She spots me as I walk across the sidewalk. Then she grabs the rail to help her navigate the stairs. I take two at a time in an attempt to reach her before those heels have her tumbling down to the unforgiving pavement below. I reach out for her, but am stopped by her biting words.
“I can manage a few steps, Mason. This isn’t a date, remember?”
I pull my hand away, but stand ready to catch her if she falters. “Right. Not a date. Of course not.” I hope my pants don’t catch on fire, because according to the pounding of my heart and the tightness of my trousers, this is totally a date, and I’m a big fat liar.
She may not let me help her down the stairs, but I’m sure as hell not going to let her open her own car door. I beat her to it, shaking my head when I see the disagreeable look on her face. “Humor me, okay? I’ve got on a monkey suit and you look . . . well, you look incredible. So, I don’t care if we’re on a date or not, I’m holding the goddamn door for you. Here and all night. Get used it to it, Princ . . . uh, Piper.”
The hint of a smirk crosses her face and she nods at the car door, allowing me to open it for her. She awkwardly situates herself in the low-riding seat, making sure her dress doesn’t creep up in the process. When she seems satisfied, and perfectly in position, I grab the seat belt and lean across her to secure it.
She puts her hand in the way, halting my progress as she takes the belt from me. “I’m not a child, Mason. I can do it myself.”
“Sorry, old habits, I guess.” I close the door and let her belt herself in, having told my second lie of the evening. It’s not an old habit, it was an excuse to touch her, smell her. And in that second when my head was in the car, inches from her body, it was like fireworks were shooting through my veins. The pure feminine fragrance of her scent still surrounds me, the subtle whisper of fresh flowers lingering in my nostrils.
It’s hard to keep my eyes on the road as I drive to the museum that’s hosting the benefit. Her hair is down, the dark, wavy tips of it brushing against her collarbone. It looks soft and for a brief second, I imagine it cascading on my chest as she straddles me. I shift around in my pants, hoping she doesn’t notice. She doesn’t. She’s looking out her window, making me wonder if she ever does anything else while riding in a car.
I turn on the music to ease the piercing silence and we make it almost the whole way without conversation. Until I see her messing with her bracelet. I think she does it when she’s anxious. I try to alleviate her fears.
“I really appreciate you doing this, Piper. You’re helping me out a lot. As a player, I’m required to attend a certain number of functions, but I almost always pick the smaller ones. You don’t have to worry, we’ll be in and out in a few hours. All you need to do is stand next to me and pretend to enjoy yourself.”
“I’m not just doing it for you,” she says, momentarily taking her eyes of the road to fiddle with a strap on her dress. “Skylar said she’d disown me if I cancelled. She said it was really important to her that I come and not let you down.”
“You wanted to cancel?” I say, trying not to sound defeated as I pull up to the valet stand in the parking garage.
She nods. “I’m not very good with crowds.”
“And yet you want to run in the Boston Marathon, next to . . . oh, about thirty thousand other people?”
She laughs silently, spurts of air blowing out her nose as she exits the car when the attendant opens the door for her. “That’s different,” she says, as if it’s a real explanation.
I get my valet ticket and offer Piper my elbow before making our way through the garage. She stares at it, rolling her neck that I can only assume is tight with tension. If I could just reach out and work my fingers around her exposed shoulders, kneading the anxiety from her body. I long to pull her close to me; to put my arm around her waist and escort her properly. My body is twitching with the need to touch her. But I know I have to take it slow. She’s skittish. Wary. Lost. And if I want any real shot with her, I have to be patient. The shit that happened to Charlie must have really messed with her head. I suppose it’s why she has a hard time trusting men. Trusting me.
I drop my hand to my side, walking next to her through the garage and up to the front doors of the museum, feeling empty and alone for the first time in several years. I’m not sure what is driving my incessant want of this woman. She’s never shown interest in me. She hasn’t acknowledged our electrified touches. Has she not felt them? Is this simply about the chase for me—wanting someone I can’t have? Or maybe I just need to feed the beast.
No. It’s more than that. I could go out and get laid any day of the week. Hell, I can guarantee there will be at least a dozen women here tonight willing to strip down right there in the parking garage if I’d let them.
“There you are, baby.” I cringe at the high-pitched nasally voice as we walk through the large double-doors into the massive entry hall. Case in point.
I give Piper my best apologetic look. I should have prepared her for this possibility, but I really didn’t think she’d show. I turn to my ex-girlfriend. “I told you not to call me that.”
She waves a conceited hand at my remark, dismissing it as she turns her attention to Piper. Like most of the women here, Cassidy is wearing a short, skin-tight dress accentuating her store-bought cleavage. Her wrist, neck and ears display a gaudy amount of expensive jewelry. And the price tag that resulted in her hair being straightened to within an inch of its life probably cost a week’s worth of child support.
Cassidy’s eyes rake over Piper from head to toe in a long, silent, sizing-up moment, as if Piper were a stray mutt brought to a dog show. I take a second to notice the differences between the two women. Cassidy is the complete opposite of Piper. Her too-long hair, extending all the way down to her waist, is blonde with strawberry highlights brought out by the loud color of her fire-engine-red dress. Her face is heavily painted with makeup, eyeliner so thick and black it makes her eyes look cat-like. Her lipstick matches her dress and is slick and wet; looking like a single touch from her lips would send one’s clothes straight to the dry cleaner.
In contrast, Piper looks young. Innocent. Natural. She has makeup on, but in a tasteful way that makes it look like she doesn’t. Even with her inky-black hair tips and miniscule nose piercing, she looks tame and demure compared to the predator assessing her as prey.
“Who’s Snow White with the bad dye job?” Cassidy raises her drawn-on eyebrows at me.
I scowl at her furiously. I’ve never felt the need to hit a woman as much as I do this very second. My heart sinks and I close my eyes, shaming myself for subjecting Piper to this feeding frenzy. Am I so selfish that I’m willing to bring her to this mosh pit just to spend a few short hours with her?
I’m ready to grab Piper’s hand and march her right back out the front doors when she turns to me and fires back, “Who’s Barbie with the collagen lips and fake tits?”
If I had a drink, it’d be spewed all over the ladies in front of me. I can’t hold in my laughter, much to Cassidy’s displeasure. I give Piper an approving nod, happy to see it’s not just me she can stand up to. “This is Cassidy Whitmeyer, Hailey’s mother.”
“Oh, right, the ex-wife.” Piper holds out her hand in greeting.
Cassidy sneers at it then ignores her hand completely.
“Girlfriend,” I say, correcting Piper.
“What?” she asks.
“Cassidy is my ex-girlfriend, not my ex-wife. We were never married.” I lean close and whisper into her ear. “Thank God.”
I could swear I see Piper shiver as my hot words flow over her bare neck. “Oh,” she whispers back. “When my sisters referred to your ex, I just assumed . . .”
“No way. Not her.” I pull back reluctantly, wanting to spend every breath nuzzled close to Piper’s flowery-scented skin.
Cassidy lunges forward, putting herself between Piper and me. “And this is?”
Piper answers before I can. “Nobody. I’m nobody. Just a
friend.” Her eyes plead with mine as she gives a small shake of her head. I take it to mean she doesn’t want me to say her name, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.
“And does nobody have a name? She looks familiar.” Cassidy asks me with no regard for Piper.
Piper taps her on the arm, to which Cassidy stares at the offending gesture and then questions Piper with her catty eyes.
“Just call me Snow,” Piper deadpans.
Cassidy gives her a bitchy smirk. “Cute,” she says.
I feel I’d better end this standoff before Cassidy makes her even more uncomfortable than she already is. I try to sound friendly when I ask my ex-girlfriend, “So, who’s watching Hailey?”
“My mother,” she says, still staring down Piper.
“And who are you here with?” I ask.
She turns back to me with a big smile. “Jealous, are you?”
“Not even a little bit, Cass.” I take a meaningful step towards Piper. “No, I’m just hoping whoever it is will come looking for you so you can quit monopolizing our time.”
She purses her surgically-enhanced lips and narrows her scornful eyes at me. “Would it surprise you to find out I’m here with Johnny Henley?”
My stomach churns and I feel sick. I know he’s my competition and all, but that’s a low blow even for a veteran player.
“Ha!” she says. “I’m only kidding. I’m here with Anthony Moore. He’s a journalist.” She points across the room to a man who is scribbling away on a notepad while standing among some of my teammates. “Should I invite him to join us?”
Piper shifts uncomfortably and whispers to me that she’s off to find the ladies room. I watch her walk away, my eyes following her every careful step in those ridiculously high heels until she turns the corner. Finally, I give my attention back to Cassidy. I should have known she’d weasel her way into to this function. She’s done it many times before. It’s like she’s keeping tabs on me. I’m not sure why; she’s sleeping with half of New York City, probably including the judge who refused to give me more time with my kid. I made it clear to her long ago, when she showed up pregnant, that my only interest in her was that she keep our daughter happy and safe. As long as she continues to fulfill her end of the deal, I’m happy to keep paying the astronomical amount of child support she managed to get out of me.
Knowing she’s here with someone from the press makes me even more relieved that Piper didn’t let me reveal her name. I’m not sure what Cassidy would have done with the information, but I’m sure it wouldn’t have been anything good. I get the distinct feeling she’s not overjoyed that I may have started dating after all this time.
“No, Cass, you shouldn’t invite him over, because there is no us. Please just leave me alone and go back to your little lap dog.”
She turns her nose up at me. “I don’t know why you hate me so much, Mason. Don’t you think we should get along—for Hailey’s sake?”
“As far as our daughter knows, we do get along. And that’s exactly how I intend to keep it. I’ll do anything for her, including pretending to like her mother.” I step away from her, grabbing two champagne flutes from a waiter’s tray. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go find uh . . . Snow.”
She puts a hand on my arm, causing a bit of champagne to slosh out of a glass. “What’s up with the fake name? And that hair, it’s so last decade. Couldn’t you have found someone a little less hideous, baby?”
I burn her hand with my punishing stare. “Get your hand off me, Cassidy. And watch yourself. You have no idea the legal teams I have access to, do you? You just remember—as soon as I decide to fight you, you’ll be sorry.”
“Are you threatening me, Mason? Do you really think a judge is going to give you Hailey?” She laughs. “You—a wanna-be football player who isn’t even home half the year?”
She hits a nerve. It’s exactly why I haven’t fought for custody. Hailey needs structure and stability. A full-time parent who isn’t traveling every other week from August through January. And even though Cassidy is a certified slut, I have to admit she’s been a decent mom.
I see Piper round the corner and tear myself away from Cassidy. “Goodbye, Cass.”
I meet Piper halfway across the expansive room. I hand her the glass of champagne. She accepts it while regarding it woefully. “I thought we weren’t drinking,” she says.
“We’re not. But one toast won’t hurt, will it?” I hold my glass out to her.
Her shaky arm extends to clink my glass, but she uses too much force, sending both our drinks shattering onto the shiny marble floor. She blows out a deep, regretful breath and apologizes. “I’m sorry, I’m so clumsy sometimes.”
I push the broken glass to the side with my shoe as I see two waiters race over with a mop and broom to clean up the mess.
From behind, someone speaks softly in my ear. “See—hideous. Is she even house-trained, Mason?”
I turn to give Cassidy a biting stare as she shrugs her shoulders and keeps walking.
“It’s okay, Piper. No harm, no foul.” I show her my injury-free arms, happy the shards of glass didn’t slice through my throwing hand. “Let me see your hands, did you get cut?”
She holds up her hands and I reach out to inspect them, bowled over once again by the warm sparks that ignite between us when we touch. I look up to catch her watching my perusal of her arms. Her breathing stops. She’s just as affected by this as I am. But for some reason, she’s trying her best to hide it.
“Maybe I need that drink after all,” she says, pulling her hands away.
chapter nine
piper
Mason tries to flag down a waiter, but I start to walk away. “It’s okay, I’ll go get them from the bar. Be right back.” Before he can follow me, he gets cornered by somebody who looks important. Somebody who looks like old money. Somebody who is dragging a fashion model behind him.
I turn my attention towards the bar, passing by all the waiters who are offering glasses of champagne. I curse myself for letting Mason and Skylar talk me into this. And meeting his ex? That was a tortuous ordeal. I once again forgot he even had a kid. What am I doing letting myself get involved with someone like that? No—not involved with, just doing a favor for, I reason.
I’m so out of my comfort zone right now I fear anything could set me off. I contemplate bolting out the side entrance. Then I could ditch the five-inch heels and slip into my more agreeable running shoes; falling into that zone where nothing exists but me and my breathing. But morality claims my conscience and I vow to stick it out for Skylar. And maybe a little bit for me.
He said it’ll just take a few hours. I check the large clock on the wall and see that only leaves ninety minutes. Mason Lawrence might be an incorrigible quarterback, but he does seem genuine. He stands up to every good thing I’ve heard about him. And the fact that he enjoyed watching me diss his ex—that was simply an added bonus.
I wait at the bar behind two very large men who seem to be socializing more than ordering. Men who must have had tailor-made tuxedos to fit their burgeoning bodies. One of the men is African-American, sporting long brown dreadlocks that fall far beyond his broad shoulders. The other is all but bald, a tattooed ‘88’ on the back of his neck with the New York Giants logo transposed over the top of it. Don’t these guys sometimes get traded to other teams? And what if his number changes? I remember the pain from getting my tattoo and I wonder just how hard it would be to remove one.
“She likes your ink, Saunders,” a low, burly, Darth-Vader-like voice pronounces.
The man with the tattoo turns around and gives me a face-splitting smile. “Well, what do we have here?” He regards my dress with carnal appreciation. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. Who do you belong to?”
My jaw drops. “I don’t belong to anyone.” I try making myself taller. It’s a futile attempt considering these guys probably tower over me by a full foot, even with my five-inch heels. “Instead of just s
tanding there, how about letting me by for a drink?”
“What are you ordering?” the guy with dreads asks. “Whatever it is, I’m buying.”
I clutch my purse tightly, thinking of the vast emptiness in my wallet. I thought the drinks at these benefit things would be free. All of a sudden sweat dots my upper lip and I feel claustrophobic with these giants hovering over me. I feel the anxiety rising like a slow wave gaining momentum right before it turns into a tsunami. I pivot away from them and notice how crowded the atrium has become in just a few minutes. People are teeming around, making introductions and pointless small talk. I scan their faces, hoping I don’t recognize anyone and praying none of them recognize me.
I find myself frantically looking around the room for Mason. When my eyes spot him, he’s staring directly at me. He looks aghast when he studies me, and he quickly extracts himself from the fashion model trying to drape herself on him. He races across the gleaming marble floors towards me, his long legs churning up the distance between us in just a few strides.
“Relax, honey,” I hear the tattooed man’s voice behind me as a heavy hand grips my waist. “He was just kidding. It’s an open bar.” He runs his hand up my rib cage.
My body stiffens at his suggestive touch. Bile rises in my throat as my knees threaten to buckle. But before the panic outright consumes me, Mason reaches my side, threading his arm around my back while brushing off number 88 at the same time—a guy who’s arguably a hundred pounds heavier than he is. “Piss off, Saunders,” he says. “Go find someone else to reject your ugly face.”
Much needed oxygen fills my lungs as a wave of relief courses through my body. I feel Mason’s strong arm around me, keeping me from collapsing. But what’s utterly confusing is, instead of sending me spiraling further into a full-on meltdown, his touch feels therapeutic. Safe. Pleasant even.
Black Roses (A Mitchell Sisters Novel) Page 7
