Southern Player: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  The water gets cold. Luke gets sleepy, his voice like gravel.

  I’m smiling when we finally hang up.

  A smile that lasts through the next morning, when I make a trip to the Rite Aid down the street first thing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Luke

  Gracie is running late at the shop, so she told me just to meet her at the cocktail party. I didn’t think all that much about the address she texted me when I Googled directions.

  But now that I’m downtown, my GPS telling me I’m three hundred and thirty one feet from my final destination, I am thinking about it.

  I’m thinking about it because this part of town is nice. It’s the South of Broad neighborhood—the leafy, mansion-lined streets you see in all the travel brochures and commercials about Charleston. Bill Murray lives somewhere around here. Along with all the old money Charleston can squeeze into the tip of the peninsula.

  I haven’t had an occasion to be down these streets in years.

  I pass a massive house on the corner that seems to go on forever. Honestly, the thing must be ten, twelve thousand square feet, easy. Three stories and wide porches on the top two levels that look out over a gorgeous garden overflowing with—well, from what I can tell, some epic boxwood topiaries, towering oaks, and a wide, manicured lawn. Plus a pool, a fountain, and some moss-covered statues of naked babies.

  What is up with rich people and their statues of naked babies? My mamas and I never got that.

  The whole property is lit up. Enormous gas lanterns hang from the porch ceilings, bathing the people below in soft, summery light.

  Looks like a party. A very fancy pa—

  “You have arrived at your destination,” my GPS informs me.

  My stomach clenches, and for no reason at all I slam on the brakes. My truck is a trooper. But stopping short is one of the (many) things it does not handle well. It groans. And then it shudders before making this terrible, rusty clanking noise.

  It’s so loud that the people at the party on the porch look up.

  Aw, shit.

  Immediately I turn off the Reba I got blasting. My windows are down—it’s eight o’clock, finally cool enough to not die without the A/C going—and that means everyone and their mama can hear what I’m playing.

  I spear a hand through my hair.

  Quite the first impression I’m making.

  Jesus. Gracie’s gonna pull a watermelon on this date before it even starts.

  Reba was supposed to calm me down on the ride over. Nothing like belting out the lyrics to “Fancy” to soothe one’s soul. And Lord do I need some soothing. I’ve been a lot excited, a little nervous ever since Gracie invited me out last night on the phone. I am trying very fucking hard not to read too much into it. I told myself not to get my hopes up. I told myself she only asked me to come as a friend and a butt stuff buddy, nothing more.

  But maybe, just maybe, she asked me as more than that. She was the one who called me yesterday. Granted, it was for phone sex. At least at first. Then we started talking about her day, about the value of taking risks, and then all of the sudden she’s asking me out.

  Both sides of our relationship—the friend part and the fuck buddy part—collided in that phone call.

  I didn’t want it to end.

  Judging by the way Gracie lingered on the line for another hour after we decided she’d be the one to get the lube, the two of us talking about everything and nothing, she didn’t want it to end, either.

  I know I gotta be patient. She’s been nothing but honest with me, and I understand why she needs to take things slow. But we’re now two bucket list items into this thing, and I’m already struggling to hold back.

  I want more than her Friday night. I want her Saturday morning and her Sunday afternoon, too. Maybe that makes me a greedy son of a bitch, but I don’t care.

  I’m not gonna get any of her time, though, if I bungle our first kinda-sorta date. I gotta get my shit together here. Something that feels harder and harder to do the more mansions I pass.

  Is this where Gracie usually comes to cocktail parties?

  Is this where she usually spends her Friday nights?

  It’s a world away from my usual beer and barbecue sandwich at the local joint out on Sullivan’s Island.

  My insides feel all tight and strange as I troll the street for parking. I really should’ve paid more attention to the address, because all the parking down here is residential permit parking only—meaning you can only park here if you live in the neighborhood and have the permit to prove it.

  I head back up Meeting Street a bit, and manage to find a spot in a garage. It’s a good walk back to the party. Thankfully it’s a nice night, the humidity not too bad. So I hook my blazer on my fingers, flip it over my shoulder, and head south on King Street.

  The house is even bigger and more imposing up close. Beautiful. The glossy door reflecting the glow of the gas lamps on either side of it. I check out the small white plaque nailed to the fence—the preservation society has these all over the city—and discover this house was built circa 1823.

  Glancing up at it, I imagine it looks much the same now as it did back then.

  The rise and fall of voices fills the air. My gut clenches. I hope I don’t make a fool of myself in front of these people. What kind of cocktail party is this anyway? Who does Gracie know that owns a place like this?

  I lean my back against the stuccoed pillar at the bottom of the house’s front steps. Glance down the street both ways. No sight of Gracie.

  I grab my phone out of my pocket and shoot her a text.

  I’m here, I say. No rush.

  She responds right away. Walking over now. Be there in 5. So sorry I’m running late. Shitshow of a day.

  I’m sorry. I’ll make it better, I reply.

  How? Perhaps by using your soapy cock?

  I laugh out loud at her raunchy reply. My anxiety lessening the tiniest bit. We may be going to a fancy-pants party. But Gracie is still Gracie. Pervy, unpretentious, quick.

  I am normally anti-Emoji. But I can’t resist sending her an eggplant, along with the soap Emoji and the okay-hand one.

  Then I tuck my phone in my pocket. Shrug into my blazer. It’s the nicest one I own—I had it custom made when I was playing pro ball in Chicago. Used to fit me like a glove. Now it’s a little looser in the shoulders and chest. Still looked all right to me when I did a last minute check in my bathroom mirror before leaving the house earlier.

  I don’t hate getting dressed up. But I don’t love it, either. Once upon a time, I wore these designer jeans and custom shirt and blazer more often than not. Travel, press, nights out on the town—that sort of thing. These days, though, my happy place is in my broken-in Levis and a Rodgers’ Farms tee.

  I just don’t got much to prove anymore. It’s a nice feeling.

  I’m sliding my hands into the stupidly small front pockets of my jeans, casually wondering what kind of lube Gracie bought, when I hear approaching footsteps.

  My stomach dips. I turn my head in the direction of the sound.

  Gracie rounds the corner. She looks up and our eyes meet and she smiles, lighting up. And y’all—I get this feeing, this sensation of my heart being neatly scooped out of my chest and deposited outside my body.

  I can only stand still, heart beating somewhere behind me on the sidewalk, as I look at her. Devour her more like it. She’s wearing this amazing black cocktail dress that’s sleek and sophisticated, tight in all the right places. Heels that make her legs look a mile long. Big earrings and glasses and this bright red lipstick.

  Hoo boy, I am done for.

  “Hey, handsome,” she says. The obvious excitement in her eyes, her dimples, her voice—I’m not imagining it.

  It’s real. As real as the things I feel for her.

  She holds out her arms and I wordlessly pull her into mine and curl her close. She melts into me. This level of touch and trust is new.

  My body roars to life.
Warmth spreading through my skin. Pooling between my legs.

  Noooooo boner. No.

  She’s wearing perfume tonight. Something sexy.

  I press a kiss to her cheek. “Hey, Gracie girl,” I say gruffly.

  Gracie pulls back, brow furrowed. “You okay?”

  Nah, I want to say. Pretty sure you just took my heart without asking, and now you’re free to do whatever you want with it. Play with it. Crush it. Eat it.

  I shake my head, unable to reply for a full beat.

  “You look beautiful,” I manage at last.

  She smiles with her eyes. “So do you. Thank you for coming.”

  “Thanks for invitin’ me.” My eyes flick to the door behind her. “What kinda party is this anyway?”

  Gracie tucks her little purse thing underneath her arm. “It’s an alumni event for my business school. We have events once a quarter or so—they’re really fun, and a great way to connect with people doing all kinds of cool stuff in the city.”

  My pulse thumps. Part of me is flattered she’d invite me to an event filled with Ivy Leaguers. If these are her people, I want to meet them.

  But another part of me is hesitant. I really don’t give a fuck what other people think of me. I don’t get intimidated easily. If I’m being honest, though, I am feeling a little intimidated by this whole thing. Maybe because I want to please Gracie so bad. I want to make a good impression on her friends and colleagues. But what if I look like some bumbling country bumpkin compared to them?

  Don’t get me wrong—playing major league ball meant I moved in some pretty rarified circles back in the day. I’ve rubbed elbows with billionaire club owners. Celebrities. Other athletes. But those people spoke the same language I did: sports. I felt comfortable moving in those circles because they were filled with my people.

  I get the feeling I won’t fit in quite as well at an Ivy League alumni event. I graduated high school with solid Cs across the board. Dropped out of college. I don’t have a single degree.

  These people have multiple. Multiple degrees and, clearly, multiple millions of dollars.

  I used to rake it in, too. But I’m not that guy anymore. Which I’m fine with. My life is simpler now, and all the better for it.

  Still. I can’t help but wonder what the hell I’m going to talk to these people about.

  “Ready?” Gracie asks.

  I blink. “Let’s do it.”

  Putting my hand on the small of her back, I follow Gracie up the steps.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Luke

  A middle-aged woman, dressed to the nines in pearls and heels, greets us at the door.

  “Gracie!” she says, pulling her into a hug. “I am so glad you could make it! Everyone was hoping to see you tonight. Not to put too fine a point on it, but people are still talking a lot about you running for president of the association. The position can be yours if you want it…”

  My pulse thumps. Apparently I’m not the only one who recognizes Gracie is something special.

  Stepping back, Gracie smiles. “C’mon, Lilly, we all know you’re the only person for the job. How in the world could I ever live up to what you’ve accomplished? But thank y’all for thinking of me. I’m flattered. But I’m really focusing on Holy City Roasters right now. We’ve finally built the community and clientele and space of my dreams. Time to pay it forward, you know?”

  “We’re so proud of all that you’ve done over at your shop. Mark my words, you’ll be running this town one day.” Lilly turns to me with a smile. “And who is this handsome young man?”

  Gracie loops an arm through mine, and despite feeling very out of place, there’s a rush of pride in my chest.

  “This is my friend, Luke Rodgers. Luke, this is Lilly Lawrence. She’s president of—well, basically everything. A shipping company and our alumni association here in South Carolina. I have no idea how she does it, but I want to be her when I grow up.”

  “Oh, hush, you are well on your way to becoming your own success story.” Lilly takes my hand, giving it a firm shake. “It’s lovely to meet you, Luke. Welcome.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I say. “Your home is beautiful.”

  “Thank you. Took a long time to get it exactly how we wanted it. We said it was going to be our last house. But of course we’re getting restless, and now we’re looking for our next project.”

  “That sounds exciting,” Gracie says. “Where are y’all looking?”

  “George—he’s my husband,” Lilly explains to me, “he’s been retired for years. But recently he was offered a board position at an automotive start-up in California. We thought we’d buy a place out there in Santa Barbara, maybe, or Montecito. Try on the bicoastal lifestyle for a bit.”

  “Doesn’t Oprah live in Montecito?” Gracie asks.

  Lilly nods. “She does. Such a gorgeous place.”

  Gorgeous, and really fucking expensive if Oprah’s got a place there.

  Not that I’d know. Only times I’ve been to California were for baseball. I didn’t have time to see much of it outside the usual hotels and locker rooms.

  “Good for y’all. I love the west coast. I was just in L.A. to do some research and a bit of shopping for our new space,” Gracie says. “That simple, masculine Southern California design aesthetic really inspired my vision for the addition.”

  I blink, my eyes bouncing between the two of them.

  Design aesthetics.

  Bicoastal lifestyles.

  Renovations of ten-thousand-square-foot historic homes.

  Lilly is a lovely, gracious person. Same as Gracie.

  But right now, I cannot relate to a damn thing either of them is saying.

  I literally have nothing to add. I don’t mean to be rude. I just…don’t have anything to say. I mean, what the fuck is an automotive start-up? Where the hell is Montecito on the map and why did Oprah choose to live there?

  Couldn’t tell you.

  I start to feel clammy under my collar.

  Gracie and Lilly chat for a little while longer before Lilly excuses herself. Gracie gives my arm a squeeze.

  “Should we get a drink?”

  “Please,” I say. Maybe having a little alcohol in my system will help ease the anxiety I feel being so fucking out of my element.

  But as Gracie leads me into the house, passing through one palatial room to the next, my anxiety only intensifies. Most of the people here are in suits. Suits they wear with the ease of men and women who know they have the world by the balls.

  No one is in jeans.

  But everyone is friendly—Gracie greets almost every single person, smiling the whole time. They shake my hand and ask about my farm. But the conversation inevitably turns back to either something I know nothing about or Gracie. Seeing her in action like this is sexy as hell. She’s a total natural at working a room, her gracious, down-to-earth energy pulling people in like bees to honey.

  But as I watch her press the flesh, and make polite conversation with this hedge fund manager and that commercial real estate developer, I can’t help but feel like I’m on the outside here. Like I’m just a visitor in this glittering world. Brought up to first class for the night before being sent back down to steerage, where I belong. Jack Dawson style.

  What would Leo do?

  Because I’m not quite sure what my move here should be. I feel like I’m thirteen again, awkward and pimply and not nearly cool enough to talk to the popular kids.

  I try not to panic. But it’s hard not to feel embarrassed when you don’t have anything in common with the people you’re talking to. Half the time I just stand there like an idiot, dick in my hand as I scramble to think of things to say that won’t sound stupid.

  One couple beams with pride as they talk about the work they’ve done to raise money for a community theater on Queen Street. It’s funding a “snazzy” production of Phantom of the Opera.

  I don’t think I’ve ever even been to the theater. I definitely don’t know who th
e hell this phantom is and why he’s at the opera.

  Another guy talks about being flown on a private jet to an investor meeting in London.

  It’s been years since I got on any plane. And honestly, I don’t miss it. Heirloom veggies excite me way more than travel does these days.

  I think I finally have something to say when a woman mentions how much she loves grits. But just when I’m about to say I mill my own out on the farm, she pivots the conversation and starts talking about volatility in the high yield bond market and how it’s widening spreads.

  Needless to say, I don’t know what the fuck any of that is.

  Anxiety is getting harder and harder to fight with every passing conversation. The language these people speak—the easy way they talk about finance, art, the corporate world—it’s definitely not my language. In fact, it’s completely foreign to me. So foreign I can’t help but feel like the dumb jock in the room, unable to contribute or keep up.

  This foray into Gracie’s world is making me think we might be more different than I realized.

  Yeah, we’ve known each other forever. But now I see how we don’t know each other. Not in any real sense of the word. I don’t know her friends, and she doesn’t know mine. I didn’t know what she was interested in, what kinds of things she’s involved with. What lights her up besides dirty jokes and good food.

  We may both call Elijah a brother. But otherwise, our interests and social circles never really overlapped.

  That’s because they are completely different. I see the Venn diagram in my head: two circles, Gracie’s interests and friends on the left, mine on the right. The circles do overlap. But only for one thing.

  Sex.

  Are our bodies, our biological needs, really the only common denominator Gracie and I share? Because that’s the shittiest denominator ever. Everyone has a body. Everyone wants to fuck.