Layover Rules

Chapter Seventeen



It took me a couple of days, but I finally made up my mind. I couldn’t do it any longer—couldn’t deal with feeling like I was deceiving Sam. I had to tell him the truth about Trevor. I wished I had done it sooner, when there was less to lose. And now that I’d let it go on so long, I could only imagine how hard it would be to finally look him in the eye and tell him.

I called Sam Saturday afternoon and told him the good news about my promotion. He was still in St. Louis, and I’d caught him between a double-header.

“When you get back, let’s celebrate.”

“Wait a minute,” he said, “are you breaking the rules?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

He paused before saying, “Hmm. I don’t think I can condone that. Rules are rules, and I’m—”

“Going to break them,” I said. “When do you get back?”

“Actually, I’m not coming back between trips.”

“Well, where are you going?”

“I fly to Miami tomorrow afternoon, then a three game series starts Wednesday night. If you get there Monday, as early as possible, that’ll give us a good two days.”

“Hang on,” I said, grabbing my laptop and logging in to our company’s website. I checked to make sure the Miami store hadn’t been visited in a while. “Where are you staying? I’ll meet you there Monday afternoon.”

I’d planned on telling Sam everything in New York, but if it had to happen on one of our trips, that’s where it would have to happen. I couldn’t put it off any longer.



. . . . .





It had been a long time since I’d spent any time on a beach, so taking in the aerial view from the plane as we descended toward Miami made me eager to get my toes in the sand.

I had been to Florida before, but that was Orlando in January. Miami in September was still hot and muggy, but the skies were blue and being on the beach with an ocean breeze would be wonderful.

Sam met me outside the terminal and we went to pick up the car he rented, then to the hotel.

“Want to show me to my room?” I said, sidling up to him in the elevator.

“No.”

I thought he was playing around so I pouted and said, “I hate rejection.”

“I’m not rejecting you. In fact, later tonight you’ll probably wish I had. But I have reservations for us, and we can’t miss them. So I’m going to go pretty myself up, and you…well, you don’t really need to.” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost five. I’ll meet you outside your room in a half hour.”

I spent most of the time looking out my hotel window. I didn’t have a beach view, but looking at the city street was almost as interesting.

This was it. The make-or-break moment would happen here, in Miami.

I sat in the chair, feet up on the table, my face close to the window, watching people starting a night of fun. I knew my evening would start out that way, but I was just as positive it would end horribly.

I toyed with three different ways to raise the issue, trying to figure out the best way to say it, but all of it was too scripted, reminding me once again of Trevor. I decided to go into it with no plan at all. When the time seemed right, and when the situation presented itself, I would let my explanation come from the heart. That’s how an apology should be, anyway.

I tried to push all of that out of my mind, for now, and the best way to do it was to let myself get lost in the view. I loved the look of Miami—the architecture and all the neon colors on building façades, combined with the subtropical trees and plants. Miami was as much a party as it was a city.

And that’s exactly what it turned out to be when the sun went down. We finished our dinner at a great little place that brought us buckets of crab legs that we cracked over a newspaper-covered table, and headed for something Sam told me was a surprise.

“This,” he said, when we arrived, “is one of the hottest clubs in Miami.”

We were standing outside Mynt Lounge.

“Ever heard of it?” Sam asked.

I shook my head. “Not that I know of.”

“This is where all the celebrities hang out.”

“And since you’re a celebrity, you’re getting us in.”

“Not exactly,” he said. “But I know some of the right people.”

We walked into the club and I was immediately sucked in by the thumping bass of the music and the multi-colored swirling lights. All of my senses were taking everything in and I swear I felt my heartbeat match the pulse of the music.

A couple of martinis only intensified the experience. All the while, Sam stood close to me as I sat in a bar chair. I loved the smell of his cologne as he leaned in close while we spoke so I could hear him over the music. Every few minutes, he would say something into my ear, and leave a kiss there or on my neck as he pulled away.

At one point he took my hand and said, “I would ask if I could have this dance, but that’s a little too old-fashioned for you.” A little tug of my hand urged me off the chair.

It caught me off guard. “You dance?”

“What? You’re surprised?”

“I just didn’t figure you for a dancer.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, because you’re going to find out anyway. I suck at dancing.”

“I bet you don’t,” I said.

He said, “I’m serious. It’s the worst you’ll ever see. But it’s fun, so I do it. Maybe you can teach me a thing or two.”

I didn’t have to teach him anything. What we did wouldn’t qualify as what you would normally think of as dancing.

We stood pressed against each other, my arms over his shoulders, his hands on my hips, as we moved under the purple, green, pink, and blue lights, letting the intoxicating sound of Motorcycle’s “As The Rush Comes” take over.

At least twice I had to stop myself from thinking that this would probably be my last night with Sam.

We didn’t stay long, not because we weren’t enjoying it, but because we were enjoying it too much, to the point where he said, “I can’t look at you for one more second without doing something that’s illegal to do in public.”



. . . . .



I had seen the look on Sam’s face when he was turned on, but when we got back to my hotel room, his expression was something entirely new to me. There was an added intensity to it—a determined desire. A wanting, needing, craving look.

It was an expression that mirrored my own pulsing desire.

Once in the room, he led me over to the dresser in front of the mirror. I looked at my reflection, then at Sam standing behind me.

There were no words, only the soft sound of the air-conditioner humming in the background, and the breathing I heard coming from Sam’s mouth as he moved my hair to the side and took my earlobe lightly between his teeth.

My hands were flat on the surface of the dresser.

And at that moment, unlike all the others with him, I wanted to let him have his way with me.

I wasn’t giving up control like I’d done in my previous relationship with the guy whose name I couldn’t conjure up if I had to at that moment.

Sam’s control was different. He had seduced me into giving up just enough for him to take the lead, and there was an unspoken truth in the air that we were sharing this, he wasn’t taking anything from me.

All of those thoughts slammed through my mind and I knew they were true. I didn’t dwell on it, though. I freed myself from them, and watched Sam in the mirror as he looked down, and as I felt him lifting my skirt and lowering the thong I’d bought, hoping to surprise him that night.

He ran his hands up the backs of my legs, fingers tracing the lines and curves, lifting my skirt again as one of his hands slipped to the inside of my thigh, then moved up, and my mouth opened as Sam slowly worked a finger inside me.

I felt his excitement as our bodies made contact, and I reached behind me to take him in my hand just as he unzipped and dropped his pants.

Our gazes locked in the mirror. My hair was down, falling on either side of my face, and Sam brought his hand up to sweep it to one side, tucking it around my neck and over my shoulder.

He wanted to see me clearly.

I watched him rip open the condom package and lower his hand, touching mine. Without speaking any words, he guided my hand as we rolled the condom onto him together.

This was Sam taking control like he hadn’t done in our previous times together. But he didn’t restrain me. Didn’t hold my wrists firmly so I couldn’t move. It was just the opposite.

When he leaned over and placed his palms on the dresser, I brought both hands in front of me and grabbed his wrists to brace myself.

Watching his facial expressions in the mirror as he glided into a steady rhythm, I saw expressions on his face that I hadn’t seen before. I didn’t know if this time was different, or whether he’d been holding back before. But I watched as he looked down, his mouth slightly open, then closing as he bit the corner of his bottom lip. Like he was concentrating.

At one point, he made eye contact with me in the mirror again, and his eyes grew wide and looked like they were rolling back.

Sam lowered his head, his lips locking onto my neck. I felt his hot breath as his pace quickened.

I managed to hold out until I felt his release inside me, and in the next minute, he was carrying me to the bed and we lay next to each other—staring into each other’s eyes, recovering.



. . . . .



I woke the next morning to my phone alerting me that I had a text.

Sam: Trying to plan something. Can you take tomorrow morning off?

Me: Of course. I’m a bigshot now, remember?

Sam: Get over yourself.

Me: I have to get over last night first.

Sam: Tease.

Me: I can do that, too. What are you planning?

Sam: A surprise.

Me: Tease.



. . . . .



I spent the rest of the day completely preoccupied with thoughts of Sam, specifically with the realization that I had growing feelings for him, which only made it more critical that I share the Trevor secret with him. I hadn’t planned on this happening, and I know he hadn’t either. We went into this with an understanding of where each other was coming from, and so far things had been as near to perfect as I could have imagined something like this being.

So why was I letting myself screw it up? This is exactly what Steven and Ross had warned me about.



. . . . .



The Miami store was unlike any of our other stores I had been in. It wasn’t in a mall, for one thing. It had a sidewalk entrance, beneath a large sign with our company name, and it matched the pastel motif that was so prevalent in the city.

Even the employees were different, exhibiting a laid-back attitude. Not slackers, though. The store looked great and they had impressive sales numbers.

It turns out the manager’s boyfriend was a pitcher for the Miami Marlins. I found this out when he came to pick her up for lunch. I wondered if he and Sam knew each other, and the question was on the tip of my tongue when I realized it could have led to an awkward conversation. Not so much for me, but I had no idea what people knew about Sam. When he’d introduced me to the players in St. Louis, he hadn’t specified who I was, and I hadn’t read anything into it because of our agreement. There had been no need for labels.



. . . . .



“It’s been so long since I’ve been to the beach.”

“We’re not exactly going to the beach.”

We were driving to Key West. Sam had called the night before, after getting back to his room pretty late, and said he would call in the morning and that I should wear some clothes that I didn’t mind getting wet, and maybe a bathing suit. Luckily, I had brought proper beachwear.

“Sure looks like the beach to me. Oh, wait. Don’t tell me we’re going on a boat. And if it’s fishing, you can forget it. I told you how I feel about fishing, and even though I’ve never done it, I’ve seen it on TV and it’s disgusting.”

He looked over at me. “You’ve watched televised fishing?”

“No. Well, yes. But only for a minute or so. Why do they put stuff like that on television?”

“No idea,” he said.

He pulled into a parking lot made of crushed oyster shells.

We got out of the car and I said, “That sign says ‘Marina’ and there are lots of boats here, so I’m thinking you lied. Waterskiing?”

“Close.” He started walking toward the wooden building.

I followed, and we crunched our way across the shells. Once inside, Sam gave his name and the attendant said, “Got them waiting for you.”

We walked out onto the dock and stopped when we got to a slip that held two jet skis.

Sam looked at me and smiled.

“You’re kidding, right?” I said.

“Nope.”

“I don’t know how to ride these things.”

The dock attendant said, “It’s easy. You’ll learn in no time.”

“And,” Sam said, “you have a great teacher.”

I turned to the attendant. “Oh, you’re going?”

He looked at Sam, who said, “She’s a riot, isn’t she?”

The attendant told us to have a good time and left. Sam and I put sunscreen on our noses, he put some on my shoulders, we donned our sunglasses and lifejackets and we were off.

Sam did turn out to be a great teacher, and before I knew it I was zipping through the waters of Key West, as though I’d done this a thousand times.

Seagulls followed our wakes, looking for whatever marine life was churned up by the moving waters. Pelicans soared overhead, dive-bombing schools of fish.

A trio of dolphins broke the surface in unison, then disappeared again beneath the swells. Sam pointed to them and we followed, trying to locate them, but didn’t see them again until they popped up behind a shrimp boat making its way back to the dock.

Chasing them was exhilarating. It was something I don’t think I would have ever dreamed of doing. Prior to meeting Sam, I was an avid indoors-woman, but on this day he was showing me a part of the world I never thought about, and a part of myself I never thought to explore.

Sam guided us to a shoal and we parked our jet skis in the sand. No one else had stopped here, so we had the place to ourselves. It was like our own little desert island. Temporary as it was, until the tide came in.

We sat in the sand and watched the water, people going by on boats and jet skis, the playful dolphins full of energy and showmanship following them.

Moments later, as we were kissing on the beach—Sam on his back, me lying on top of him—a boat came by and a couple of kids yelled, “Get a room!”



. . . . .



Later, after turning in the jet skis, we went to one of the most famous Key West events: Mallory Square Dock’s Sunset Celebration, which is exactly what it sounds like. People gather by the hundreds to watch the sun set over the Gulf of Mexico, but before that, a festival goes on for a couple of hours, complete with buskers, live music, arts and crafts, and food carts.

“They do this every night?” I asked.

Sam took my hand as we blended into the crowd. “That’s what they say. Although, I guess if there’s a hurricane…”

“Ya think?”

We joined a group of people who had formed a circle around a guy wearing only shorts, who held two batons, lit the ends on fire, then started twirling them around his arms, legs, behind his back, even around his neck.

When that routine was over, we stopped for a few minutes to watch a stand-up comedian who did his entire act while riding a unicycle.

We bought some conch fritters and Key lime tea from a food vendor, found a place to sit, and listened to a duo nearby playing Bob Marley songs on acoustic guitars.

We sat next to each other on a bench and watched boats going by, lots of them with men driving while women lay on the bow.

“That looks so relaxing,” I said. “Do you think they’re locals or tourists?”

“Mostly tourists. This is a great place to visit but I don’t think I could live here.”

“Why not?”

Sam thought about it for a few seconds and replied, “Actually, I’m not sure where I want to live.”

“What’s wrong with New York?”

“Nothing,” he said. “But as much as I travel, it’s not really home. It’s more like another place I visit.”

There was a little regret in his voice, and I thought of how my life could have easily become like that if I stayed in my current job, traveling all the time. It was about to change, though. My traveling would be greatly reduced, and I’d be in New York City almost all the time. I wondered how different my life would be, aside from missing these weekly trips with Sam. Of course, having waited so long to come clean with him, who knows how long they would continue?

I started to worry about that again, then felt selfish for doing so, and I changed the subject to give myself more time to think about just how I was going to break the news to him.

“How long do you think you’ll stay in broadcasting?”

“Probably forever. Or at least as long as they’ll let me.”

“I’m sure they’ll never get rid of you,” I said.

“You never know.”

“Got a backup plan?”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t mind getting into coaching. What about you?”

“No,” I deadpanned. “I don’t think I have what it takes to coach a baseball team.”

He looked at me straight-faced, and said, “I walked right into that one.”

“Seriously, though,” I said, “I’ve thought about it a little. My fallback dream job would be costume designer on Broadway.”

“Wow. Impressive. Got any contacts?”

“Only a couple, but I haven’t been in touch with them in a long time. Actually, I met them the same way I met you.”

He looked at me. “Really.”

“Yes. And being a personal stylist is a little like being a costume designer.”

“Actually, whenever I left Barneys with new clothes, I always thought of them as costumes.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He lightly bumped his shoulder into mine. “That wasn’t meant as a criticism of you. That kind of clothing just isn’t my first choice. You know that.”

“Yeah, I do, Mr. Jeans-below-the-broadcast-desk.”

He took my hand and brought it up to his face, and kissed my fingers.

I felt a rush from his gesture. It was nice, gentle, sincere.

And then he said, “Fritter sauce.”

“What?”

“You have tartar sauce on your hand. From the conch fritters.”

“Oh, right, sorry.”

I wiped my hands with a napkin, thinking of the alternating emotions I’d had during this conversation—the uncertainty of the future due to our jobs, the joy of sharing my dream of being a costume designer, the stomach-churning guilt over the secret I’d been keeping from him, the sweetness of the kiss on my fingers, and now the whole scene was ending with me cleaning dipping sauce off my hand.



. . . . .



We stayed until the main feature of the Sunset Celebration, watching the sun dip below the Gulf’s horizon, with everyone in Mallory Square applauding the show nature put on for us, complete with the famous yet elusive green flash.

When it was over, we were walking back to the car when Sam suddenly stopped and turned to me.

“There are some great bungalows on Key West. I rented one for the night. Stay with me. Break the rules. Just for one night.”

My stomach sank. This had been an amazing day, and now it was going to end like this. I couldn’t wait any longer.

He was holding my right hand, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. “I don’t know what’s stopping you, but I think you should tell me. Let’s talk about it.”

I sighed. It wasn’t about the rules, and hearing him say that made me wish that I could erase all the bad stuff and we could go back to those simple and wonderful rendezvous.

We were standing facing each other. I dropped my arms to my side, and Sam reached out, gently holding each just above my elbows. He gave me a soft, reassuring squeeze with one hand and ran his hands up and down my arms.

“Someone hurt you,” he said. “I know. But you have to know I’m not that guy.”

It was killing me. I liked Sam so much—his sense of humor; his enthusiasm for his childhood love of baseball; his invigorating adventurous streak; his unbridled, and more importantly, honest passion for me. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I knew it was going to.

“It’s okay, Blair. You can tell me anything.”

I had to pull away from him. I couldn’t have him touching me as I revealed this.

Having given up scripting my approach earlier, I was blank. I had no good way of breaking the news.

“Trevor Baker is my ex.”

There. I said it. That bluntly. No lead-in, no build-up, no introductory disclaimers or excuses about me having nothing to do with the scheme. Just the bare truth.

I didn’t shy away from him as I confessed. I kept my eyes on his. I owed him at least that.

Sam stared back at me. It looked as though we were in a film and they’d frozen him in a frame shot. His facial muscles didn’t move. His eyes didn’t move. It was a completely blank, dead, cold gaze.

So I continued, gushing it all out at once: “Things ended with him just after that trip to Atlanta, months ago. I moved out. Stayed with my friend Alicia. I got my own place and donated almost everything he’d ever given me.”

“I don’t…How…Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice trailed off.

My breath caught in my throat, and my mouth was going dry. I started to answer him, but he cut me off.

“That could have ruined my future, losing that kind of money.” He raised his hands to his face, fingers pressing into his forehead. The stress stemming from his disbelief couldn’t have been more obvious.

I had to look away from him. I lowered my head and looked at my feet digging into the sand. “I know, and I’m so sorry.”

Sam began to pace, away from me, then back, then away, shaking off the emotion and stress of the moment.

Or maybe just to get away from me.

“You knew,” he said, facing me, “and you didn’t tell me.”

“Wait. No. I didn’t know about the scam. I swear. I had nothing to do with that, and I left Trevor before any of it came out.”

He was shaking his head and I watched his face as he started to smile—the kind of smile that someone makes when they’re shocked and can’t make sense of what’s happening. It’s a bad smile, especially when it’s directed at you.

He ran his hands through his hair, looking down at the ground, then back up at my face. “Is this why you didn’t want to talk about anything personal?”

I closed my eyes as all the air rushed out of my lungs. “No. God, no.”

“Then what was that all about?”

“Okay, some of it had to do with Trevor, but not about the crimes.”

He turned around, took a couple of steps, then faced me again. “What about him? Tell me.”

“It was a really bad break-up. Actually the whole relationship was bad. He was—is—really messed up.”

“No shit. He’s a felon,” Sam spat out.

I didn’t want to have to explain just how bad it was, but if I had to, I would. “It was way worse than you think.”

“Worse than him stealing people’s future? You know, it was one thing to lose my future once—on the baseball field—but to lose it twice, and to think you were with him while he was doing it.”

Around us, people walked leisurely by, enjoying their evening. Seagulls swooped through the sky, squeaking. A gentle, salty breeze rolled in off the water. So much to enjoy. So peaceful.

So different from what I was feeling.

The first tears filled my eyes, a few spilling down my cheeks. “Sam, this isn’t easy for me, please—”

“Not easy for you? It damn well shouldn’t be.”

“I’m not involved in it at all. I mean, I’ve been questioned by the FBI, but—”

His eyes widened. “When was this?”

“Not too long ago.”

“While we’ve been doing…this?” he asked, pointing back and forth from me to himself.

I nodded.

Sam shook his head. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Goddam, I made a fool…no, you made a fool of me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Inviting you to stay with me tonight. Basically putting myself out there, risking you saying ‘no’ and then feeling like I had crossed a line, broken one of your rules, worrying about breaking trust with you, while you’ve been keeping this secret the entire time.”

I looked down at the ground again.

I heard him say, “You must have been laughing at me the entire time.”

I looked back up at him. “No! Sam, that’s not—”

“There was no trust to begin with,” he cut in.

He started to walk away. I followed, and he jerked away when I put my hand on his shoulder. “The ride back to Miami is too long and I can’t be around you right now. Let’s get your things out of the car and we’ll make sure you have a way to get back.”

He turned around, walked away, and I just watched him, unable to take the first step in what was shaping up to be a bad beginning to the next part of my life.