Authors: Tara Brown
Chapter Ten
Sighting 2,000,017
Sami
Manhattan
December,
2014
“Sami, he’s here,” Nat whispers and glances over at the
scarf rack in Bloomingdale’s.
“Who?”
“The only person you ever avoid in
Manhattan since he randomly showed up at your place that night in the summer.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Oh, come on. Is he following us?” I
tighten everywhere to the point my hands are shaking, and turn in the opposite
direction of where she’s looking.
“Man, we see him a lot.”
“That’s it, I’m moving as soon as I grad.
I’ll just move to Europe and we’ll leave it at that. Then I’ll never see him
again.”
“Oh my God, stop. He doesn’t even see us.
Don’t move and he’ll walk by and you can go back to shopping.” She grabs my
shoulders and continues to watch. “You’re being a baby about him anyway. Maybe
it’s time to confront the fact you guys have a thing you never speak of.”
“I told you we don’t have a thing. And
besides, I’d like the South of France or Italy. I can’t keep running into him
and hiding because I don’t want to see him.”
“If you just talked to him or stopped
hating him, you’d never see him. This is God trying to force your hand to deal
with things like a big girl.”
“I don’t want to see him or talk to him,”
I snap.
The thought of him makes me sick.
Not because he’s disgusting, which he is.
Not because the way he treated me was
disgusting, which it was.
No.
Even the image of the condom slapping
onto the cold cement isn’t why.
The reason I loathe him is that I am
still desperately attracted to him. He treated me like shit, and I still spend
all my time watching his stupid games on TV or noticing the cut of his jacket
against his big arms when he does interviews after the games.
And those hands.
Dear sweet baby Jesus, those hands.
It’s not at all like being attracted
normally.
No.
It’s more along the lines of
gut-wrenching sadness when I see him because I won’t experience that bliss ever
again.
It’s some weird self-deprecating crush
where I allow myself to be treated like shit out of guilt for the bad things
I’ve done. At least that’s what Linda, my shrink, says. And it sounds right. I
am a self-deprecator.
He and I will never happen again.
NEVER AGAIN!
I have new rules about boys treating me
like a whore and it never happens more than once.
But I see him everywhere since he moved
here.
At the café.
At restaurants I like.
At the patisserie I enjoy the most.
At Chanel.
What guy even goes to Chanel?
A guy who’s dating someone, that’s who.
And I hate that even more.
We had cheap sex in a moving car and out
there
is
a girl who gets to be with him for real. Not
in a moving car like she’s being paid to be there.
The thought of it boils my blood.
“Oh shit, he’s coming over. He totally
sees us.” She tightens her grip for a moment and then pretends to be browsing
through the sweaters with me. “Yup, he sees us. Be cool. Laugh about
something.”
“Sami? Natalie? How are you?” His eyes
dart to mine right away.
“Great,” Nat answers as though she just
got an avocado for Christmas like that
kid
in the
video on YouTube.
“Good.” I plaster the stupidest smile on
my face. It’s a phony “I’m fine” shining on my lips brightly as I nod.
Matt Brimley looks amazing. I wish he
didn’t.
It’s sighting number eleven and he looks
better, if that’s even possible. I’m a sucker for dark-green eyes and perfect
lips, especially when I know they are also the deepest eyes you’ll ever gaze
into and the lips contain the best kiss you’ll ever have.
He’s got a peacoat on over a suit, like
the one he wore when we met, because why not? Why not torture me with a tailored
suit and a pale blue dress shirt? He’s clearly just starting the night; he’s
still pressed and clean and doesn’t have a lipstick stain on him, not yet.
He and Nat natter on about Christmas
while I suffer through the image of him kissing me in the very suit he’s
wearing.
Nat turns, smiling. “Yeah, she and I are
both just chilling this year. Her dad wanted to go to London but I’m trying to
convince her to stay with me at my mom’s in Greenwich.” She gives me a knowing
gesture to snap out of it, like I’ve missed something important.
I force myself to connect him with the
memory of my being nothing more than a backseat bang for him. It makes me feel
like shit. He makes me feel like shit.
“No London this year, huh?” He tries to
smile like we might be friends. It pisses me off more.
“Nope. I don’t know that I’ll ever go
back to London. Bad memories.”
“Yeah?” His eyebrows knit for a
millisecond. “Well, I should go. You guys have a great Christmas.” He gives me
that lazy grin, the one that melts me out of my clothes. “I’m glad I ran into
you again.”
My traitorous vagina twinges with my
stomach, but I shut that shit down. I’m not a backseat bang. I almost give him
the “Bye, Felicia,” but I don’t. I just turn back to my sweaters, though I
don’t see them. I see him, and the smile, and the way he makes me feel
nauseated.
“Oh my God, he’s hot. Why are you always
so
mean
to him or avoiding him?” Her eyes fix on mine
as if she’s trying to read my mind. “And I don’t want to hear the bullshit
story you gave me when he came by in the middle of the night looking for
Carson. I wanna know what is going on with you two.”
“It’s nothing. I just don’t like him.
He’s a player. Dirty hockey pig. They’re gross.” I shrug and lift an argyle,
pretending it might be an option for Nadia. It’s not. I already have her gift
and it’s so much better than a sweater.
“But he’s always so nice.”
“Whatever. Do you think Nadia would like
this?”
“Sure.” She shrugs. “I guess. It’s all
right.”
I put it down and continue to saunter,
staring at everything. Nat gets stuck on some ugly-Christmas-sweater idea in
the corner as I make my way to the gloves. I lift them, caressing the soft
leather and putting them down. My heart isn’t in shopping anymore.
Sensing I’m being watched, I lift my gaze
to find him staring at me from across the rack.
I jump but he just smiles. “Hey.”
“What are you doing?” I scowl.
“I was wondering if you wanted to hang
out again?” He comes off as flustered and sweet, but I’ve seen this act before.
Sitting across from me in the limo begging me to stay with him.
“No. I don’t want to hang out. When have
we ever hung out? If you mean hang out in your limo again, I’m good.” I almost
throw down finger quotations on the hang out. “I don’t need another tour of the
slummy parts of the city.”
“Okay.” He pauses like he’s confused.
“Guess I’ll see ya around.”
“Whatever.” I call my shrink as I watch
him walk away.
“Hello, Sami,” Linda answers trying to
sound happy to hear my voice.
“I just saw him and he booty called me.
He like legit just asked if I wanna hang out again.”
“I told you this before, you need to
either be honest with him about your feelings or you need a power shift.”
“I don’t have feelings. Besides hate, I
hate him.”
“Why are we having this conversation
about a guy you have no feelings for then? Why have we been having these
conversations about him for years, if he’s no one to you?”
“Continue.” I sigh.
“If you want to be honest with him,
yourself, and me, you’ll tell him you like him and be a big girl and explain
why you were angry and how his actions made you feel. Be vulnerable and put
yourself out there. You never do that. You’re miserable being single, but you
never lower the guards and let guys in. You say you don’t want to date but it’s
clear you do.”
“And if I don’t want to admit any of
that?” There’s no way I’m being vulnerable.
“Then you should think about the fact
that you like to be in charge and you’re not, he is. He played you last so he
held the control last. There has to be a shift. You have to get the control
back or you won’t ever be relaxed with him. You’re clearly bothered by this
young man’s ability to disassociate
himself
from you,
even while engaging in sexual encounters. Most likely since you aren’t able to
do that yourself.”
“I know all of this, Linda, but I don’t
know how to use it. I need practical application here.”
“You ask him out, not for sex obviously.
You choose the time and the place and the conditions with which you hang out
with this young man, and the power will shift back into your hands. If he wants
sex, you hold the cards. You choose no sex so you flirt but don’t let him know
that. You act sexy and make him think you might give him sex and then don’t.
You walk away and leave him wanting more and
bam
!—
you’re in control again.”
“Genius.”
“Nope, worst advice I’ve given out all
year but it’s the sad truth.” She sighs.
“No one cares about your conscience,
Linda.” I hang up and tap my phone against my lip, watching him leave the store
with his purchase as I come up with a plan.
A sad boner and a heavy heart
Matt
Watching the game clip for the tenth time
I still don’t see what the assistant coach is talking about. The other team’s
defense has no holes or aggression. They skate fast and flawlessly, regardless
of being beasts. They anticipate the pass, always being where they need to be.
Half their damned team is Canadian so they probably all know each other. No
wonder they play well together.
“A Miss Sami Ford is waiting for you in
the parlor, sir.” Benson enters the doorway, interrupting my thought process.
“What?” I pause the game, certain I
misheard him. “Who?”
“Sami Ford.” His old face mocks me more
than any words ever could.
“Are you taking the piss? Did Charles put
you up to this?”
“Possibly. You’ll never know if you don’t
go to the parlor.” He winks and leaves the room.
I swallow hard and drop the remote on the
couch.
She’s here?
Why?
“Shit!” I jump up, checking my armpits
for at least a trace of deodorant and make a run for the parlor, skidding on
the marble foyer and pausing, getting my game face on.
My stomach
aches,
reminding me that last time I saw this girl she acted like she might murder me.
Not that I blame her.
I’m an idiot.
I clear my throat and stand tall as I
enter the doorway, trying too hard to be cool. I exhale as I see her and not
some cruel prank by the evil Englishmen in my life.
I take several deep breaths, forcing my
heart to slow down. “Hey.” I hope I look confused and not constipated.
She raises an eyebrow from where she’s
sitting in my mother’s favorite white Queen Anne chair in the corner. “Hey?”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” She stands up, revealing a
knee-length trench coat and some very fucking high-heeled boots. Only an inch
of leg shows between the black boots and tan coat.
I almost tear my gaze from her and look
up, just to thank God for this moment.
But her facial expression doesn’t quite
match the stripper outfit she’s wearing. She walks toward me, getting close
enough that I can smell the delicious scent of her perfume and skin.
“Are you okay?” My fingers tingle,
desperate to hold her in my arms, but she still has that weird look on her
face, the one indicating she might smile or murder me but hasn’t decided yet.
“I wanted to ask you what you wanted to
do”—she pauses and steps closer—“but I didn’t have your cell phone
number.”
“What do you mean?”
I’m lost, so lost.
Does she want me to make the first move or is
she not here for that? What did I want to do? I can’t even think straight. I
wanna
fuck, is that an answer?
“You asked if I wanted to hang out, in
Bloomindales. It was like three days ago, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“So?” She smiles wider, her perfect
smile. Her teeth glow, they’re so white against her red lipstick. I’ve never
seen her in red before. Her usually tanned skin is pale so the contrast is hot.
I can totally imagine those red lips around my cock but I need to focus. “What
do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. I just was thinking
maybe—” about fucking but I can’t say that since I already messed that
up. “Dinner or something?” It’s the lamest thing I’ve ever said.
“Really?” She tilts her head
disappointedly. “I mean, I guess.” I’m praying she opens that jacket and tells
me where dinner is, but she doesn’t. She shrugs. “We could do pasta, that place
over in Harlem. You obviously like it there, since I saw you there last month.”
She blinks innocently.
“You did?”
“Yeah, you were with some girl, a
brunette.”
“My cousin, Harriette. She’s from
Kentucky.” I don’t care who I was with, who was she with? Carson said she isn’t
seeing anyone.
“Cousin.” She blushes and glances down.
“I was there with Natalie, the blonde I’m always with. It’s great pasta.
Anyway, when should we go?” She looks sexy being sweet. But she looked sexy
being crazy too. She’s just sexy.
“Wednesday night? I play in LA Monday,
but I’m home Tuesday.”
“That’s Christmas Eve.” She laughs.
“Oh shit, it is.” I’m a moron. “My
parents are going to be in Italy for Christmas with my brother, Anthony. I keep
forgetting.”
“You’ll be here alone?”
Her tone changes.
“No, I’ll have Benson. Charles has a wife
so he’ll be busy for a few days, but me and Benson will chill.”
“Is that your staff?” Her sexy red lips
toy with a grin.
“I don’t think of them like that.” I
shake my head, hating that snobby way of being. “Anyway, Wednesday obviously
doesn’t work. What are you doing for New Year’s?” I can’t help but grin. “Maybe
there’s a—”
“Don’t say it!” She cuts me off.
“What?”
“You were going to say wet tee shirt
contest that I could win.” Her face flushes.
“I wasn’t, I swear.” I can’t fight the
laugh. I was totally going to say wet tee shirt contest. “I was going to say
maybe there’s a movie or something.” I laugh harder.
“A movie? Liar.”
Her
eyes narrow, which is intense because she has really smoky eyes.
It’s
like being stared down by the devil herself.
“I swear, I never thought of it.” I try
to get ahold of myself. “Forget dinner and a movie. Let’s do something else.” I
work at seeming serious.
“Okay. You think on that and let me
know.” She takes a step back, her eyes darting to the door. “I do actually need
to get going though. I only came over to ask that.” She pulls out a piece of
paper. “Here’s my number but only use it if you think of something more fun
than dinner or a movie.” She hands it to me but doesn’t let go right away.
“It’s not to Bloomingdale’s or Nordstrom, I swear.”
Her tiny hand gets swallowed
by mine
as
I reach over with my other and pull her to me. She jerks back, leaving the
paper in my hand, and freeing herself from my grip.
“I’ll talk to you later.” She brushes
past me, leaving her scent all over my mom’s parlor.
“Wait!” I grab her arm and spin her
around on her heels, and end up catching her as her ankles sort of twist in the
huge boots.
“What are you doing?” She stumbles to her
feet and pulls out of my arms.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” She is different suddenly,
there’s an expression of worry in her eyes.
“Everything.” I don’t know where to start
so I go right for the beginning. “I pretended I didn’t know you in London. I
didn’t want to scare you, you were alone on the street, and when I saw you I
was worried. I knew who you were from a mile away, and I knew you were dating
Drew. When you didn’t recognize me, I didn’t want to make it weird. So I played
your game of not telling names. And I didn’t want to make it awkward in the
club with everyone else there when we saw each other again. You didn’t say hi
to me or act like you knew me so I took my cue from you.” Everything just
blasts from me in the least cool way possible.
“You’re making it weird now.” She scowls
but only for a second before she softens again. “But you’re right. I want to
make peace too. So I’m sorry for overreacting about it. It just felt sneaky
like you were trying to trick me. And in the club you made it seem like you
didn’t know me, and I assumed it was because people were there.”
“I wasn’t, I swear.”
“Okay.” She bites her lip but something
is definitely bugging her. “I really do have to go though.”
“No.” My eyes lower to the coat and I
realize she didn’t wear it here for me. She’s meeting someone else. I take one
stride closer, wrapping my arms around her waist and jerking her against my
abs. “Stay.”
“No.” She doesn’t lift her gaze to meet
mine. She just shakes her blonde head. “I can’t.”
I slide a finger under her chin and tilt
her face. “Please.”
“No.” She lifts onto her tiptoes and
plants a mushy kiss with a heap of
lip gloss
on my
cheek. “I’m not the person I accidentally led you to believe I am.” She lowers
herself and pulls out of my embrace, walking out of my parlor and sight.
“Goodnight!” she shouts back.
I contemplate running after her and
forcing her to stay but all my thoughts have a creepy hostage vibe to them. I
want to make her stay so I can explain better—tell her I like her. I
don’t want her to meet the person she’s going to meet, but I have no right to
make her stay here.
She’s probably going on a date with some
fuck
who
gets to touch her. I can’t even imagine
what’s under that trench coat. Actually, I can.
Shit!
I walk over and slump in the Queen Anne
chair, lifting my phone to my ear as I press a name.
“Seriously, cuz, I’m winning
Pong.
What
do
you want?” Bev, Harriette’s sister, answers the phone gruffly.
“She just showed up in a trench coat,
bare legs, and stilettos. She asked me out on a date, kissed my cheek, but
nothing else. I think she has another date after coming here.”
“Who?”
“Sami Ford.”
She pauses. “Sami Ford just showed up at
your house unannounced?”
“Yes!”
“Was she dolled up in those high heels
and trench coat?”
“As fuck.” I can barely breath and my
dick is so hard I’m scared for it.
And not just because I’m
talking to my cousin.
“Wow.”
“What does that mean?” I’m lost.
“You just got the revenge play for the
backseat bang. Did you try asking her out again but like a gentleman?”
“Yeah. I did as you said and asked her if
she wanted to hang again.”
Bev pauses again. “Hang? Again?”
“Yeah?” I don’t like her tone.
“Like booty
call
hang
?”
“No, like
see
if
she wanted to hang out.”
“Sweet Jesus,” she groans into the phone.
“Boys are so dumb. The last time you hung out with Sami she was your borrowed
whore in the backseat. So if you say ‘hang again,’ of course that’s where her
brain is going. She thinks you just booty called her. What kind of gentleman
booty calls?”
“A busy one!” I am getting defensive.
“Don’t you snap at
me.
You called me, shithead. And me and Mike just lost at
Pong
because of it.”
“I just need to know if it’s good or bad
that she showed up?”
“Good, if you want something with this
girl. But she upped the ante, letting you know she’s into it, but you’re
gonna
have to work a lot harder for her. If you want some of
that, it’s gonna cost effort. She’s a smart girl. She knows her worth. She just
let you know it too.”
“Great.” I close my eyes and nod. “I have
a game almost every second day of the season. I’m busy as balls for the next
three months, longer if we make the playoffs. How much effort?”
“What am I psychic? I’m your cousin, not
some gypsy. Take a cold shower and beat the Ducks into a pulp with all your
horn-dog rage. Forget about girls, especially Sami-friggin’-Ford. She’ll eat
you alive.” She laughs and hangs up on me.
I sit for a full five minutes, arguing
with myself as best as I can with the oatmeal I currently have residing in my
head; all the blood in my body is stuck in my cock.
“Effort?” I whisper, knowing the answer
to the question of how much time I have for girls.
I don’t have time for effort.
I liked the easy bang.
Having no commitments is easy.
No commitments also means Sami’s single,
and the idea of her being single and other men touching her has me in a dark
place. Not as dark as the place I went when I confronted Drew for making the
video, but dark enough.
I don’t have time to even stew on this. I
have two more game clips to review a hundred times before I get on a plane
tomorrow to fly to Anaheim and crush the Ducks.
I don’t have time to chase Sami Ford, but
I don’t have the desire to walk away from her.
It’s a predicament.