His Last Love

by MEGAN MATTHEWS

  He turns back before entering. “You’ll go with me to the interview, right?”

  I tap on the wall twice. “Yup. Asbell’s orders. I’m not allowed to leave your side.”

  “If that man only knew.” He laughs before opening the door.

  This time I don’t join in with him. After Oliver’s stunt in the cafeteria, of course Asbell knows or thinks he knows.

  “Why don’t you come in and watch me get made up.”

  That sounds like a terribly boring idea.

  Plus, we’re in a concrete building. Going into a room kills my signal.

  And plus also I could use a few Oliver-free minutes to digest what exactly we just did.

  “You go. I’ll stay here and answer some emails.” Talk myself down from having a fan girl moment and going all weirdo stalker girlfriend on him. We only had sex. It’s not like he offered marriage. I have to get control of the crazy hormones coursing through me.

  “Have it your way.” He kisses me quickly on the cheek so no one sees and then slips into the room.

  It doesn’t take as long to prep for the guys as it does the girls, and he only has a few minutes until we’re needed for the one-to-one interview. Even still I expect him to be gone a good ten minutes. It should give me time to get a few emails taken care of. There are chairs closer to the main lobby where most family and other personnel watch the games, but I don’t want to leave Oliver. I’m sure he’d find me before leaving for his interview, but I don’t want to take the chance. Plus, I did say I’d stay right here. I plan to keep my word.

  I contemplate sitting on the floor to save my feet in these high heels, but a quick glance down shows me I shouldn’t have looked down. No one has run a vacuum over these floors since we started. After two weeks of heavy foot traffic, the floor sports dark brown wet-looking spots. They’re splattered across the space. Not daring enough to risk it, I resign myself to leaning against the wall and answering emails as I teeter back and forth on my heels.

  A few minutes in and I’m making good progress. Not on the emails. I gave up on them a minute in. I can’t focus on work. I have, however, had two Oliver-filled fantasies while he’s been gone. I hope he meant the things he said about wanting a relationship after this.

  I feel his presence before I noticed who it is. Isaac, all six feet of him, strolls down the hallway in a carefree manner like he has nothing bad going on at all. He’s not facing committee review once he lands back in the states.

  I wonder what it’s like to go through life so delusional?

  Expecting him to walk past me and go into another makeup room, I’m startled when he stops and leans against the opposite wall.

  I try to ignore him, but it’s eerie having someone stand across for you in a small hallway leering in your direction but not talking.

  “What do you want, Isaac?”

  He leans forward, his forehead pinched creating small creases. “Isn’t it obvious? I want what I deserve.”

  “And what exactly is that?”

  “Everything. Why is it half the snowboarding team gets to look at you. In your tall heels and tight ass pants, but we’re stuck with fat ass Jamie Dorian, who follows me around like a sad puppy?”

  “Jamie is a great assistant.” She’s the one who fought so Isaac wouldn’t get in trouble here but wait until he gets home. He owes her a lot of appreciation.

  He steps into the hallway. “Does a good assistant let one of the athletes fuck her while everyone else is eating breakfast?”

  “What?” I question, horrified Isaac somehow knows what Oliver and I did. My stomach clenches and I close my mouth so not to puke. Was he outside the room? Did he hear? How could he know?

  “I love to make that fat pig squeal my name as I shove my dick in her.”

  “What?” I lean back into the wall and step to the side to get away from him.

  Isaac laughs. “It’s not as good as what I bet you sound like. How many snowboarders have you let fuck you this week, McKenna?”

  My eyes widen in terror and I desperately seek out an escape path. If I walk farther down the hall it, dead ends and I’m boxing myself in with Isaac. His large body blocks the exit to the main lobby. My only other means of escape is an open stairwell to the side. One that looks as if it should have a door, but the construction crew ran out of time to add one.

  Isaac has always been a jerk. Someone I didn’t want to spend time around, but this is a whole new side of him. A terrifying side that I need to get away from as quickly as possible. I take another step to the side, but he maneuvers himself closer to the stairwell and he brings his body right against mine.

  “Come on, McKenna. I could make your time here extra memorable,” Isaac whispers in my ear. His breath is warm and disgusting and much too close. He steps closer again, smashing his chest against mine.

  I push him away with little success. “Isaac, stop. Get away from me.” He doesn’t move, but to give me space I step backward.

  “What’s wrong, McKenna? Are you scared you can’t handle me?” he says.

  “I will scream.”

  He laughs at my threat. “I wouldn’t. You have no idea what I’m capable of. It took a cunning mind to destroy my own team’s locker room, but if you continue to stick up for the Neanderthals on the snowboard team, I just have to take what I want.”

  “You destroyed the skiers’ locker room?” Why would he do such a thing to his own team?

  Isaac laughs more, the sound sinister as it echoes off the empty hallway walls reminding me I’m alone. “I’ve done so much more than that, McKenna. Asbell refused to offer me a spot on the snowboarding team, so I made him pay.”

  The teams aren’t up to Asbell. The athletes are selected from a bunch of different qualifying events held during the year before the Winter Games. “That’s not how it works, Isaac. You know that.”

  “Do I?” He shakes his head. “Dear sweet naïve McKenna. You have no idea how this place is run. Not really. But I got him back. He’s spent two weeks chasing off the bad publicity I’ve created. Breaking and entering, false fire alarms, and even working with a journalist and a pretty little blonde.”

  I gasp. “You were working with the journalist?” The same one I’m sure caught multiple athletes in compromising positions over the last two weeks.

  Isaac throws his head back laughing loudly. “My best plan yet. I may make more money off the ransom payouts Asbell’s been handing out left and right than I will if I win a gold medal tomorrow.”

  Isaac has lost his fucking mind. I’m not longer scared of him. I’m terrified. How can one person be full of so much evil? In a desperate attempt to get the hell away I step toward the staircase and freedom.

  I’m almost there when he reaches out and grabs one of my boobs, squeezing to the point of pain. I fall back into the wall, my head hitting with a smack. I yell, doing everything I can to push him away. The makeup room door flies open, hitting the outside wall. Oliver steps out of the space, his eyes searching like a madman on the hunt.

  “What the fuck.” Oliver charges at Isaac.

  It’s enough Isaac finally steps back. He leers at Oliver like he’s a bug on the wall, and when he turns I notice for the first time his pupils are dilated. His entire pupil is a big black circle.

  Isaac makes a run for it, headed to the same staircase I’d worked my way to, but Oliver is right behind him.

  “Oliver, don’t!” I yell as his body rushes by, but it does no good.

  Isaac clears the doorway and gets one step down the staircase before Oliver is on him, pulling him back by the neck of his shirt. The two men get tangled up around one another. Isaac’s arms flail and he loses his balance, falling down a step and taking Oliver down too. They slide down two of the concrete steps before Isaac wraps his arm around Oliver’s body. Like a horrific snowball of activity you see in cartoons, they roll down the stairs together, their bodies bouncing on each drop. Oliver’s head hits a metal support beam on the way down, blood trailing along the
steps after.

  “Oliver!” I scream and enter the stairwell. “Someone call 911.” I only hope the makeup artist heard me and listens, calling whoever handles emergencies in this country. Where the hell is Dexler when you need him? The security force was supposed to be increased after the break-ins but I haven’t seen one all day.

  I clear three steps before the men come to a stop at the bottom of the staircase. Isaac disentangles himself from a limp Oliver and with a final evil look in my direction runs through the doorway of the lower floor. Oliver still isn’t speaking when I reach his body.

  Kneeling beside him, I grab his wrist intending to find a pulse, but quickly realize I have no real idea how to do that. He’s obviously breathing from the rise and fall of his chest, but his eyes are closed and he doesn’t move.

  “Oliver,” I say shaking his shoulder slightly not wanting to move him in case he’s broken something. Blood runs from his nose, but there doesn’t appear to be any other injuries. His body lays on top of one of his arms, but there isn’t blood gushing from any direction, so I don’t move him, waiting instead for the ambulance.

  Another body joins me in the stairwell and screams when she sees the scene. Already panicked, her terror adds to my level of fear and I shake Oliver again. “Oliver, come on. Say something,” I plead one last time.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Inside the ambulance the sirens weren’t as loud. Oliver hadn’t regained consciousness by the time the ambulance and paramedics made it to the stairwell. I couldn’t let him ride alone. I imagine any ambulance ride is scary, but it’s particularly bad when you don’t understand the language. Asbell showed up as they were loading Oliver onto the stretcher. He asked me to stop and tell him what happened, but I couldn’t leave Oliver alone.

  There were tests and a slew of doctors — both from our team and the host country — nobody wants to be responsible for misdiagnosing an athlete. Now six hours later, I’ve finally found a minute to relax and appreciate the fact I survived through it all. Oliver too.

  It’s been one hell of a long day.

  The United States of America flag waves in the background and our national anthem plays over the loudspeakers. A Winter Games official steps up to the third spot on the podium and drapes a bronze medal around the athlete’s neck.

  “James is such a pussy.” Oliver adjusts his head on the hospital pillows. There’s at least eight of them helping to keep him propped up because in his words they were too small and skimpy. Nothing like the robust pillows they have in American hospitals. It was said with such authority I have to question how many hospitals he’s found himself in to be in the position to compare pillows.

  “Look at him, smiling over a bronze medal. I would’ve taken first.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” There’s only so many times I can apologize for making Oliver miss his chance at competing in the biggest athletic event of his life.

  His attention wavers from the TV. “Hey, what did I say? This is not your fault.” He raises up his left arm showing off the red cast that covers from his wrist all the way to his elbow. “There are other chances to win medals, but there aren’t other Kennys.”

  If I didn’t have such guilt over what happened, I’d find his words comforting. As it stands I cost him a lot more than a gold medal. Recognition, sponsors, money, and months of practice time.

  “It’s not your fault they wouldn’t let me compete.”

  “Oliver, you broke an arm.”

  He makes a face, half of one side pinched. “I snowboard. It’s not like I need my arm to do much but balance me.”

  Regardless of whether or not he actually could have made his way down the mountain with a broken arm, it was a liability in the American team nor anyone in the Gold Medal committee wasn’t going to allow.

  “I feel horrible. This is all my fault.” Why didn’t I do something to Isaac? Knee him in the balls? Scream for help earlier?

  Oliver pats my knee, pulling me closer from where I’m perched on the side of his hospital bed. “You can make it up to me on the first date.”

  “First date? What is this?” I throw my hands out to encompass the room. “Plus we’ve already had sex.” Is he saying I put out before the first date?

  “You fluffing my pillows in the hospital room is not a first date.” The national anthem playing on the TV changes, drawing Oliver’s attention again. “Look at him, up there smiling like a dumb ass. I would have fucked shit up on that podium.”

  I laugh. “Next time, tiger.” He refuses to admit it, but I think he is feeling the pain medication a little bit more than he realizes. Some of his answers and reactions to conversations over the last few hours have been more than comical.

  Earlier this afternoon, he offered me a job as his publicist slash public relations person once we make it back to Cali. I’ve never really considered they were different job titles. I have a degree in marketing. I expected to market little boxes of soap or maybe some shoes. Never a person.

  And definitely not an athlete. I’ve pretty much written them all off as crazy. Although managing someone as laid back as Oliver might not be so bad. Maybe even fun. But it’s definitely not a good idea to mix business and pleasure. That and I’m sure by the time the drugs wear off he won’t remember making the offer.

  Oliver picks up a plastic fork from his bedside tray and shoves the pointed tongs down his cast.

  “Oliver!” I grab at the fork, hitting his cast in the process and he winces. “What are you doing?”

  “It itches.” He sticks the fork further down. “Haven’t you had a cast before? You have to stick stuff in there to really get at the itch.”

  “No! I’ve never broken a bone.”

  Oliver sucks in a breath, but not out of pain. “You’ve never broken a bone? What kind of life have you been living?”

  “A safe one.” This man has most certainly been in the hospital way too many times. He pushes the fork even deeper to the point I only see a very small portion of the tip where his fingers hold on to it. “Oliver, what if the fork breaks?”

  “It itches, dammit. Distract me.” He pulls the fork out from underneath his cast, and my stomach seizes in relief when all four tongs are attached to the plastic base.

  “How?”

  He leans over, his lips puckered. “You could kiss me.”

  I do, one quick pack on the cheek. “Okay, how else?”

  He flicks off the television, dropping the remote on his bedside table and pushing the tray out of his way. “Well my mother will be back any minute and since she said you passed your background check I plan to bring you on as my full-time PR person. We could negotiate the contract. Do it now while I’m feeling generous.”

  “Do you even need a publicist?” Sure he had a small problem with the photos I took care of, but I don’t see him as an overly rowdy member of the snowboarding circuit. What would a someone do for him that hasn’t already been done?

  He leans back against his pillows smiling, “No, your job will be super easy.”

  “Your mother scares me.” I hate to admit it, but it’s the truth. She showed me my background check — my credit score is seven hundred and twenty. Who knew they went so high. After congratulating me on graduating with no student debt she told me she found it acceptable for me to stay with her son in his room while she ate dinner. Oliver just rolled his eyes and nodded his head like he agreed with that assessment.

  He fluffs one of his pillows, adjusting his body. “I try to humor her when I’m hurt or right before competition. But don’t let it bother you. She’s not allowed within three states of California once we’re back in the US. She keeps a house in New York and I only accept two phone calls per week. She’s very good about following the rules.”

  What kind of mother needs boundaries like that? Although… I have started letting my own mother’s phone calls go to voicemail. No one needs to talk to me more than once per day. Maybe I could take a lesson from Oliver. “And she actually listens?”

&
nbsp; Oliver laughs. “Not at first, but we negotiated and came to terms that were acceptable for both of us. She gets to be as crazy as she wants here in return. Did I mention she’s a lawyer?”

  Well that makes a lot more sense.

  He reaches for the fork again, but I lean over his body and take it out of his hand before he can shove it down his cast. “Seriously, leave the utensils for eating food.”

  Oliver rolls his eyes. “Fine, at least until you’re not here or I find myself a ruler.”

  “No rulers.”

  “What else can I do? You’re doing a horrible job of distracting me.” He sinks deeper into his pile of pillows. “Tell me what it’s going to be like once we get back to California and you’re working for me.”

  “I don’t know if me working for you is such a good idea.”

  “It’s a great idea. You need a job and I need somebody to manage me. My coach is always saying if I want to be a megastar, I need a better presence. You’re the girl to do it.”

  I fluff one of his pillows moving it closer to my side the bed. “How would me working for you even work?”

  Oliver rolls his eyes. “During the hours of 9:30 and 3:00, you do PR things. You know, schedule interviews make up fake stories for the media that put me in a good light, and help me find hospitals to volunteer at, things like that. Good publicity. After 3 o’clock you date me.”

  He makes it seem so easy. “What if you annoy me one day when I working for you? How does that affect the relationship?” If he keeps sticking forks down his cast, it’s a real possibility. There’s a lot of things we’d have to work out. We’re both in California, but I haven’t forgotten Oliver spends a big portion of his time in Utah. Even our California homes are almost two hours apart. He hasn’t worked out logistics yet.

  His eyes fall to the expensive pair of high heels on my feet at the end of his bed. “I’ll buy you a new pair of shoes.”