by Sarina Bowen
“I’ll bet that doesn’t happen often,” I say soothingly.
“No. I haven’t needed his help in five years,” she grits out. “Still. Who am I going to meet for coffee when the gossip gets really good? Do you know what that man said to me just now?”
I shake my head, just letting her get it all out.
“He wants you to jump ship.”
“Sorry?”
“He suggested I take over your account, which is a stupid idea. I’m a busybody. I’m an awful human. He probably thinks I was trying to poach you all along.”
“Nooo,” I say softly, moving slowly closer to her on the sofa, the way you’d approach a feral cat. “He doesn’t think that. He thinks you’re the kind of woman who sees something wrong and tries to fix it.”
She takes a shuddery breath. “Henry can’t die. I won’t let him.” A fat tear squeezes out of one of her eyes. “Fuck. I never cry. Never. Nobody wants an agent who cries.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I whisper. I lift Bess and deposit her onto my lap. “You’ve had a shock. And everyone wants an agent who cares.” I tuck her against my chest. She smells like lemons.
She hides her face in my neck and cries, her back shaking.
“Shh,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for Henry. I don’t want to lose him, either.” Hell, my eyes feel hot, too. I’ve been with Henry for nine years. And I know what Bess means about feeling selfish. Because my next thought is: can’t one thing in my life stay intact? Not even one?
I push that thought out of my mind. I kiss a tear off the corner of Bess’s eye. And then I cuddle my future agent a little closer. I stroke her hair and wait. It takes her a while to stop crying, but eventually she relaxes against my body and sighs. The sun is shining brightly outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, splitting into a million diamonds of light on the river.
Strangely, I feel centered in a way that I haven’t for weeks. Like a stone that’s anchored in the river, while life rushes loudly by. I thought that rediscovering sex was Bess’s big gift to me. And it was a pretty amazing gift. But this—providing comfort—is something else I once did well, too. I’d forgotten how this feels—holding someone you love in silence, just because they need it.
It’s funny how I’ve missed this quiet pleasure. By the time we’d separated, it had been a long time since my ex and I had provided comfort to one another.
Bess takes another deep, slow breath, and her body’s warmth slows down my heart rate. I can’t resist stroking a hand down her back. I hold very still, hoping she won’t get up and leave too soon.
I’m not ready.
Fifteen
What the Girl Wants
Bess
Tank, at some point, picks me up and carries me a short distance to the bed. He lies down and pulls me close again, pressing a warm hand against the small of my back.
Rolling closer, I cling a little more tightly to him. Is it horrible that Tank is the one I wanted to see right after I spoke to Henry? A week ago I would have locked myself into my bathroom and sobbed alone.
But here I am, pressing my face against Tank’s sturdy shoulder, blotting my tears onto his T-shirt. I’m thirty years old and I’ve never been in a serious relationship with a man—the kind where you can turn to him when you’re sad.
Tank and I aren’t in a relationship, either. But now I know what that would feel like—strong arms and patient silence. I feel like I’ve been holding myself together for thirty years, and just for fifteen minutes I’m letting someone else do the holding.
I like it way too much.
Tank dozes off eventually, his arm still curled protectively around me. He has a game tonight, and most players nap before hitting the rink. I feel like a stowaway—catching a free ride on the warmth of his body and the comfort of his touch.
Sleep doesn’t come for me. It feels wrong to slip away from this moment, with the sunshine on the river and the quiet rhythm of Tank’s breathing. I wonder if Henry feels like this when he looks out the penthouse window—like the afternoon sunshine is a commodity that’s suddenly in short supply.
For me, Tank’s embrace is that precious resource. It’s not mine. I’m just borrowing it for an hour. Then I’ll have to give it back and go on with my life.
Eventually, Tank stirs. I can tell when he wakes, because his breathing becomes quieter. He rolls toward me, kissing me gently on the temple. I reach up and stroke his jaw with my thumb. I don’t want to talk right now, because only sad things will come out. So I lean in and kiss his neck instead. He smells like shower soap and clean T-shirts.
Tank presses another kiss to the side of my face. Then he ducks his head and trails his lips up my neck. We’re still curled around one another, as if letting go would hurt.
So we don’t. He clasps my face and pulls me into a kiss. A soft one. His green eyes lock onto mine, and then I wrap my arms around him and kiss him back. My body melts against his like a cat reclining in the sun.
For once, our kisses are slow and quiet. He savors my mouth until the taste of him is the only thing I know. Every languorous kiss is like another dose of a drug, softening the edges of my consciousness. I wish we could stay right here forever, where nothing is wrong and nobody is dying.
Because we’re us, we don’t stop at kissing. Tank’s hands wander down my tummy. His fingers unzip my trousers. Then I kiss my way down his body, pushing his T-shirt out of the way and nibbling the skin just above the waistband of his athletic shorts.
I want to be used right now, I realize. I need to be selfless, because it feels wrong to be so healthy and alive.
Tank takes the hint, shoving his shorts down, taking his briefs with them. Not missing a beat, I bend right down and lick the length of his cock. He hisses, so I slip his tip between my lips and take his cockhead into my mouth.
“Fuck. Yes.” He reaches down to gather my hair around his hand, probably so he can watch. I raise my eyes to his and give him an ambitious suck, hollowing my cheeks.
“Jesus H,” he sputters. “You have no idea how sexy you look right now. Take it, honey. Fuck. That’s… Unngh.” He rolls his hips to get me to take more.
I rarely do this for anyone. Ever since my first fling with Tank, I haven’t had much interest in casual hookups. I’m more interested in finding someone to date. But nobody has made it past the third date in a long time.
With Tank it’s different. Rules? What rules? I do whatever he asks, and then some. I run my fingertips over his sac, and he moans. I take him deep into my throat, and he starts panting.
“Slow down, girly. Or this will be over pretty fast,” he rasps.
But I don’t want to slow down. I like the sounds he’s making, and the salty taste of him on my tongue. I suck him until I gag. And then I suck him some more.
“Bess,” he grunts, tugging me off. “Get up here. I need to fuck you.”
That’s the magic word. Need. So I sit up quickly.
He tosses his T-shirt onto the floor, and now he’s completely naked. Turning his attention to the delicate buttons on my blouse, he gently unbuttons each one. Every couple of buttons, I receive a hungry kiss.
Still feeling weepy and unsettled, I let him move me around like a puppet. His hands are warm and soothing as he peels my blouse off my shoulders and drops it onto a side table. “You’re still wearing panties,” he chides me.
He’s right. And I’m still wearing my bra, too. We work together to strip them from my body, and soon they’re on the floor.
“Damn,” he whispers as I kneel on the bed beside him, my breasts bouncing free. “Look at me.”
His green eyes are heated and glittering, his gaze making everything seem perfectly right. Like I was meant to be the temptress who knocks on his hotel room door in the middle of the day and then sucks his cock.
“Get over here.” He tugs my very naked body onto his lap. As I straddle him, he pulls me against his chest and kisses me deeply.
I feel achy with desire as we meet, skin to
skin. This is wrong in so many ways. Sex is a stupid way to grieve. I feel selfish and sad as our tongues meld again and again. I’m using Tank for comfort. And not just his hard body—although it is glorious. I need someone to hold me and make me feel loved.
He doesn’t seem to mind the job, though. He braces my hips in his hands and slides his cock against my sensitive flesh. “Ride me, honey,” he whispers.
I shake my head, because that’s not what I want right now. Then I kiss him again and wrap my arms around his neck.
“Okay,” he says against my mouth. “What the girl wants, the girl gets.” In a serious feat of coordination, Tank rolls us both over with no break in the kissing. My no-sex-with-athletes policy is looking a little foolish right about now.
Or at least my no-sex-with-Tank policy. Nobody else tempts me like he does. Nobody else kisses like he does. I’ve never felt as worshipped as I do right this second. He clasps my hands and stares into my eyes like there’s nobody else in the world except us.
Shamelessly, I part my legs for him.
He doesn’t make me wait. With a hungry groan, he fills me. He brushes my hair off my face, dropping kisses everywhere as he slowly begins to move.
I lift my heels to his ass, holding him in place. Time slows. I hear the horn of a tugboat on the river. And the water’s reflection sparkles on the white ceiling above us. “Don’t stop,” I breathe. “Never stop.”
He doesn’t. He picks up the pace. “You kill me,” he grunts against my skin. “I’m trying to go slow, but you make me so fucking hard.”
The praise warms me up inside. I’m helpless to enjoy the eager grind of his hips, and the weight of his green-eyed stare. “Faster,” I beg.
Tank closes his eyes and groans. “You feel too good. I can’t last forever.” He lifts one of my knees, folding it under his arm, exposing more of me. Then he drops his head and sucks one of my nipples into his mouth.
I arch my back and moan, because he makes me feel so wild.
“Yeah,” he grunts happily. “Oh, fuck.”
His muscles lock as he groans loudly, and that’s all it takes. I lift my hips and take what I need from him, shattering as he gives me one more deep thrust.
“That’s a girl,” he gasps. “Give it to me.”
As if I could help it. I sink into the mattress and try to hold on to the bliss.
Tank collapses a moment later, rolling to his side and pulling me with him.
We lay there for a while—lazy and limp, curled up in the bed together, pretending that it’s not midafternoon on a Tuesday. I’m in a post-sex coma, thinking only hazy thoughts. But they turn guilty as soon as my brain comes back online.
“Shh,” he says.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, but you’re about to. Something about how we shouldn’t have done that.”
“Well, we shouldn’t have,” I point out, my face still buried in his neck.
“Hogwash.”
I lift my face and glance at him. “Hogwash? Is that something people say in Texas?”
“Don’t knock Texas,” he says lazily. “God, I’m starving. Can I order you some Mexican food? It’s an emergency situation.”
“I already ate.” Although it seems like a long time ago now. “Maybe just some guacamole and chips?”
“That’s my girl.” Tank strokes my back. “One more question?”
“Shoot.”
“Will you be my agent?”
“What?” I sit up suddenly. That was not the question I was expecting. “No. I can’t.”
“Bess,” he says softly, his hand cupping my hip. “It doesn’t have to be today. I mean eventually.”
“No way.” I give my head a vigorous shake. “Did you miss the fact that we’re naked right now?”
He lets out a guttural laugh. “I didn’t miss a second of it. But it doesn’t matter.”
“Like hell,” I insist. “Credibility is everything. ‘Pay my client what he’s worth’ sounds a hell of a lot different than ‘Pay my lover.’ I mean, if we were married, that’s—”
Oh shit. I realize two things in a big rush. The first is that I shouldn’t have used the M word with Tank. I already know where he stands on that score. The second is that there’s a brutally simple solution to this problem.
“Actually,” I say, “I’m thinking about this all wrong. I will absolutely be your agent, if eventually that proves necessary.”
His handsome face breaks into a warm smile—the kind that makes me feel all gooey inside. “Thank you, sweetheart.” He runs a hand up my bare back. “I can count on one hand all the people in my life that I trust. And you’re on this very short list. Don’t make me confide in a stranger.”
“I won’t,” I say, rolling off the bed. “You’re right. We have a lot of history. When the time comes for you to find other representation, I’m happy to help. But I hope that day won’t come very soon.” I pick up my panties and hop into them. And then I grab my trousers.
“Wow, okay. Thank you for being flexible on this point. I thought I was going to have to win you over with some more hot loving.” He gives me an adorably heated glance as I hook my bra.
“That’s not necessary,” I say with a sigh. “There will be no more hot loving.”
“What? Of course there will.”
“No way,” I insist, putting on my blouse. “You were totally right—it makes more sense for me to be your agent than your hookup. From now on we’re going to stick to the plan.”
“Plan? What plan?” he sputters, running his hand through his sex-mussed hair.
“Smart decisions. Long-range goals. You need a place to live and a distraction-free life so you can concentrate on your game. I was never part of your Brooklyn plan, Tank. You know this.”
“Well, sure, but…” He squints up at me. “That doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see you.”
That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? We’re way too happy to see each other. But which Bess am I going to be? The one with the five-year plan? Or the one who throws everything overboard every time this man smiles at me?
“Your future agent is a smart girl.” I’m rapidly buttoning my blouse now. “You said you trust me. That means you have to trust that I know what I’m doing.”
“But—” He frowns, as if trying to find a hole in my logic.
Unfortunately for both of us, there isn’t one. If there was, I would have found it already. My five-year plan—tucked securely into the briefcase that I’d dropped just inside his door a half hour ago—is quietly cheering me on.
“Eat some Tex-Mex. Rest up. Beat Tampa. You and I will talk soon.”
“How soon?” he asks, still deliciously naked. I can’t make eye contact with his abs, or I’ll lose my resolve. Lust is fun, but it isn’t everything. And this man is not in a place to love me.
“Soon,” I lie. “Soonish.” I give him a little wave, and then I make my exit.
Sixteen
That’s a Lot of Muscle
Bess
For the next forty-eight hours, the decision feels like a good one. In the first place, Tank and the rest of the Bruisers eke out a win against Tampa. So that’s progress.
And I manage to get some much-needed distance from him. When Tank texts me a photo of himself in front of a bar called The Tank, I don’t engage. I don’t call him or flirt, even though I want to.
It’s better to have a few heart pangs now than a bigger heartbreak later, right?
To put myself in the right mindset, I do some background research on Tank’s career. His contract negotiation is still over a year away, which means that I can leave him in Henry’s hands for a while longer.
When the time comes—and if Henry is out of the picture—I’ll get Tank a good deal. I know Brooklyn’s management team better than most. And I’ve already negotiated with them for an over-thirty player who’s a challenge to the salary cap.
Speaking of Henry, I also do some frightening research on late-stage heart failure.
The prevalent symptoms—besides shortness of breath—are pain and swelling. The man needs distraction, so I wander through Books are Magic in Cobble Hill and choose some titles that I think he’ll appreciate. He likes thrillers and action. His books require at least one ugly plot twist and one major explosion. Bonus points if someone has to fly a helicopter without any training.
It soothes me to send Henry a gift. The man has more money than God and can buy his own books, but I want him to know that I’m thinking about him.
Meanwhile, I’m still catching up on all the little details that went astray while I took my long vacation. I take a day trip to see a young player who’s just been traded to Pittsburgh. And while I’m on the train, I write up a proposal for an endorsement deal. I’m trying to get a national chain of chicken joints—called Chickie’s—to sponsor some female hockey players.
The women are pro-bono clients, basically. There’s so little money in women’s hockey that I don’t charge them to look over their paltry employment contracts. I only take a cut on whatever endorsement money I can win for them. Honestly, it would be more profitable to hunt for lost cash in the pockets of my jeans.
But I keep at it anyway. Raising the visibility of women’s hockey is my hobby and my mission. Someday I’m going to make a few of these women rich. I don’t know how, but it’s going to happen. I’ll probably be a hundred and one years old by then, but…
That makes me think about people who are a hundred and one, and how Henry isn’t going to make it that long. And now I’m crying in the Quiet Car of the Amtrak train.
It’s eight o’clock by the time I get back to Brooklyn. I drop my briefcase in my office, grab a gift bag that I’ve left waiting on my office chair, and head across the street. “Hello, Miguel!” I tell the doorman. “I’m here to see Delilah.”
“Is it gonna be weird to see the apartment?” he asks. Delilah’s new place used to be my brother’s.
