by G. K. Brady
“Are you alone?” she teased.
A long exhale. “Oh yeah.”
“You don’t sound happy about that.”
“I just got back from dinner, and I’m … I just wanted to talk to somebody. Somebody who can keep up with me when I’m wearing my glasses,” he chuckled.
“So you had dinner with an airhead?”
“I don’t know if she was an airhead or just young. Or both. Whatever the case, it was one of those painful meals where you search for something to talk about and the check can’t arrive fast enough. I think all we had in common was that she hates mango ice cream as much as I do. Mostly I asked open-ended questions and let her yammer.”
“I didn’t realize you were into talking to your girlfriends, Beck. I thought you just passed ‘Go’ and hopped straight into the sack. Was she not interested?”
“Ha, ha. She’s not a girlfriend, just someone who works in the building. And yes, she was interested—in a free meal.”
That realization had come at the end of dinner and had been a hip check to his ego. It wasn’t so much that he wanted her to jump his bones, but after sitting through her inane blathering, he wanted to believe he at least had the option of getting laid. His call. Annoyed that he’d wasted his time and money, he was also strangely relieved.
“The chase is so damn tedious.” He took a swig of water while a new question whirled in his head. Had coke made the chase fun before? How much had coke clouded and colored his world?
A silent moment later, he said, “You still there?”
“Yeah. I, uh, dropped the phone, and then I had to clear wax out of my ear. Did I hear you right, Beck?”
“You get funnier by the second.” He snatched a Nerf basketball off the floor and tossed it at a hoop hanging on the wall. Missed.
“I’m here all week. I’ll leave tickets for you at the door,” she laughed.
“So tell me about your latest projects. What rabbits are you pulling out of your magic pixie hat this time?” He rolled off the couch to retrieve the ball.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “We’re back. Gotta go.”
“No, wait. I’ll watch it with you.”
“Are you serious? Beckett Miller watch boring baseball?”
“I’ve gotta learn so I know what I’m cheering about when you finally take me to that game.” What he’d never told her was he’d played baseball every summer as a kid. Having her walk him through the action would be way more fun.
A little sigh. “All right. You can watch with me, but no talking.”
They did talk. About the game; about so many things; about nothing. The times they were quiet felt just as right as the times they bantered, and he was reluctant to say good night when the game ended.
“Not yet,” he said. “What was your favorite play tonight?” This was replaced by “Biggest surprise this week?” He rattled off more questions, dancing around the ones he sidestepped. Are you with Adrian? Are you seeing anyone? He wasn’t sure why he didn’t ask. He told himself she wasn’t, and even if she was, it was none of his business.
At last, she softly said, “Hey, Beck, you’ve been keyed up all night. Is everything all right?”
“Sure,” he exclaimed a little too loudly.
Dead silence.
“I’m not doing drugs, if that’s what you’re driving at.” Jesus, a little paranoid? Too many questions were brewing inside him.
“Whoa. I wasn’t, but now that you mention it, do you still, um, indulge?”
“No.”
“Do you miss it?”
“I try not to think about it, so no, I mostly don’t miss it.”
She took a swallow of something. “What got you started, Beck?”
He exhaled loudly. “Early in my career, I got injured. It can be the kiss of death when you’re starting out, trying to earn your spot on the roster. So I took painkillers and played through it. I started drinking a lot. The combination brought me down, and the more I hung with the LA crowd, the more coke I used. It wasn’t just a good time. It was a way to balance out the other shit.”
“Sounds like a vicious cycle.”
“Yeah. And the more I did it, the craftier I got at hiding it. As long as I could play and my stats were good, the team looked the other way. Pretty soon girlfriends were putting in standing orders with their seedy dealers on my dime. I became the deep pocket, the stupid fuck who didn’t say no. Since I was buying and I was hooked, I went along. I let them work me.”
“The girlfriends or the dealers?”
He let out a mirthless laugh and took a quick sip of water. “Both.”
“Did you try to stop?” Her voice was gentle. No judgment, no accusation.
“I made a few lame attempts. I told myself, ‘You’re young, your body’s strong, you can take it.’ Until I wasn’t. Then my favorite lie became, ‘You can stop anytime you want.’ After that, I told myself I couldn’t help being hooked. It wasn’t my fault. Trouble is, if it wasn’t my fault, then who the hell’s was it?”
Why the fuck am I telling her this?
“But the compulsion’s still there?”
He made a hoarse, wordless sort of sound. “With painkillers and ecstasy, not so much. But with cocaine, the euphoria, feeling invincible—that’s addictive. Not being around it, I don’t think about it. Seeing people use, watching them have a good time lures me in. It’s easy to see the fun and ignore the flip side. That was one nugget I took away from the counseling sessions, so I guess they weren’t all wasted.”
“And that strategy’s working?”
“Ah. Mostly. With the exception of a few times, I’ve been clean since Minneapolis.”
“What happened those few times?”
“Yamila. Yamila happened,” he confessed, regret adding weight to the undigested steak in his stomach. “She showed up a couple times when I was at a low point. Good booze, good coke, and a good time. Like the old days. It’s a toxic mix, my kryptonite, and she knows it.”
“You’re a grown-up who’s free to make his own choices, Beck.” Was that a “Mom” inflection in her voice?
“I’m not so sure about the grown-up part, pixie. Honestly, those few times with Yamila scared the shit out of me. Falling back into the habit would be too easy. I let it destroy everything I worked for once already, and I’m not doing it again.”
Andie paused a moment. “Do you still see her?”
He swirled the inch of water in his bottle. “No. Last I spoke to her, which was the last time I partied, was before I met you at Marty and Claudia’s housewarming.”
Trouble was, Yamila still hounded him. Though he’d blocked her on his phone, it hadn’t stopped her sending sicko emails. But why rehash this drama with Andie? He’d only give her more reason to be disgusted by his old lifestyle and send her running for the hills. Or out of my life.
He cleared his throat. “Hey, I want you to know I’m not going back to that life. Never. The only coke I’ll have again will come with a burger and fries. I’ve changed a lot of habits since meeting you, pixie.”
Another pause. “Oh. Um, leaving LA had to help.”
“Nah. I partied a lot in Denver and on the road.” Time to steer the conversation in a different direction. “Besides, LA wasn’t all bad. I got to audition for Dancing with the Stars. Wouldn’t have done that in Ottawa or Buffalo.”
“I didn’t know you could dance!” she squealed.
“I can’t, which is why I didn’t get picked. But it was a good time. You know, a chance to dance with scantily clad women and all.” He grinned. “Enough of all this serious talk.”
“Talking about scantily clad women is serious?”
“Stop dodging. Are you watching with me tomorrow night or not?”
“Wouldn’t miss it, Beck.”
Exactly what he wanted to hear
.
CHAPTER 14
Rolling in the Deep
Clutching her purse to her chest, Paige gingerly let herself through a door stenciled
with the name “Clay Cavanagh, MFT.” She winced as a bell chimed, then jolted at a familiar voice. Adrian rose from a black leather chair and stood awkwardly in the reception area, as though he couldn’t decide if he should hug her, shake her hand, or do nothing. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.
“How have you been, Paige?”
Before she could answer, a man with curly gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses poked his head out of a different door. “Hello. You must be my four o’clock?”
“Ah, hello. I’m Adrian Paulson, and this is my … this is Paige. Paulson.”
The man offered a warm smile and his hand. “I’m Clay Cavanagh. Call me Clay. Come in, please, and make yourselves comfortable.”
Paige followed Adrian into an office decorated in soothing grays and sat at the round table Clay indicated. He handed them each water, and she surveyed his framed credentials. Once she’d agreed to try counseling, Adrian had selected the therapist. Paige had been skeptical anything could be salvaged from the tatters of their marriage, but in the end she’d caved, daunted by the disembowelment of shared assets a divorce would force. If trust could be repaired and their union put back on track, wouldn’t it be simpler? She’d loved Adrian once. What if they could skirt the unholy mess of a split? It was worth a few counseling sessions to find out.
“Let’s get some details out of the way,” Clay said. After noting their individual information and explaining about the sessions, he spread his fingers on the table. “People don’t come to me because they’re satisfied with their relationships and each other. They come to me to help them work through their issues. Since you’re both here, I assume you’re invested in rebuilding your marriage. I ask you to trust in my process. In exchange, I ask you for your honesty—with me and with each other. Transparency is the only way this will work.”
Paige blinked. Transparency. She hadn’t considered being subjected to all the dirty details of Adrian’s affair. Her stomach clenched. Maybe reconciliation wasn’t possible. In addition to the wounds, his infidelity had opened her eyes to flaws she’d previously blocked out—his myopia, his inability to laugh at himself, his lack of spontaneity in and out of bed. Could she stuff the genie back in its bottle?
She pushed her thoughts aside, determined she wouldn’t be the one to declare their union irreparable. Grandma hadn’t raised a quitter. Admitting failure distressed her more than slogging through their marital debris, and as long as an ember of a chance to reconcile flickered, she had to give it her all.
Clay and Adrian looked at her, and she realized she’d missed a question. “Oh. My desired outcome?” What did she want? “I want my trust restored.” She darted her eyes to Adrian. “I need to believe there won’t be another affair. I mean, I don’t even know if you’ve ended this one.”
Adrian gave Clay a sheepish look. He won’t even look at me! Her stomach cinched a little tighter.
His expression benign, Clay said, “Adrian?”
Adrian swallowed. “I, uh … if we’re being transparent, I haven’t broken it off. Yet. I’m trying.”
Wait. What? In that moment, Paige realized that during their marriage, she’d built up a glacier inside. Now that glacier calved, tons of ice splitting apart and plummeting into water. She rose as though carried atop the water’s spray.
“Then what the hell am I doing here?” She flung out an arm, heat enflaming her cheeks.
Adrian raised his hand in a conciliatory move. “Paige, I love you, and I’m not ready to pitch three years of marriage.”
She barked out a bitter laugh. “In what reality do you live, Adrian? I’m not playing this game. All you do is lie! Either she’s out of the picture, or I am.” Her heart hammered her ribs.
Incredibly, he shook his head. “I can’t. I can’t choose between you.”
Clay tracked them as though he followed a ping-pong match.
Some backup here, dude? No? I’m on my own.
Disbelief and outrage pumping furiously through her veins, Paige snatched her belongings. “Then I’ll make it easy for you,” she ground out. “I’m done. I deserve better than you, Adrian.”
She banged through the office door and charged out into the sunlight, filling her lungs with crisp, clean air. Breathe. Her hand shook as she pulled out her fob and pressed the button to unlock her door. Tears crammed her throat, threatening to fill her eyes. Not yet.
As she tore out of the parking lot, she glimpsed Adrian emerging from the building, his head on a swivel. A frown creased his features.
Bastard.
In the safety of her home, she pulled the curtains and retreated to her bedroom, collapsing across her bed. It was then she released the anguish that had been welling in her since realization had fileted her in Clay’s office.
It was over.
.~ * * * ~.
During the month of October, Beckett spent his free time immersed in baseball playoffs. More accurately, he was immersed in spending time with Andie, who was immersed in playoffs. Even when he was on the road for DeFunked, he watched the games, either on the phone or Skyping with her. One game, he convinced her to get takeout and open the same bottle of wine so they could “virtually” dine together. When he was in town, they watched at her house, sprawled on her couch in bare feet.
It wasn’t always baseball. Though she didn’t play an instrument, she loved music, so he took her to see the Colorado Symphony perform Mendelssohn. She’d been enraptured, her eyes sparkling like shiny diamonds, and watching her had been as entertaining as watching the musicians.
How could he describe time spent with her? Like hanging out, but more. Like dating, but not. Whatever it was, it was comfortable; sweet, normal; a bright spot he anticipated like a kid going to a big game with his dad.
One morning, he accompanied her to the Wildlife Animal Sanctuary, where she showed him the sights from a series of connecting twenty-five-foot-high walkways suspended above open habitats. She bubbled like an open bottle of champagne when she reached Tyrone’s massive pen and the huge cat seemed to recognize her, sauntering to the walkway and raising his enormous head. He jerked his tufted chin at her twice, then lay down, his ear cocked. Minutes later, a whipping fall storm drove them to shelter, and the tiger retreated when she turned away.
“He knows you,” Beckett said as they waited in the gift shop for the rain to let up.
“Cool, huh?”
“So how do I adopt an animal?” Beckett surprised himself.
With a beatific smile, she led him to a cashier. “You sign up and make a donation. Let’s pick one out.”
The cashier, whose smile matched Andie’s, pulled out a list of tigers. “How about Frida?” she suggested.
“I’ll do it as long as you promise to watch the game at my place tonight, Andie. I’ll cook.” He surprised himself a second time.
“Always a negotiation with you.” She grinned. “Deal.”
Beckett never invited women over; encounters were at their place, hotels, clubs. He didn’t know what possessed him, except he was unwilling to relinquish Andie’s company. Besides, while he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what she was to him, she definitely didn’t fall under the “women” label.
That evening, as he waited at the curb for the Uber he’d sent for her, he bounced in place and ticked through his mental checkboxes. Dinner warming, check. Salad tossed, check. Table set, check. Wine decanted, check. Bathroom cleaned, check. Sheets changed—in case she needs to lie down, of course—check. When the car pulled up, he practically yanked her out, whisking her upstairs, where he threw open the door to the condo, revealing the glowing cityscape beyond floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Oh my gosh, Beck, the view is beautiful!” she squealed.
“You’re so easy to impress,” he laughed. “You brought a bathing suit, right?”
She nodded, her eyes on the view as he led her into the living room-dining room-kitchen. The space wasn’t big enough to be called the “great room.”
As if emerging from a spell, she turn
ed and handed him a fancy paper bag. In her other hand was a cloth bag, which she held up. “Bathing suit.”
“And Stranahan’s.” Delighted, he slid the whiskey from its wrapper. “Thank you! Too bad about the suit, though.”
Her brows wrinkled. “Why?”
“I was hoping for some skinny dipping action.” He winked. She gave him a shove; he would have been disappointed if she hadn’t.
Much later, when the game and dinner were done, they took the elevator down to the terrace. Illuminated outdoor pools and walls of glass spread before them; below, lights blazed like thousands upon thousands of winking jewels. The entire floor—a quarter block—belonged to them. Beckett tugged his long-sleeved T-shirt over his head, toed off his shoes, and eased himself into an enormous steaming hot tub surrounded by four columns.
Andie stood at the edge, wrapped up in his oversized robe. He motioned her in.
“C’mon. The water’s perfect.”
She shimmied out of the garment and grasped it in front of her. He glimpsed bare legs and white straps, but no more. Turning his head, he pretended to take in the city view, while the view he really wanted made a small splashing noise. He swiveled his head back toward her. The robe was gone, and she stood on the steps, her knees seeming to float on the ghostly blue-green water. His eyes traveled up her body—all five-feet-two-inches of it—to her shy smile.
Well, fuuuck me!
He’d seen a lot of women, but this one stole the breath from his lungs. She was all natural and all curves. Soft, sensual, enticing. Not a hard angle anywhere; nature hadn’t skimped on a thing. He was vaguely aware he couldn’t talk.
She wore an all-white, modest two-piece. The bottoms came just below her belly button, exposing a flat stomach and shapely legs. The top piece covered but couldn’t conceal generous, rounded breasts. Nor could it hide the fact it was cold outside.
As she prepared to dip under the water, he struggled not to gawk or suck in pool water. With her mahogany hair and her ivory skin shimmering in the deck lights, she resembled an ocean goddess. A colossal clam shell and her without the suit would complete the illusion nicely.
