Busted Play: A Sports Novella Page 2
“No, not really. That’s what I’m calling my new therapist but I might’ve misnamed her. Maybe Cruella would be better.”
I’m pretty sure I moan into the phone, not sure who I’m trying to kid, me or him. My therapist’s firm hands massaging my tight muscles had almost given me a happy ending. Even in the cold, the thought of her causes blood to run to my cock, making walking damned uncomfortable.
Jaz snickers. “Would you be up for a visit to a kid’s hospital?”
“Sure, just give me a heads up. This is where I’m staying.” I text him my brother’s address.
“I’ll work on it. In the meantime? Stay out of any trouble. No drinking. No opening your mouth. Got it?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I really meant it as we hung up.
I meant it when I went into a bar called Talon. I meant it when I ordered a couple beers. I stayed completely out of trouble, even when I saw Barbie arguing with the guy that had to be her ex.
Most people don’t get that each neighborhood in New York City resembles a small town where everybody knows everyone else’s business. People go to the same bars, the same grocery stores, and same drug stores. It’s all about proximity to your home address and ease of access.
That’s why I’m not surprised to see Barbie at the same bar I’m at. She walked to work this morning, so obviously lives nearby. I am surprised that she’s arguing with this ass-hat so publicly. They both must know the owner is serious about the reputation of the place and will have no problem asking them to leave.
It’s not like me to play the hero. Ask anyone. I’m usually the jerk getting escorted out while the paparazzi snap pictures. I just don’t like how my Barbie’s crying over this guy while this bimbo at his side keeps smirking like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen.
When I inch closer, my physical therapist is sobbing, “I paid the god-damned rent for all last year, Des. You can’t just kick me out and keep my stuff.”
This guy with too much hair product, crummy tats, and a nose-ring laughs. “Yeah, I can. You’re not on the lease. Never were.”
She steps in with fists clenched. “Well at least give me back my computer, my clothes. What can you possibly want with those?”
A brunette with a syrupy smile locks arms with the asshole. “Too late. I dropped them off at Goodwill this morning. Sorry, I needed the space.”
At that, my Barbie turns so pale, for a moment I wonder if she’s going to faint. I jump up to intervene but the owner shoots me a look that says stay put. Protectively, the redhead puts an arm over my blonde’s shoulder and they go downstairs to the private area. Then one of the bartenders escorts the obnoxious couple out the door with some quiet words.
Surprised that my fist is clenched, I release it. Jaz will be so proud when I tell him how I didn’t butt in where I didn’t belong. Meanwhile, outside the big front window, the ass-hat’s face is beet-red as he shouts. I don’t need to read lips to know the bartender told him to hit the road.
When I limp over to the top of the stairs, her sobbing breaks my heart. I’d go down but with my fucked-up knee, it’s not possible. It’s probably for the best. It’s really none of my business that her asshole of a boyfriend stole all her stuff.
However, I’m still fuming when I get to my brother’s place. I was hoping he might consider representing her in court but he gives me the lowdown. If I want to help the lady, the best thing I can do is help her find a new place to live. She hasn’t got a legal leg to stand on and unless she owns some really expensive stuff, the court costs far exceed replacing everything.
Which totally sucks.
Chapter 5
I take the elevator to the eighth floor, pausing at the glass door. There’s nothing here to indicate that this is where Dr. Jenna Jones works. Supposedly she’s a multi-millionaire, a mastermind in the field of artificial intelligence. Just last fall her code made all the news when it exposed a network of terrorists, including some members of the FBI.
When I press the buzzer, a man’s voice sounds out of the ceiling next to a small security camera. “Please come in Ms. Sanders. Doctor Jones will be with you shortly.”
The solenoid clicks, I push on the door, and the voice follows me into the next room. “Please go into the conference room on the right and sit.”
When I enter the area decorated in glass and chrome, I have to smile at the collection of Wonder Woman dolls covering one wall. While I study the oldest one, Doctor Jones enters. For a millionaire, she’s dressed pretty casual in a simple black skirt, white blouse, and bright red sneakers.
After polite introductions she asks, “Something to drink?”
“Please.” I fidget while she turns to a small fridge under a counter.
Along with the water, she sets down some cheese, cold meat, and crackers, which I can’t help but inhale. When the plate’s half empty I realize she probably thinks I just got out of prison.
“Sorry, I haven’t eaten all day.”
“No worries. I remember what it’s like.” Smiling real nice-like, she tucks a lock of red hair behind an ear.
The fact that this famous genius was once as destitute as me makes me feel a whole lot better. Maybe I’ll come out of this okay, too.
Leaning back in her chair, she sips a cup of coffee and eyes me. “So, tell me. What happened? How’d you end up at Gracie’s place?”
“Wow. You know? I’ve been asking myself the same thing. I guess I’m just a really bad judge of character.” I swallow hard and continue.
“There’s really nothing to tell. I came home from work last night and my boyfriend locked me out of my apartment. Well, officially it’s his apartment but I’ve been paying the rent. You know? We’ve been together four years. I thought we’d get married someday soon.” A stupid tear drips down my face as it dawns on me it’s over. “Shit. I’m sorry. I love him. I really do.”
Sniffing, I dig for a tissue in my purse and come up empty. “What the hell is wrong with me? He stole all my stuff, cheated on me, made me homeless, and yet I still want him back.”
A box of Kleenex is passed and all the while she shakes her head. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard a story like this. Do you have any family close by?”
“I have a large one but they’re all back in Iowa.” Suddenly, chills run up and down my spine as a ghost flies over my grave.
Despite the fact I’ve no doubt gone white, her hand goes to an earpiece, like those used by the secret service.
Sweat pools under my arms as she leans in continuing to interrogate me. “Have you called them yet? Asked for some help?”
This was a really bad idea. I shake my head, no, wishing like hell I could explain.
“Why not?” The words come from Dr. Jones but I get this feeling the question came from the person in her headset.
“I just need to make it on my own.” It’s the same lame excuse I always use but today, the lie sounds worse than usual. I’ve never told a soul what happened except my mother when I was thirteen. And if you can’t convince your own mother, who actually walked in on it, who’ll believe you?
No one, that’s who.
Doctor Jones frowns. “Gracie’s Place is for those with no other options. Sounds like you need to swallow your pride and ask your family for support. I have therapists on staff who can help you bridge the gap.”
My mouth tries to form some simple words. My father sexually abused me. Instead, like a chicken-shit I say, “I can’t.”
“Listen Melanie, I know this is hard, but we only have so much space and so many resources. After you call, I promise we’ll reassess and talk again.”
She looks through me as if she can’t see the misery in my face. “Is there something more you want to add?”
I shake my head no, while inside I’m screaming. Wait! Wait!
“Okay, then. I have to go. Feel free to stay and finish eating. I’ll arrange for a meeting with you and my family therapist. If you’d rather not work with her, you can stay for a few days
while you find other arrangements.”
“Thank you.” I wait until she leaves to let a few more tears fall and blow my nose.
“Are you upset Melanie Sanders?” The man who let me in speaks out of the plastic box in the corner.
He’s been listening in all this time? The guy in the headset? That’s just rude. “Were you spying on me?”
“Please don’t be offended. I am Jason, version five point four. I am an artificial intelligence application.”
Whoa. That’s too fucking weird. I heard Dr. Jones had some crazy software, but this is over the top. “Like Watson?”
“There’s no reason to insult me, Ms. Sanders.”
I finish up the last of the crackers and walk over to where the cube sits on top of a glass-topped end table. “I guess you’re the invention of Doctor Jones?”
“I am the most sophisticated artificial intelligence on the planet.”
I wonder if he should be telling me that. “Okay, Jason. What do you want?”
“Nothing. I am learning.”
I look out the door into the empty hallway. Does Dr. Jones know her application is speaking to me? “You’re kind-of creeping me out.”
“I apologize. I do not intend to be creepy.”
Despite my rotten circumstances, I laugh for the first time since getting kicked out of my apartment.
“I am glad you are amused. I have decided to help you.”
My hopes rise a notch. “You’re going to find me an apartment?”
“Perhaps, but I think your problems could best be solved by getting married.”
My laugh turns hysterical. That’s what I get for conversing with an app. “Thanks but no thanks.”
On the way down the elevator I re-evaluate my circumstances. At least I have a place to sleep for a few nights.
Wow. Since becoming homeless, I’ve begun to plan in much shorter time spans.
Chapter 6
At night, me and my brother Andy shoot the shit for a while at his place. I ask him again about my pretty therapist’s situation but he restates his position. The law’s not on her side.
Poor kid.
I fall asleep thinking of those amazing hands all over my body. I wonder what she’ll taste like when I press my lips against hers. Will she moan when I caress her full breasts? Will those talented fingers wrap around my cock or will she use that sexy mouth of hers?
When I wake, I’m so fucking hard that I need to jack off just to get out of bed.
Later on, back in rehab, she’s wearing the same tight t-shirt as yesterday but if anyone notices, they’re too polite to say. Today, she’s chatty as she strikes up a conversation with a brunette at the front desk.
Nothing about her homelessness or her ass-hat of an ex is mentioned but she does skirt around needing a place to stay. I chuckle with them as she explains how an AI application told her to get married.
The brunette giggles. “I thought you said it was intelligent.”
“Right?” My blondie glances up, frowns at my limping on the treadmill, and shouts over, “Try to walk evenly, Mr. Quinn.”
After a few attempts at changing my gait, she nods her approval, and damned if I’m not pleased. Then, when I see she’s still checking me out and not my walk, I wink.
Red-faced, she looks away and continues chatting. “This app actually got insulted when I tried to compare it to Watson.”
She gazes pointedly in my direction. “It had an ego a mile long, just like a man.”
I smirk back, a pretty amazing effort considering the pain around my knee. Then thankfully, the display panel in front of me indicates I’m done and I jump off.
When she walks me to the next machine, I casually slip my hand to the small of her back, pleased she doesn’t slap it away. Then I lay back, legs up, and let her adjust the weights.
Watching my form, she scowls. Suddenly one hand is on my lower calve and the other on my upper thigh. Holy fuck. If that hand would just move a little higher…
If she notices my rising interest, she’s too professional to say and points to the mirror on the wall. “You need to be more conscious of how you’re working your body. Try to keep your knee aligned with your foot. See?”
I try a few more. She’s right. That does feel a lot better. I’d thank her but when I look up she’s back at the front desk talking. That’s when I use the opportunity to stop, down half a bottle of cold water, and will away my hard-on.
Back at the front desk, dark-haired therapist laughs and shares her iPhone screen. “Who knows. Marriage might be the answer. Around here, in addition to an expensive gift, guests are expected to leave big bucks in an envelope. But remember, you’ve got to foot the bill for the dress, the shoes, the outings, the luncheons… You’ve got no idea. It’s not like Iowa, my friend.”
My leggy therapist shakes her head, blond ponytail bouncing. “How much cash do you figure a couple could make at a wedding like that?”
The other woman raises her brows. “If they’re lucky, enough to cover costs and the honeymoon. But you do need a groom.” She squeals… “You don’t mean you and Des…”
“God no. I’m so done with him.” Barbie glances to the floor with a wave of sadness but an instant later, she’s all smiles again. “I bet I could do a fake wedding. No one in my family has met Des. I just need someone to take his place…”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” The brunette therapist mirrors my horror.
“No, no. Of course not.” That little liar.
I guess she could pull off a fake wedding with all of her relatives out of town but still, it’s pretty risky. Again, I wish there was some way I could help her. I bet she won’t take charity. Maybe a loan?
When she starts my back massage, I touch her arm to make her stop for a moment and capture her gaze. “Hey, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot yesterday.”
“It happens.” Her frigid tone may be fair but not how I expected the conversation to go. Usually all I have to do is grunt and women are all over me.
My knee burns as she stretches my thigh, bringing my ankle to the butt. “Ow. For fuck’s sake.”
“Don’t be a baby. Turn over.” She crosses her arms, waiting.
Well, this is going to be embarrassing. Yesterday, she let me rest on my stomach long enough for my boner to subside. I guess there’s nothing to be done so I twist onto my back, flagpole up.
The brunette, now working the elderly woman on the table next to us, gasps. Thankfully the gray-haired granny is face down. My pretty little therapist pretends not to notice. However, as she works my knee to my chest, the tops of her cheeks turn bright red.
When I’ve got the advantage, I always go for the goal. “I saw you last night. At Talon.”
“Yeah. And?” Gaze lowered, she sucks in her lower lip, and tucks a stray lock behind her ear.
“Nothing. I’m just sorry he dumped you.”
“It’s for the best. Ice?”
I could make her forget Des-aster in a heartbeat. I’d wrap that hair around my fist, tug her to my mouth, and kiss her into oblivion.
When she looks up, I lock her in my gaze, and her pupils widen. Ha! So it’s not all one-sided.
“Yeah. Ice is good… Did your boyfriend really lock you out? Take everything?” While I sit up, she heads for the small freezer next to the table.
Her voice is as icy as the cold packs she tucks around my knee. “It’s really none of your business, is it?”
Then she attaches the electric pulse machine to the perfect spot and swivels to go but I’m not done, not by a long shot.
I reach out and grab her small wrist with a light touch. “I need to know you’re at the top of your game.”
Her brows crease and she stares at where I have ahold of her. “I assure you, Mr. Quinn, my problems won’t affect my work.”
As I let go, my tone is more of a growl. “When it comes to my career, I don’t take chances. We need to talk. Tonight. Talon. I’ll be there around seven.”
Shit. I forgot to get her name.
After phoning Jaz about some more charity events, I head to midtown Manhattan and show off my new flexibility to Stan. That convinces him to give me a grueling upper body workout.
Finished, he starts the water in the cold tub. “I heard she was good. I had no idea she was that good.”
I lower in, shivering. “So why not hire her?”
His look says I’m off my rocker and I get it. She’s a young woman who’d end up in a room of naked men. The world hasn’t changed all that much but I want her to get some recognition. With that, her career might take off and she won’t need ass-hats like Des-picable taking advantage of her.
Later, I dress in black jeans and black t-shirt, the go-to chic for the side of Brooklyn my brother lives in. I even steal a splash of his expensive after-shave. You never know, it could help. My nose, broken too many times is a little crooked but I’m told my smile is worth a thousand bucks. Actually, closer to a couple mil’ if I manage to keep my advert deal.
That reminds me, Jaz wants some statement about what happened. What am I supposed to say? No, I didn’t know the girl before that night. Yes, I met her in the bar. Yes, I intended on fucking her. And no, I haven’t spoken to her since. Maybe she’s in jail for hooking. I hope so. Anyhow, her mom and dad should lock her up. How the hell was I supposed to know she was jail-bait?
The season was done and I’d had a few drinks. But I’m not supposed to be human. I’m CJ Quinn, the next Manning. And just one night, just one, I fucked up. I got into a car with a beautiful young woman who’d hit on me, looking for a quick lay. Turns out she was sixteen but looked at least ten years older. Why hadn’t the bartender carded her?
Those are my thoughts as I down a craft ale with the best bar food I’ve ever had. Then suddenly I stare at the door, mouth wide.