Betting on Bailey (Menage MfM Romance Novel) (Playing For Love Book 1)
Page 3
She picks up on the first ring. “Bailey? Is everything okay?” she asks into the phone, before even waiting for my hello. The concern in her voice is obvious, and hearing it, I choke up for the first time this evening.
“I left Trevor.” It sounds so stark when I hear it. “I was wondering if I could crash at your place tonight?”
“Of course Bails,” she says instantly. “Always.”
* * *
“What happened?”
I’m holding a cup of hot chocolate and sitting on Piper’s couch. Her cat is curled up in my lap. Though I haven’t lived in this apartment for five months, it still feels like home in a way that my place with Trevor never did. “Jasper’s missed having you around,” she adds.
“I missed him too,” I admit, stroking the ginger cat’s head. “However, I think that as far as Jasper is concerned, human laps are interchangeable.”
“There is that.” She hesitates before broaching the topic that’s on both of our minds. “I don’t have to know what happened with you and Trevor, if you don’t want to talk about it.”
“No, it’s okay.” I fill her in on my evening.
“You have to be kidding,” she interrupts loudly, when I get to the part where he was being a dick at the pool table. “He said what?”
“I’m hopeless.” I repeat those hurtful words. “Still, he’s right, isn’t he? I am hopeless. I’ve never had any hand-eye coordination, and I wilt under pressure.”
“You,” she glares at me, “are the furthest thing from hopeless.” She holds up her hand. “One,” she counts, “you spent six months in Indonesia, studying remote tribes, and you spent how long in Siberia?”
“A year.”
“Exactly. Wilting under pressure, my ass. Trevor’s dick wilts under pressure.”
There’s enough truth in that statement that I bite my tongue to keep from laughing aloud. I’d never mentioned Trevor’s problems to my girls, because he was my boyfriend and that would have seemed disloyal. After the breakup, I feel perfectly justified giggling a little.
“Second, you were the youngest hire ever in your department in NYU, weren’t you?”
I nod. I should miniaturize Piper and carry her around in my pocket everywhere to be my own personal cheerleader. She’s fantastic for my ego.
“Third,” she says. “I’ve seen Trevor trying to teach you how to play. He’s mean and he yells at you. He’s a horrible teacher.”
“He is that,” I agree. “I had a teacher like that in high school for French.”
“And do you speak French?” she asks pointedly.
I shake my head. “She put me off the language forever,” I confess.
“Exactly.” I’ve made Piper’s point for her. “So, can we agree that Trevor’s a terrible human being, and you would be excellent at pool if you were taught by someone even the slightest bit encouraging?”
“The former point, I concede.” I laugh. “The jury’s out on the latter. Incidentally, you sound like a trial lawyer. Taking lessons from Wendy?”
She grimaces. “I’ve inherited the kitchen staff from hell, so I need to channel my favorite shark in order to get people to fear me.” She sips at her cocoa and we are both silent for a while, submerged in our own problems. “Listen Bailey,” she says finally. “Would you like to be my roommate again? I could use a hand with the rent, and you need a place to stay.”
“Are you sure?” Piper had just inherited her restaurant when Trevor had asked me to move in, and it seemed like we were both getting what we wanted. I was living my fairy tale, and Piper was getting some space. Five months later, it seems that we are both back to square one. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to offer. I can find something else…”
“The money will help,” she admits, refusing to meet my eyes. “Business isn’t good.”
Piper’s situation is very strange. Her eccentric aunt left her a restaurant in her will, but she only inherits it free and clear if she can make the place survive for three years. But the place is run down, and the staff is surly and unprofessional. In New York’s hyper-competitive restaurant market, it’s a recipe for disaster.
I don’t know what to say, so I keep it simple. Piper doesn’t like to get mushy anyway. “That sucks ass.”
She smiles wanly. “Look at us,” she mocks. “The Tragic Two.” She shakes her head. “You know what we need? A drink, something stronger than hot chocolate. We need to celebrate that you finally left Trevor, and I need to remember that life could be so much worse. I have friends and I have my health.”
Things must be worse than I think at the restaurant if Piper needs cheering up. “Let’s do it. I’d get up and help you, but…”
“We don’t want to annoy Jasper.” She gazes fondly at her cat, before she goes into her kitchen and comes out with a bottle of red wine. I take the glass she hands me without displacing the purring bundle of fur on my lap.
“You know he had the nerve to imply I’d come crawling back?”
“He did what?” Piper’s voice rises in anger. “I don’t know why you put up with him for as long as you did. You deserve to be with someone who is kind to you, Bailey. Who thinks the sun rises because of you, and who sees stars when they look in your eyes.”
Piper has a poetic, romantic streak in her that even New York can't kill. I sip at my wine and think about her words. Why did I stay with Trevor once he revealed his true colors? “I guess part of me,” I answer slowly, “was hoping that he was just going through a rough patch. I thought it was because we’d just moved in together, and that can be stressful.”
“You made too many allowances for him.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Jasper purrs in satisfaction as I pet him, and his warm body is very therapeutic. Some company will make a fortune one day by packaging up kittens and wine as part of a gift basket for women that have just broken up with their boyfriends. “I think part of me was preparing for the break up. I mean, I applied to go work in Argentina for six months. Surely that was a sign.”
She shrugs. “Normal healthy relationships can survive a six month absence.”
I’m still thinking about why I stayed with Trevor. “Dating is hard in New York,” I muse. “It seems like there are two women to every guy. And I’m not skinny. Guys prefer women who look like models.”
Piper rolls her eyes. “Two failed relationships does not qualify you to talk about what guys prefer. If all guys wanted skinny blonde women, I wouldn’t be sitting here on Friday night with my cat and my best friend for company.”
We sit in the living room for a long time, listening to the street noise outside. People walk about, partying and celebrating, and I feel removed from it all. Finally, Piper yawns. “Bed?” she asks. “My mom always used to tell me that everything looks better after a good night’s sleep.”
“Bed,” I agree. Nothing has gone according to plan today but I’m too tired and too numb to figure out what to do. I dislodge Jasper from my lap, enduring his indignant yowl as punishment. I brush my teeth, using the dentist-issued toothbrush that resides in my travel bag, since my electric one is still at Trevor’s place. I’m asleep the instant my head hits the pillow, and though I don't expect it, I sleep deeply and without dreams.
* * *
Though we call ourselves the Thursday Night Drinking Pack, we’ve recently taken to hanging out on Monday nights, because Piper is too busy running a restaurant to drink on a Thursday with her girlfriends.
When I get back to Piper’s apartment after work Monday night, Katie, Gabby and Wendy are crammed together in the small living room, and Jasper’s purring happily on Katie’s lap. Traitor. “The time for an intervention has passed,” I quip. “I left him.”
A bottle of rum, several cans of Coke, and a tray heaped with sandwiches jostle for room on the coffee table. Gabby must have brought the food. She’s told me that her mother’s response to every crisis is a plate filled with egg salad sandwiches. It’s a habit that’s stuck.
“This isn’t an
“Fuck yes,” Piper agrees from her spot on the floor. Her words are slightly slurred. “Patronizing asshole.” She holds up a FedEx envelope to me. “This came for you, by the way.”
I frown at it. I’m not expecting anything. “Was he really that bad?” I ask as I rip the package open.
“Yes,” they all answer in unison, but I’m not looking at them. I’m reading the letter that was in the envelope, and I’m starting to see red. Blood red.
“Bailey?” Katie asks me. “Is everything alright?”
“No.” I take a big gulp of the drink in my hand. “You guys, listen to this.” I wave the sheet of paper at them. “This is from Trevor’s lawyer. The fucker’s demanding that I pay ninety days of rent, since I didn’t give him adequate notice before moving out.”
“What the…” Gabby exclaims.
“He can’t do that, can he?” Piper cuts in. “That’s not fair.”
We all turn toward Wendy. She’s a divorce lawyer, and while rents and tenancy aren’t really her area of expertise, she’ll know more than any of us.
Wendy makes a face. “He probably can,” she says. “I’m sorry, Bailey, but you both signed a lease, didn’t you?”
I nod. “One year.” I empty the glass, and Gabby helpfully refills it for me. That’s my girl. Rum is exactly what I need right now.
“And you’ve lived together for five months? So technically, you owe seven months’ rent. A court will see the ninety days that Trevor’s suggesting as a reasonable offer.” She grimaces. “I’m sorry, Bailey. But you are probably best off paying him and moving on. I’ll loan you the money, if you need.”
“Hang on,” Gabby says slowly. “He earned almost a half a million dollars every year, and you made a teacher’s salary, and he still wants you to pay rent?” She glares at Wendy. “And you are agreeing with this?”
“I’m not agreeing,” Wendy protests. “I’m just telling you that if Bailey goes to court, she’ll probably lose. She’s best off cutting her losses.”
“Motherfucker,” Piper grits out. “I want to put Trevor’s balls in my pasta machine and roll them out, bit by painful bit.”
I toss back my second rum and coke, but the sour taste in my mouth isn’t from the drink. I’m furious. In that moment, fueled by Gabby’s rum and fortified by her egg-salad sandwiches, I want to get even. I want Trevor to feel as stupid as I felt right now. “Fine,” I look at Wendy. “I’ll pay. But I want revenge.”
“Whatever you are planning to do, if it’s illegal, don’t tell me,” she says hastily. “I can’t hear about it.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not illegal, I’m not stupid.” A plan is forming in my befuddled brain. There’s one place that I can hit Trevor where it would really hurt. “Guys,” I hear myself ask. “Does anyone know how I can get really good at pool quickly?”
“Tell us more…” Piper says. Her tone suggests she thinks I’ve lost my mind, but she’s wrong. For the first time in a really long time, the way forward is clear. I want Trevor to hurt.
The words tumble from my mouth in a rush. “I want to beat him. Every year, his pool league plays in a tournament. There’s a stupid trophy that they compete for, and the winners get to fly to Las Vegas and play in yet another tournament. Trevor lives to compete in Vegas.” I take a deep breath. “I want to play on the opposing team, and I want to take that away from him. I want to beat him.”
“A pool league?” Gabby’s voice is thoughtful. “I might know someone.” She shoots me a look. “It would be a lot easier to just throw a lot of dishes against the wall in anger. If you want to get good at pool, it’ll take time and effort.”
“I want this.” There’s no doubt in my voice.
Gabby already has her phone out and is scrolling through her contacts. “A coworker of mine plays in a league. Let me see if his team needs another player.” She stands up and takes her drink on to Piper’s rickety balcony. “Hey Clark, it’s Gabriella,” I hear her say before she shuts the door. “Listen, a friend of mine wants to play pool. Didn’t you say you needed more players?”
I sip my third drink and ponder what I’ve set in motion. I’m crazy busy at work. I have two papers to publish and one of my graduate students is planning on defending his PhD soon. In addition, I’m in the tenure window at NYU, which means my teaching load is heavy. I’m teaching four undergraduate classes this semester. Spending an evening every week playing pool feels like a luxury I cannot afford.
But the Department of Anthropology isn’t well-funded, and my chances for tenure are quite slim. Besides, the need for revenge burns hot in my blood.
Gabby opens the door and comes back in. “You are in,” she announces. “The team meets Wednesday nights at the Maxwell Club. Get there at seven and ask for Clark. He’s expecting you.” She reaches for a sandwich and munches it before speaking her next words. “Clark can be annoying,” she says. “But he tells me their team is very, very good.”
“They know I’m not, right?” I want this to be clear. If they are expecting some kind of pool shark, they are going to be sorely disappointed. I’ve never been sporty. I was the kid that always had her nose buried in a book. When I bend over the table, my breasts knock the balls out of place.
Maybe Trevor was right. Maybe I am hopeless. Maybe wanting to beat him is just some kind of pipe dream. Then the advice from my dad sounds once again in my head. Don’t you want to know what lies ahead? If you stay right here, how will you find out?
He’s right, and Piper’s right as well. I probably am never going to be any good at pool, but I owe it to myself to find out.
Gabby nods. “He said they need some players that aren’t experts. It has to do with some kind of handicapping system.”
I know what she’s talking about. Having lived with Trevor for five months, I’ve learned much more about the mechanics of pool leagues than I ever wanted to know. If there’s a finite amount of memory in my head, knowing about the equalizer system that the American Poolplayers Association uses has probably replaced something more important in my brain. If you find me walking around gibbering like an idiot, blame Trevor.
Gabby’s grinning to herself, a secret little smile that means that something’s afoot. “What?” I ask her, pointing my finger at her. “I know that look. What aren’t you telling me?”
Her reply is airy. “I was at the Maxwell Club one night when Clark’s team was playing,” she says. “Let’s just say that your teammates are very easy on the eye. I predict a rebound fling.”
I normally keep the details of my sex life private, but I’m also on my third drink, and the rum has loosened my tongue. “A rebound fling sounds really good,” I sigh. “Trevor was… underwhelming.”
Everyone leans forward for more dirt. The last time we giggled and spilled the beans about our sex lives was two months ago, when Gabby regaled us with the story of her ménage à trois with two guys she met in a bar. Ménage à trois. It even sounds exotic. “What do you mean, underwhelming?” Wendy asks.
“Missionary with the lights turned out, precisely twice a week.” I make a face as I remember my lamentable sex life. “Once in a while, if he was being adventurous, I was allowed to get on top and do all the work.”
Shrieks of horror greet my answer. “Seriously?” Katie sounds astonished. “Not even doggie?”
I snort inelegantly. “Doggie? Trevor preferred to pretend I didn’t have a butt. He called it the ‘out hole.’”
Gabby almost chokes on her rum and coke, she’s laughing so hard. “I’m assuming anal was out of the question, then?” she quips. “So tell me again, why were you with him?”
“I thought there should be more to a relationship than sex.” I gulp back the rest of my drink. “Stupid me. Instead, I got a shitty relationship and a lackluster sex life. That’ll teach me. A rebound fling is exactly what I need. Wild crazy sex? I’m in.”
They all giggle and the talk turns to Wendy’s last blind date from the internet. I laugh and make conversation, but underneath all of it, my resolve hardens. Trevor was a mistake - a bad one. I was ready to move on until he sent me that stupid bill. Now, I want to kick his ass in front of all his friends. A rebound fling does sound nice, but if that doesn’t happen, I’m not going to get too worried. I am going to Argentina in September, and I have my career to worry about. Guys are a distraction, and anything more serious than casual sex isn’t what I need right now. I’m too busy for love.
5
Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Daniel:
It seems ridiculous to come to a private, members-only club in Manhattan to play pool, but there we are. That’s the kind of insanity that’s to be expected in my life. Still, at the Maxwell Club, absolutely no-one calls me Mr. Hartman in the deferential tone of voice that drives me crazy. People even disagree with me from time to time. It’s very refreshing.
“Good of you to show up.”
I grimace. Clark Ellis’ tone drips with passive-aggressiveness. If he’s going to chew me out for missing the opening three weeks of this season, then I wish he’d just man up and yell at me. Instead, I’m going to have to endure not-so-subtle digs about the importance of showing up all night long. Sebastian, my best friend and instigator of this pool league idea, owes me big-time.
“Do you want me to quit the team, Clark?” I look straight into his eyes, and there’s steel in my voice. “If you’ve found a replacement, I’m happy to withdraw.”
I’m being a dick. Right now, there’s only four of us and the league’s rules require five players in each team. Clark’s getting desperate. He’s managed to annoy most of last season’s players and three of them have flat out refused to come back. If he can’t get a fifth person to show up tonight, we’ll forfeit a game all season long.
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