And then after awhile he stopped, seemingly embarrassed that maybe he’d been doing too much talking and he blushed. He actually blushed, and asked her about her and Ava and their friendship, and about her family. Dylan was touched by the effort, but realized that she was sorry not to hear more about his family and get to read and marvel at the depth of emotion that crossed his face as he talked about them.
Still, she told him about her and Ava growing up together in Queens, six doors down from each other, and being each other’s constant, even through different high schools and colleges, ups and downs. She didn’t talk much about her parents and he seemed to sense that she didn’t want to, and did not press her to say more than she did on her own.
Inside, the music changed from a dance tempo to something slow and soulful and Dylan felt inexplicably shy. It was like that moment at a party in junior high standing next to a cute boy when the slow jam comes on, and you ache as you wait for him to ask you to dance.
Mark bent at the waist and glanced inside.
“They’re changing the pace,” he said. “Maybe means the party’s about to break up?”
He sounded almost regretful. But before Dylan could even fully examine the thought, the window was flung open again and two young men who could only be his brothers stuck their heads out. This was one genetically-gifted family. Both were dark and good-looking like Mark, but not as solidly built. And yes, clearly they were twins, though they seem to have gone out of their way to make sure they didn’t look too much alike. One had a clean-shaven almost boyish face and the other had a moustache and goatee.
“¡Vamanos, Marcos!”
“Segundito . . .” Mark held up a hand, Dylan thought a little impatiently.
“Well, it looks like it’s definitely breaking up for you,” she said.
She reluctantly shed his jacket and handed it to him. His scent lingered about her for a moment, and she wondered if she would still smell it on herself when she got home. She hoped so.
Satisfied that progress was being made, Mark’s brothers went back inside, but stood vigil at the window, waiting for him.
“Can I walk you down and get you a cab?” he asked. “Or we could share one so I could drop you off.”
Dylan shook her head. “No thanks. It’s early enough that I’ll still be okay jumping on the subway.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. I love the subway.”
Mark smiled at that, and looked at her curiously, as though it was a thought he wanted to explore further. Most people complained about the subway, after all. Though he seemed reluctant to leave, Dylan resisted the thought. Maybe she was flattering herself. If you could get past the body—and that would take some doing—there were those dark, sexy eyes. Women were probably constantly throwing themselves at him; and even more so now that he was famous.
Still, this had been . . . nice. Really nice. And when was the last time she’d met a guy who she thought was “nice” without it being code for “boring” or “unattractive”? When was the last time she’d had an actual conversation with a man that had been unencumbered by the usual bullshit lines and lame pick-up attempts? It would sound corny to say out loud but meeting and talking to Mark gave her . . . hope. Even though she’d likely never see him again, the fact of there being men like him out there, made her feel hopeful. It was that simple.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said, proud of how casual she sounded. “It was great talking to you.”
“You too,” he said, then as he turned to climb back in the window he smiled at her one last time. “Don’t stay out here too long.”
“Nope. Right behind you,” she said, holding up the long-empty beer bottle.
“Okay. G’night, Dylan.”
He hesitated a moment at the window before climbing back in until one of his brothers said something to him in Spanish, clearly hurrying him along, and so he was gone.
Dylan turned and smiled out into the dark. For sure, she would replay this in her head a million times over. And it was going to be utterly impossible to see his picture in the papers or images of him on television without remembering his incredible man-scent, and the way he made her want to press her legs together. Oh well, a girl could dream.
Minutes later, Dylan climbed back inside and pushed through what remained of the crowd to get her jacket from the pile on the bed in one of the back rooms. Everything was beginning to get a little dicier now that folks had a few drinks under their belt. There was grinding passing itself off as dancing and a few couples making out like it was a high school party. Dylan shook her head and shrugged on her jacket, wondering how Mark Acosta had wound up here in the first place.
The West 4th subway was only three blocks away, so she would be home in less than forty-five minutes. Glancing at her cell phone, she saw that it was only just past midnight—still early enough to do a little LSAT practice before crashing. Nothing like a thrilling close encounter with a hot guy to wake you up.
“Dylan.”
She turned and stared. Mark Acosta was coming toward her, almost as though she’d conjured him up by thinking about him. Several paces behind him, his brothers waited, clearly impatient.
“Hey,” Dylan said.
He stopped in front of her and she looked up at him. On the fire-escape he’d been leaning on the railing most of the time, but standing upright like this, right in front of her, she got the full impact of his height. Her earlier estimate was wrong. He was more like six-two, and much more impressive than she thought. Imposing even. Mark was the kind of man who, even if not the handsomest in the room, would almost always command the most female attention. And with him so close, it was impossible to look anywhere but right at him.
“I thought you’d left,” Dylan said.
“I was about to. But then I thought I’d wait for you to come out.”
“Oh,” she said, shaking her head. “Seriously, don’t worry about me. Hopping on the train is . . .”
He let out a deep breath, his chest heaving before he spoke. Was he was nervous?
“I want to call you,” he said in a rush. “If that’s . . . something you would want . . . too.”
Dylan smiled.
“Yes,” she said after a moment, trying to contain the foolish grin that threatened to spread across her face. “That’s something I would want.”
“Turn on Channel Four,” Mark said. “Right now. Quick.”
Dylan had been sitting on her sofa, reviewing her LSAT answers when the phone rang. She’d programmed Mark’s number into her phone with a special ringtone so she would always know when it was him, especially since he was so slammed with meetings that she never knew when he might call. Hearing it, she’d practically leapt across the room to answer.
“Just do it. Quick. It could be over any minute . . .”
“Channel Four? Why? What’s going on?”
She reached for the remote, balancing the phone between her head and shoulder. “See me?”
Mark was standing on a dais a few feet behind beside his agent, Corey, who was speaking into the
microphone. There were a couple other men in suits nearby but her eyes had gone directly, instinctively to Mark. Dylan smiled. She could hear the echo of Corey speaking in the background of their call, as well as on television.
Wearing a brown suit with a periwinkle blue shirt underneath, Mark was without a tie but instead wore a white t-shirt peeking through at his neck-line. He was balancing his phone against his shoulder just as she now did.
“How can you be on the phone during a press conference?” she asked. “Can you even hear what
Corey’s saying?”
“He’s saying what he always says. That we haven’t reached an agreement and that there’s nothing
to announce.”
“So you’re having a press conference to tell them there’s no news.”
“Pretty much.” Then he looked up and smiled and Dylan smiled back as though he could see her.
; “Apparently that’s how this ridiculous dance is done.”
This wasn’t the first time Dylan had heard Mark speak with such derision about the contract
negotiation process. Over the last few weeks, it had become abundantly clear to her that he was never
going to be one of those star athletes who savored and enjoyed the spotlight. He was going to be the
guy hiding from the camera, his face obscured by the brim of his baseball cap as he dodged reporters. “Still. Shouldn’t you at least look like you’re paying attention?”
“I don’t care about paying attention. Not while I’m listening to you smile at me.” “You can’t hear a smile,” Dylan said, smiling wider.
“I heard that one,” Mark said, and the tone of his voice sent a surge of heat directly to a very
specific spot between her legs as surely as if he’d touched her there with his fingers. They hadn’t had any real time together since the party; at least not time alone. Though it wasn’t for
want of trying. Just a week ago he’d stopped by her job to take her for coffee and been mobbed as soon
as he got out of the cab so had to leave without seeing her.
Then there was the quiet lunch they attempted downtown. That time they’d orchestrated it so she
would meet him outside and jump into a cab where he was already waiting. They were home-free for
awhile, until they got to the restaurant in Chinatown and a couple of Wall Street traders had stopped
by the table to debate the whole Mets versus Yankees thing. Mark had politely entertained them in
conversation for a time, all the while looking apologetically across the table at her. By the time he was
able to get rid of them Dylan had only fifteen minutes to get back to the office.
Just as she was about to jump out of the cab, Mark leaned forward as though to kiss her when a car
behind them honked impatiently because their cab was double-parked. It was just enough of a
distraction to cause Mark to pause, and Dylan leapt out and waved from the curb, the bitter
disappointment threatening to eat a hole through the pit of her stomach.
“Corey’s looking at you now,” Dylan warned him. “Maybe he’s about to . . .”
As Dylan watched, Mark raised his eyes and his agent turned and extended an arm toward him,
calling him up to the podium.
“I’ll call you later,” Mark said quickly, and ended the call.
Dylan watched as he put his phone in his jacket pocket and joined his agent.
He leaned in to answer a question she hadn’t heard.
“I just want to play some good ball. And of course, I would be honored to play for the Mets
organization,” he said. “But I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
She turned off the television and picked up her LSAT books again, but after a few minutes, unable
to resist the urge to just look at him, Dylan turned it on again, just in time to see Mark exit the stage
ahead of his agent.
At first her sleep-clouded mind didn’t recognize it for what it was, wondering why someone in her building would be playing Maxwell’s ‘Get to Know Ya’ over and over again. Finally, it penetrated that the song was the ringtone Dylan had chosen for Mark and she reached over, unplugging her phone from the charger and answering it.
“Hey,” she said, her voice hoarse. She glanced at the clock. “Is everything okay?” “I signed with the Mets,” he said. “We reached a deal about an hour ago.”
Dylan sat up. “An hour ago? It’s after two in the morning. Negotiations go that late?” “When they’re close to a deal, yeah.”
“And it’s happened?” she confirmed. “It’s done? They signed you?”
“Yup.”
“Mark, that’s great! Are you excited?”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding strangely subdued.
She listened to the silence for a few moments and sat up, turning on her bedside lamp. “But it’s a little scary too, I guess,” she said finally.
“A little.”
Dylan lowered her voice. “You’re going to be amazing.”
“How do you know?” he asked, a hint of teasing in his voice. “You told me you don’t even
understand baseball.”
“I’m practically an expert now. I bought Baseball for Dummies and read the whole thing in one day.” Mark laughed. “Oh you did, huh?”
“I did. I even know what a short stop does. You’re on defense, between second and third base.” “Yeah, that’s right . . .”
“And d’you want to know what else I learned this week?”
“What’s that?”
“That you’re the best at it. And that people are already comparing you to Cal Ripken, Jr. and Ernie
Banks. Because you’re that good, even though you haven’t even played in the majors yet. So you have no reason to be scared, Mark,” she said quietly.
“But that’s what makes it scary,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Those names you mentioned?
Those are big shoes to fill.”
“I’ve seen the size of your feet. You’ll fill them just fine.”
Mark laughed again. “You’re pretty quick for someone who got woken up at two-thirteen in the
morning.”
“I try,” she said.
“Sorry I woke you,” he said. “I just got this crazy idea in my head, that if I heard your voice I’d feel
better.”
Dylan tried to ignore the little thread of pleasure she felt at his words. She knew exactly what he meant. She felt better when she heard his voice too. “You should be feeling great.”
“I do,” he said. “It’s just that now, everything changes.”
“For the better, though.”
“Anyway,” he seemed to want to change the subject. “You better go back to sleep. Need to stay sharp to study for those LSATs. When are they again?”
“Next weekend.”
“Then get back to sleep. What’re you doing up so late?”
“There’s this pesky guy that keeps calling me at weird hours of the day and night.”
“Next week I might not have as much time,” he said, his voice serious now. “So if I don’t call you, I don’t want you to think . . .”
He broke off and said nothing more.
“Think what?”
“I don’t know. That I’m going to fall off the radar or something.”
It almost didn’t surprise her that he would intuit her greatest fear about his signing his contract. Even during the negotiation process he’d been pulled in a million different directions, but now he was literally in the big leagues and the demands would be much greater and more numerous. And he would be exposed to all kinds of new experiences, opportunities . . . and people. Things that she was not equipped to compete with. The Mark who sat on the other end of the line with her almost every night as they watched the same television shows and talked about nothing at all was gone, whether she liked it or not. He was huge now.
“I won’t think that,” she said finally.
“And don’t you disappear either,” he said.
He was trying to keep his tone light, but Dylan thought she detected real concern there. If there was, he needn’t have worried; Dylan knew she was already more than a little infatuated with him and felt closer to him than she had to anyone in a long time. All those phone calls, without the benefit of seeing or touching each other had left them no recourse but to get to really know each other, undistracted.
“I’ll be busy studying anyway.”
“You’re going to be amazing too, y’know? When you’re finally a lawyer I mean.”
“How do you know?” she said, mimicking the same question he’d asked her earlier.
“Because you completely talked me out of the funk I was in. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Sweet dreams, Dylan.”
The next morning, it was all over the news that the Mets had reached a deal with Mark Acosta for a figure in the tens of millions. Dylan sat at her kitchen table, momentarily staggered by the sum. After the exhilaration, she could only imagine the pressure that came along with that kind of money, and the expectations. The fear he felt suddenly made perfect sense, and Dylan was overcome by the urge to call him, just to let him know that it would be okay and that he was more than capable of handling it. She could only hope that he really had gotten reassurance from speaking to her the night before and would call her again soon if he needed to.
On the subway, as other commuters read the city papers, Dylan couldn’t help but see the Sports section on the back, announcing the deal between The Rookie and the Mets. The New York Post had a shot of Mark getting into a car with Corey. He was ducking his head and squinting, probably against the flash of cameras in his face. He didn’t look the way one might expect someone to look when they’d just been made a multi-millionaire.
“Dylan. Are you listening?”
She looked up at Grant’s face, realizing that she’d missed just about everything he’d said. “Are you not feeling well?” he asked. “You don’t look yourself today.”
“Probably nervous about the LSATs,” she said.
Grant smiled at her. “You’ll do fine. I’m sure of it. Hey, if you want I’ll sign off on you taking a few
days . . .”
“No,” Dylan held up a hand. “No need. You’ve been so supportive already. And I think I’m all
burned out on those practice tests honestly.”
“It’ll be done before you know it,” he said. “Hang in there a little longer and it’s going to pay off, I
promise you.”
Grant was a partner at Greenbaum, Tate and McAffey, the firm where she’d worked for the last
three of years, and the first person who’d suggested to her that she go to law school. After a relatively
short time working as a legal assistant, Dylan saw that it was a lot less challenging than she expected.
She’d taken the job right out of undergrad because it was the first one she was offered and she’d been
thinking only of how she might support herself. Having never been particularly focused on school, it
The Seduction of Dylan Acosta Page 2
