The Game Plan
Page 87
She asked for the money.
Black rage, thick, hot, and choking, surges up my throat. My shout shatters the air as my fist smashes into the tiles. Pain explodes in my hand, but it takes me a moment to stop.
Slumping against the stall, I stare down at my split knuckles, the blood thin and pale as it mixes with the water beating down on it. Tentatively, I make a fist. The skin stings, but nothing else.
Stupid. Fucking stupid to risk a busted hand. I ought to be horrified. I’m not. My mind’s on that picture of Fi, a once-beautiful private moment reduced to something ugly and cheap. Does she hate me for giving that chick the opportunity to steal my phone? Was that why?
It makes no sense. Nothing does. I think of Fi and everything she told me last night. She wouldn’t do this. There has to be more.
Chest tight, I run my uninjured hand over my wet face, and my fingers tangle in my beard. Again comes the rage, sticky and thick, as if it’s coated my insides like hot tar. Pushing away from the wall, I wrench off the shower.
When I emerge, Rolondo has stepped out, probably thinking I need to be alone. He’s right.
The pain in my busted knuckles keeps me focused. For so long, pain was the one real thing in my life. Taste the pain, ignore the rest.
By the time I find what I’m looking for under his bathroom sink, the room is a mess. I don’t give a ripe fuck. My chest heaves as I stand and look in the mirror. For so long, I didn’t know who the fuck I was. Only with Fi did I feel right, at ease within my flesh. The world has tainted that too.
To hell with it.
Grimly, I lift the razor and press it to my skin.
Fi
With an excess of nervous energy zinging through me, I decide to bake some biscuits. Ivy was right; I do know how to bake. I just tend to do it for emergency purposes only. Right now, baking is the only thing I can think of to calm my shaking hands and reaffirm that Ethan’s home is my home too.
It’s been a weird day between demanding my money from Bloom and setting up an interview with the press to explain why I did it. Ivy helped me with that, choosing a sympathetic sports reporter—a woman so I would feel more comfortable.
We held the interview through Skype. Ivy had joined from her home in San Francisco, acting as Dex’s agent and my moral support.
I was so nervous I feared I might throw up just seconds before we went on air. But then a strange sort of cool calm came over me as I told the reporter of my plans for the money. I didn’t speak about the pictures or how it felt to be exposed, and Ivy shut down those questions every time they were asked. The truth is, none of that mattered.
What matters is that Bloom’s dirty money will be put to good use. One million dollars to help stop childhood hunger and homelessness.
I went as far as throwing down a gauntlet to Bloom, daring them to double their money and do good for once. I don’t expect them to, but it was satisfying to make them squirm.
Ivy thought it was a most excellent fuck you to Bloom and all the haters. I’m just happy it’s over. I want to get back to my life, to focus on my furniture making, and most importantly, on Ethan.
There hadn’t been time to tell him what I was doing and why. He was at his game, and I was too anxious to wait, afraid I’d chicken out.
But it’s done now. I feel lighter, free. All that remains is to explain it to Ethan and tell him I’m staying right here where I belong.
The joy I feel in knowing he’s mine, in being with him, is so strong it scares me. I want to guard it with my entire soul. I want to tuck big, strong, capable Ethan Dexter to my side and protect him from the world.
It makes absolutely no sense; he doesn’t need my protection. But the desire is there just the same. I don’t want him to be unhappy or vulnerable to the vultures out there. I want—need—him to know how much he’s loved.
I know he feels the same about me. It’s in his every touch, every word, look, and smile he gives me. With him, here in this home he’s made, I feel that safety.
Only now I’m afraid I might have fucked up by not warning him. Highlights from the game show him being ejected for starting a brawl. I’ve watched the footage over and over, my mouth gaping. Ethan never fights, never really loses his temper at all.
God, but he looked so angry, blood and sweat running down his face as he pummeled the shit out of a player on the other team.
At first I thought maybe he was fighting because of a disparaging remark the guy made about me. But now I’m not so sure. Because the game is long over, and Ethan still isn’t home.
When I tried to call him, I found his phone sitting on his dresser, forgotten in his haste to be on time today.
Short of roaming the city for him, I can only stay here and bake and wait.
I’m pulling a tray of biscuits out of the oven when I hear him come in. “Ethan?”
The sound of his car keys falling into the bowl on the front console fills the silence. Then he speaks, his voice deep. “Yep.”
One word. I shouldn’t read anything into it, but he sounds off.
“I hope you’re hungry,” I say in a bright voice, trying to sound upbeat. “I’m making biscuits and was thinking about getting some gumbo from down the street.”
Footsteps thud across the floorboards, and Ethan appears.
A biscuit drops from my fingers to the floor as I behold the man standing at the threshold of the kitchen. He’s tall, broad, and muscular, his eyes jewel bright. The line of his jaw is a clean sweep, his smooth chin stubborn, firm, and unfamiliar to me. This man doesn’t have a beard. Or much hair. All that glorious, sun-streaked brown hair has been shorn off close to his skull.
Black rage, thick, hot, and choking, surges up my throat. My shout shatters the air as my fist smashes into the tiles. Pain explodes in my hand, but it takes me a moment to stop.
Slumping against the stall, I stare down at my split knuckles, the blood thin and pale as it mixes with the water beating down on it. Tentatively, I make a fist. The skin stings, but nothing else.
Stupid. Fucking stupid to risk a busted hand. I ought to be horrified. I’m not. My mind’s on that picture of Fi, a once-beautiful private moment reduced to something ugly and cheap. Does she hate me for giving that chick the opportunity to steal my phone? Was that why?
It makes no sense. Nothing does. I think of Fi and everything she told me last night. She wouldn’t do this. There has to be more.
Chest tight, I run my uninjured hand over my wet face, and my fingers tangle in my beard. Again comes the rage, sticky and thick, as if it’s coated my insides like hot tar. Pushing away from the wall, I wrench off the shower.
When I emerge, Rolondo has stepped out, probably thinking I need to be alone. He’s right.
The pain in my busted knuckles keeps me focused. For so long, pain was the one real thing in my life. Taste the pain, ignore the rest.
By the time I find what I’m looking for under his bathroom sink, the room is a mess. I don’t give a ripe fuck. My chest heaves as I stand and look in the mirror. For so long, I didn’t know who the fuck I was. Only with Fi did I feel right, at ease within my flesh. The world has tainted that too.
To hell with it.
Grimly, I lift the razor and press it to my skin.
Fi
With an excess of nervous energy zinging through me, I decide to bake some biscuits. Ivy was right; I do know how to bake. I just tend to do it for emergency purposes only. Right now, baking is the only thing I can think of to calm my shaking hands and reaffirm that Ethan’s home is my home too.
It’s been a weird day between demanding my money from Bloom and setting up an interview with the press to explain why I did it. Ivy helped me with that, choosing a sympathetic sports reporter—a woman so I would feel more comfortable.
We held the interview through Skype. Ivy had joined from her home in San Francisco, acting as Dex’s agent and my moral support.
I was so nervous I feared I might throw up just seconds before we went on air. But then a strange sort of cool calm came over me as I told the reporter of my plans for the money. I didn’t speak about the pictures or how it felt to be exposed, and Ivy shut down those questions every time they were asked. The truth is, none of that mattered.
What matters is that Bloom’s dirty money will be put to good use. One million dollars to help stop childhood hunger and homelessness.
I went as far as throwing down a gauntlet to Bloom, daring them to double their money and do good for once. I don’t expect them to, but it was satisfying to make them squirm.
Ivy thought it was a most excellent fuck you to Bloom and all the haters. I’m just happy it’s over. I want to get back to my life, to focus on my furniture making, and most importantly, on Ethan.
There hadn’t been time to tell him what I was doing and why. He was at his game, and I was too anxious to wait, afraid I’d chicken out.
But it’s done now. I feel lighter, free. All that remains is to explain it to Ethan and tell him I’m staying right here where I belong.
The joy I feel in knowing he’s mine, in being with him, is so strong it scares me. I want to guard it with my entire soul. I want to tuck big, strong, capable Ethan Dexter to my side and protect him from the world.
It makes absolutely no sense; he doesn’t need my protection. But the desire is there just the same. I don’t want him to be unhappy or vulnerable to the vultures out there. I want—need—him to know how much he’s loved.
I know he feels the same about me. It’s in his every touch, every word, look, and smile he gives me. With him, here in this home he’s made, I feel that safety.
Only now I’m afraid I might have fucked up by not warning him. Highlights from the game show him being ejected for starting a brawl. I’ve watched the footage over and over, my mouth gaping. Ethan never fights, never really loses his temper at all.
God, but he looked so angry, blood and sweat running down his face as he pummeled the shit out of a player on the other team.
At first I thought maybe he was fighting because of a disparaging remark the guy made about me. But now I’m not so sure. Because the game is long over, and Ethan still isn’t home.
When I tried to call him, I found his phone sitting on his dresser, forgotten in his haste to be on time today.
Short of roaming the city for him, I can only stay here and bake and wait.
I’m pulling a tray of biscuits out of the oven when I hear him come in. “Ethan?”
The sound of his car keys falling into the bowl on the front console fills the silence. Then he speaks, his voice deep. “Yep.”
One word. I shouldn’t read anything into it, but he sounds off.
“I hope you’re hungry,” I say in a bright voice, trying to sound upbeat. “I’m making biscuits and was thinking about getting some gumbo from down the street.”
Footsteps thud across the floorboards, and Ethan appears.
A biscuit drops from my fingers to the floor as I behold the man standing at the threshold of the kitchen. He’s tall, broad, and muscular, his eyes jewel bright. The line of his jaw is a clean sweep, his smooth chin stubborn, firm, and unfamiliar to me. This man doesn’t have a beard. Or much hair. All that glorious, sun-streaked brown hair has been shorn off close to his skull.
