Man of the House

by Abigail Graham

  “What? Alex, my man, listen to me. You’re talking about a fortune here. You’ve got another five, ten years in you at least. Besides the contract money, there’s endorsements, public appearances, branded products. The people I’m working with on the clothing line…”

  “I’m rich already.”

  “Look, I’m not going to lie to you. The peewee thing is going great, it’s really boosting your image. I sent a few discrete people out there, got some pics of you with the kids, all very nice, makes you look like a great guy. We might even be able to work this whole date angle.”

  “Work it?”

  “Yeah, yeah, listen. You make nice-nice with the cop that ticketed you, you know, charm her. It’ll make you look like such a good boy again. You’re a commodity now, Alex. Fifteen, twenty years ago, football players endorsed Wheaties and shit. Now, you’re an international star. There’s opportunity here. Like the gladiators of ancient Rome, who…”

  He always talks like this. I let him drone on.

  “Lou. I want my clothes delivered. Get them sent now. I don’t want to see any cameras following me around while I’m out with a woman, for once in my life. I see any, I’ll shove them up the photographer’s ass, you read me?”

  He sighs. “I read ya, champ. I’ll make the call. Your stuff will be delivered by five.”

  “Four. They’re coming from Philadelphia, not Mars.”

  “Fine, four o’clock.”

  I hang up and rise from the couch and pace the room. I’m getting really sick of Lou. Have been for a while. I don’t like being a commodity. I didn’t ask for that. They told me they’d pay me a lot to play football, and they have.

  It was always easy. I’m too big, too fast, always was. I was already over six feet tall when I was junior varsity and by the time college teams were scouting me, there were a few pro scouts watching me too. I maybe could have gone pro without even finishing college, but I liked campus life.

  Ever since Mom and Kat died, I’ve spent my life trying to find something to pay attention to, so I don’t think about them. Football, driving fast, whatever.

  The wall creaks under my weight where I lean on it to stare at Phoebe’s house. I don’t know what it is about her, but being there makes me feel warm inside. Being with her and her kid, cooking dinner.

  Then there’s the woman herself. When I first saw her back on the day she gave me that damn ticket, I thought she was a little cute to be a cop. Same thing in the courtroom. Then I saw her smile and the hint of something soft and vulnerable under her hard exterior and it reached down inside me and touched something I thought was gone.

  Last night was it. I have to have her now. The heat of her skin under my hands, the taste of her body on my tongue, the soft pleading looks in her eyes and the way she bit her lip until the skin turned white trying to stay quiet while her hot, tight pussy clenched my finger. I can’t think of anything but getting inside her, feeling her quiver around me while I explode.

  Why did I hold back last night? She was begging me, but it wasn’t right. I want more. All of her. I want her to go wild for me. Crave me.

  I need to work out some of this energy.

  I run.

  Clears my head, keeps me focused. Walking is too slow, too much time to think. Running is a steady, meditative concentration. Focusing on form and pacing myself. I keep my head in the world around me, not some fantasy dreamland. Despite the warmth of the autumn day, I keep my hood up as if that would stop someone from recognizing me.

  The streets are deserted. No sound but chirping birds and the rustling of falling leaves. Not like Philly where I can’t leave the apartment without getting mobbed and can’t go for a run without everybody on the street yelling my name, either to cheer or to curse.

  I thought it would be dead and dull here, but it’s peaceful like a dream state. I can’t imagine this place ever changing, only growing. Trees get bigger, kids mature into adults and have kids of their own, but the bones they rest on stay the same.

  A good hour’s run from the house, there’s a park. It’s not big, but it’s open with lots of trees and a pond. I slow and walk to catch my breath, following the markers on the hiking trail.

  Not until I walk among trees do I realize how sick I am of the city.

  Hell, I’m sick of everything.

  I don’t know how I came to feel this way. How did I go from seeing Phoebe as a stuck up bitch to seeing her as… what? The spring, sunlight, hope, another day.

  There was something in her eyes as I was invading her domestic space, even as she scolded me for it. Like she’s hungry to lay down her burdens. A beauty like her shouldn’t spend her life in mom jeans and ponytails.

  A beauty. She is, isn’t she?

  I stand at the duck pond.

  The ducks swim in circles and bob for bugs or whatever they eat. They don’t have much to say. Reminds me of dogs. I used to think how great it would be to be a dog. Simple life, doing what you were born to do without thinking about it.

  My dad always said I overthink things.

  This park is about as wild as somebody’s backyard, but as I stroll back through the more wooded section of the trail, the hairs start climbing up the back of my neck. It’s that same feeling I get when I’m on the field and somebody has it in for me.

  I roll my shoulders and stand just a hair straighter. Nobody scares me.

  When I reach the end of the path and the daylight blinds me for a half second, I feel small and stupid. Nobody is watching me. A deep breath, then I break into a run again.

  Slower this time, forcing myself through it. If I’m not careful, I’ll get soft here. So, I pace myself, run past the house, and down the other way, following the street to its end before I make a big box and come back around again, sweaty and panting.

  One of Lou’s people is waiting for me with my clothes. Probably one of his personal assistants. They’re all pretty, blond, and too young. I grunt at her and motion her upstairs to leave the garment bags she’s toting on my bed.

  She lingers in the foyer, looking at me with big eyes and pursed, pouty lips.

  “Thanks. There’s the door.”

  She frowns, walks out in a huff, and slams the door shut behind her, rattling the old windows.

  Upstairs, I lay out what I’ll wear tonight. It’s too warm for a jacket and I don’t think the restaurant requires one, so I’ll stick with gray slacks, a cream colored shirt and blue tie. I like blue ties.

  Fuck, why didn’t I say six o’clock? I want her now.

  Somehow, I manage to wait all that time. I lay on the bed after my shower and try to think of baseball. Don’t want to get too excited and go over there sporting a boner like a virgin on prom night.

  When it’s finally time, I slip into my clothes, tie my tie, and walk over to Phoebe’s house.

  Her sister, I think, answers the door. She must be younger, looks not much more than high school age. Same build and hair, same plainly pretty looks, but younger.

  “I’m Grace,” she says. “Hi. Phoebe will be down in a minute, come in, will you?”

  “Yeah.”

  She gives me an appraising look as I walk inside, her expression neutral, but on the edge of exploding into a harsh glare. Standard little sister attitude, I guess.

  True to her word, Phoebe descends the stairs a few moments later. I wasn’t expecting her to come down in a cocktail dress or anything like that. In fact, I had no idea how to picture her in anything but her uniform or knock around sleeping clothes.

  She comes down the stairs in a knee-length pleated skirt and a plain white blouse, with her hair bound up in a messy, purposely-casual updo. I don’t know jack about makeup except she’s wearing some and a pair of high heels.

  She’s pretty. Too pretty. It’s like she glows, lengthening the shadows in her living room.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi.”

  Her sister Grace slips away into the kitchen, leaving us alone.

  “It’s been a re
ally, really long time since I’ve done this.”

  “I’ll take the lead,” I say, offering her my hand.

  She takes it. Her palm is soft on mine, her fingers delicate, her touch almost tickling me. For a moment, I stand like an idiot holding her hand and staring at her. Her blouse is more sheer than I first thought, embroidered with pale flowers.

  “You look incredible.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “What do you want me to say, ‘you clean up nicely’?”

  “Maybe. You sure do,” she cocks her head to the side. “I hardly recognized you.”

  I snort. “Right.”

  “So where are we going?”

  “To eat. Come on.”

  Phoebe jangles a set of keys, and drops them in my hand.

  “What’s this?”

  “We’ll take my car.”

  “The cop car?”

  “Yeah, why not? You drive.”

  I shrug. Sure, what could be the harm?

  I unlock her door first, and take her by the elbow to lift her inside. She gives me a sharp look, but her lips tremble, as she holds back a smile.

  Usually when I pick up a girl, I don’t drive their car, and their car doesn’t have a bracket bolted to the dashboard to mount a shotgun. At least, I think that’s what that welded box thing does.

  The big SUV starts up with a purr.

  “They let you take this home?”

  “Yeah. I work on her myself when I can. Mostly change the oil and stuff.”

  I glance at her.

  She shrugs. “What?”

  “Anybody ever call you a tomboy?”

  “Yeah,” she says, sharply. “I don’t like it.”

  “Oh. Sorry about that.”

  I put the truck in gear and back out of her driveway. The switch marked SIREN is a temptation as I wheel it around.

  “Listen,” she says. “Did you see a carrot orange V W around here lately?”

  I shake my head. “No, why?”

  “Just wondering. Where we headed?”

  “Wesley House.”

  She shifts in her seat. “I… you know, I can’t really afford…”

  I snort. “Oh, please.”

  “I can’t just…”

  “Yes, you can,” I snap. “I’m paying for dinner, and holding the door for you, and helping you out of the car, and treating you like a goddamn man treats a lady, and you’re going to like it.”

  The look on her face is so cute I could kiss her right here at the red light. She crosses her arms over her chest and sticks out her chin, pouting.

  “I don’t know why I agreed to this.”

  “That’s not what you said last night.”

  “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “I think you were.”

  It’s not a long drive. I roll into the parking lot and slow down, looking for a spot. It’s crowded.

  “Can we take a handicapped spot?”

  Phoebe rolls her eyes.

  “It’s not like we’ll get towed.”

  “No,” she sighs.

  She tries to get out before I get to her side of the car, only to find me standing there to take her hand as she steps down from the running board. I close the door and put my hand on her arm as I walk her up to the front door.

  Inside, it’s much cooler and quieter, though loud with conversation. The house is packed. The hostess looks up from her podium, then looks up some more to meet my gaze. She ignores Phoebe completely.

  “Oh crap, you’re you.”

  “I usually am.”

  Phoebe clears her throat.

  “Ah, yes, Wright party of two. Right this way, please.”

  I can feel fifty people staring at me as we weave through the crowded dining room following the hostess. She seats us near the back the room, in a deep, high round booth that closes us off from the rest of the patrons.

  Phoebe settles in across the table and takes a menu.

  “If you try to order for me,” she says, when the waitress is gone, “I’ll kick you in the balls.”

  “You say that, but I bet you get all mushy and feminine at me being so dominant and manly.”

  “The last thing I want is to be dominated,” she says, her tone dripping with scorn.

  “We’ll see about that after you’ve tried it.”

  She looks up over the menu, and the way her eyes lock on me and she licks her lips with just a hint of her pink tongue makes my cock start to throb.

  “Let me guess. You’ll have one of everything,” she says.

  “Actually, yeah. I’m going to try the tasting menu. Looks good.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  “Good. I hope you’re last on the menu.”

  Her menu drops and she looks at me wide-eyed, a blush creeping up her cheeks. I love how she goes from hardass to innocent when I push her buttons the right way.

  The waitress walks up, staring at me the whole time like she expects me to pop her head off and garnish my drink with it.

  “Coke,” I grunt.

  Phoebe eyes me. “Same.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Me, either. Bad for your health.”

  “That’s not why I don’t drink.”

  “I sense a story behind that,” she says.

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Not what you think. It’s not a fun story.”

  “You must have some,” she says, folding her hands together to rest her chin on them. “Fun stories.”

  “Do you?”

  She sighs. “Not any fresh ones.”

  I see her searching, her eyes darting through her memories as she sifts for ones to tell me.

  “I don’t want to start off with stories about my ex. My happy memories are mostly from my childhood.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “You had to be the big man on campus when you were in college.”

  “I was, I guess. If you’re good at football, it makes things easy for you. Too easy.”

  “Too easy?”

  “Yeah. It was frustrating. I got an A on papers when I knew I should have gotten a lesser grade. There was no sense of challenge to it, and girls practically catapulted themselves through my windows.”

  “And you just tossed them right back out, huh?”

  “I banged most of them. Then tossed them back out.”

  She scowls at me.

  “That’s what they wanted. Don’t look at me like that. You ever been, what do they call it, objectified?”

  “Objectified?”

  “Yeah. Like when you walk up to my car and I suggest somebody sent me a stripper in a cop outfit.”

  “Perfect example,” she says. “Poor you, all the hot girls throwing themselves at you.”

  “Maybe I want more than hot.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Is this where you tell me how my big brain gets you so hard?”

  “No. Your body gets me hard. Your ass, your legs, your big pretty eyes, your freckles. I want to lick them off you.”

  “You can’t. They don’t work that way.” She grins.

  “Not for lack of trying.”

  My whole body tenses when her foot slides up my calf.

  “I’m sorry for the way I treated you before. I really am.” I say.

  “Why? What changed your mind. Did you always think I was good looking?”

  “I know you are. You’re pretty even when you try to hide it under those aviator shades.”

  Her cheeks turn pink. I don’t care how hard she is on the outside, every time I compliment her, it’s like no one has ever said it to her before. It makes me feel warm.

  The waitress shows up with the food, finally, and Phoebe eats slowly. I can’t take my eyes off her lips and tongue as she slips the morsels of food off her fork into her mouth. Her eyes lock on me every time she swallows.

  “When did you decide to become a cop?”

  She shrugs. “After my husband.”

  “Oh. Because…”

  Sh
e nods. “Yeah.”

  I have a funny feeling about the way she says it. Phoebe is rarely uneasy or unsure, but when she talks about him she seems so nervous, like there’s something very big she’s sitting on.

  She looks down.

  “You wonder why I still wear the ring.”

  “Kinda, yeah.”

  She smiles. “Keeps guys off me.”

  “Really,” I say, grinning.

  She snorts. “No, everyone knows everyone here, they all know David is gone. Truth is, I don’t know why I wear it. I just do. I never take it off.”

  “Wish I had something like that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A token. Something to remind me. I could carry with me.” I stop myself before I go any further.

  “You live alone,” she says. “Father’s in prison. Where’s your family?”

  “Are you interrogating me?”

  “No. I just want to understand you. I really don’t.”

  “Understand me.”

  “Right,” she sighs. “I don’t get you at all. Before I pulled you over, and I had no idea it was you, by the way, I only knew you from TV. You have a reputation, you know.”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “You’ve been fined a lot, been in a lot of trouble, arguments with your sponsors. I’ve never seen you look happy about anything until…” she shrugs. “Until you were in my house.”

  “I like you.”

  “Really.”

  “Are you fishing for compliments?”

  She smiles. “Maybe.”

  “When I was in your life for a few minutes, I saw a look at something different. Something I was missing, but I didn’t know it. I like cooking for you. Taking care of you.”

  “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

  I trace my fingers over the back of her hand, circling her knuckles with my thumb.

  “You want someone to, though, don’t you?”

  I feel her thinking about it. The way her eyes light up, the way she bites her lip and her grip tightens on mine.

  “I didn’t know I was lonely until I realized I don’t have anyone like you in my life,” I tell her. “I don’t care about anything. I want something to care about. Care for. Someone.”

  “I don’t know if I can be that. I’ve been hurt, Alexander.”

  “Alex.”

  “Alex. I’ve been hurt before. I don’t want to do that again. It’s hard for me to trust after what happened.”