by Ney, Sara
“Don’t be a dick, Louis,” Buzz tells him, coming to my side and bringing his arm around my waist. Pulls me in and gives me the usual sniff before loudly whispering, “He reads at a fourth grade level, that’s why he hasn’t heard of it.”
“Shut the fuck up, Wallace.”
“Please—everyone has read As I Die Slowly, even my brother.”
I gaze up at him. “Okay, that’s a bit much.”
“It’s true.” He sips on the beer in his hand. “We’re in a book club with our mom and that was the selection in November.”
“A book club? Stop it.”
He holds the beer can and raises a few fingers in the air. “Swear to god. It’s called…” He racks his brain. “Something lame like the Bellmont Readers and it’s mostly grandmas and shit, plus me and my brother. Google them—they’re on Facebook. Bet you find my picture.”
Noah Harding pulls his phone from his back pocket and swipes the screen open, tapping away. Laughs and holds it out only a few moments later. “He’s not kidding.”
I lean in as Harding holds the phone in front of my face, my eyes taking in the sight of Trace Wallace, six feet something of prime man, a head or two above a room full of old ladies, his brother Tripp off to the side holding a copy of Love’s Addiction. The caption below the picture says, February edition of books about love ends with Love’s Addiction, unanimously chosen by the Bellmont Retirement Home Readers for our Valentine’s Day meeting. Karen brought artichoke dip, the Wallace brothers brought salad fixings, and Doreen and Blanche delighted with their famous peanut butter brittle and lemon bars, respectively. The March selection will be an old favorite, The Thorn Birds, with special guest Sister Lyra Mitchell from the Franciscan Convent of Maryville.
Buzz points to his brother with the tip of his finger before Noah retracts his phone. “Dipshit there only read half the book.”
“Half of Love’s Addiction, you mean?” I laugh.
“Yes. He claims the author was pandering, there were too many plot devices, and the first kissing scene was blah. His words, not mine. I for one thought it was just romantic enough to be believable, but with enough twists to leave me guessing.”
Buzz takes a casual sip of his beer, as if he didn’t just summarize a romance novel, and not a very good one, according to the critics. I’ve seen this book—haven’t read it—but hear it’s atrocious.
Who is this person?
Matchmaking? One of the only male members of a book club?
Correction: a book club whose members are primarily old women?
“Why are you in a book club with the Golden Girls?” another guy wants to know after the phone is passed around.
“Because my mom volunteers at the retirement home. They have a book club, she likes us to go and it gives us something to do together.” Sip, sip. “Duh.”
He goes to a book club full of old ladies because his mom wants him to?
My girl parts begin that familiar tingling sensation, now on high alert. Drool!
No. No, no, no, Hollis—you are not going to let this one little tidbit of information sway you to the dark side! This man is no good for you! This man is a player—women fall all over him!
“It doesn’t surprise me in the least—you’re a romantic.” Miranda is grinning in my direction. “Have you set any of those women up with dates at all?”
Buzz quietly sips his beverage, eyes averted.
“Oh come on, admit it!” The blonde nudges him. “Tell us who you set up.”
“Fine.” He sighs loudly, as if we’re burdening him by asking for info. “Yes. When Harriet’s husband died, she was really lonely, so I introduced her to Walt in accounting at headquarters.”
Noah’s face scrunches up. “How the hell do you know a guy named Walt in accounting?”
Another shrug. “He came down to the field once when we were practicing and I went over to say hello.” The ‘duh’ is implied by his tone. Everyone stares as if seeing him for the first time. “Don’t you ever go say hello to the people coming to watch us? Rude.”
“How did I not know this?” Noah wants to know. “You’re always up my ass—when do you have time to do all this matchmaking and reading and shit?”
“You find time for the shit you care about.” Duh.
For real—who is this guy?
The entire day, my mind reels as I watch him laugh and joke around with his friends at the party. Our host and hostess seem to love him—er, Miranda does; I’m still not sure about Noah. He seems to tolerate Buzz more than he likes him. I’m trying to figure that relationship out.
In the end, I never use the safe word. In the end, we stay as late as everyone else. In the end, he walks us to the car around nine o’clock at night, and we’re both a bit buzzed from booze and barbeque—though I can’t actually recall Trace drinking after the few beers he had at the beginning of the party.
Trace.
Why on earth am I calling him that now? When did he go from Buzz to Trace?
Brain addled by the sun—and the cute man helping me into his ridiculously flashy sports car—I accidentally smile up at him as he closes the passenger side door for me.
Whoops.
The engine roars to life.
We ride quietly to the front of the property then to the exit in companionable silence; he doesn’t say anything and I don’t feel the need, rolling the window down and letting the breeze whip through my hair.
Head back against the headrest, I tilt it so I can watch his profile as he drives, face illuminated by oncoming traffic and the occasional streetlight.
“Today was fun.” Oddly enough, I had a wonderful time.
“It was.” He glances over. “Thanks for coming.”
This gives me pause. Did he manipulate me into coming? Because it felt like a date, although we both know it wasn’t, but it wasn’t blackmail either? I mean, let’s be honest, I could have stayed home. He didn’t have to bring me, and I would have gone months and months, if not years, without seeing Marlon Daymon again. Bumping into him at the fundraiser was a fluke.
So did I actually want to stay home? Not really.
Was I curious about this person enough to join him for the day? Absolutely.
And I proved myself right; there is more to Trace “Buzz” Wallace than meets the eye—probably more to him than anyone gives him credit for. He is not just a pretty face with a talented body.
He is funny—so ridiculously funny—and handsome and nice.
I was not expecting him to be nice…
I was expecting a sarcastic, entitled asshole, and now that I know for a fact he’s not, I wish I didn’t. I want to go back to the place where I put him in a box, on the shelf, to sit, stereotyped and safely away from my heart.
I do not need a crush on America’s Favorite Pastime Playboy.
That’s what the press calls him.
But…playboy he is not.
If he senses the random dialogue looping through my head, he doesn’t comment on it. Rather, he watches the road and lets me sit and stew. Radio off. Window down. Two hands on the wheel.
Big, strong, tan hands…
Rawr.
No. No, Hollis, no!
Except.
The tendons in his hands are straining, his forearms gorgeous. Giant. Tan. Hands.
Do not imagine them on your body, do not imagine them on your body, do not—
God, I bet those would feel amazing on my boobs and…other places.
I squirm, rubbing my thighs together, adjusting myself on the seat, and pretend to be interested in the landscape out the window.
Ten more minutes and I can be home, in bed, doing all the thinking of Buzz Wallace I want to in the privacy of my bedroom, with my hand dipped desperately between my legs.
Do not imagine his hands on your body, do not imagine his hands on your body, do not—
Not only do I imagine them on my body, I imagine other parts of him too, not on my body, but in it and I know then that I’m in deep,
deep trouble.
“You got quiet all of a sudden,” he remarks, nearing my place.
“Sorry. It’s such a nice night out I’m enjoying the drive.” Enjoying the drive? Seriously Hollis? Gag.
His chuckle is low, as if he knows I’m full of shit.
“We should do this more often.” His comment is offhanded and nonchalant.
“Random backyard parties? Where do we find more of those?”
He looks embarrassed. “Good point. I just meant we could hang out more if you wanted.”
If I want to or because he wants to? “Are you saying you want to spend more time with me?”
His shoulders shrug. His big, sexy shoulders—they take me back to that place where I’m daydreaming again. Nothing gets me hotter than a strong upper torso. The back of a man’s head especially when it’s clean-cut and freshly shorn.
I can see the tendons every time a car passes by, spotlight illuminating the cab of his car.
Rawr.
I can’t stop staring at his profile, he’s so handsome.
“Are you crushing on me, Westbrooke?” His voice teases me, out of the blue.
“What?” I scoff. “Me? God no. And the last time someone called me by my last name, I was in middle school.”
“Have you ever had a nickname?”
“Not really. My brother and sister used to call me Number Two when I was younger because I’m the middle child, but no, none of my friends ever had nicknames for me. Last names don’t count.” I glance over at him. “What about you? Besides Buzz.”
He grins. “My mom called me Butter Bean when I was growing up and I have a few buddies that call me Dick Weed.”
That makes me laugh, and we keep laughing until he’s pulling up to my curb and we’re awkwardly saying good-bye in the dark.
He waits while I get out, walk up the stairs. Waits while I turn the key in my front door and turn to wave at him.
I wait until his taillights are out of sight before stepping inside.
* * *
I cannot get him out of my head.
I try, but toss and turn in the dark. Check my horoscope, scroll social media, eventually shimmying my sleep shorts down my hips and run my hand over my abdomen, down to my—
My phone buzzes on my nightstand, interrupting my anticipated self-love session. Irritated, I reach for it.
Marlon: I can’t believe you actually showed up with Wallace. You’ve proved your point—you can stop pretending now and come to Daddy.
Daddy? I gag in my mouth a little, in no mood for texts from the ex—especially not one calling himself Daddy who tries to hit on me because he’s in a jealous pissing contest with his teammate. It’s shady that he’s messaging me to begin with when he knows I’m with someone new.
Creep.
Light in my room off, I glare at the text with one eye squeezed shut, half blinded by the cell phone light.
Me: What do you care? We broke up, but then again—were we even dating?
Marlon: Yes.
Marlon: Let me take you for drinks and make it up to you.
Is he out of his damn mind?
Me: You couldn’t pay me to sit and have a drink with you. Also, Buzz wouldn’t like it. We’re not seeing other people.
Marlon: I won’t say anything if you don’t say anything.
Yeah right. If I went out with him, even for an innocent drink, he would blab to the entire locker room so Buzz heard him. If there is one thing I learned about Marlon in the brief time we were together, it’s that he is a one-upper. A showman. Braggart.
How did I not know that when I agreed to the first date?
Because I am a damn fool, and I was seduced by his pretty face and easy lies.
Me: That was always part of the problem—you are shady as fuck.
Marlon: Pfft, whatever. You’re probably not even dating him. I bet it was all for show.
Me: What the hell would make you say that?
Marlon: Because I ruined you for other ballplayers.
Me: Um, true, but not because you’re so amazing—you’re an asshole and I would never go out with you again. So, please stop texting me. I’m finally happy.
Marlon: Wallace isn’t going to make you happy, give me a fucking break.
Me: Leave me alone, Marlon.
Marlon: Whatever you say, mama.
Me: Don’t call me mama. And don’t ever text me again.
7
Trace
It’s Taco Tuesday.
It’s Taco Tuesday and I’m hungry.
Normally this wouldn’t be a problem. Normally, I’d drive my ass to the Taco Warehouse, buy a dozen—both soft and hard shells—sit at a picnic table, and scarf them down like a slob.
Normally.
Today, however, is not a normal day.
Today I woke up thinking about Hollis Westbrooke. Thought about her on my commute to work, on my way to the stadium to practice for the game on Thursday. Thought about her in the batting cage, on the pitching mound. While washing my hair in the locker room shower. Pulling on a clean pair of shorts.
Fuck.
Distracting is what this is, which is why it’s not a smart idea to date someone during the season. Not only can you not give them the time they deserve, it’s shit like this that can fuck up a career, having your mind somewhere else. On someone else.
Instead of focused on the ball.
And in professional sports, it’s always about the ball.
I scratch my nuts, adjusting myself, the hammer in my hand suspended over a two-by-four I’ve been pounding at the fixer-upper I’m renovating. I’ve pulled down all the drywall in the main living room to make it an open floor plan and am staring at the studs—starving.
I should eat.
I could go by Noah and Miranda’s with a box of tacos, but…Noah would probably hate that. Not that I typically care. I do what I want where he’s concerned, which could be the reason he gets so pissed off at me…?
Whatever.
Not my problem.
Against my better judgment, I fiddle with my phone and text the one person I shouldn’t send a message to.
Me: What are you doing?
There. Straight to the point.
Hollis: Who is this?
She knows damn well it’s me—we’ve texted before.
Me: It’s Buzz. Stop pretending you lost my number.
Hollis: Fine. But why are you texting me?
Me: It’s Taco Tuesday.
Hollis: Ummmmm…so?
Me: I’m starving, that’s why. And I want company.
Hollis: That sounds like a YOU problem, not a ME problem.
Me: That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? Who says shit like that?
Hollis: My friend Natasha?
Me: She sounds mean.
Hollis: She is. And if you don’t behave, I’m going to tell her you’re bothering me.
Me: Does Natasha also hate food?
Hollis: **narrows eyes**
Me: Does she? Does she hate tacos?
Hollis: Taco Tuesday is HIGHLY overrated.
Me: What the hell are you, some kind of monster?
Hollis: LOL
Me: Don’t patronize me with your LOL. **crosses arms and turns to the wall**
Hollis: Oh, you’re going to be sassy now? Fine. No tacos for you.
Me: **runs back** Wait! I spoke in haste.
Hollis: LOL I’m sorry but you’re killing me. Why are you like this?
Me: Soft shell or hard shell. You have to choose. Go.
Hollis: Hard shell.
Me: Good. When can I pick you up?
Hollis: UH!
Me: Going once…
Me: TWICE…
Hollis: Fine! FINE! Come get me. I can always eat.
Satisfied that I’ve won our little back and forth, I shoot her another text, giving her a half hour to get ready. Go to the kitchen, which hasn’t been completely demoed yet, and wash my face in the sink. Hands and arms too—I’m covered in
sawdust and grime. Super manly, but kind of gross. No helping my shirt since I don’t have anything clean to throw on, but I find a baseball cap to cover my mop.
I do a walk-through of the house, a mid-century colonial in an up-and-coming neighborhood I bought at an auction last month, doing a sweep to make sure no power tools are plugged in or left on.
Damn if I’m not whistling, totally in the mood for Hollis and tacos.
Tacos and Hollis Tuesday.
Nice ring to it, though she would probably disagree. I’ll have to run it by her…
I have my truck today, the sports car an impractical mode of transportation for a construction site, and pull it out of the short driveway, feeling all sorts of masculine as I navigate my way toward Hollis’s place.
It’s not as far as I’d have to drive if I were coming from my house, so I’ll be a few minutes earlier than what I told her, but I’ll just sit in the truck and wait it out so I don’t rush her.
I know how pissed my sister would get when we used to rush her while she was getting ready, and the last thing I need is a riled Hollis refusing to come outside because I’ve pissed her off.
Dude, I remember this one time when we were all going to a holiday play at the community center. True had to have been 17 or 18 and was the last person to get ready. Tripp and I thought it would be funny to stand in the doorway of the bathroom and remind her of the time, every 60 seconds. “It’s six oh five, Trudie—hurry up.” Then, “It’s six oh six, True. Better finish up—Dad has the car going.”
I will never forget the wild look in her eyes as she told us to shut our mouths and go away then screamed for our mother to get us to leave her alone, veins popping out of her porcelain skin.
Guess girls don’t like to be rushed.
I’m early, but not unforgivably so, so I shoot her a text to let her know I’m here, in case she’s ready to go.
Me: Downstairs, take your time.
A few seconds later: Coming!
I can almost see the little cutie bounding down the stairs, and then I do see her. The door to the building opens and she steps out, all sunshine and happiness and blonde hair on what was an okay day.
Ripped-up jean shorts. Yellow tank top. White sneakers.
