by Ginger Scott
Chapter Eight
Maddy
My purse is loaded down with ones—stacks and stacks of them. Tonight will be the best sixty bucks I’ve ever spent, and Will doesn’t see it coming.
He beat me when we raced. I have to admit there was a small piece of me—the tiger living within—that thought for most of the distance I had a shot. But Will’s just too big. His arms dwarf mine; his body length is dominating even to other men, and the power he brings with every stroke sounds like thunder in the water. I lost by a little more than two seconds, and two seconds in the water, in a fifty-meter sprint for your life, is a really long time.
I thought about those two seconds all night, and I brought them with me to workouts on Monday. I held onto them when we took the blocks again for more sprints. I obsessed on them every single time we raced this week. And today…today I clocked in just under twenty-four seconds in my fifty. More than a personal best, if I can swim that time in competition, better it by one less stroke, I’ll take the world record.
When I saw the time, the first person I turned to wasn’t my dad—it was Will. It’s been Will all week. It’s been Will since the moment I first saw him again. Wrong or not, he makes me faster. He makes me happy. And this rekindled friendship that has grown by leaps and bounds this week, just because of some stupid bet, has made me happier than anything has in years.
The routine isn’t very old, which I guess doesn’t make it much of a routine, but for the last four days, Will has invited me out for lunch or coffee after our morning training, and he’s always waiting for me to show up before he puts in his laps at night. Not once have I told him I was coming, and not once has he asked if I was. It’s this weird understood agreement we never discussed that I’d be here when the sun sets, and he’d be here. I’m not sure how long he waited the first time, but the smile that stretched across his face when I showed up to join him took me back to the old us, and I think that’s why I keep coming. I like making the trip back in time.
I like making Will Hollister smile.
I find my favorite old chair in the club lobby—the one with the chenille arms that I can draw doodles on with my fingers—and pull my legs in, my hands wringing the dripping water from my hair while Will changes upstairs. My father walks in from the pool with two men wearing dress shirts and pants, with sunglasses on their heads, but ties left out of the wardrobe. It’s clear they’re here on business, probably sponsorships, so I sit up tall and prepare myself to help my dad close the deal.
“Here she is,” he says, walking the two men who look more Wall Street than Indiana swimming hole over to me. I stand, wiping the excess water from my palms along my dry shorts before I reach out to shake their hands.
“Maddy, I’d like you to meet Craig and Allan Cumberland.
I swallow, recognizing their names instantly. Their name—Cumberland—is printed on the label of every swimsuit I own.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, careful to give each of them the perfect handshake. My eyes glance to my dad, and we communicate silently. This visit, it means dollars.
“That was some sprint out there. Your dad tells me it was on world-record pace,” the taller one says. I’m not sure if he’s Craig or Allan, but I do know that this is not the time to ask. I’ll pretend I know and plan to consult Google images later.
“Oh, uhm…thanks. I’m sorta trying not to think about that part,” I blush.
“She’s lying,” my dad says, leaning into the shorter one and covering his mouth while still talking loudly. “It’s all she’s thinking about.”
My eyes rush to my dad’s, and I smile on one side, shrugging.
“He’s right,” I admit.
“Hard not to think about something when it might actually be within reach,” the shorter brother says. “I get it.”
I give him a tightlipped smile and nod.
“The Cumberlands were actually talking to me about maybe having you and Will sit down for an interview or two under their sponsorship umbrella?” my dad says. I arch a brow and look from the brothers to my dad and back.
“Why Will and me?” I ask, knowing. It’s Will’s story, and then how I fit in with it all.
“Only if you’re comfortable,” the brother nearest to me says, his hands falling into the pockets of his expensive pants and his smile shaded by the stubble around his cheeks and chin. I don’t answer, because I’m finding it hard to evade, to not be honest on this one. I don’t mind being interviewed when it’s about me, my training, my wins and losses, but this will be about Will. And Will won’t want to dig up any of this. My eyes meet my dad’s and he takes over.
“We’ll work on setting something up, here at the pool,” my dad smiles.
My brow furrows, but my pulse races up my throat, and I’m paralyzed from it. Within a breath, my dad is already showing the Cumberlands through the door, just as Will climbs down the steps. He’s smiling—the smile he makes for me lately—so I choke down the scene my dad just led away, and talk myself into forgetting about some interview that might happen.
He takes the last few steps quickly and approaches me with such ease that, for a second, I think he may just keep walking up to me until his arm finds its way around me and his lips find their way to my neck. He stops two feet shy of my daydream, though.
“Miss Woodsen,” he says, rubbing his hands together like a greedy banker in a Dickens novel.
Here we go.
“I believe we have a bet to settle, yeah?”
He cocks a brow and tilts his head, a lock of wet hair falling forward onto his forehead. I stare at it for a second, and my lip ticks up on one side betraying the fact that I notice this small bit of sexiness. It’s not the only thing I’ve started to notice. Yesterday, it was the way his shoulders push the seams of the long-sleeved T-shirts he wears and the bronzed color of his chest, and the way I can see the roll of his collarbone through the V-neck of his shirts. The day before, it was the slight difference between both of his eyes, one a little green, one a little blue.
Monday, though, might have hit my heart more than anything else I’ve observed about the oldest Hollister brother. He was walking in alongside my father, and I was trailing behind. Neither of them knew I was there. My father didn’t ask him a question, and there was no reason for him to suck up with flattery. His words, they were genuine—admiration. He told my dad I was the hardest working person he’d ever met, and he wished like hell he had an ounce of my talent. I stopped just outside the door and let it close between us, and I waited for almost ten minutes after.
I waited, thinking about his words—and how much I felt the same about him.
“Oh we have a bet, all right. Come on; let’s get this thing over with,” I say, rolling my eyes and slinging my purse over my shoulder as I spin on my heels for the door.
Will chuckles behind me, and I’m glad he can’t see the smug look on my face. He’s about to wish he’d never made that bet. At the very least, he’s about to wish like hell he’d lost.
“I’m driving,” I say.
After we drive for an hour making small talk about practices and the other people in the training camp, Will starts to get antsy. His right leg begins to bob up and down. Every time I glance over, my eyes catching his movement, I notice he’s also chewing on his thumbnail. At first, I think it’s just his hormones getting ready to take in all of the bare tits he can stand, but when I make a turn onto the next highway, headed for Indianapolis, his nerves start to ratchet out of control.
“Are you all right?” I ask. Sparing glances at him, each time my eyes take in a picture of a man falling apart.
“Yeah, I just…I didn’t know we were going this close to the city for this. I mean, there are joints near the county line, maybe half as far,” he says, his brow creased and his eyes constantly scanning his environment.
I laugh lightly, trying to lighten the mood.
“Will, I lost fair and square. I’m not taking you to some county strip joint. Nothing but the be
st for you, my friend,” I smile and wink. He mimics me, but his laugh is fake—it’s masking a whole bunch of other shit going on inside his head right now.
I focus on the road for the next few miles, but the closer we get into the city, the more fidgety Will gets, and eventually, I pull off onto a side road, into a gas station. I stop kind of hard, and Will’s hands fly to the dash.
“Jeeee-zusssss!” he shouts.
“Will, what’s going on?” I ask.
His eyes meet mine. We enter a faceoff that lasts almost a full minute before Will breaks, a heavy sigh leaving through his nose. His hands cover his face, the butts of his palms pressing into his eyes.
“I just have a lot of history in Indy,” he says.
I pull the corner of my mouth in tight, squinting at him.
“Why would you have history in Indy?” I ask, the answer hitting my mind almost the second I finish my question. “Ahhhh…”
Will’s hands fall away from his face and his eyes open on me, his eyes wide.
“Will, it’s not like it’s a secret,” I say.
He nods slowly.
“Oh…kay…” His lower lip puckers and his eyes close a little more on me.
He doesn’t want to talk about any of it, and I get that. But his mistakes were pretty public, and they’re the reason my dad and those sponsor investors want to roll him out for interviews. Will’s a great story—and he’ll get their brand plenty of airtime, as long as he can behave.
“This is where you had your accident. When you hit the tree. It was in Indy, off this highway,” I say, not hesitating with my words. I need to convince Will that his car crash isn’t something to be ashamed of. It was his bottom—or very damned near close to it—and the Will I’ve seen the last few days is a man on his way up. This Will is far from bottom.
“I get why you’re antsy, is all. If it helps,” I say. He’s looking down at his lap, but his head slowly rises until his eyes meet mine, the worry lines deep in his forehead, his teeth clamped tight, fighting against his urge to disagree with me. The tension washes from his features slowly, and eventually his lips fall closed into a tight smile, and he nods.
“Thanks for understanding,” he says, almost a whisper.
I’m not sure why I reach for his hand, but when my fingers touch his, what happens next is instinctual as our fingers weave together, and Will brings my wrist to his mouth and presses a soft kiss against me. I let him keep my hand until he’s ready to let go, and after a few seconds, he turns in his seat and clears his throat while I check my mirrors to back out of the parking spot at the gas station and retrace my path back to the on-ramp.
There’s no use trying to fix the quiet left behind after that, so we ride the rest of the way to Foxy Tails in silence. I notice Will’s restlessness seems to be much less, though. As hard as that topic was to broach, I’m glad I did.
The pink sign and the swinging tail come into view after a few more miles. I exit the highway and find a spot in the very crowded parking lot. I’ve actually never been here, but Holly recommended it. Will has no clue what I’ve done—and he remains in the dark until the man in the three-piece suit that checks our IDs at the door winks at Will and swats his ass with his palm.
“You said strip club, but you didn’t say it had to be girls,” I say through a half smile.
Will’s eyes widen. I wait at the entrance while he spins in a half circle, pausing for a few seconds to take in the Magic Mike knockoff performance happening on the center stage, then turning more to see the men dressed in chaps, barely-there jeans, and G-strings waiting in chairs for the line of women all fanning themselves with dollar bills.
I’m a little nervous for his retribution, but as he turns to face me, I can tell he’s laughing, his hand on his cheek and his mouth twisted in a smile that only says defeat.
“Well done, Maddy,” he says, pointing a finger at me and shaking it. He chuckles more. “Damn, just…well done.”
I laugh, too.
“We can go,” I say, satisfied enough with the fact that I tricked him. “I won’t make you stay.”
“Oh no,” he says. “You brought the play money, right?”
I tilt my head, one eye closed more than the other. “Yeah,” I say.
“Then let’s go play, Maddy. We’re celebrating you getting faster,” he says, his arm reaching around me and pulling me close as he leads me through screaming women to a small table near the main stage.
I slide up on the stool and pull my purse over my body, resting it on the tabletop in front of me. Will drags it toward him, gesturing with a quick nod, asking my permission to open it. I nod yes, and he reaches in, pulling out the cash, then fanning himself with it like the women we’d seen when we walked in. I laugh so hard my head falls back, but when I look forward again, Will is closer, and his eyes are serious. My smile starts to fall, but he presses two fingers on my lips and leans in toward me, his forehead almost touching mine. He slides the stack of ones across the table to me.
“You know how I feel about competition, Maddy. I’m willing to earn it,” he says, grabbing my hand and pressing it against his bare abs while he lifts his shirt up with his other hand, gripping the bottom with his teeth.
My eyes flash when he rolls his hips. He pushes my hand along his body, and I flush with heat—incredibly aware of the path my fingers take along every ridge, ever tip, every searing piece of flesh until my fingertips hit his waistband. Will lets his shirt fall from his teeth, his lips curving into a devious smile as his body quakes with quiet laughter.
He was joking with me, which, in so many ways, is the Will I crave. But I felt those few seconds throughout my entire body—between my thighs, in my chest, and along my tingling lips. That one small practical joke brought back the feel of Will against me, his mouth on mine, his tongue on the inside of my leg, and it takes more strength hiding that from him right now than it does to swim the fifty in twenty-three seconds.
With little hesitation, I fan out the ones in my hand and blink at him, as if I’m unfazed and bored by his performance. I reach into the center of the stack with my thumb and finger, pulling out a single dollar, and then I reach forward and tuck it in the neck of his shirt, pressing it flat against him while my eyes meet his and his laughing comes to a pause.
“I’m gonna need change for that,” I say.
His eyes are on the place where my hand rests against his chest. For a brief second, I think maybe he’s flashing back to that moment of weakness, too. His lip curls, though, and his chin lifts as he slides from his stool, backing away from me toward the bar.
“You got it, darlin’,” he says. “Two waters, coming right up.”
I wink and nod, a little proud and a little guilty that he’s drinking water in a place that serves alcohol. He wanted to come here, though. Well, not here, but booze flows at any strip club. You have to be a little drunk, I think, to let go of the inhibitions that make it hard to enter these places in the first place.
But not Will Hollister. Not this Will Hollister. He walks away with his head held high, nodding to half-dressed men as if he knows them, not a glimmer of redness from being embarrassed. He owns this strip joint, just like he owns the water.
Kinda like he’s starting to own me.
Somehow, my prank turns into one of the best afternoons I have had in ages. Will and I both grade the performers on their dancing, and we decide to give the biggest tips to the guys with the least amount of coordination. We dub our mission the Maddy-Will College Fund, and by the end of our afternoon, we’ve earned ourselves a fan club of male strippers, some who actually run over to give us hugs goodbye before we walk out into the hot parking lot, orange-lit from the setting sun.
We don’t speak about any of it until we’re in the car for a few miles—then, out of nowhere, we both burst into laughter, the uncontrollable kind that tears up in our eyes.
“You do know, that small guy at the end was also named Will, right?” I glance over at him, his body relaxed
and his mouth stretched into a smile that makes his eyes crease with happiness.
“Why do you think I gave him the rest of the cash? I gotta take care of my Wills, darlin’,” he says, putting on a drawl to his tone.
“You’re his pimp now, are you?” I tease.
Will pulls his right leg up, propping his foot on the seat and leaning into the door, his elbow resting on his knee while his teeth hold onto his thumbnail. All the while, he smiles. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
This lighter mood continues for most of our drive, and we talk about the old days—when there were three of us and we were all young and stupid. We talk about hiding in my dad’s storage closet at the club until he had to put something away, just so we could scare him. And we reminisce about holidays at the club—swimming on Thanksgiving, even the year when we couldn’t get the pool heater to work. The only time we give pause is when we mention Christmas, but neither of us falls into the trap of thinking about the one worst Christmas. We don’t go there; we stay in the light, and we laugh about Evan and we laugh at ourselves. It feels like it should, until Will’s phone buzzes.
We’re close to the club, maybe five miles out, when he pulls his phone from his back pocket, tilting it just out of my view. He silences it immediately, and begins to put it back in his pocket, so I dismiss it. Until it happens again. Another buzz, and suddenly everything about him changes. Over and over, his eyes shift to me briefly while someone calls.
“It’s okay…if you need to take that,” I say.
I watch him in glances. He stares at the phone intently, his mouth shut tight as he takes a deep but short breath through his nose. His eyes fall shut, and I look back to the empty highway ahead, determined not to make this into something.
“Hey,” he says. It’s a familiar answer, his voice soft and warm. I wonder if I called him, if that’s how he’d answer for me. I feel stupid for wondering this.
“What did they give you as the cause?”
I look over at his question, his arm still propped on his leg, but his thumb is pressed on the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut while his hand cups his phone against his ear. Whatever is being said on the other end isn’t good news—that much is clear.
