by S. E. Hall
“Oh my God, please tell them about the fruitcake,” Nikki urges, already laughing.
“Ugh, thank you, Nik. Guess I have to now.” Gracelyn rolls her eyes. “So, yeah… my mother hand-delivers a homemade fruitcake to every officer, every shift, every Christmas, and in return, they… don’t ask her to stop calling them for a few months. Buys her until at least March before they start giving her ‘the talk’ again.”
Precious. Not a word I think often, or ever really, but it’s the one that keeps echoing in my head as I study Gracelyn; and it’s definitely fitting. I haven’t got a single clue how, why, or what the hell’s going on with me, but I am uncontrollably drawn to this woman; each new thing she says or does more intriguing than the last. And accordingly, my captivation having well surpassed logic, I simply stare, wearing a perhaps permanent smile, as Nikki and Lance both double over with laughter.
“Yeah, yeah, very funny, my mom’s crazy. Laugh it up, but just remember, I warned you… that crazy will come in real handy should either of you guys decide to dismember, murder, and or hurt either of us in any way. My mother will track you down like a bloodhound on crack and make whatever you did to us seem sweet in comparison to what she does to you. So, Mr. Fox, can I trust you to keep my friend far from any harm tonight?”
And that’s the ball game… I’m completely screwed, because nothing that anyone says, ever again, has a chance in hell of keeping me even half as entertained as Gracelyn does… without even trying. Which means, the pressure’s on — if I don’t woo her off her feet, ensuring that she never stops talking, to me, I’m facing a life left to be tolerated, spent in black and white mundanity.
While I ponder my future, Lance and Nikki stand, frozen, wearing identical, dumbfounded expressions. I on the other hand, have passed the point of restraint, moving fast to take her beautiful, intelligent, spunky little self by the hand. Small. Soft. A perfect, feminine fit in mine.
I was half expecting to feel sparks, an actual, physical phenomenon, to go right along with this whole extraordinary trance I seem to be in; but I don’t. No “ah ha” shot of electricity. No tale-worthy jolt. It just feels… right.
“Lance is a really good guy, harmless,” I whisper reassurance in her ear. “You have my word.”
She tilts her head to peer up at me, her plump, begging-to-be-kissed lips curling in taunt. “And what about you, Brewer Hayes? Are you harmless?”
I lean in so our noses are brushing as our gazes lock. “I’d say yes, but I aim to please… and you’re hoping that I say no.”
I didn’t respond when he’d breathed the truth, smug and warm, upon my lips, nor have either of us said much since. Now, as he drives, and I do my best not to fidget, a stale silence hangs, thickening the air. He’s keeping his eyes on the road, for the most part, but I’m hyper-aware of every side glance he flicks my way; what I’m guessing is his form of fidgeting… perhaps worried he came on too strong, offended me, unsure if it’s safe to break the ice again yet.
He didn’t, come on too strong or offend me, and it is, more than to safe to bust through the ice, but he doesn’t know that, so, looks like the ball’s in my court. Or, puck’s in my rink.
“Okay, I can’t take it; you’ve got to tell me to what I owe that sweet little giggle.” His voice is tinged with humor, as though anticipating the story behind the noise I didn’t realize I’d made.
“Umm…” I gnaw at my lip, struggling to come up with something, anything, other than honesty.
“Nuh uh.” He chuckles. “Out with it.”
“Fine.” I sigh, already cringing with embarrassment. “But you can’t laugh.”
“Why not? You did.”
“Touché. But laugh with me, not at me; deal?”
“Deal.”
I may have judged the awkward silence phase too quickly, suddenly missing it, but, here goes. “I was thinking, the ball’s in my court, about initiating a conversation…”
“And?”
I cover my eyes because that’ll help, “And then I changed it, to something else, that struck me as funny.”
“And that was?” His question holds a lilt of amusement, before I’ve even delivered the punch line. At this rate, he’ll probably piss himself and run us into a ditch by the time I’m finished. Or, run away, not attracted to dorks. “It can’t possibly be that bad. Just tell me.”
“Puck’s in my rink,” I mumble, eyes still covered. “Seemed fitting, best, yeah, also embarrassingly corny.”
I brace for ridicule, but when I’m met by complete silence, I talk myself in to sneaking a glance at his reaction, of non-reaction, and to see why the truck’s stopped moving. I’m too late, though; my hand is being lowered for me, my now-uncovered eyes meeting his as he rubs circles in my palm with his thumb.
“Nothing to be embarrassed about, and not corny, at all. What is was? The cutest damn thing I’ve ever heard. You’re something, Gracie Bolton,” he murmurs, a wolfish note in his tone that hits me right between the thighs.
“Something?” I beg him to elaborate, in a shaky whisper.
“Yeah, something. Unique. Special. That I’d give an arm to get to know more of.” He gifts me with the same sly smirk he’d worn during our very first encounter, at his game; and if possible, it’s even more effective this time.
But, as tempted as I am to forego it all — modesty, manners, or anything even remotely resembling my usual self — already more than a little lost in his husky timbre, bottomless eyes, and suggestive aura that I hurl myself on top of him, I force a reroute to boring small talk. “I sure am glad that return note I scrawled out, while hiding from Nikki in the stadium bathroom, found its way to you tonight. I was a little worried it wouldn’t, and I’d have felt awful leaving Nik sitting at home alone. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have; kinda tacky seeing as how the only reason I’m even here is to visit her.”
“Visit?” he repeats, but adds loud urgency to his version.
“Yes?” Ah, it dawns on me as I finish. “I don’t live here, Brewer; I just came up to see Nikki for the week. Been way too long. And… when the seven days are up, back home I go.” I smile and hitch a shoulder, puzzled by the harsh bend in his brows. So, with my pointer finger out, I motion about his face and ask, “Um, what’s going on with your face there, grumpy?”
He doesn’t say anything, his expression further hardening, and an absurd thought flits through my mind, causing me to laugh... and ask another question.
“Okay, please don’t take this the wrong way; I swear, I do not think near this highly of myself, but… you’re not going to try and sell me a load of crap like, you’re all grouchy faced because you’re just devastated” — and I slap the back of one hand against my forehead, making sure he realizes I’m kidding around and in no way think it’s possible — “to learn that the woman you met a whole hour ago doesn’t live within your grasp,” I end on a snicker.
“Actually… yeah, that’s it exactly. Not real happy about it. Matter of fact, the more I think about it, the more it fucking sucks.” His pouty grunt’s not only adorable, but, dare I believe… genuine?
No, don’t be ridiculous, Gracie. He’s obviously just kidding around too, like me, while being very flattering.
“A week, huh? Counting back from that first night I saw you at the game?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“So, we’ve got, what… four days left?”
“Uh huh,” I mumble, despite my growing shock, because… I didn’t imagine it this time. There’s definitely an edge of disappointment in his voice. And he said ‘we,’ which means him and I by definition, immune to any silly misinterpretation on my part. But, I still haven’t the foggiest on how to respond, so I’m beyond relieved when he speaks… again.
“You hungry?”
Nowhere near the neighborhood of what I was expecting, yet refreshingly welcomed, a small giggle gets away from me. “Not really, I don’t usually eat this late at night. But if you are-”
“Gracelyn, I�
�m a professional hockey player; I’m always hungry.” He laughs. “I wasn’t thinking about the time though, sorry. I’ll live.”
Anddd, we’re back to smothering dead air — parked on the side of the road, late at night — both thinking the same thing, both equally afraid to speak of anything even close to those thoughts. I sneak a peek at him, and he chooses that exact moment to turn my way, a timid, endearing grin slowly tipping the corners of his mouth.
“Gracelyn.”
“You know you can call me ‘Gracie’ like everyone else, right?”
“Gracelyn.”
Or not. “Brewer?”
“I’m gonna lay it out, straight up, and hope you find it refreshing… instead of pathetic.” He takes a deep breath, then talk fast through the exhale. “I’m in unfamiliar territory here, and a man, so, I don’t have a damn clue what to, or not to, do or say next. And I really don’t want to fuck, sorry, mess up, so… I’m asking for your help, babe.”
God, he’s sexy. A real-life, steal-your-breath-and-wet-your-panties wonder, who just managed to mold his vulnerable, chivalrous plea into a seductive, manly invitation. Temptation. And I don’t want to resist, or waste another second — that I could be spending in complete surrender, abandoning all but total indulgence, of him — with forcing the “ladylike” innocence I think I should.
Yeah… fuck the rules. Life is far too short, and left wide open for chance that could rob one of what little time they were supposed to have, to worry about all the “rules” society engrains into women. And even if I agreed with them, which I don’t, nor have I ever, tonight… tonight I’m going rogue! I’d have to be the dumbest fool in the whole flock to pass this up — my moment, my miracle, my once-in-a-lifetime, you-wouldn’t-believe-me-if-I-told-you-but-I’ll-never-tell-you secret rendezvous with Brewer freaking Hayes — that nothing, and no one, can ever take from me; the sordid memory I can think back on, and grin to myself. Whenever and as often as I want. For the rest of my life.
Decision made, I, too, ‘lay it out there, straight up’ per his request. “You know the whole ‘I swear, I never do this sort of thing’ speech that some women give, even though they shouldn’t feel like they have to, since men never feel the need to justify the same thing?” He smiles, bright and wide, his dark eyes lightening with mirth, and nods. “Okay, well, take that spiel, and in my case, is the sad, but absolute truth, then tack on,” I clear my throat, drag a few deep breaths, then let loose what will undoubtedly be, and forever remain, the single most mortifying utterance of my entire life, “the fact that, up until last week, I was a cat lady; the cat lady, personifying every aspect of the label. Including, but not limited to, my grandma’s rocking chair I inherited, sitting proudly in my living room, and her crocheted afghan still hanging over the back of it. The only reason I finally came to visit Nikki is because Tink, my cat, died. It really was her time to go. Poor thing was so old, half-blind, ran into walls,” I stop mid-ramble to squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out a whole new batch of humiliation, having somehow just made my take sound even more pathetic than predicted, but decide I might as well finish, “so yes, in case I didn’t quite cover it, or there’s any confusion, my cat died. Thus, ending my bout of being a cat lady, literally.” I try to play it off with dry wit, then try harder to pretend it may have worked. “My parents moved to a swanky retirement community by the ocean a while back, and I’m an only child, so, other than my students — oh, I’m a third-grade teacher by the way — Tink was all I really had that was mine in my everyday life, if that makes sense,” I laugh at myself, a release of nerves more than anything… and keep right on rambling. “Being single is hard, like, really, really hard. Dating just isn’t what it used to be; with all the new technology and websites there are now, no one actually meets a person anywhere, talks face-to-face, feels a connection, goes to a movie, or whatever. And I live in a pretty small town, so I did try to date, and immediately vetoed, any single, halfway decent guys I could see and interact with, a long time ago.”
And now, I’m done, having babbled out more than enough of my woes. I take a huge breath and slowly pry my eyes open to gauge his reaction… if he’s even still there. I wouldn’t blame him if he quietly made a run for it somewhere around afghan! He’s there simply staring at me, a certain glimmer in his eyes that might just fool a girl into believing he finds her nonsensical soliloquy interesting if she let it.
After what seems like forever, and in the baritone of pure scandal, he smiles and asks for more. “Go on.”
Either he’s a glutton, as lonely as I am, has a very skewed opinion on what’s interesting… or all of the above.
“Too late for this, I realize, but… long story short?” I sigh. “I haven’t had sex in three years. Three. I want to. Now. And not because you’re a hockey star; I’ve been to two games in my life — both yours — so clearly that’s not the deal maker for me. I want to have sex with you because… your wink, smirk, picking me out of a crowd, hunting me down, sending the definitely forward note” — we both laugh lightly — “all of it. I felt pursued, special, more excited than I have about anything in a very long time. And it doesn’t hurt that you are, without a doubt, the sexiest man I’ve ever seen in my life, better outside the rink than in. I want to feel the weight, the power, of your big strong body on top of me. Under me. Overwhelming me. And I’m not gonna apologize for it.”
There, I said it. Out loud. Which, honestly, felt pretty damn good. To at last, for once, cast aside any and all ridiculous rules, stigmas, double-standards or fears… and just go for it. Not that I have any plans of getting used to it, or making it a habit, but just this once… yeah, I’m allowing myself some freedom.
And, I’d probably feel even better about my decision if he’d respond. Reassure me. Laugh. Cough. Sneeze. At this point, I’ll take anything… but he gives nothing.
Not a peep.
In complete silence, he shifts in his seat and starts the truck, pulling away from the curb and onto the main street, all while continuing to give me nada. I’m guessing it’s because he’s too focused on backtracking to Nikki’s, to drop my jabbering, harlot ass right back where he found me.
And if that’s the case, so be it. I’ll climb out of this truck with my head held high and proud, of myself, for taking a chance, a bold, brave shot at what I want.
I’m so okay with my actions, in fact, that I’ve already justified them into a perfectly acceptable mental package — this whole night will, going forward, be thought of like a job interview. Yep. You don’t beat yourself up if you don’t get the job; you praise yourself for at least trying, and chalk it up as a good learning experience. This is exactly like that… I bravely interviewed. Just because it happened to be for the position of a stranger’s sex buddy for the night takes nothing away from my sound reasoning.
“I’m sorry about your cat.”
Had I been given a million guesses as to what he’d say next, that wouldn’t have been one of them. My head snaps left, in utter bafflement, and of its own shocked volition, full-body laughter bursts out of me.
“What’s so funny? I am sorry. I can tell you really loved your cat and losing it broke your sweet little heart. That breaks my heart for you.” He reaches over and finds my hand, giving it a squeeze.
“It did, yes, and thank you. I just, I wasn’t expecting that to be the part you focused on is all. Thought for sure my blatant proposition would be what snagged your attention.”
“Oh, it did, and I’ll be taking you up on that, repeatedly, as soon as we get to my house. But offering my condolences seemed like the least I could do, considering.”
“Considering what?”
He waits until we catch a red light to answer, looking at me, sporting a disarming grin, and answers. “Gracelyn, if I’m not into you enough to feel bad that you lost your little kitty buddy, then I’ve got no right to do to you all the things I’m about to.”
He winks… and drives.
“This is your house?” she gasps a
s we pull into the driveway.
“This is it; Home Sweet Home.”
“Why?”
“Why… what?”
“Do you have a bunch of kids you failed to mention?”
“No, no kids; never been married.” I chuckle, getting out of the truck and walking around it to open her door. “Speaking of which, what about you?”
“No, and no,” she answers in a quick snip, as if my pesky question only served to delay the rest of hers.
“Did you rescue and re-home the refugees of a small country? Or two?” She’s staring at my house, now speaking dazedly, so I undo the seatbelt, lift that sexy little body up and out, then set her feet on the ground for her.
“Um, also a no,” I laugh, not sure why, or what the hell she’s talking about, but real confusion sends my brows to my hairline when she turns a scathing glare on me.
“Ridiculous,” she tsks, shaking her head, “and so disappointing. Half the reason I was feeling okay about our little… rendezvous we were gonna have is because you seemed like such a good guy, as close to perfect as one could hope for in a random hook-up. But now…”
“Do you really know that many people who have rescued those from small countries? ‘Cause, uh, I don’t know any; I didn’t realize it was so common, or a deal-breaker.”
“Funny,” she bites down on my attempt at my dry humor, then just as quickly sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so judgy, it’s just… why do you need a house this freaking big if you’re the only one who lives in it? It forces a logical person to have to ask the obvious; are you overcompensating for something, or simply showing off?” My head falls back with my belt of howling laughter, but the weight of her glare still bears down on me. “I’m not kidding, Brewer. This country’s in major financial crisis, yet somehow, there’s plenty of money to ensure that male athletes get paid exorbitant, obscene amounts of money to throw, dunk, or putt a damn ball. Or slap a puck around.”
