?”

  “Bingley, have you been talking to Stew? Is that his joke?”

  “Yessir. Do you like it?”

  “I happen to think it’s funny, but it’s inappropriate. ‘Do you’ is an idiomatic expression for sex.”

  “Oh, dear. Thank you for letting me know.”

  “Could you connect me with Dr. Armitage’s office?”

  “Right away, sir.” It’s about ninety seconds later when he announces, “The doctor’s receptionist is on your line, sir.”

  I pick up the treadmill extension. “Hi there. This is Nate Kattenberger…”

  “Your assistant is very polite,” she gushes. “What a cute accent.”

  “He’s the greatest. Could you help me with something? I haven’t gotten a bill yet for Ms. Rebecca Rowley’s office visits. Maybe the insurer is processing them?”

  “Oh, Rebecca! Let me see…” I hear rapid typing. “Those therapy sessions and the doctor visits are out of network. They were applied to a Visa card.”

  Rebecca’s credit card. “What are the total charges to date?”

  “Three thousand four hundred dollars.”

  Shit. I think I know why Rebecca hasn’t been to therapy.

  “All right, then there’s been some confusion. Could I possibly give you a different card, instead?”

  “Sure, Mr. Kattenberger.”

  I pull my wallet out of my back pocket without breaking my treadmill stride, and I read off the digits.

  25

  Rebecca

  June 3, Dallas

  Nate always says he hates Dallas, but the airport got our equipment loaded onto the busses in record time. The stadium has a decent setup for visitors, and the hotel is only a few blocks away.

  I’m easy to please.

  While the boys have their morning skate, Heidi Jo and I walk from the stadium to the Ritz. “This is rully pretty,” Heidi Jo gushes in the lobby. It’s old school, with walnut columns and a marble floor. “I know we’re just here to win, but the travel team did us a solid here.”

  It’s true, too. The smiley woman behind the desk has a printed room manifest all ready for us, and dozens of key cards laid out on a tray. I could get used to this.

  “Look!” Heidi Jo says, pointing at my name on the list. “Luxury suite, penthouse level.”

  “That must be a mistake.” I blink, but my name is still beside that suite. Nate’s suite. Except I told him I was going to stay in my own room. “Excuse me,” I say to the helpful woman. “I’m supposed to have a regular room.”

  “No, that was by special request.” She smiles again. They must feed the employees happy pills here.

  “Is there a regular room available?”

  Her smile fades. “I’m sorry, but the playoffs have the whole hotel booked solid.”

  Fuck. Of course it’s booked.

  “Here you go, then!” Heidi Jo gives me a smug smile as well as the key card. Nate should have known his little trick wouldn’t be private.

  I’m pissed off, but also a little hurt. He’d told me—that night when we were talking about why I said no to Castro—that he understood the pressure I was under. I thought he listened. And then I said I didn’t want to stay with him in his suite, and he put me there anyway.

  Who does that?

  “Ooh! They offer a margarita salt scrub in the spa!” Heidi Jo coos. “Let’s see if there are two massage appointments during lunch.”

  “You go ahead,” I grumble. I can’t afford a massage. I think I’ll just sit in the suite on the sofa and sulk.

  Unless there’s really a Jacuzzi bathtub, like Nate said. Then I’ll sulk there, because otherwise it’s a waste. But I’ll do my bathing alone, damn it. And when Nate shows up tomorrow I’m going to bunk with Heidi Jo. That will wipe the smile off her face.

  My intern goes off to explore the hotel, with instructions to check on the players’ lunchroom in advance of their arrival. I leave this in her hands, because she’s surprisingly competent under that bubbly exterior.

  I get in the elevator and discover that I have to insert my key card even to choose the penthouse floor. So I do it, and the car glides smoothly to the top of the building.

  The suite is gorgeous. There’s a dining table and a living room area. The bed is enormous and piled with pillows. I picture Nate and me rolling around in it, and just for a second it’s hard to hang onto my snit. Because I want that.

  But only with a man who will listen.

  My phone vibrates with a notification. So I pull it out and look at the lock screen. It isn’t a text, but rather one of those push notifications for a credit card charge. I almost shove the phone back in my bag, except I haven’t used my credit card today. So I peek at the amount of the charge, and it almost stops my heart. $3,400. That can’t be right. I tap on the notification.

  It is right. But it’s not a charge, it’s a credit. From Dr. Armitage’s office.

  For one shining minute I feel elated. But the joy lasts just sixty seconds, because when I whip out my laptop to check my insurance claim, it still reads denied.

  That’s when my head really explodes. Because there’s no way my windfall is a clerical error. And there’s only one person who could be responsible for it.

  I tap Nate’s cell phone number. He answers almost immediately. “Hey! How’s Dallas? Did you make it up to the suite yet?” He’s all cheer and sunshine.

  I’m not.

  “Where to begin? Okay, fine. The suite. I said no, and yet here I am anyway. That’s strike one, especially because Heidi Jo spotted the room change first. So thanks for that. Let’s just hope she’s not a gossip. But are you fucking kidding me with the thirty-four hundred smackers on my credit card?”

  It takes him a minute to reply. “You can go back to therapy now, Bec. This is me trying not to get upset that you aren’t following doctor’s orders.”

  “You’re upset.”

  He chuckles. “I plead the fifth on that. Can’t imagine why you wouldn’t take care of your brain, for fuck’s sake.”

  “I do take care!”

  “Not according to the good doctor, who only called me because he was worried about you.”

  “Now you listen here. There are therapeutic exercises that don’t cost almost three hundo a session! I’ve got Pilates at twenty-five bucks a class, and the take-home exercises they gave me. I’m not an idiot, but thanks for making it clear that you think I am.”

  “I didn’t say that. Don’t exaggerate.”

  “Don’t treat m
e like a child!” I’m really on a roll now. “If you had a concern, you could’ve told me. If you wanted to help me afford the platinum-priced therapy, you could have asked. You say you care about me, but then you pull this bullshit. You care, as long as everything goes your way.”

  “Rebecca…”

  “Save it, okay? I have a job to do here. We’ve been over this. Your suite will be empty when you arrive in Dallas. Stay in your own lane until after the playoffs.”

  Then, for the first time in seven years, I hang up on Nate Kattenberger.

  * * *

  The next night I’m stretched across the king-sized bed in Georgia’s hotel room. I’m upset for a plethora of reasons.

  Georgia isn’t faring much better. She’s flipping angrily through a wedding magazine that I’ve forced into her hands. Her wedding is next month. Everything is planned already, except we still don’t have any table favors.

  “How about chocolates shaped like a taxi cab?” I ask. “I think we should run with the Brooklyn theme.”

  “But the wedding is in Long Island,” she says. Her voice is husky from too much cheering during tonight’s game.

  “Brooklyn brought you together!” I protest. “Fine, hockey can be the theme. Or hockey and tennis! Both your sports. We could alternate. I thought those personalized chocolate bars were cute.”

  In a rare display of temper, Georgia closes the magazine and actually hurls it across the room, where it lands with a splat on the desk chair. “Becca, stop it. Nobody cares about chocolate with my name on it.”

  “Fine. Little bottles of wine with your names…”

  “Stop!” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t care about favors. You are awesome, which is why I have a dress and flowers and a caterer but we are done, okay?”

  “Deep breaths. It was only game one. We can rebuild it.”