by Scott, S. L.
“Really? How’d you score that?”
“I have rich friends,” he replies while glancing down at me.
“I need some of those. Why’d we buy beers at the concession stand?”
Looking over the lip of my cup, he sees that I’ve already drunk almost half. “Thought you might be thirsty.”
“Guess I was.” Nervous is more like it, but I’m good with him thinking I’m thirsty.
When we arrive in the suite, I’m in awe. Taking me by the elbow, he shows me to the seats. I’m too busy staring at the field and this vantage point to worry about my seat though. “Rich friends are very good to have.”
“They sure are.” And there’s that sexy wink again.
Four innings in, and I’m stuffed from all the good food and candy. The suite life is definitely the sweet life, except Ethan’s been busy the whole time talking to some men sharing the box. When he returns and finally sits down, he asks, “How’s the game?”
“Good. You should watch it.”
His laugh has become one of my favorite sounds. “Hint taken.”
“No hint. Just a little lonely.”
His hand covers mine on the armrest between us, and he squeezes lightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to run into them and they had some business to discuss. I’m all yours for the rest of game.”
All mine. My bottom lip gets tugged under my teeth just thinking about the possibility. My gaze dips down, lingering on the strong lines of his hand and wrist, the veins prominent and strong. He was ready to fight for me. That might be a turnoff if another guy angers easily, but knowing Ethan was defending me is a whole other story.
He leans back in his chair, and whispers, “I’m glad I’m here with you.”
That makes all the difference in the world to me, but I’m not willing to put that out there. “That’s nice of you to say.” My annoyance isn’t kept at bay this time.
His hand disappears too soon from mine, but I leave mine there in case he gets the urge to return his. “What’s wrong?”
“Why do you say things like that?”
“I say what I feel.”
“You put words carelessly out there without regards to how they might make me feel.”
Shifting in his seat, he comes closer, and whispers, “How do they make you feel?”
“Like there’s hope for us when there’s not.”
His eyes return to the baseball field. When they return to me, he sighs. “I like spending time with you. I’m doing the best I can right now.” Running his hand through his hair, he says, “My life is comp—”
“Complicated. I get it, but you’re making my life complicated.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to, Singer. I know it’s selfish to leave you with vague answers, but there’s no hidden agenda here. I just thought it was time we get to know each other. We seem to find ourselves in the same place quite often.”
“But why now? It’s been a year.”
“Because I’m finally free to do so.”
“You’re not as free as you think you are if your life is too complicated to consider more.” More? I sound like a whore begging for sex. Ugh.
A small smile appears, some relief found in his eyes. “I want to get to know you. How about we start there?”
Seems I’m not going to break through that wall of secrets he has raised high around him. I have to make a decision. Do I want a friendship with Ethan, or do I cut my losses now and walk away?
I start to stand. My hand is instantly pinned to the armchair. It doesn’t hurt, but it gives his real feelings away. “Please stay, Singer.”
“Why?”
The stress crinkles at the corners of his eyes as a debate rages inside. “Because I may not want to involve you in my complications, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want to involve you in my life.”
I stand there looking at him, the truth not only heard in his words, but written all over his face. I sit back down. “Okay.”
“Let’s start again.”
I agree and ask, “What do you want to know about me?”
“Let me see . . .” We watch a few plays, then he asks, “You work at a financial firm. What do you do there?”
“I work for a financial advisor. I’m an assistant. I edit all the documents that go out and pretty much run his career while he makes the big bucks.”
“So you’re not happy doing that?”
“I’d rather work in publishing.”
Interested, he asks, “Oh really? Doing what?”
I feel silly voicing my career goals to someone who seems to have his life together in spite of some complications. I do it though. I give a voice to my dreams and send a wish into the universe. “I want to be an editor of fiction, specifically. I love getting lost in a good book.”
“Why don’t you do that currently?”
“Because I need to pay rent. I keep on top of the market and send out my résumé when I see opportunities. It’s a small industry so the jobs are hard to come by.”
“I have faith in you.”
“You and Mel. Lately, I’ve been starting to wonder if it’s time to face reality and settle into a career that’s reachable.”
“Doing something that’s reachable isn’t a dream. It’s just, I don’t know, life. Don’t give up.”
“I think some days I’m just tired of the struggle.”
“To pay rent?”
“To pay bills, make ends meet, rent, food, going out. I’m broke most of the time.” Rolling my eyes at myself, I add, “This is probably not considered an attractive quality.”
“Being broke?”
I laugh. “Yeah. I don’t need someone to rescue me—”
“I can tell. You’re a strong woman, Singer. Just hang on a little longer. Your dreams might come true. Speaking of selfish, I really would like you to stay.”
The intensity behind his words and in his eyes hits me, and my throat goes dry. When I finally exhale a long held breath, I say, “I will, for now.” I only receive a nod in return, but what do I expect him to say? “What about you?” This time I’m not feeling so shy. “I don’t know much about you either. Tell me something your mother doesn’t know.”
Chuckling, he replies, “My mother doesn’t know a lot about me. It’s probably best to keep it that way.” He settles in. With his eyes on the field, he kicks a foot up on the wall. His gaze works its way back to me, reticence in the comforting greens. “You didn’t look me up.”
“You asked me not to.” I shrug. “Anyway, I like to get to know a person from talking to them. Why waste my precious youth googling someone who said he can’t practice with me?”
“All good points.” He chuckles. “I agree that I’d rather get to know you from spending time with you as well. So if it matters, I didn’t look you up either. I also didn’t ask our mutual friends, though I’ll tell you, I was tempted a time or two.”
“Why don’t you just ask me?”
A small shrug is followed by a smaller smile. “I don’t know. I’m afraid to mess things up.”
“With us?”
“Yeah, I like that it’s easy to talk to you. And I like the way you look at me like—”
Some man grabs his shoulder and shakes it. “Good to see you, Everest. Call me on Monday, and we’ll wrap things up.”
“Yeah. I will. Thanks.” He shakes his hand then turns back to me.
I’m still hanging on his last words. “Like what?”
“Huh?”
“You said I look at you like . . . and then you were interrupted.”
He smiles and it’s as bright as the lights over the stadium. With a gentle elbow nudge, he says, “Maybe I spoke too soon about practicing with you, but I like hanging out and don’t want to screw this up by having sex with you.”
Is my mouth hanging open because it sure feels like a gaping hole after hearing that statement from him? Hinging my jaw back up, I could analyze what he said for hours, but right now all I can say is, “You’re very
comfortable talking about having sex with me.”
“Sorry. Too much? I’m trying to be upfront with you.”
“I like that you’re honest. I just . . . I don’t talk about it so freely. I’m kind of a prude when it comes to that.”
“To sex or talking about it?”
It’s not lost on me. Ethan Everest wants to sleep with me. It’s also not overlooked that he likes our friendship. I do too. My cheeks are on fire, way beyond friendship and deepening into lust. I whisper, “Talking about it.”
“You don’t come off as someone who blushes from the drop of a little sex talk.”
Scoffing, I reply, “I might take offense to that.”
He laughs. “No, no offense intended. You just seem open. Maybe it’s that you’re easy to talk to, so I open up.”
“Okay, that’s not so bad. Good save by the way. And since when does sex screw things up?”
After the laughter stops, he says, “Maybe that’s only with me.”
“Sex with you screws things up? Maybe you’re having sex with the wrong people then.” Even though I return my focus to the game, I can feel him staring at me. When I glance over at him again, his gaze is heavy, but his eyes seem to carry the weight of the world. Why?
“I think you could be right.” He turns back to the game, the conversation over by the looks of his attention toward the field, and the posturing as he grumbles because of a bad play.
I sit back and drink my beer, though all I want to do is talk more about sex with the right and wrong person and why he thinks he spoke too soon when it came to me. So many questions, but I don’t ask them because I’m afraid to screw up whatever this is with him.
* * *
The Astros lose, but we still walk out proud supporters in our shirts and hats. No fair-weather friends here. Nope. We’ll show our support even through defeat, and joke about it along the way. Outside on the sidewalk, he stops and looks at me. With a tug to the bill of my cap, he says, “You look cute.”
First it was good. Now it’s cute. I think this might be progress. And as I start analyzing what he actually says, I think he’s going to continue with in this hat or in this shirt, but he doesn’t. He just leaves it right there with “you look cute.” And my smile couldn’t get bigger. I tug on the bill of his hat and say, “You look cute, too.” So cute, handsome. Knee weakening. Panty dropping . . . He reminds me of Sam Hunt with his boy-next-door charm and happy-go-lucky attitude. “So where you taking me now?”
“Who says I’m taking you anywhere?” He tries to hold a straight face, but fails. “Come on, let me buy you a drink. Us defeated fair-weather friends have to stick together.” He wraps his arm around my neck, and we start walking. My heart is racing and the buzz I was feeling earlier is gone. I’m sobered by his touch, his smile, by his body pressed against mine.
My feelings are jumbled by what he says, and my body reacts to every little smile he sends my way. I’ll wholeheartedly blame the alcohol. It’s easier than blaming myself.
7
Singer
We can’t catch a cab dressed like this. Not in Yankees country.
For ten minutes, Ethan’s waved an arm, whistled, and even stepped off the curb to get a cabbie’s attention until I pulled him back. With the crowd pouring out of the stadium, it will only get harder to get a ride, so Ethan calls a private car service instead.
Sitting in the back, I run my hand over the upholstery, appreciating the fine leather. “What a score, huh?”
He nods. “Food or drinks?” And then he yawns.
He looks exhausted, so I suggest, “We can call it a night if you’re tired. It’s late anyway.”
“Sorry. It’s been a long week, and I never sleep well when I travel.”
“Is it the bed? I always sleep better in my own. It sucks on trips but makes coming home that much better.”
“Not sure. When I think about it, I don’t sleep that well at my place either.” He scrubs his hands over his face. “You’re probably right. I can tell I won’t be much fun. I’ve not had a good week. The Astros losing just adds to the tally.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You were the highlight.”
Our shoulders knock together. “I had fun. Thank you for taking me. We can just ask the driver to go to the nearest subway station. Then I can take the train home.”
“No way. Not at this hour.”
“It’s fine. Really. I do it every weekend.”
“I’ll see you home. Where do you live?”
I hesitate. As soon as I say it, he’s going to find out just how broke I really am. We’ve always seen each other at nice restaurants or upscale bars. He’s seen the best of me. Am I ready for him to see the worst . . . the truth? Taking him downtown is going to be a bad ending to a night that’s been so good.
Leaning back, I drop my chin, and whisper the address. As soon as I tell him, he tells the driver. There’s no judgment in his tone. His fingers touch mine on the seat between us, and I leave my hand there, liking the connection, a little heat of comfort. A few blocks pass before he says, “You shouldn’t be riding the subway at night.”
“I can’t afford private cars, or cabs for that matter.” I don’t mean to snap at him, but my defenses have already shot up.
“Don’t ever be ashamed of how you live. You work hard. Good will come of that.”
“I’m surrounded by friends who are doing all these great things and moving up in their careers back home. But Melanie and I can’t seem to get solid footing here.”
His eyes are on me and the lights outside the window flashing by make them shine. “You took a risk moving here to pursue not only a career, but a dream. That’s admirable, Singer.”
“I try to remind myself that staying in Colorado would have been easy. I’m paying my dues for taking that risk; I don’t regret coming here.” Glancing into his eyes, I say, “I’m a different person here, not boxed in by expectations, or held back by small-town thinking. I love being in New York, but it’s hard sometimes.”
He smiles as if to himself. “You say you’re different here, but I think you would be different anywhere you go.”
“Should I take that as a compliment?”
“Definitely. From your name to the way you dress. You are uniquely you. I like that.”
Flattered by the compliment, I ask, “You like the way I dress?”
“Yes, you don’t dress for others. From the dress with the dots to that Yankees shirt that looked like you wore it straight from the store. Your clothes reflect your personality, which is how it should be. Genuineness is a rare thing in Manhattan.”
I take a minute to recover from the fact that he remembers what I wore that first night in the Bronx over a year ago. When I do, I angle toward him. “I did.”
“You did?”
“I bought that shirt on the way to meet you. I had no idea who was playing, but I wanted to fit in.”
“Fit in with what?”
“Fit in with you, Ethan.” Laughing lightly, I feel embarrassment creeping up my chest, but I have nothing to lose. “I figured it would probably be the Yankees playing, but I’m glad it wasn’t.”
“Why is that?”
“Because it kept you just as unpredictable as you’ve always been.”
Stealing a glimpse, he looks up under dark lashes. “See? That’s where I see things differently. I think I’m quite boring. But I like that you’re unpredictable.”
“You date models and travel for work. Nope, not predictable at all.”
Grimacing, he says, “I have dated models, but only occasionally. I’ve also dated women in other professions—lawyers, doctors, an actress, a bartender, waitresses, and a preschool teacher, but everyone seems to only remember the models.”
“Which do you remember?”
“I’m not sure any have been worth remembering or I’d still be with them.”
“Good point.” The mood lightens between us. I don’t think I could list the prof
essions of the guys I’ve dated.
“I really don’t think you should ride the subway at night, Singer.” He turns his attention and looks out the window.
And just like that, his heaviness creeps back in and I nod, unaware if he can see me or not. “It’s okay to change the subject, but if we are, can I ask you something first?”
“Okay.”
Thinking back to our time on the fire escape, I don’t remember if it was baseball, basketball, or football season. Maybe it was all three if that’s possible.
What I do remember is how Ethan turned away from me and exhaled a shaky breath. I remember the way he gripped the railing, turning his knuckles white, and the way he reluctantly stood up. I remember all his ways, but I also remember that almost kiss like it was yesterday, an hour earlier, or maybe it was merely seconds before by the way my lips still tingle in anticipation.
I remember his reluctance to leave me, and then how he looked back, smiled, and said, “See you around, Singer Davis.” I’d never heard my name sound so seductive, so smooth. It struck me that he had known my name without me giving it.
“How’d you know my name last year when we had never met?”
“I asked.”
He asked.
He asked others about me. Just that simple, and now I’m smiling.
The car comes to a stop in front of my building and an unsettled silence surrounds us. I’m not sure what to do, how to say goodbye to him. Open the door and dash, or leave it open to see what he does? Dashing is the most appealing right now, so I turn toward the door, but stop. “So this it.”
With his hand on my arm, he says, “I’ll walk you up.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” He opens the door and slides out, but reaches back in for me.
I take his hand and when I step out, I’m brought face-to-face with him. I lick my lips, and then drag my bottom lip under my teeth. His eyes latch on to the action and my body curves in, bringing me even closer. With our bodies so close, the heat emanates between us. I don’t think I can stay just friends with him. The chemistry I feel between us is too potent, too combustible.
Stepping to the side, I look over his shoulder at the door to my building. But his hands are still on me, a fire ignited despite my better judgment, so I glance back. “I should go inside.”
