“You could say that again,” Diego interrupts.
It was Izzy’s turn to laugh. “My dad claimed that if breaking my wrist was fate stepping in, then fate sure was twisted.”
That was it. I couldn’t keep from laughing any longer. Fate sure was twisted. I’m sure it’s a roar of a laugh when there’s a bang on the door with a barely audible message to keep it down. When I caught my breath, I told her, “You have no idea how true that is, Izzy.”
“My turn,” she taunts. Surprisingly, she doesn’t question my laughing. “You said you were here on a scholarship. What sport do you play?”
My laugh is a full roar and there’s pounding on a shared wall to let me know my neighbor isn’t a fan. I suppose it’s time to spill.
“Oh, Izzy…” those words out of my mouth like a plea that being a soccer player doesn’t automatically disqualify me. “You’re so sure I’m a jock.”
“Oh, my gawd! You do look in the mirror, right?” she asks, the shock and annoyance cute. I’m postponing the inevitable out of fun. “You’re built like a fucking brick house, you were working out late tonight, and you eat enough to make the average active person fat. Not to mention you said something about curfew and a big day tomorrow. So yeah, I’m pretty sure you’re a jock.” She stops to take a breath, but she wasn’t finished. “If I had to guess, I’d say football or baseball, tight end or shortstop.”
I’m going to have a little fun with her. “Well, you’re kinda wrong and kinda right.” I give her a non-answer, but she’s waiting for more. “I don’t play baseball, I have a tight end and there’s nothing short about me.”
“Ha. So you play football!” she gets a little excited that she figured it out.
I let out a shaky laugh. “Yes and no,” I answer. I don’t think I can keep this up much longer.
“All right Mr. Vague, spill!”
Yup. Here goes.
“Well,” I start, “I do play futbol.” Okay, so that might still be a little vague. “But you know it as soccer.”
“Fuck me,” I barely hear her curse herself.
Not quite the reaction I was expecting. I’m sure she’s mentally beating herself up over her revelation. “Don’t worry, Izzy.” I tease, “You’ll love soccer soon enough,”
“Is that so?” she fires back. She doesn’t sound too pleased with my tactics. “If my dad couldn’t, what makes you think you can?”
“Bella—”
“Bella?” she interrupts. She sounds a little annoyed with me. Someone is sensitive.
“Bella,” I repeat. “It means beauty, beautiful in Spanish.” I then pronounce her first name as it would be pronounced in Spanish, ee-sa-bay-ya. “Izabella. The fact that beauty is in your name only further proves my point. Your beauty was literally written into your name.”
Ha ha. She’s gonna see that for the line that it is, but it’s still true.
“You’re good,” she admits with a soft chuckle and I like making her make that sound, too. “Probably so good, you’re trouble.” I barely get this last part because she tried—and ultimately failed—to muffle it.
“Bella, my skills off the field will have you begging to see my skills on the field and I’m all kinds of trouble. But something about you tells me you like trouble. Maybe I’m just the trouble you’re looking for.”
“Mmmm.”
Oh shit!
Not exactly what I was expecting from her. Now, that sound? That sound I want to make her do again. And again. And again. Damn it, Izzy, I curse her as I adjust my dick. “After that sound coming from your mouth…” I take a moment to regain my composure. “Pleasure or pain?” I switch things up on her.
She doesn’t miss a beat and answers, “Both.”
I choke on a laugh and add, “You don’t even know what I was talking about. I was wondering what you like most about getting tattooed. I noticed you had a few.” No, I wasn’t, but I want to hear the answer.
“Both. Pretty sure that answer will ring true for a lot of things.” And then she has to add that. Fucking woman is going to make me come in my shorts.
“Oh, Izzy,” Her name becomes a moan across my lips. I shake the fog she fills my head with. “Top or bottom?”
“Excuse me?” I tamp down a chuckle because now I know where her mind is.
“Top or bottom,” I pause, “bunk?”
“Ah ha,” I hear the sharp exhale that follows. “Aren’t you fucking clever?” And not one to pat myself on the back, but that’s game. If she wasn’t thinking about us in bed before, she is now.
“That’s not an answer,” I chastise her. I can practically hear the wheels turning in her head. She’s probably trying not to make this sexual. Newsflash, bella: mission impossible.
“Top.”
“That’s good ‘cause I’m a bottom guy myself. It’s not that I don’t looooove the top, it’s just I prefer the view from the bottom.”
Izzy remains wordless.
“And being on the bottom might seem like a lazy choice for a guy of my size,” she chokes and I love that she’s affected by me. “But I feel like I have more options on the bottom, in some ways more control. The bottom is there to hold the top up, stabilizing the top if necessary. It’s definitely more of a hands-on situation than being on top. Then again, I do like being on top, too.”
I hum as if considering it further. I pause. I haven’t heard her take a breath. She’s trying to prep herself for what I say next. “In fact, I think some of my best performances have been after spending the night on top.”
“Oh, hell!” she blurts out. Score, Diego Santo! We are no doubt a naked mess in her imagination. Maybe we’re struggling for who gets top or just taking turns.
“What’s wrong, Izzy? You don’t like bunk beds?” Knowing that I’m under her skin has me smiling so big it fucking hurts.
“Oh, I like bunk beds, but I’m not opposed to the floor, the couch, or the beach. Ever have sex on the beach, Diego?”
Water sprays everywhere as the sip I took rains down on me, I choke on what was left behind.
“Fuck. Whaaa—?”
“The drink, have you had it?”
Oh, she’s good. “I have not had one. I’d be willing to try it with you.”
“Mr. Charming,” she reprimands. “Why if we did that, I’d be breaking the law and furnishing alcohol to a minor.”
She’s mocking me. My laugh fills the silence of my room and I try to keep it within my four walls. “And you said I was trouble?” If I don’t take care of the ache in my dick, my balls will certainly be blue. “Since sex is on the table or beach. What’s your number?”
“My number?” I can hear that I’ve stumped her. “Umm, you do realize you just called me on the only number I have, right?”
I chuckle wondering if she’s fucking with me or if she doesn’t understand what I’m asking. “Not exactly the number I was talking about.”
I thought I heard a click before she answers. “Wow. Guess we really are going to test whether or not we want a second date.”
“Oh, we want a second date.” There’s no room for argument on this. “And while I don’t doubt that given your fucking hotness your number could be high, I seriously doubt it could be high enough to send me away. Then again…” I let her think that maybe there was a magic limit, but I hope the chuckle at the end squashes any doubts.
She doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t bother me. Honestly, and I don’t know or understand why, but Izzy seems like an adventure. She’s the kind of adventure my mom used to tell me about, making common fairy tales heroic adventures for the princes. Well, sorta. I smile at the memory. That’s how mama liked to phrase it when I complained about them being fairy tales. Eventually, I learned that she used the same story, but just made the princesses stronger, smarter. Less
damsel-in-distress more action hero.
Now that I think about it, she’s a lot like mom’s version of Snow White. She doesn’t seem like she’s waiting for her prince to rescue her. She gives as good as she gets. Her laugh is like a song. And if my memory doesn’t fail me, she called me Prince Charming.
The moment passes and we get back to asking and answering questions alternately. I told Izzy about my mom getting sick when I was little and never getting better. I didn’t give details and she didn’t pry. I asked about her major and was shocked that she was a graduate student. She asked about my major, I was undecided. We stopped keeping track of whose turn it was and we fell into an easy conversation.
After that tightly wound chunk of conversation full of sexual innuendos, I appreciated the slight reprieve the simple conversation provided.
I told her about my grandfather and Sebastian and she may have choked a little at the mention of my friend. I relieved her of her guilt by accepting responsibility for making our running into each other tonight happen.
“How could that be possible, D?” I’d have killed anyone else that called me that—I have an aunt named Dee, I’m not a girl, but it doesn’t sound like a girl’s name coming from her mouth. “I didn’t plan on going to the gym tonight.”
“Nor was I planning on going to that gym.” She’s not making the connection, so I explain, “Every day since that night I met you when you were out with Sebastian, I’ve gone a little out of my way to cross your path, Izzy.” I hope the sound of my voice doesn’t come off as too desperate. I explained that I had tried to get someone in admissions to help find her. “But the woman was a battle ax, all by the book and snarly.”
I admitted I broke down and asked Sebastian about her. I tried to make her feel better about her obvious attraction to me by telling her Baz just wasn’t ‘feeling it.’ She pretended to be crushed, but I could hear the intrigue in her voice. She’s curious about me. I’d bet more than curious. “Tonight, I went to the record shop Sebastian met you at. The little punk princess behind the counter is quite the fan of you,” I deadpan. “She gave me nothing but a headache with no information. I was headed back to the campus when I ran into some of the guys from the team. Having failed at properly stalking you, I decided I could use a workout to let go of some frustration. They chose the gym and to my surprise, you were there.” I give her a moment to consider the facts. “You were on the elliptical when we walked in and I couldn’t stop staring.”
“I didn’t see you,” her voice a whisper, but the following gasp tells me she’s very likely imagining me watching her.
“You know you run with your eyes closed?”
“For a little bit. After a while, I’ll get lightheaded and fall.”
I chuckle. If there were one word for Izzy, it’d be refreshing.
“Well, before that happened the guys I was with started giving me shit about staring at you as much as appreciating what caught my attention,” that might have come out like a growl. “We headed to the back where the weights were and you were not in sight.”
“You were part of that noisy group of jocks.” She bursts out in laughter.
“Sorta,” I reply, coyly.
“I thought we were done with the vague?”
“Sorry.” It’s fun teasing her. “While that was likely the group I was with, I must have left to get more water when you passed by. The guys were at the studio you were dancing in when I got back. It fucking pisses me off that they got to see more of it than I did.” There’s no disguising how infuriating that thought is. But she fucking giggles. So much for my balls taking it easy.
“I think I then offered to break noses and turn myself over to the coach if they didn’t leave.”
More fucking giggles. “Why would you turn yourself in?” she asks, not understanding the significance of that act.
“I’d be suspended for a minimum of three games if I were to punch a single one of them.”
She laughs hysterically and my dick comes to full attention with the melodic sound. I’m pretty sure if she did that humming thing again, I’d make a mess of my boxer briefs.
“You’re shitting me. You were willing to be suspended for threeeee games to stop them from watching me dance?”
Watching her dance would be worth a hundred suspensions, but I play it cool. “I was simply removing obstacles and opposition. Not that they’re in my league, but I didn’t want to wait for you to shut them all down.”
“Your presumptuousness never ceases to amaze me,” she declares.
“I don’t know why or if we’ll ever know why, but tonight was meant to be, Izzy.”
Did I fucking just say that? Oh, Baz would have a fucking field day.
We continued well into the early moments of the morning. I watched the sun rise in the shadows on the door of my closet. Izzy’s breathing became more rhythmic and I realize she fell asleep.
“Hey, Izzy, sweet dreams,” I whisper before I flip my phone shut.
Damn. This Izzy-high is buzzing through my body. It’s making me restless. I consider literally taking matters into my own hand, but the thought has a softening effect. I know what I need to do. I open my phone and speed dial, Baz.
“Baaaaazzzz,” I practically scream into the phone when he picks up. “It’s six-something in the fucking morning and I am awake!” If I weren’t on Cloud-fucking-nine, I’d be annoyed with the sound of my voice. “I haven’t slept a wink, but there’s an ache in my balls and unless Izzy magically appears in my bed naked, I’m gonna need a run to temporarily chase away the blues.”
“The fuck? The blues? Don’t sound like you go the blues, mano.”
“My balls have the blues, fucker. Meet me at your trail in fifteen minutes.” I pick his favorite trail. Makes it easier for him to say yes.
We pounded the trail for about forty-five minutes. The ache is gone, but I want to ask Baz about second date ideas and Izzy’s name alone makes my body stir with need. Talking about a planned date with her could be a public nightmare. We went our separate ways to shower, but met at the small campus café, so I could bend his ear before his first class at nine-thirty. Hopefully, the public setting will keep the lid on my situation.
“Diego, before you get started. I am not helping you get into Izzy’s pants,” his voice is harsh but low. I’m sure he’s trying not to be overheard.
The very idea that I need his help to get into her pants is laughable. “You misunderstand me, mano. If I was just trying to get into her pants, I wouldn’t need to plan a second date let alone require your help to do so.”
“Oh, I forgot who I was talking to,” he mocks, “Santo Feo the All-American Stud.” He doesn’t try to hide the roll of his eyes.
“And don’t you forget it.”
“Since you’re not trying to get into her pants—”
“Now, now. Don’t go putting words into my mouth. I just didn’t need your help in that department. I can handle her clothes all on my own.”
“So, what do you need my help with?” He sounds flabbergasted. Baz has always been a fucking grouch in the morning.
“I have an idea and there’s a part where you can volunteer your culinary skills.”
Chapter Seven: Mr. Brightside (Part 4)
January 2007
Damn! I scrub my hand across my face. I had been so fucking sprung from that first date.
I scroll through some more photos.
Ha! So fucking clever. No photo of our second date, but Izzy’s managed to find a photo of where I took her on the first part.
After Baz was done making whip sounds, he was excited to help me put together the menu. Seeing Izzy’s car gave me an idea and I was dying to see her shake her hips.
Chapter Eight: Feels Like Rain
August 1998
When I finally convinced Izzy that she let me take her on our second date just a few days after our impromptu first, I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. Baz looked at me as if I grew three alien heads with big eyes, snarly teeth, and red lipstick when I ran my idea by him. I couldn’t blame him.
This line of thinking is completely out of character for me, can’t even say I understand it myself. It’s nearly an out of body experience, my conscious sitting back slack-jawed while a subconscious version of myself makes arrangements for the layers of this date.
I’m on my way to pick up Izzy now.
After I promised Lito that school came first, he gave me the number for Ernie. Ernie has a car a girl like Izzy would appreciate. A car that, for the right price, could be mine for the night. A car that I’m currently driving in on my way to pick up Izzy for our date. Ernie didn’t drive too hard of a bargain: a couple of tickets to a game this season and a promise to ride with him in the next parade his car club is in.
I’m a little nervous driving in Ernie’s 1956 Chevrolet Bel Air. At first, I felt cool like the kid in The Bronx Tale, when he borrows the mob boss’ car for a date. Then, doubt crept in and I wondered if she would think it was too flashy. So, I’m nervous, hoping my charms from the other night are enough to overlook what could be considered as ostentatious.
Now, I’m nervous for a whole new reason. Izzy must be fucking loaded. The houses here are gorgeous and custom and huge. A knot settles right in my stomach as the address on the mailbox outside her house comes into focus.
Love Needs Another Chance (Truth About Love #3) Page 4
