by Amy Lignor
I used the best glare I had in my repertoire as I shouted at Matt and Bobby as they sat preening like peacocks on MY furniture. "He hasn't even hit a three-pointer! How can you say he's the best from the floor? Are you high?"
Matt sat up straighter and proceeded to run down all of the stats for the entire season when it came to his superstar's excellent aim. "They're up by ten. Where are you? Your team is down, they're gone, and it's over." He pointed at the screen just as my weapon—who'd already won the Rookie of the Year Award—raced down the court with ball in hand and a look of sheer determination in his eyes.
I slapped Matt on the back of the head. "Dude…watch this. BAM!" I jumped off the couch as the three-point god made his statement. He went for the steal again and again, putting even more points on the board.
The clock raced down as Matt and I continuously swapped comments about how both of us were going to eat our words. I so wanted to win this one. Bobby had gone quiet; his legs were bouncing in a nervous fit as he watched the bright red neon fly through the digital numerals, just waiting for his chance to stand up and scream, 'In Your Face!' at me.
Chris and Nicole had been sitting in the kitchen for hours, chowing on the cookies, drinking my coffee and talking like long lost friends.
My man went up. This was it! One shot—all the way down the court. I suddenly wished for Michael Jordan to appear and see him literally fly to the basket like Harry Potter on his broom in order to make the only shot I needed to silence Matt and Bobby for the rest of the day. My man ran, he flew, he soared, and he…missed.
The crowd cheered as sheer pandemonium erupted on television, as well as in my living room. The two victorious men flew off their respective couches and showed almost every dance move I could possibly think of. Bobby's barbs were thrown, and I tried not to laugh as the two goofballs went from professional sports statisticians to complete geeks with their glasses of beer held high in the air, as if they were one step away from heading to the podium and receiving their very own MVP awards.
I never got mad about this; I actually loved the thrill of the game, the fights, the comments—let's just call it the upside of human interaction. However, I was still absolutely right and what we'd just witnessed was a total fluke.
Bobby's face positively glowed as he threw himself off the coffee table and landed on the couch beside me. Kissing my cheek, he placed his head on my shoulder. "So, how bout that check?"
I tickled his ribs until he had to remove himself from the room to use the facilities in my stadium. I watched him race by Chris and Nicole but he stopped, turned, and planted a kiss on Chris that not only surprised me but shocked Chris as well.
As Bobby raced onward and upward, Chris shot me a glance through the door. "Wow. I really do like game day!"
I laughed and threw myself back on the sofa, not even noticing that Matt had once again taken up his spot beside me. I practically fell to the floor when I hit his lap, as he reached out and stopped me.
"Whoa."
I started to laugh. "Sorry, I keep ending up in your lap."
"You won't hear a complaint from me." He wiggled his eyebrows. "By the way, I told you your team sucked."
"You just wait until next year, pal. You will eat your words."
"Why wait that long? Football call?"
I sat back and studied him. "The 49ers will begin a new reign."
He rolled his eyes. "Are you kidding?"
"Do I look like I'm kidding? They were one game out last year. I'm telling you…Montana, Young, Rice—they may not be the names anymore, but they're going to shock everybody very, very soon."
He sighed.
My hair rose on the back of my neck, as I began spouting off statistics—matching him step for step, as he defended his own absolutely moronic call. To an observer, we probably looked like two beer drinkers fighting at the local pub, but it was fun. I really did like arguing with someone other than Bobby for a change.
Realizing I was still perched on his lap and his hands were gripping my thighs tighter as we constantly spewed our long list of sports' intelligence, I slowly eased off to sit on the couch.
His grip released, but the eyes changed a bit as I transferred my position; from a sports warrior to a man with a new emotion brewing in his mind.
Quickly I smiled, patted his hand and reminded him that he may have won this one but would not carry on his reign of power for long.
Matt smiled and looked down at my hand, stroking the palm slowly and gently…
I cleared my throat. "Do you play pool?'
His gaze came back to me. "Sorry?"
"Shoot pool?"
"I don't follow pool."
"No, I mean, I have a pool table in the garage. Up for a match?"
He smiled. "Yeah, I'll give it a go."
Bobby sauntered back into the room as if he was just given the Nobel Prize for being right. His hands were hanging from the collar of his gray sweatshirt, looking like a beardless Abraham Lincoln ready to give a speech to the huddled masses. "Check please."
Reaching into my purse, I quickly wrote out the check and handed it to him.
He looked down. "This is made out to Butt Face."
"It's a small town, Bobby. Believe me, they know it's you."
"Funny." Raising it in front of his face, he showed it off to Matt.
Matt snickered. "Five hundred bucks shall be 'Paid to the Order of 'Butt Face.'" His eyes, blue as the vibrant sweatshirt he wore, caught mine. "You always bet this much?"
I nodded. "Sure. Bobby and I each have our own little curio cabinets full of them. They are always framed to let the other one know when they were wrong. Keeps us humble. But, of course, my curio cabinet is WAY bigger than his. Today was just a fluke."
Bobby shook his head and refilled his glass. Stretching out on the couch, he waved the check in front of his face in the same manner Scarlett O'Hara did with her fan when the day became too hot for her milky white skin to take. "Today is righteous," Bobby said. "This check will receive a special place right in the middle of the cabinet so you can remember your failure anytime you wish."
As all good writers with a mass of wonderful lines just flooding their minds at all times, I sent him the finger and headed into the kitchen to make sure that Chris was still among the living after spending three uninterrupted hours with Nicole.
Looking down at the plate, now devoid of anything but crumbs, I stared into the sweet blue eyes that seemed to always be lit from within. "You ate two dozen cookies?"
"No," Chris's voice rose. "Nicole helped. After all, she's tiny; she needs as many as possible."
I looked at my agent. Her eyes were so wide—I assume from the abundance of caffeine and chocolate now running through her system—that she resembled a person who was about to fly off the Empire State Building with a pair of ceramic wings strapped to her back. "You okay?"
Her smile was wide and her words came fast. "I love this boy!"
Chris took her hand and stared up at me. "And how are you drunken lushes doing in there?"
"It's a keg of beer not a vat of vodka and a straw." I glanced into the living room and felt my heart jump in my chest at the man stretched out on my sofa. "Although vodka's a thought."
"Alcohol doesn't help, love."
I looked down at him.
Chris winked. "Trust me. If I thought it would help me become rational and tell myself that I'm NOT head-over-heels in love with one of the men sitting in your living room right now, I'd be mixing Hemingway Daiquiri's and dancing on a table."
I snorted. "You missed the table dancing earlier."
"No I didn't," he said with a wink.
"I could use those Daiquiris's," I replied.
Nicole shot me a glance. "You don't drink liquor, Beth."
"Yeah, well," I sighed. "Maybe all those legendary drunk writers knew something I don't. If I took on the 'plague' maybe my head would stop spinning."
Chris's voice dropped to a whisper, "Matt's a plague all his ow
n, my dear."
Trying to escape the large smile now stuck on Nicole's completely stoned-out face, I shrugged my shoulders, ready to change the subject.
"The looks get you?" Nicole snorted.
I studied the back of Matt's full brown head of hair and did what I always do—answered way too quick. "No. I mean, don't get me wrong, the guy has the longest eyelashes I've ever seen in my life and there is a bad boy buried in there, but…no. They say a man with power is born from humility and kindness. That's the one who sneaks up on you and, by the time you're aware of it, you're already screwed."
Chris grinned. "So you're screwed."
I snapped back into reality. "Don't be ridiculous."
Chris's face fell.
I patted him on the shoulder. "I already told Matt there awaits a beautiful black-haired goddess in California with absolutely every trait he's looking for."
Nicole scrunched up her nose. "Psychic now, are you?"
"As you know I'm a very good guesser."
"Not when it's about you."
I sent her a glare and kissed Chris's cheek. "You, young man, are only one of two people who're screwed in this household. The other is the little shit I just had to pay $500 bucks to."
His face grew serious. "You think so?"
"Honey, I know so." I stared over at Nicole. "I will be losing my assistant soon."
She sat up straighter. "What do you mean?"
"I have a niggling thought that Mr. Bobby Morrison is going to go from an East Coast Yankee to a California boy very soon."
Nicole looked at Chris. "You live there, too?"
He nodded. "I will soon. Broadway is definitely my world, but I have a gig there on the small screen, so I have to get a house out there."
"Oh." Nicole nodded. "That's too bad."
"I'll still visit the city all the time. After all, there's nothing that can take the place of New York."
Nicole shrugged. "Not the same, really." She looked up at me. "I guess you're right, you aren't screwed. You wouldn't be caught dead as a California girl."
I laughed. "Not my scene."
As I walked around the corner and headed up to my bedroom for a shower, my face literally burned. I wasn't a good liar. I did know that I was a Yankee through and through, but for some reason that moronic little vagrant in my head kept telling me that, with one word from Matt, I would cave in a heartbeat.
If nothing else, a writer's career can be defined by one motto: Have laptop, will travel. I smacked myself in the head. Knock it off!
~ His ~
I was having the perfect Sunday. It was almost like I was hanging back home, chilling with my friends. Bobby was cool, Beth fought with me almost as much as Chance does—except she was a better opponent because she seemed to know everything about these teams since they first set foot on a court—and Chris was here enjoying himself with a woman who, after a while, grows on you. Let's just say the aura was cool. Add in the beer, food, fun and my team's victory and, hell, it couldn't get better than this.
Hearing the door close upstairs changed my mind. There was a way this day could get better. In fact, Beth could come back down, fall into my lap again and tell me she wanted to be that 'perfect woman' who was supposedly waiting for me out there somewhere. If that happened, I'd take her to one of the billion tiny churches in this area and marry her before she could change her mind.
"Sorry about your dinner interruption," Bobby said quietly from his place on the couch across from mine.
I looked over. "Yeah…thanks."
"Well? Was it at least good until Broomhilda got here?"
I thought back to last night and my request; I still believed that Beth was just about to rise from her chair and grant me my wish. "Yes, actually. It was going very well. It was about a second away from turning into excellent."
"Shit," Bobby whispered. "Figures."
"She loved the play."
He laughed. "I'm sure she did. Beth doesn't make mistakes where her writing is concerned, and she picked you out of the line-up faster than Nicole walks in those heels of hers."
A jolt of pride raced through my veins. "I know she traded that Jason guy for me."
"Traded?" Bobby chuckled. "Believe me, she would've broken his legs—and Nicole's—if they'd stood in her way. Nicole thought 'Lily Stone' should have the superstar of young Hollywood right now, but Beth wanted none of it. She couldn't stand the guy."
"She fought for me?"
Bobby took another swallow. "Yes, sir, she did. I'm glad." He glanced over his shoulder at Chris.
"I see that." I grinned. "This must be a really nice area to live in."
"Why do you say that?"
I put my arm behind my neck. "When we all went to that bar…I mean, those kinds of places are where you would usually find a lot of people who don't agree, let alone accept, a gay man being in their vicinity."
Bobby laughed. "This is definitely not pitchforks and damnation here."
"They have a lot of churches."
He waved his hand in front of his face. "Of course they do, and each one built grows larger than the one before. I think they're trying to compete for all the New York and Hollywood money that's here now."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you've got people like Streep, Bacon, Fox—lots of your Hollywood pals live in this neck of the woods because nobody bothers them here."
"I can see that. Not into autographs and paparazzi?"
Bobby nodded. "People like to keep to themselves, and the privacy around here is spectacular because the locals never much cared for the stars. This little town just keeps going and going, even when all the rich ones head back to their flats when the visit to their country estates are over. And as far as gays and lesbians, or fighting over what you are or what you believe, they don't care."
"The locals seem like good people." I thought about how many battles were fought all across the country. From the government to gay and lesbian rights—everything came up in California. It seemed like there was a protest almost every day.
"They are. Take Jerry, for instance."
I smiled at the thought of the man with all the stories. "I liked him."
Bobby nodded. "But you would think, being from his generation, that he wouldn't accept someone like me, or Chris—but Jerry couldn't care less. He told me once that as long as I treated myself and the person I eventually fell in love with, with total respect, than that made me a good man. He always said that after falling in love with Missy in like seconds, he completely understood that a person has no control over their soul; when it was your mate it was your mate, and it didn't matter if their name was Edie or Edward." Bobby's voice turned quiet. "I actually like what Beth says."
My ears pricked up. "What?"
"She doesn't like any label. In fact, she gets mad about them."
"What do you mean?"
"She says I'm not her gay friend, Bobby, I'm her best friend, Bobby. Period."
I smiled to myself.
"She always said that I wouldn't call her my straight friend Beth, that she was just, Beth. And you wouldn't say, my Chinese friend, or my German friend." He laughed. "She did say I could introduce her as my bitchy friend, but I told her Nicole had already claimed that spot."
I could see this lady living just fine in California by my side. All my friends would love her, and my family would beam. I cleared my throat. "I wish Beth would learn one lesson from Jerry."
Bobby looked over with a confused expression. "What's that?"
"That there are no rules. That you CAN fall in love in seconds. She told me that her own parents fell in love in like a month and got married."
Bobby nodded. "True, and no one in her family ever got a divorce. In fact, when I first met them I was amazed. It was like I'd walked into this incredible family that just…understood love. I'd never seen such a solid family unit."
I sat up and faced him. "So what happened with her?"
He shrugged. "Nothing. Beth's the same as t
hey are. But I think she got a little spoiled being in her family. I mean, they all had true love, and I think she figured if she didn't have that then there was no point in even trying." He tilted his head to the side. "I think she was waiting to see if her soulmate would just appear like the rest of her family's did."
I took a sip of the beer before me. "So I should assume that she's already made her decision about me? Seeing as that she's kept me on the friendship level since the word, 'go.'"
Bobby studied the ceiling for a time. I wanted to walk over to him and pull his hair, just so I could try and figure out what was going on inside his head. Instead, I cleared my throat as loudly as possible.
His attention returned. Sitting up, he stared back at me. "Here's the part that bothers me, Matt. This is the very first time, with the exception of when she's creating a book inside her mind that I haven't been able to figure out what's going on in Beth's head."
My heart sunk.
He held up his hand. "There's something going on in there, mind you, but I think since this all began—with you helping out Amber—that she feels that's exactly what this should be about. Her heart's with that little girl and getting her a life and a family. I think that the responsible part," he said, muttering, "and, boy, is that part a real pain in the butt most times, wants to make sure she doesn't take advantage of the situation when it should be about Amber."
I shook my head. I really didn't get it.
Bobby sat back against the cushions. "Say she admits it to herself—that you're the guy who came out of nowhere and is the one. What if that takes her focus off Amber and the show?"
"I wouldn't quit the show."
"I know that." he sighed. "But Beth has this goal—this extreme focus on Amber—probably like what you have with your own career. No offense, but I have a feeling when you're in 'career mode' you probably wouldn't be all that great of a boyfriend to some chick who wanted your full attention. Am I right?"
"I actually quit women once to focus on my career. But I do take relationships very seriously."
"And Beth's the same way. Her focus is unbreakable, and right now it's on Amber. She's probably battling with herself to make sure she doesn't cross a line. If she does like you, then she'd really be struggling right now, wanting Amber to get a home AND wanting you to get your moment in the sun on that stage so the world can see you for the powerful actor you are."
