I laugh. “That’s alright. I already called him and let him know I boarded okay.”
Just as it looks like SJ is about to reach for his phone, thankfully, the flight attendant interrupts with her announcement. Football players have a weird culture where they get off on pranking and ribbing each other, and acting like big kids when they’re together. But in the time I’ve been with Rand, I’ve also learned that he doesn’t really find a lot of amusement in even the playful suggestion of me with some other guy.
SJ and I fasten our seatbelts and settle back into our seats, not speaking at all until after takeoff. He is, I can tell from his fidgeting, a nervous flyer. When we level out a little and the stewardess comes to take our drink orders, he asks for a Hennessy on the rocks.
“What’s that taste like?” I ask, trying to distract him.
I’ve ordered a white wine, because all I need is something light, that will take the edge off the enervated feeling I still have from rushing, and then missing the flight I was originally supposed to be on.
“Hennessy?” he asks, looking at me. He shrugs. “Sharp. Strong. Want to try it when it comes?”
I think for a moment and then nod. “Sure. But just a tiny sip.”
“Never tried it before?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Not a big drinker.”
“Me neither. Except for when I’m thirty-seven thousand feet in the air.”
“Think of it this way,” I say. “The job you have on the ground, is a lot more dangerous than being up here.”
He laughs, throwing his head back a little and exposing his strong column of a neck. He has a prominent Adam’s apple, which is for me, by far one of the sexiest and manliest of man-parts.
Rand has a prominent one as well, and I’ve discovered about him that he loves when I kiss him there. With my head bowed, especially when I sit astride him, kissing him on that spot, I feel it bob as he swallows, and his lips part into a grin. And sometimes, I feel him shiver, just like he makes me shiver.
“Good point,” SJ says.
“Do you ever get nervous before a game?” I ask. I’m trying to further distract him, because I can feel his barely-contained skittishness as the plane hits a couple of bumps. His grip on the arm-rest gives him away.
“Sometimes, yeah. Except …” He squints a little as though he’s thinking about the question. “I wouldn’t call it nervousness … maybe just excessive energy.”
I nod. “Makes sense. So, what do you do for that?”
“Move around a lot. Work it off in warm-ups.”
“And I guess that’s the problem with flying, huh?” I say. “You’re all strapped in, and can’t work off the nervous energy.”
SJ goes still for a moment then gives me a slow smile. “Yeah,” he says, dragging the word out. “That’s part of it. And the …”
“Powerlessness,” I supply. “And the voice coming from nowhere, telling you what to do.”
He nods, then narrows his eyes again. “What’re you? A shrink?”
I laugh. I consider hedging, or avoiding the question. But the last time I did that was with Rand when we first met, and that didn’t turn out too well.
“I’m a life coach,” I say.
“Makes sense.” SJ nods. He doesn’t make any of the cracks that I have come to expect, about whether that’s even a ‘real thing’. “Tell me more about how that works,” he says instead.
And so, I do. And when the flight attendant brings us, our drinks, we are still talking. We talk through the drinks, and into the meal service. We only have a lull in conversation when, after eating, I take a brief nap.
When I wake up, SJ is reading—of course—Sports Illustrated. When he sees me peering over at it, he slides the magazine closer and starts talking about some of the athletes pictured. He tells me funny, and sometimes scandalous stories about some of them, and gives a few jabs at those he doesn’t like.
“This dude is a tank on the field,” he says about a Giants player. “But, a drinker. I can smell booze on his breath sometimes when we’re out there.” Or, “this kid has mad-skills for a rookie, but he’s reckless. I give him one year before he hurts somebody for real.” And, “this dude is a beast. Hit our QB so hard, it took ten minutes before his eyes re-focused.”
I ask if he’s worried about the same things that people on the outside talk about: traumatic brain injury, on-field protests jeopardizing his job … fan backlash for protesting, or for not protesting.
“Still trying to figure out who I need to be,” he says, his voice falling to a low, serious note. “Stephen Jordan, or Stephen Jordan Public Figure. I think some guys … they just want to be unnoticed. Except for how they play the game. All that public stuff … that political stuff … they just wish it would go away.”
“Are you one of those guys?” I ask.
SJ laughs. “Look at you over here, havin’ me spill my guts. I’m starting to think I better watch out for you, Danielle.”
“No,” I say, blushing and shaking my head. “Your secrets are completely safe with me.”
He gives me a searching look, then nods. “I believe you.” Then he unbuckles, and when he stands, I am overwhelmed anew, by his height. “Lemme go hit the head.”
When he returns, I go. And then when I return, we keep talking. We talk for so long that when I finally think I might close my eyes again, I am surprised by the announcement from the pilot that we are just half an hour outside of LAX, and that flight attendants should begin to prepare the cabin for landing.
~6~
I hear her laughter before I see her.
Even in the crowded venue of Au Bar, the sound of Dani’s laugh breaks through the ambient noise, and I instinctively look around to the entrance. She is wearing black jeans, and a white button-down that follows the curves of her chest, waist, and hips, and around her neck is a complicated gold necklace.
In her hair, she has pushed up her sunglasses, the Coach pair I bought her when we were out one day and she kept squinting against the sun. She said at the time that they’re the nicest pair she’s ever had, and that she doesn’t ever want them to be out of her sight.
Though she was only kidding, she often wears them, even on overcast days, to keep her long bangs out of her eyes.
For someone who just flew across country, she looks full of energy, and upbeat. She laughs again, and looks at the person next to her. So, I look at him, too. It’s Stephen Jordan.
Just as I cross the room toward them, he peels off to the left, spotting someone he knows.
Dani sees me, and her eyes light up. And I can’t help it; my face breaks out into a dumb-ass grin as well.
She walks right into my chest, and looks up at me.
“Finally made it, huh?” I say. I’m playing it cool a little bit, though I really want to pull her even closer.
“Finally,” she says.
And then we’re just staring at each other, and I’m in that zone, where I’m watching myself with her and wondering who the hell this dude is, all smiley-faced and shit.
“How was the event?”
“It was good. How was the flight?”
Her eyes light up a little. “Surprisingly good. Met a friend of yours.”
“Who’s that?”
“Stephen Jordan.”
“SJ? He’s more like a … an associate,” I say.
“We were sitting next to each other on the plane. I helped distract him from his fear of flying. But don’t tell him I told you that,” she adds, wrinkling her nose.
She’s so damn cute. I stare at her, and because of how long I do it, it gets a little weird, and Dani blushes.
“What?” she asks.
I missed her. A lot. But I don’t say that. This week made me realize just how much time we manage to spend together back home, even with my commutes to Bristol. I don’t think we’ve been apart an entire week in months.
“You tired?” I ask, instead. “It’s past midnight by your body clock.”
“Not really. I napped a little on the plane. So, what’re we doing here? What’s the mission?”
She looks around the venue, like she’s my partner-in-crime, here to help me case the joint. There are footballers, and footballers’ wives, and girlfriends, mistresses and hanger-ons. It’s not the kind of place I would normally want to take Dani to, but this is for work, so, like it or not, I need to stick around for a minute.
“Just hangin’ out, shaking some hands, making nice with some folks. You want to grab something to eat?”
“Yes. That I would like to do,” she says, looking around. “Even in first-class, or business-class or whatever they’re calling it these days, the food was nothing to write home about.”
There are only bar-style tables, small and best suited for drinks in skinny glasses; and at most of them, people are milling around. I find one that’s just been vacated and signal for a server to clear away the glasses. He does that, and wipes it down for us. I pull up a chair for Dani, and one for myself.
When we’re sitting across from each other, and I’m looking right at her, I feel myself relax, and realize that the entire evening—the entire week—part of me was waiting for her, part of my mind and focus dedicated to counting down the hours, and minutes until she got here.
The community forum I moderated went okay. I played my position, which was to provide chances for all the NFL wives to spout their platitudes about wanting to make sure they give back, and that they stay connected to where they come from and all that crap. And I gave the community folks just enough time to express polite outrage at the scourge of violence, the lack of programs, the poor services, and the disrespect from law enforcement.
And then everyone made vague promises about how involved they plan to stay, so that our young men and boys don’t get caught up in the cycle, and pulled into the prison industrial complex. Listening to it all—and saying some of it myself—makes me feel cynical.
None of us have done enough. Nothing reminds me of that more than when we’re leaving the auditorium, and I see the awe in the eyes of the young kids who came out with their parents, as they watch me, and the ballers’ wives jump into our tinted, chauffeured SUVs and speed away from the mean streets of Hyde Park.
I don’t know much about Los Angeles, but man, that neighborhood looked like a completely different planet than where me and Dani will be staying at the W Hotel in West Beverly Hills. But even in Beverly Hills, some of the grit beneath the glitter pokes through—the homeless couple just steps from where some guy pulled up in his Maserati for valet service; and the obviously high young mother pushing a baby carriage, and muttering to herself, while everyone pretends to neither see nor hear her.
The server brings us a menu and Dani looks it over while I scan the room. Most of my bosses are gone, and I figure by the time Dani’s done eating, we can break out. I want her alone, since tomorrow I’m not going to have much free time.
She told me when we talked on the phone that she would spend most of the morning sightseeing and hook up with me back at the hotel in time for the awards. She didn’t ask, though I know she is wondering, why she had to come so early in the first place, since I’m going to be working. I don’t have an answer to that, other than that I prefer it.
“Rocket!”
I look up and SJ is approaching us. On his arm, he has some chick with platinum-blonde hair and frosted pink lipstick who looks like she’s surgically attached to his side. She is smiling widely, like she knows me. Dani glances up from the menu. She smiles, and looks down again.
“SJ,” I stand for a second to greet him with some dap and a brief hug. “Wha’s up, man?”
“Your lady ain’ tell you? We were on the same flight.” He smiles down at Dani.
“Yeah, she mentioned it,” I say.
I notice he doesn’t introduce the blonde. It’s like she’s a watch he’s wearing, or a piece of jewelry. She doesn’t even step forward to try to introduce herself, probably realizing that she is basically irrelevant.
“Before I knew it, she had me tellin’ her my whole life story,” he says, looking at Dani. “Real slick, this woman you got here.”
“I think it was the cognac that loosened your tongue,” Dani says, looking up from the menu. And because she doesn’t know that the blonde is supposed to be seen and not heard, she extends a hand and introduces herself.
SJ and I let them do that, and I learn that the blonde’s name is Fabienne.
I know that SJ’s fiancée’s name is not Fabienne. This is none of my business, but anyway, I doubt I’ll see the blonde again after tonight.
“Nah, it had nothing to do with the Hennessy,” SJ points at Dani, eyes narrowed. “You have some kinda gift, or something.”
I say nothing. Don’t I know it? Dani can put anyone at ease, get just about anyone talking.
“I got a little get-together in my suite tomorrow right after the awards. Before the real parties jump off,” SJ says. “Dani, you need to stop through.”
‘Dani, you need to stop through’?
I look at him with narrowed eyes, and he quickly realizes his blunder.
“Both of y’all,” he amends. “Lemme get your information.” He looks at Dani, but she’s still trying to decide what to eat.
“I got your number,” I say. “I’ll hit you up, and let you know whether we can make it.”
Dani finally looks up again, shoots him an absentminded smile, and looks down again, still engrossed in the menu. SJ and I exchange looks, and I know that he knows what time it is. I don’t mind if he and Dani are friendly, if they stay on the more conservative side of … ‘friendliness’.
Which means that if he wants to reach her, he needs to go through me.
“Yeah,” he says in a slow drawl. “Hit me up.”
Dani, oblivious as usual to how shit like this works, looks up all wide-eyed and innocent.
“Who wants to split some teriyaki chicken wings?”
“So, tell me everything I missed.”
I am lying across the bed when Dani comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her torso, her hair still in the plastic shower cap. She whips it off and sits on the end of the bed.
“Nothing,” I say. “You ain’t missed a damn thing. Meetings, parties, meaningless conversations.”
“Good to hear that your job satisfaction is still high,” Dani says laughing a little. She reaches for her bag on the floor at her feet, and pulls out a bottle of oil, uncapping it. “You’ve been here five days, though, Rand. Something exciting must have …”
“I ran into your client. Corey Jones,” I offer. “We had nachos and a couple beers together earlier today.”
“Oh cool. I guess it makes sense that Corey’s here. Did you mention to him that we’re …?”
“That we’re what?”
I run my hand along the length of her thigh, under the towel, and Dani goes very still. Her skin is warm from the shower, soft and very smooth.
“You know …”
“I don’t know,” I tease her. “That we’re what?”
“Together.” She’s still almost shy when she says that.
I sit up and take the bottle of oil from between her fingers. She looks at me, and says nothing, but a smile is tugging at the corners of her lips. Without breaking eye contact, I reach for the towel and loosen it, so it falls to her waist. I pull at it, and she lifts her ass a little, so it slides from beneath her and she is sitting naked on the bed.
The running has changed her body, so she is much leaner, though not too lean. I’m glad she still has fullness about her hips and thighs. I love looking at her but even more than that, it pushes me to the brink, just thinking about how she feels beneath me. She is soft to my hard, take to my give, yin to my yang.
I reach out and trace one nipple with the tip of a finger and watch them both harden so they look like little brown pebbles. Involuntarily, I lick my lower lip.
“Lemme give you a massage,” I say.
Dani�
�s head falls to one side, and she looks at me, almost quizzically. As if she doesn’t know where this is going, and exactly how it’s going to end up.
“Sure,” she says. She turns away from me and gets on her knees, spreading the towel on the bed and I get a good view of her perfect behind.
I am still smiling when she turns around to face me again.
“Where d’you want me?” she asks. And then hearing how that sounds, she laughs. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.” I shrug, feigning a look of innocence. Then I pat the center of the damp towel. “Right here. On your stomach.”
Dani obeys, and I take a moment to just look at her, then shrug my shirt and undershirt together over my head and then work on the jeans.
“Are you getting naked?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.
“Yup.” I don’t bother pointing out that once she was naked, it was a foregone conclusion that I would be as well.
“Because that’s totally necessary for a massage,” she snorts.
“The oil will ruin my clothes, smart-ass,” I say, as I shove everything I just took off over the edge of the bed.
“Okay, Rand. Of course,” Dani says, her voice falsely sweet.
I am hard before I even touch her. But once I pour some of the oil into my hands and begin to work it into her smooth-as-caramel skin, things get even more intense. I am straddling her thighs, and in optimal position for much more than a massage, so it takes a lot of concentration to keep focused on getting the knots and tightness out of her back muscles.
“That feels so good …” Dani is groaning now. “That long flight made my shoulders so … ah …so tight.”
“Tight?” I repeat, like a man in a trance.
Dani looks over her shoulder again, and just as I think she’s about to make another joke, she instead arches her back just the tiniest bit, so her ass lifts a little bit into the air. I swallow hard, and try to stay on task, but now her skin is glistening in the dim light of the room, and I’m almost dizzy with the feeling of having her this close once again.
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