Slowly, her shaky hand reached up and found her pearly white dentures. “Damn it. I’ve been looking all over for them for nothing.”
My visit went like that for at least another hour, back and forth between topics—some thirty years old, some current. I had to be at the stadium at two to watch the game playback. Not wanting a two-thousand-dollar fine for being late to a mandatory offensive-line meeting, I stood to say my goodbyes.
“Do you want me to bring you someplace before I head out?”
“Heidelman’s on Thirty-Fourth and Amsterdam. I can go for a Reuben.”
“I’ll bring you one when I come back next week.” I leaned down and kissed her forehead, skipping telling her Heidelman’s had closed fifteen years ago.
“And don’t let old man Heidelman make the sandwich. That old man is a few Bradys short of a bunch.”
I chuckled. “Got it. No old man Heidelman.”
“Give Willow a kiss for me.”
“Will do. And you make sure to tell Grouper your room needs a better cleaning, okay?”
“Does it? Okay.”
Marlene wanted to stay in the day room, but I popped into her empty room on my way out to check things out. As usual, it was pristine. Hell, you could eat off the floor with how Grouper kept the place. But I liked to get Marlene in on the action of busting his balls anyway.
On my way out, the old bastard was washing the glass front doors. I splayed my five fingers wide to intentionally leave a handprint on the spotless door. “You missed a spot.”
“Asshole.”
“And proud of it.”
“Next week, I want two balls.”
“Yours shrivel up and fall off or something?”
“Bite me.”
“Later, Grouper.”
Chapter 3
Delilah
“Did you not hear a word I just said?” I shouted at Indie. We were in her car, driving to the Baxter Bowl, a charity event held every year in honor of former player Marcus Baxter. Marcus was a field-goal kicker for the New York Steel who’d been killed by a drunk driver six years ago. The team and league had been sponsoring the charity event ever since. WMBC had purchased three tables this year. It was my first invite, but Indie, as VP of Marketing, had been attending for years.
“I heard you. He’s a jerk. He showed you his dick. He embarrassed you.”
“And yet you ask me if I dreamt about him last night?”
“Did you?”
“No!” Maybe.
She shrugged. “I would have.”
“The guy is arrogant and crass.”
“Sounds like he’s your type.”
She has a point. My dating history wasn’t the greatest. I tended to be attracted to the wrong type of guy. “Not anymore. After this cleanse is over, I’m only dating men who are nice, well mannered and dependable.”
“I’ll introduce you to my father’s best friend, Hughey.”
“Very funny.”
“What? He’s very nice. I swear. I’m pretty sure that’s why his wife divorced him and married her forty-five-year-old ballroom dance instructor. He was too boring…I mean nice.”
“I’ll keep Hughey in mind.”
“So what are you going to do next week if he does it again?”
“Ignore it and continue with the interview. I expected him to be a dick. I didn’t expect him to show me his dick. He caught me off guard. I’ll be ready for him next time.”
“I’m ready for him right now. If I was wearing panties, they might be a little wet thinking about that body. Do you think he’ll be there tonight?”
“I hope not.” A minuscule, dark, masochistic part of my brain looked forward to seeing him. Although there was no way in hell I’d ever admit it.
***
My table at the Baxter Bowl was filled with an interesting mix of people from WMBC and New York Steel management, including the station owner’s charming grandson, Michael Langley, who was also head of broadcasting operations—technically that made him Mr. CUM’s boss’s boss. We’d been talking for almost an hour, and I was surprised to find we had so much in common. We’d both attended Stanford, although he was a few years my senior. Both of our dads had been professional quarterbacks when they were young, and we both rose at the crack of dawn. The Langley family was legendary in New York sports. Michael’s grandfather not only owned WMBC, but was also the majority owner of the New York Steel.
When they’d finished clearing our dinner plates, Michael leaned into me. “Want to dance?”
“Sure. I’d love to.”
Out on the dance floor, he led me through one slow dance. He had a firm hand and definitely knew how to lead. And he was pretty easy on the eyes, too. Matt Damon in glasses. Well groomed, intelligent, and handsome—my night could be worse.
“I like your hair up.” Sweet too.
It had taken the stylist almost two hours to tame my unruly mass of dark curls enough to pin it all on top of my head. A few tendrils had already escaped.
“Thank you. You don’t smoke, do you? Because I’m pretty sure if I go anywhere near a cigarette, I might catch fire with the amount of spray the stylist had to put in to get it to stay.”