I wasn’t sure exactly what the woman wanted. Tobey to take a dedicated interest in my work with the Boys and Girls Club? Or to start running with me? Or for me to join him on his golf days and poker runs? I swallowed a grimace and turned my head toward the magazine, glancing casually at my watch, my patience with social chitchat waning.
At that time, I couldn’t imagine a life like that. One where we did everything together. One where his life started and mine ended, a continuous line without break, without private moments for myself. Those blocks of time away from Tobey … that was when I could think of Chase.
I thought of him, and how everything had changed since he’d come back. Every moment, whether with others or alone, had become invaded by thoughts of him. It was scary how much I needed him. How much, after so many years apart, the feelings had rushed back. Stronger. More urgent. In 2011, I’d had no fear of loss. I had fallen for him and hadn’t thought about anything else. Now, knowing that a life without him could exist … I was terrified of losing him again. If it happened again, I wouldn’t recover. I felt that in every bone of my body. And I feared it, just as strongly.
I watched the detective walk out, Tobey’s head bent to him, their voices low and concerned, and mentally counted the days until the Series.
As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one counting. And I wasn’t the only one watching us all. I thought I was sneaky. I thought our love was invisible.
I was a fool.
93
Chase,
I can’t avoid the stadium; I will be at the games with Tobey. I need you to stay away from me. Please.
Ty
The skybox was too hot. I pulled at the front of my shirt and fanned myself with the program. The waitress came by, and I caught her eye.
“Another beer?” she asked.
“Yes. In the bottle, please.” I stood and walked to the window, placing my forehead on the glass, cold from the outside air, resisting the urge to yank open my shirt and press my skin against the cool glass. Down on the field, Chase stood, his glove resting against one thigh, his cap low, eyes on the batter, jersey stretched tight over his shoulders. I’d watched him the entire game—every play, every catch, every at-bat. And he hadn’t looked up here. Not once.
I should have been happy. All my fears about him pushing the envelope, revealing our relationship with some big obvious gesture, unfounded.
I should have been happy, but I wasn’t. Instead, I only wanted him more.
94
A meeting with Pepsi finished, my cell phone was out, an email begun, when I stepped off the elevator, into the parking level, my Range Rover waiting, a navy tank of luxury.
I stopped short, the note stuck in the driver’s window, tiny and white, like cocaine, deadly in its draw. I unlocked the door, pulling the paper out and palming it, and then stepped into my truck, unnoticed. I unfolded it quickly, spreading it out on my lap.
Same place. Envelope at the desk for you. Now.
The handwriting was tight; the pen used was running out of ink. I wondered when he had written it, how many minutes I had wasted, sitting in that conference room, negotiating sponsorship details and discussing trivial items.
Same place. The hotel we had walked into, a random stop on a Bronx street. I didn’t have to go. I could drive by it and get the name. Call the front desk and have them give him a message. Drive back to the house and wait for tonight’s game. I have a hundred more ways to make you scream my name and all of them are filthy.
I texted Tobey. Going to run errands. I’ll be home in a few hours. Then I shifted the truck into reverse.
I knew it was wrong. But I was only human.
I didn’t notice the car that followed me.
95
Room 908. I didn’t check out the view, I didn’t examine the furnishings. I opened the door, dropped my jacket and purse on the floor, and saw him.
He stood by the desk, a phone to his ear, and he turned, his eyes skating over me before he spoke into the receiver. “I have to go.” He dropped the phone and turned to me, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater and walking toward me, a stalk that turned into a rush, his collision with me one that had his hands in my hair, mouth rough against my own, his body warm and hard. There was the brush of a finger against the bare skin of my cleavage, then he yanked, pulling my blouse over my head, my hands frantically unbuttoning my pants, working them over my hips, my heels kicked off, his eyes dark as he watched. Then he was pulling at his own shirt, red fabric lifting to reveal line after line of perfect abs, his muscles so beautiful, so strong, so capable. I ran my fingers up the side of his stomach, marveling at the definition, his hand shoving my touch lower. “Take it out,” he gritted, pushing on my shoulder, his sweater hitting the floor beside me.
“On the bed,” I said, starting to stand, his hand assertive, keeping me in place.