Sure Shot

by Sarina Bowen

  My heart swells. I kiss him back, because it would be a crime not to enjoy this while it lasts. This will be my last, brief trip into the strange world that Tank and I used to occasionally inhabit. Where bodies are made for pleasure, and no rules apply.

  Two hours later I wake up with a start, my damp hair snarled against the pillow. Tank snores softly beside me. Outside, the sky is as dark as Brooklyn ever gets. The clock on the bedside table reads 1:18. Although hotel clocks are often wrong.

  Panicked, I slide off the bed. Tank doesn’t stir from the place where he collapsed after doing me again in the shower. He’s thirty-two years old and has the sexual stamina of a college boy. How is that even fair?

  I find my crumpled panties on the floor and pull them on. Then I shake out my dress and step into it, reaching around to zip it up as best I can. My body feels well used, in the best possible way, but I probably look like a disaster. Even worse—my brother is probably letting himself into my apartment right this second, wondering where I am.

  I pick up my sandals and tiptoe into the living room, where I recover my clutch purse. My phone confirms that it’s twenty past one in the morning.

  I’d received a text from Eric Bayer at 12:01. Happy Birthday! Am I the first to say it? What do I win?

  He’s not the first, but I’m never admitting it. Thank you. You’re the employee of the month. Your wall plaque is forthcoming. Are you still at the bar?

  The moment after I hit Send, I slip into my sandals and head out the door, closing it behind me as softly as possible. Goodnight, Tank. I feel a bit ridiculous doing the walk of shame in the wee hours of my thirtieth birthday. But here we are.

  Eric replies while I’m in the elevator. Still here at the tavern! Winning at darts, because Heidi already went home.

  Congrats, I reply. Is there any chance my brother is still with you?

  Yeah. Dave said he was leaving, but he’s still talking to Beacon by the door. Want me to grab him?

  No, I text back in a hurry. I was just checking on him. Night!

  When the elevator doors part, I dart through the lobby, fly out the revolving doors, and stick my hand in the air. A taxi swerves and halts at the curb. Thank you, taxi gods.

  I open the door and jump inside. “Two-twenty-seven Water Street,” I say to the driver. “There’s a ten buck tip in it for you if we get there inside of ten minutes.”

  The tavern on Hicks Street—where the hockey players hang out—is between here and my apartment. But if Dave yammers with Beacon a few extra minutes, I can still beat him home. And it’s such nice weather that he may decide to walk.

  My phone vibrates with a new text from Eric. Where are you, anyway?

  Why? I reply, paranoid.

  Just curious, he replies. It’s almost like you’re trying to beat your brother home.

  Oh dear. I hired Eric because he has a sharp mind and great intuition. That feels like a mistake now. You can be Employee of the Month for the rest of the year if you just forget we had this conversation.

  Awesome. Can’t wait to see this plaque.

  I snort as the driver flies up Jay Street. Traffic is so light at this hour that I think I’m going to make it.

  He just walked out, comes a new text a minute later.

  “Damn it!” I squeak, and the driver turns his head in confusion. “It’s fine!” I tell him. “Just late for my curfew.”

  He guns it.

  I have never run up three flights of stairs so fast. There’s no strip of light coming from under my door as I turn the key. Yes.

  I step inside, happily noting that the place is empty. I turn on a lamp and rocket into my bedroom, where I hop around like a monkey as I try to unzip my dress. I throw on an old Detroit Tigers T-shirt and some sleep shorts. Then I try to get a few tangles out of my hair.

  The apartment door opens and shuts not more than three minutes after I’ve returned. He must have taken a cab.

  Gently, I open my bedroom door. “Dave?” I call, trying to sound sleepy.

  “S’me,” my brother slurs. “Did I slam the door? Shorry.”

  I emerge from the bedroom, ditching all pretense. Maybe I don’t need to be subtle, because Dave is blitzed. “Did you make it up the stairs okay?”

  “I’m very coordinated,” he says. And then he burps.

  “Right. Well, let’s get your coordinated self into bed. Did you have a good time?”

  “The best time. Except I lost at darts.”

  “Can’t imagine why.” I remove the couch’s cushions and extract the pull-out bed. “How about some aspirin?”

  “Yes, please. Hey—Happy Birthday! I’m the first to tell you, right?”

  “Right,” I lie cheerfully. Take a number. “Thank you.”

  I spend the next few minutes shaking out the sheets and helping him make the bed. When I look up, he’s watching me. “Isn’t it kinda late?” he asks suddenly. “Weren’t you asleep?”

  “Not at all,” I say breezily. “I just got home from a wild night of naked debauchery with a random guy I picked up after the party.”

  Dave lets out a belly laugh. “You’re hilarious. G’night, Bessie.”

  “Night!” I toss him a pillow and go back to my bedroom.

  Ten minutes later the apartment is quiet, and I’m lying in my bed in the dark. What. A. Night. I’d worn a dress, for starters. And things had only become weirder from there. I had birthday sex with Mark Tankiewicz again. Twice. Unbelievable.

  I wonder if he’ll wake up and think—what the hell did I do? He hadn’t used condoms—a fact that might hit him in the morning. I’m a faithful user of birth-control pills, but Tank doesn’t know that. At some point tomorrow he’ll remember that a single guy is supposed to be vigilant about such things, and he’ll panic. I can picture him grabbing his face in two hands and letting out a scream worthy of Home Alone.

  He has nothing to fear on that front. Just because I have baby fever doesn’t mean I’m dumb enough to have a child with a man who doesn’t love me.

  You’re just what I needed tonight, he’d said.

  Note the temporary nature of that statement.

  Still, it lit me up to hear it. But I won’t delude myself. Sleeping with players is still not something I do, and a guy who’s just been dumped by his wife is not looking for a long-term girlfriend. So there’s no point in dreaming about more.

  I roll onto my side, let out a satisfied sigh, and make a pact with myself not to regret tonight. Not too much, anyway. I’ll look at it as the last, pointless hurrah of my twenties. I’m entering a new decade. I need different things now.

  That’s why I’d spent time last week making a personal life plan with color-coded sections and a detailed outline. The first section is titled: “Dating.” There are action steps for apps to try, and a list of friends who could possibly introduce me to thirty-year-old men who might also be ready to get serious about the future.

  I have other goals, too. More time with friends. More time with family.

  I’d moved to Brooklyn to change my life, and tonight’s adventure didn’t really advance my goals. Still, Tank is special. And now I know I hadn’t just been building him up in my memories, because wow, the man is seriously talented. Talented, and yet unavailable.

  It sure was fun, though. There’s no denying that.

  Eight

  Remember Me?

  Tank: Hey Bess! I hope this is still the right number. Remember me? I’m the guy whose hotel room you snuck out of the other night. Hope your thirty-first year is off to a good start. —T

  Bess: Who is this? You must have me confused with someone else. I don’t sneak out of hotel rooms. I walk gracefully, head held high, in my rumpled dress and wet sex hair.

  Tank: My mistake. But I would have liked to say a proper goodbye. It’s not often that we’re in the same state.

  Bess: You might be surprised. But I couldn’t take the risk of waking you up. After all, you got me naked about four minutes after arriving in your room. So I
have no idea what “a proper goodbye” might mean to you. Restraints, probably. And a safe word.

  Tank: That sounds about right. Next time, then.

  Bess: There won’t be a next time. You know it’s not because I don’t want to. But I don’t do players.

  Tank: Evidence suggests that sometimes you do. Especially this one.

  Bess: No, really. Not for nine years. I took Pine’s advice and I never, ever have. You’re my one slip-up. Ever.

  Tank: Damn, honey. I’m flattered.

  Bess: You should be. You’re my kryptonite.

  Tank: Hey, I am FAR more talented than a hunk of alien minerals. Did Superman scream my name in the shower? So there’s no reason not to do it again. Your number won’t even go up. You’ll still have only one career screwup. If you find yourself back in Brooklyn, I’m happy to be the mistake you can keep on making.

  Bess: You really know how to sell a girl.

  Tank: Where are you, anyway?

  Bess: Detroit. I had to talk to a badly concussed rookie.

  Tank: Ouch. Is he gonna be okay?

  Bess: Yes, after a minor surgical procedure whereby I remove his head from his ass. This genius was not following treatment procedure because he wanted to play.

  Tank: Aw. Poor kid. He wants to prove his worth.

  Bess: He can’t prove his worth with brain damage. Enough about him. How are you? Settling in?

  Tank: Just dandy. My new team hates me. So I just made it worse by beating them all at the golf tournament on Saturday. Now they want to drown me in a bucket. Someday this will all seem funny, right?

  Bess: I’m sorry. Trades are so hard.

  Tank: Don’t agent me, Bess. I’m a big boy. You don’t have to give me a pep talk. I’ll take a blowjob, though.

  Bess: No can do. We’ve been over this. And all boys need agents. Even the biggest ones.

  Tank. That’s what she said…

  Bess: [Eyeroll.] You sound like a guy who needs a pep talk, though. Where’s Kassman? He should be delivering it himself. In person.

  Tank: He emails every morning. He’s only working part time right now.

  Bess: ????? Part time? Henry doesn’t even know those words. And WTF? Email? He should be finding you an apartment. That hotel where you’re staying is too far from the practice facility. You’re never going to bond with the guys if they’re keeping you downtown.

  Tank: Sure I am. We’re having a sleepover later. And a pillow fight. Castro is going to braid my hair and Trevi is going to paint my toenails.

  Bess: [Eyeroll emoji.]

  Tank: But we could have a sleepover. You and me. We play Detroit next month. You and I could have a secret rendezvous.

  Bess: Dream on, Tank.

  Tank: Oh I will. Goodnight, sexy.

  Bess: Goodnight

  Nine

  But You’re a Woman

  Bess

  October

  “All the manicure stations are up front,” Rebecca says, sweeping her arm toward the shop’s windows. “This part is basically finished.”

  “It’s gorgeous,” I say, taking in the long, L-shaped sofa with bright pillows. “That’s a cool painting, too.” Adjacent to the windows is a brick wall with colorful wings painted onto it.

  “That’s for Instagram pics. The wine bar is going in over there.” Rebecca points to the opposite wall. “And the pedicure area is in back. We’ll have eight stations—four on each side. And a sliding divider, for private parties.”

  “Private parties,” I echo. It would never occur to me to party at a nail salon.

  Although maybe it should. Chapter Two of my five-year plan is titled “Nurturing Female Friendships.” It’s not just my love life that’s suffered as I poured all my energy into my business for the past years. There aren’t many women in sports management. I have friends, but they’re all dudes.

  So when Rebecca and Georgia asked me to meet them for a cocktail and a peek at the half-finished nail salon, I agreed in a hot second.

  “Who wants a margarita?” Georgia asks. She’s got tequila, lime juice, and sugar out on the salon’s new gleaming stone countertop, and she’s filling a shaker with ice from a bag.

  “I do!” Becca’s hand shoots into the air.

  “I’d love one,” I add. “A small one, though. I have a date at seven thirty, and I probably shouldn’t show up sloshed.”

  Georgia sets the shaker down with a thump and lets out a little squeal. “A date with whom? This is so exciting.”

  “It’s not all the way to exciting,” I hedge. “I don’t even know if he’s promising. Internet dating freaks me out a little. So I chose the most harmless guy from the pack.”

  “What’s his name?” Becca demands. “You can learn a lot with a name.”

  “Brian.”

  “And what does he do for a living?”

  “Something complicated and financial.”

  “Ah,” they say at the same time. “Yeah, a finance guy will never murder you,” Georgia agrees. “So he’s got that going for him.”

  “You say that,” Becca says, flopping down on the sofa. “But what if he is just posing as a banker on Tinder? What if he’s secretly an MMA fighter or the leader of a motorcycle gang?”

  “Wow, I’m surrounded by conspiracy theorists.” I laugh. “Eric said the same thing.” I don’t mention that I’d actually be excited about meeting a fighter. I’d pick his brain about tactics inside the ring.

  “Eric knows about your date?” Georgia asks. “That’s cute.”

  “Yeah, I needed someone to know where I was going and with whom. But if I’d known I was seeing you two tonight, I could have spared him the involvement.”

  Note to self: it’s less embarrassing to tell your girl posse your dating foibles than your business partner.

  “Two dates in a row!” he’d hooted.

  “We’re not speaking about that other incident,” I’d reminded him. “Don’t make me take away your plaque,” I’d said, pointing at the photo I’d hung on the wall with the caption Employee of the Month, Every Month.

  He’d given me a cheeky salute. My dude friends are really top notch.

  “Are you vetting this Brian over coffee?” Becca asks. “Or did you go straight to dinner?”

  “Dinner,” I admit. “Everyone is more pleasant with food, right? As long as I’m eating a nice plate of pasta, I can be excited about anything.” That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.

  “We’d better get started on your nails,” Becca says, patting the seat beside her. “Get over here.”

  “What?” I glance around at the half-finished shop. “Won’t it be another month until you’re open?”

  “That has never stopped her before,” Georgia says, closing the cocktail shaker tightly and then giving it a shake.

  Becca lifts a large tackle box onto the sofa and opens the top. “How about a sheer wine-tinted polish to go with that pretty top?”

  “But I don’t know how to paint my nails.” And—fine—I have a bit of a complex about it. It’s one of those girly things that makes me feel like a freak. “When you grow up without a mother, there are certain skills you never learn. I never tried to wear heels until college. My makeup game is also weak. And I can’t cook. At all.”

  Georgia looks up from pouring three drinks, and there’s understanding in her expression. “I’m a member of that same club. Sometimes it really messes with my head.”

  “Really?” I squeak. And now I feel a little foolish, because I forget that there are lots of other women walking around who didn’t have moms.

  “Yeah. Leo wants to have kids soon,” she says, topping up one of the glasses. “And I do, too. But part of me wonders if I’ll know what to do.”

  “Nobody knows what to do,” Becca argues. “That’s half the fun. I mean—my sister and her man-child boyfriend are the most clueless people alive. And their kid is doing well.” She waves me over to sit beside her. “Put your hands on this towel. You’re not a nail biter, are y
ou?”

  “No way.” I show her my hands, and she grabs one to inspect it.

  Georgia puts a drink into my other hand. “I know there’s no prerequisite for having babies. And Leo will be the best daddy ever.” She smiles at the thought of it. And I totally understand why—her husband is a sweetheart. “But I still worry. I lost my mom when I was six. How old were you?” she asks me.

  “Almost two. My mom died of a drug overdose before it was cool.” I’ve said this many times before, in the same flip tone of voice. But I can tell from Georgia’s soft expression that she sees right through me. “Are you really going to paint my nails?” I ask Rebecca. “I hope you know that I can’t return the favor. Not unless you want it to look like a toddler did it.”

  “Don’t you worry,” Becca says, shaking a bottle of something clear. “I am too bossy to let anyone else do mine.”

  “This is true,” Georgia says with a shrug. “Cheers, ladies!” She holds up her glass. “To manicures and margaritas.”

  We touch glasses, and I take a sip of limey goodness.

  “I hope this date rocks your world,” Becca says as she strokes the polish on one of my fingernails.

  “I’m not expecting magic,” I insist. “But I need to start somewhere. I need to meet men who are interested in a relationship.”

  “But only if they’re sexy,” Rebecca adds. “I mean—I’m living proof that single, hot nerds exist. I married one.”

  “Yeah,” I say with a sigh. “You might have gotten the last one, though. I feel there’s a mismatch between hotties and guys who want relationships.”

  “Hey,” Becca says as she strokes the brush over my pinky fingernail. “What’s with the sigh? Is there some hottie you’re trying to forget?”

  “There was someone. A long time ago,” I hedge. I can’t tell them about Tank, because both these women work with him now. I’m not a gossip.