Dream Runner

by Gail McFarland

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She busied herself with her plate. “Two friends having dinner. That’s what we are, aren’t we?”

  AJ turned his silverware. “I’m not so sure.”

  “How can you say that? I went out of my way to contact you—for old time’s sake. I planned this dinner.” Her hazel eyes widened and then she pouted prettily. “I thought it would give us more time together. I thought it would give us a chance to share what we’ve been doing. You haven’t even asked me about my business.”

  “How’s your business?” AJ asked dutifully.

  “Well, you know that I’ve always loved clothes. I had a chance to do some modeling, found a few backers, and here I am.” Pushing her plate aside, she leaned forward. “Now I’m ready to expand. How about you?”

  “I got cut by my team.” AJ toyed with his fork, stopping when she placed her hand atop his.

  “Stop playing with the silver, AJ. I heard you’ve been very busy, that you put that little physical therapy degree or certification, or whatever it is, to work.” When his face clouded, Bianca’s fingers gently stroked the back of his hand. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, AJ. I think it’s wonderful that you worked with that kid and that he’s all better now. Writing the book together was a wonderful idea, uh, cathartic even.”

  Okay, AJ thought, now it’s all starting to make sense. Dench was right. This is about money.

  “I saw on TV the other night that the book is not even out yet, and there’s already a movie option. That must be exciting for you.” AJ moved his hand, but Bianca captured it between her warm palms. “Then there’s that wonderful contract with Muscle Force. It must be great to be you.”

  “Oh, yeah. Just great.” How big a damned fool do I have to be not to see through this?

  “And you look so fine to me. It’s like no time has passed at all. I know we talked about friendship on the phone AJ, but now that I’m here with you, I’m wondering…do you think we could try it again?”

  AJ’s hand jerked, then pulled free. “Try what?”

  “Silly.” She reached for him again, and AJ recoiled. “Us. As a couple.”

  Standing so fast his chair toppled, AJ backed away from the beautifully set table. “A couple of what?” Like I don’t already know!

  “Maybe I should have waited until I had you in bed to broach the topic,” Bianca simpered.

  “Wouldn’t have made any difference.” AJ tossed his napkin to the table. “You know, when we were together, I used to look at people—young people, old people, married people, couples—and wonder how they did it. What did they know that I didn’t know? Then we broke up and I’ve had…” he looked at the woman who stood across from him shaking back her hair, “almost three whole years to think of an answer.”

  “What’s the answer, AJ?” Bianca’s breasts heaved dramatically.

  “It’s not what they know, it’s who they are. What they’ve learned they want and need from each other. Who they’re matched with. For me, I want a woman who will have more feeling for the man in her life and the family that they build together than she has for a closet full of designer clothes.”

  “I am what I am, AJ.” Bianca smoothed slow hands over her hips. “Would you have me lie to you? I would rather we start off honestly.”

  “Same old Bianca. You are what and whoever suits you at the moment.”

  “Baby, there is nothing old about me, and as long as I can find a good doctor and an on-call trainer, there never will be.” Easing the soft golden knit of her dress high enough to display taut, satiny skin and tight, gym-bred curves, she smiled. She pulled the dress over her head, then watched his face when she held it at her side, displaying the sheer and scant icy-blue lace of her bra and panties against the tawny blush of her flawless skin. “Like it?”

  What’s not to like? AJ closed his eyes and prayed for strength. He opened them in time to see her make the toss. Reacting, his hands closed on the softness of her dress.

  “Best hands in the NFL, and you can still put ’em on me,” Bianca purred.

  AJ cursed his reflexes. He desperately wanted to throw the dress back. I do, and she’ll think she punked me. He dropped the dress across a nearby chair back.

  “They say that nothing feels as good as silk. Except me.” She preened easily.

  “You know, Bianca, I believe that.” She thinks she punked me. “I believe that ‘they’ really do say that about you.”

  Hips moving, she shifted her shoulders and let her hair fall forward in a lush and moving curtain. Undulating to music only she could hear, Bianca danced in a small circle. “Trust me,” she whispered over her shoulder, “they’re right, but you already know that. Now the question is, how long are you going to stand over there?”

  “Same old Bianca…”

  Suddenly exasperated, she stopped dancing and propped a hand on her hip. “When are you going to grow up, AJ? Quit playing that game, you know, the one where we ‘cat and mouse’ around: me, playing the seductress, and you, playing the noble innocent? Believe me, nobody is that innocent—I know.”

  Standing hip-sprung in stiletto sandals, toying with the clasp of her lace bra, Bianca eyed him. “You wanted me once, AJ; you wanted all of this once. Well, now I’m telling you that you can have me. Free and clear. I’ll even commit to being a one-man woman, if that’ll make you happy, but you’ll have to marry me to guarantee it.”

  “Marry you? I remember a time when you ran from the ring I wanted to give you. And now that I think of it, there was another time when I couldn’t find a ring big enough to make you happy.”

  “That was then, this is now.”

  “I don’t think I’m in the market for what you’re selling, Bianca.” AJ took a backward step, ready for the door. “When I wanted you, I wanted a wife, a friend, a companion, a woman to love for a lifetime.”

  “And I’m telling you that you can have that—now.” She took a step toward him, the fine lace of her thong panties shimmering at the sweet juncture of her slender thighs. “I would make a good wife, AJ.” Close enough to stare up into his eyes, Bianca caught his hand and slid it slowly over her tight, flat belly. Her grin was sly; she knew she had his attention. “I would even risk this body for a baby…with you, AJ.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to say to that?” AJ struggled to keep his eyes on her face as she pressed close, her palms planted against his chest.

  “Make it easy on both of us; say yes.”

  “I don’t think so, Bianca.” Willpower gave him the strength to step out of her arms. “I think I’d better leave.”

  Crossing her arms tightly beneath her breasts, Bianca watched the door close behind him. “It’s never that easy, AJ. I thought you knew that by now.”

  Chapter 8

  “Eight-fifteen on a hot July night, and here I am. Alone in Atlanta.”

  Curiosity lit the blue eyes of the woman waiting next to him at the elevator. Her clear, oval face was framed by a careless mane of auburn hair and distinguished by a full and generous mouth. Her smile telegraphed want and need so intensely that AJ had to look away from her. Evidently, he didn’t have to be alone.

  But company like hers wasn’t going to solve his problem.

  This sure wasn’t the ending I had scripted for tonight, he thought. But what else was I expectin’? It’s like Dench said; I knew who she was when I walked through the door. And I did walk through it, all on my own. AJ pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his linen trousers and tried to remember what made him think Bianca would ever change. You knew who you were dealing with, and ain’t no sense in trying to fool yourself by pretending that you thought she had changed just because she told you that she ‘just wanted to talk’. A fleeting image of Bianca shedding her dress and posing in her shimmering bra and panties crossed his mind. Bianca has never wanted to ‘just talk’.

  When the elevator reached the lobby, his blue-eyed companion cleared her throat and lifted a sculpted brow. Her eyes were smoky, her intention clea
r. “Have a good evening,” AJ muttered. Her brow fell. Pass incomplete. Leaving his car and the beautiful woman behind, AJ crossed the Ritz lobby and emerged on Peachtree Street.

  He scanned the street. Now that you’re out here, where are you trying to go? People, looking sure of their destinations, rushed past. And AJ stood still. He didn’t have a clue which way to go—it wasn’t as if he had anyone waiting for him. South, he was tempted, but for what? So his feet turned north.

  He had no idea how fast or how far he had walked. Though born and raised in Atlanta, it had been many years since he had last walked on Peachtree Street. Buses, horse-drawn carriages, pedestrians, and a couple of spandex-clad men on bikes passed before AJ realized where he was and how far he had come.

  Standing at one corner, waiting for the light to change, he saw the Fox Theater across from him and the Georgian Terrace Hotel on the other corner. Ponce de Leon Avenue, he realized.

  Okay, now that I know where I am, what am I going to do about it? Dinner was a bust. I could eat. Or I could drink. He crossed the street, passed The Fox and headed for the bar at Churchill Downs, the little bar on the corner, never realizing that he had finally settled on a destination.

  The high-energy beat of soca and the heady aroma of Caribbean foods greeted him. Not real hungry, but conch fritters might be good…

  * * *

  Peachtree Street was never meant to be seen like this. I’ve never liked taking the streets through this town in the summer. Parker Reynolds checked his door locks. He had the distinct feeling that the multi-layered guy leaning against the lamppost watching traffic knew the cost of his car and the amount of money in his pocket. You have to be careful of people like that, his mother always said. They would just as soon pick your pocket as smile at you.

  Oh, Lord…is that vagrant stepping into the street? Panhandling? What next? If not for the accident on I-75 and the unholy mess the highway had become, I would be home by now, off these crowded, dirty streets. Parker thumped the leather seat of his Porsche and wished he had chosen a different car for the day. Something with an automatic transmission—I hate having to shift in city traffic. That’s not what this car is made for…

  Crawling past Crawford Long Hospital, he fumbled with the radio, listened to a traffic update. An accident with injuries. At least it happened farther north of the city—it’s a Kennestone Hospital problem, not Grady’s, but this traffic is not going to break up for hours. Sliding low in his seat, he shuddered deep inside, glad to be excused from possible trauma-surgery duty—something he felt more and more often since Marlea Kellogg had come into his life.

  Suddenly, Reynolds had no energy for driving. This rolling death march is going to be the death of me, he sighed. It’s not nine o’clock yet; I could stop for a drink, maybe a bite to eat. Crossing the traffic-choked intersection, searching for a landmark, his eyes found the Georgian Terrace Hotel, and he knew where he was. Where’s that place? The one Desireé took me to? It wasn’t half-bad…

  Peachtree Street didn’t help his attitude as dinner and theater traffic seemed determined to bar his progress. Spying Churchill Downs, he jammed the Porsche into gear to make a quick, dirty, and totally illegal turn into the parking lot. Impatient, he parked quickly and walked from the lot.

  They just go and give anybody a license these days, Parker fumed when a ragged Ford convertible narrowly missed him as he crossed the street. Holding a hand high for attention, Parker had to skip hurriedly between stop-start paced cars. Tempted to use his third finger, but afraid of the repercussions, his breathing eased when he made it to the other side of the street.

  Casting a scornful glance over his shoulder, he headed for the restaurant doors and managed to jam a hand directly between the broad shoulders of the tall man in front of him. Startled and blinking rapidly, straight arm still extended, Parker fell back a step. Then another. “I…I beg your pardon. I wasn’t looking…”

  Looking down, the big man seemed to find Parker’s stammer amusing.

  What the hell is this big gorilla standing here smirking about? “I didn’t see you…”

  “Right.”

  All right, perhaps that was funny. This ape stands about seven feet tall, probably weighs in on the light side of three hundred-plus pounds, and he’s wearing this ridiculous orange and yellow striped shirt, and I didn’t see him. “I hope you’ll excuse me.”

  “No prob, man.”

  A pretty woman in a matching shirt joined the ape, and watching them walk away, Parker’s mind leapt to Desireé. There was something evocative and morbidly attractive about the rolling motion of the woman’s wide hips in the white Capri pants. Like Desireé. Maybe I should try calling her again. Pulling on the heavy door, he patted his pocket, just to be sure he was carrying his cellphone.

  Maybe I shouldn’t bother. It won’t do to let her think I’m too eager. She’ll think she has me over the proverbial barrel; me trying to reach her so urgently, and the calls coming so close to her serving me with those papers. Eventually, I am going to have to do something about her and those damned papers. His head began a dull throb as he crossed the restaurant.

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed a curvy woman in a red cotton dress when she stood and raised her glass to her friends. The red dress was tight and cut low, clinging to her lush body like paint. Like Desireé. Her friends laughed at her words and she slipped back into her seat—and noticed him noticing her.

  Parker looked away and aimed himself at the bar.

  “Vodka gimlet,” he ordered, climbing onto a tall stool. It’s bad enough to have to call Desireé, now her clones are following me. He pulled out his cellphone and tapped in the number he knew by heart. He let it ring three times, then clapped the phone closed. Dropping it to the bar, he twirled it with his long fingers. Where can she be? Every time I’ve called, I’ve gotten her answering machine. The barman set the cold glass before him, and Parker nodded. Sure, let him run a tab.

  Then his thoughts went back to Desireé. She’s been away from the phone all damned day long! I wonder how many of her galpals it took to record her “Hoochies Gone Wild” phone message? He sucked at his drink, surprised by the short time it took to reach the bottom.

  All I need to do is tap into her little circle. Surely there is someone in that group who knows a bit about car repair. Propping an elbow on the bar, he lifted his empty glass, signaling the barman. Those people always seem to have an innate intelligence about this sort of thing, and Desireé is the kind of woman who knows people who know people.

  Waiting for his fresh drink, Parker folded his hands around his glass and looked idly into the smoky mirror he faced. Anybody Desireé digs up is going to be some kind of con artist or thief. They’ll take one look at the Rolls and try to charge me an arm and a leg, and I’ll have to pay it. He sighed. I suppose you always have to pay for what you don’t know…

  Watching people coming and going, enjoying the company of friends on a hot summer night, Parker felt like an outsider. He took an urgent sip and tried not to look like a solo drinker. Everybody knows that drinking alone is one foot on the dark path to alcoholism. Never mind that every evening he spent a couple of solitary hours in the company of a tall bottle of Grey Goose vodka.

  Sipping in sanctimony, Parker watched the other three people sitting at the bar. Two were white-shirted waiters on a break. The third was a big man dressed in dark linen sitting a couple of stools over, and he didn’t look much like an alcoholic. In fact, he looked quite sober. And he looks familiar. Reynolds watched him in the mirror. Shuffling faces from the hospital, his mother’s social set, and Desiree’s cadre of deadbeats through his mind, he came up blank. But I know his face.

  “How ’bout I freshen that up for you, Mr. Yarborough?”

  There was unction or possibly awe in the barman’s voice, but it was the hint Parker needed; the face clicked into place. AJ Yarborough, the football player. I should have known he was not someone Desireé would have known.

  Parker k
nocked back the rest of his drink, signaled the barman, and then did something that should have horrified him. Reaching over, he touched the football player’s elbow, and then sat grinning when the other man’s eyes found his. Embarrassed, he reeled his arm back across the seats. “I don’t usually do things like this, but…you’re AJ Yarborough, the football player, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  The single word was cautious, and Parker didn’t blame him. “I’m sure that every Tom, Dick, and Harry runs up to you looking for an autograph. Well, I’m not Tom, Dick, or Harry.” AJ said nothing. “Parker Reynolds, I’m a fan.” Parker used the arrival of his fresh drink to disguise his awkwardness. Raising his glass, he smiled. “Can I get you another?”

  AJ tapped his Red Stripe bottle and shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  “Look, before you either write me off as crazy or decide that I’m trying to hit on you, which I’m not, I just want to say that I’m a doctor. I specialize in trauma surgery, and I’ve followed your career for quite a while. Lately, I’ve seen some items on your work with that high school kid, Bobby, uh…” Irritated that his memory failed, Parker snapped his fingers, trying to summon the name.

  “His name was Robert.”

  “Right, right…Crown, I believe. Robert Crown.” Sliding across to the next stool, Parker warmed to his topic. “What was he, about twenty? Felled by a stroke, and you stepped in to work with him. That was pretty impressive. Most people, even active ones, wouldn’t have had a clue how to approach him, but you had football in common with him, and you just stepped right in and instinctively handled things. That’s certainly not what I’ve come to expect from men who make their living on the gridiron.” Parker held his breath and offered his hand. He started to breathe again when AJ accepted it.

  “Thanks, but I want to clear some things up.”

  AJ’s open smile was wide and clean. Parker began to trust the football player. “Sure. Like what?”

  “As of June, I’m a former football player. My team cut me. “