BENCHED (8 page)

I grasp at him but again he takes my wrists and stops me. His hands are so huge and powerful, but his touch is delicate, especially when he caresses my palms with his thumbs.

“You want more?”

I nod, vigorously.

“Let me take you out.”

I tug at my hands, trying to free them. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

“You can. I know you want to. I think you’d do just about anything I asked right now.”

God, I would. Any disgusting thing, I’d do it. Anything he wants, he could just use me that way. I give him a pleading look, begging him to finish what he started. I need more.

“Go out with me. Dinner. Just you and me.”

I shouldn’t, I know I shouldn’t, it’s a terrible idea, but I have a history of terrible ideas, don’t I?

No, he’s not like that, is he?

I stare at this man and try to decide whether he’s good, or just a good lay. Whether he’s playing me or he’s genuine.

He answers the question for me by brushing my cheek with the tips of his fingers, so gently. He takes me by the arm and the back of my neck and kisses me, firmly but gently this time, denying my attempts to deepen the kiss and draw him back down to the couch to take him inside me. I know how badly he wants it. I can feel the strain in his cock when I caress it through his pants.

“Make arrangements for a sitter. I’ll pick you up at six o’clock. I mean it.”

I bite my lip. Then I nod. “Okay.”

He kisses my forehead and then leaves my home, pulling my door shut behind him. I lean forward on it, my nose against the wood, trying to will my heart to slow down.

The woman in the mirror hanging by the door is sweaty and disheveled, her clothes askew and her face flushed. I can’t let Carrie see me like this. On aching, trembling legs, I trudge upstairs, turn on the water, and get in a shower so hot I can barely stand it, but that only makes it worse, so I turn the water cold until my teeth chatter.

Returning to my bedroom feels like a dream. I wrap up in towels and lie on my bed until I finally catch my breath, then pull on some pajamas and slip over to check on Carrie. She’s fast asleep, a book propped on her chest.

I smile to myself and lean against the door, watching her sleep. I still have to check, almost every night, to make sure she’s still breathing.

When I’m satisfied, I return to my bedroom.

Unsatisfied.

I walk to my window and look, hoping to see him again, but his room is dark. He must be asleep. I wonder if he’s touching himself and thinking about me. I want him so much, it hurts, an ache in my bones. How will I even make it until Friday?

Sleep is a dream that never comes. I roll around in bed for a few hours and end up staring at the ceiling, thinking of all the reasons I shouldn’t go anywhere near him, and finding an excuse to ignore them all. It’s Carrie’s alarm clock that wakes me.

“I’ll get you breakfast,” I tell her.

“I want to go downstairs.”

“Okay, let’s see how you do.”

I support her as she hobbles down on one foot, leaning on me. She drops into a chair at the dining room table and yawns as I start rummaging for something to make her.

The knock comes at the door, and I let Alexander in. He gives me a look that makes me feel like I’m going to melt into a puddle on the floor, then walks past me with a big grin on his face.

“Hey, you,” he says.

“Hi,” Carrie says.

“Who wants pancakes?”

“I do!” Carrie chirps, “Me! Me!”

He glances at me, eyebrow arched. “Want some?”

“Yeah, sure, why not.”

I try to help but he shoos me away. I sit with Carrie and wait for him to finish. He brings us both tall stacks of pancakes and bacon drizzled with maple syrup.

I could get used to this. He’s a good cook. Carrie wolfs hers down hungrily and takes a second stack with joy.

“I have to go,” I announce, sighing.

“We’ll see you when you get back,” Alexander says.

Carrie gives me a thumbs up. Her mouth is too stuffed full of pancakes to articulate her agreement.

I change into uniform and head out to the Tahoe to report in and start my shift. As I back out, I notice an unusual car.

It’s that same orange Volkswagen I saw yesterday. It’s not exactly subtle. The driver starts up the car, swings it around in a J-turn, and drives up the block.

I frown and follow, wondering if it’s worth flipping on the lights. I can’t just pull her over for sitting on the side of the road, but I can follow her. I grab my radio mic and thumb the button.

“Dispatch, this is Maguire. I’m following a suspicious vehicle. Might be in a little late for my shift.”

The radio crackles and Bill comes back.

“Take your time, sugar buns. We’re covered.”

I almost smash the mic back into its cradle and grit my teeth.

The Volkswagen, which I have now identified as a Rabbit, keeps under all speed limits and obeys all posted traffic controls and signs, so I can’t tag her for that either.

She leads me on a very slow speed and very merry chase, looping around the same streets about five times.

I flip on the lights and beep my siren. She quickly and obediently pulls to the side of the road. I step out, put on my hat, and walk up to her passenger’s side window.

She sits there staring at me like a deer in the headlights through the glass.

I make a roll-down motion with my fist.

“I can’t,” she yells through the glass. “It’s stuck.”

I frown. I give her a wide berth as I walk behind the car, closer to the Tahoe than to her bumper. Approaching her driver’s side door with slow, even steps, I don’t rest my hand on my sidearm but I keep my arm limber, ready to pull if I need to.

Something smells really wrong here.

“License and registration.”

She fishes them out of her glove box and I take the opportunity to sniff her car. I hope to find a really obnoxious weed smell so I can run her in, but it just smells like the old Burger King wrappers in the passenger’s side footwell, and body odor. She turns and sticks an envelope and her license out at me.

“Stay here,” I warn her.

I walk her papers back and hop in the Tahoe to run it all. Her name is Sarah Andrea Talbot, and she’s from Ohio. No record, no priors, nothing in the system. I sit for a while longer and type nonsense into Notepad to make it look like I’m doing something more involved before I walk back her stuff.

“Ma’am,” I ask her, without returning her paperwork. “Why were you sitting on the side of the road last night and this morning?”

“I was lost. I’m looking for someone.”

I give my hat a polite tug on the brim. “Well, I was born and bred in this town. If you need directions, I’m happy to help. Where can I direct you?”

“Oh. Um. Well, I’m looking for a person, not a place.”

“What’s their address?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you give me a name.”

The way she hesitates says
yes, but I don’t want to
.

I hate to do this. It offends me to my core, but sometimes it’s necessary.

I lie.

“We’ve had a complaint,” I say, trying to sound amiable. “One of the neighbors called in about your car, said you were acting suspicious. If the person you’re looking for isn’t on that street, I’m asking you to look elsewhere.”

“Oh-oh, okay,” she chirps. “Am I in trouble?”

“Not at the moment. Here,” I hand her license and ratty registration card back. “You’re free to go. On your way.”

“Thank you, Officer.”

She rolls her window up, and waits for me to get back to the Tahoe. I sit there in a low-intensity standoff with her until she decides to leave.

“What the hell?” I mutter to myself.

A
lex

T
onight’s the night
.

This morning, I watched Phoebe lead Carrie, who is now moving about on crutches with the rapid familiarity of a kid who’s been down that road before, to her cop car and drive off with her. No need for me over there today.

So I have all day to plan, and that’s what I’ve been doing, scouring Yelp for local places to take her. I could just ask, but that’s really not my style. She’d pick something dressed down, I’m sure. I want something with a little more style.

Wesley House
. This looks good. Nice place for dinner for a couple. Quiet booths look cozy. That’s it. I dial the number.

A hostess answers.

“I’d like to make a reservation for two for tonight. Seven thirty.”

“Yes, sir, we have a few spots open. Table or booth?”

“Booth.”

“Name?”

“Alexander Wright.”

There’s a pause on the other end.

“Oh my God, are you him?”

I sigh. “Yes.”

“Oh my God, who are you bringing? Are you going on a date?”

“Listen, keep this quiet, okay? I don’t want anybody to know I’m coming and I want some privacy. There will be a little extra in it for you.”

“Oh, okay!” she squeaks. “See you tonight!”

I can hear her saying ‘oh my God’ to someone else before she even hangs up. Yeah, that went well.

Clothes. I don’t have anything to wear when taking out a woman, at least, nothing proper. Fat chance I’m going to get something off the rack.

I dial Lou. He answers in three rings.

“There’s the big man. How are you holding up out there?”

“I need a suit.”

“What? Why?”

“Taking someone out.”

“What? Like, on a date?”

“Yeah.”

“Whoa. Hold on there, champ. With whom?”

What business is it of his? “My neighbor.”

Silence hisses on the other end, then I hear him clear his throat. “What? Which one?”

“The female one.”

He snorts. “Very funny, big guy. You’re scaring me, here. This is a joke, right?”

“No. I need some clothes that fit. I’m taking her to a nice place.”

“I want to clarify something here since you seem to be dancing around it, my friend. You’re taking the cop that busted your ass and got you sentenced to coaching peewee football on a date.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Are you nuts?”

“No. I like her.”

“You like her? She ruined your fucking career, Alex. I’m starting to think the best I can do is save you from a breach of contract suit.”

“Then do that. I’ve got a lot of money. I’m not worried about it.”

“What? Alex, my man, listen to me. You’re talking about a fortune here. You’ve got another five, ten years in you at least. Besides the contract money, there’s endorsements, public appearances, branded products. The people I’m working with on the clothing line…”

“I’m rich already.”

“Look, I’m not going to lie to you. The peewee thing is going great, it’s really boosting your image. I sent a few discrete people out there, got some pics of you with the kids, all very nice, makes you look like a great guy. We might even be able to work this whole date angle.”

“Work it?”

“Yeah, yeah, listen. You make nice-nice with the cop that ticketed you, you know, charm her. It’ll make you look like such a good boy again. You’re a commodity now, Alex. Fifteen, twenty years ago, football players endorsed Wheaties and shit. Now, you’re an international star. There’s opportunity here. Like the gladiators of ancient Rome, who…”

He always talks like this. I let him drone on.

“Lou. I want my clothes delivered. Get them sent now. I don’t want to see any cameras following me around while I’m out with a woman, for once in my life. I see any, I’ll shove them up the photographer’s ass, you read me?”

He sighs. “I read ya, champ. I’ll make the call. Your stuff will be delivered by five.”

“Four. They’re coming from Philadelphia, not Mars.”

“Fine, four o’clock.”

I hang up and rise from the couch and pace the room. I’m getting really sick of Lou. Have been for a while. I don’t like being a commodity. I didn’t ask for that. They told me they’d pay me a lot to play football, and they have.

It was always easy. I’m too big, too fast, always was. I was already over six feet tall when I was junior varsity and by the time college teams were scouting me, there were a few pro scouts watching me too. I maybe could have gone pro without even finishing college, but I liked campus life.

Ever since Mom and Kat died, I’ve spent my life trying to find something to pay attention to, so I don’t think about them. Football, driving fast, whatever.

The wall creaks under my weight where I lean on it to stare at Phoebe’s house. I don’t know what it is about her, but being there makes me feel warm inside. Being with her and her kid, cooking dinner.

Then there’s the woman herself. When I first saw her back on the day she gave me that damn ticket, I thought she was a little cute to be a cop. Same thing in the courtroom. Then I saw her smile and the hint of something soft and vulnerable under her hard exterior and it reached down inside me and touched something I thought was gone.

Last night was it. I have to have her now. The heat of her skin under my hands, the taste of her body on my tongue, the soft pleading looks in her eyes and the way she bit her lip until the skin turned white trying to stay quiet while her hot, tight pussy clenched my finger. I can’t think of anything but getting inside her, feeling her quiver around me while I explode.

Why did I hold back last night? She was begging me, but it wasn’t right. I want more. All of her. I want her to go wild for me. Crave me.

I need to work out some of this energy.

I run.

Clears my head, keeps me focused. Walking is too slow, too much time to think. Running is a steady, meditative concentration. Focusing on form and pacing myself. I keep my head in the world around me, not some fantasy dreamland. Despite the warmth of the autumn day, I keep my hood up as if that would stop someone from recognizing me.

The streets are deserted. No sound but chirping birds and the rustling of falling leaves. Not like Philly where I can’t leave the apartment without getting mobbed and can’t go for a run without everybody on the street yelling my name, either to cheer or to curse.

I thought it would be dead and dull here, but it’s peaceful like a dream state. I can’t imagine this place ever changing, only growing. Trees get bigger, kids mature into adults and have kids of their own, but the bones they rest on stay the same.

A good hour’s run from the house, there’s a park. It’s not big, but it’s open with lots of trees and a pond. I slow and walk to catch my breath, following the markers on the hiking trail.

Not until I walk among trees do I realize how sick I am of the city.

Hell, I’m sick of everything.

I don’t know how I came to feel this way. How did I go from seeing Phoebe as a stuck up bitch to seeing her as… what? The spring, sunlight, hope, another day.

There was something in her eyes as I was invading her domestic space, even as she scolded me for it. Like she’s hungry to lay down her burdens. A beauty like her shouldn’t spend her life in mom jeans and ponytails.

A beauty. She is, isn’t she?

I stand at the duck pond.

The ducks swim in circles and bob for bugs or whatever they eat. They don’t have much to say. Reminds me of dogs. I used to think how great it would be to be a dog. Simple life, doing what you were born to do without thinking about it.

My dad always said I overthink things.

This park is about as wild as somebody’s backyard, but as I stroll back through the more wooded section of the trail, the hairs start climbing up the back of my neck. It’s that same feeling I get when I’m on the field and somebody has it in for me.

I roll my shoulders and stand just a hair straighter. Nobody scares me.

When I reach the end of the path and the daylight blinds me for a half second, I feel small and stupid. Nobody is watching me. A deep breath, then I break into a run again.

Slower this time, forcing myself through it. If I’m not careful, I’ll get soft here. So, I pace myself, run past the house, and down the other way, following the street to its end before I make a big box and come back around again, sweaty and panting.

One of Lou’s people is waiting for me with my clothes. Probably one of his personal assistants. They’re all pretty, blond, and too young. I grunt at her and motion her upstairs to leave the garment bags she’s toting on my bed.

She lingers in the foyer, looking at me with big eyes and pursed, pouty lips.

“Thanks. There’s the door.”

She frowns, walks out in a huff, and slams the door shut behind her, rattling the old windows.

Upstairs, I lay out what I’ll wear tonight. It’s too warm for a jacket and I don’t think the restaurant requires one, so I’ll stick with gray slacks, a cream colored shirt and blue tie. I like blue ties.

Fuck, why didn’t I say six o’clock? I want her now.

Somehow, I manage to wait all that time. I lay on the bed after my shower and try to think of baseball. Don’t want to get too excited and go over there sporting a boner like a virgin on prom night.

When it’s finally time, I slip into my clothes, tie my tie, and walk over to Phoebe’s house.

Her sister, I think, answers the door. She must be younger, looks not much more than high school age. Same build and hair, same plainly pretty looks, but younger.

“I’m Grace,” she says. “Hi. Phoebe will be down in a minute, come in, will you?”

“Yeah.”

She gives me an appraising look as I walk inside, her expression neutral, but on the edge of exploding into a harsh glare. Standard little sister attitude, I guess.

True to her word, Phoebe descends the stairs a few moments later. I wasn’t expecting her to come down in a cocktail dress or anything like that. In fact, I had no idea how to picture her in anything but her uniform or knock around sleeping clothes.

She comes down the stairs in a knee-length pleated skirt and a plain white blouse, with her hair bound up in a messy, purposely-casual updo. I don’t know jack about makeup except she’s wearing some and a pair of high heels.

She’s pretty. Too pretty. It’s like she glows, lengthening the shadows in her living room.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

Her sister Grace slips away into the kitchen, leaving us alone.

“It’s been a really, really long time since I’ve done this.”

“I’ll take the lead,” I say, offering her my hand.

She takes it. Her palm is soft on mine, her fingers delicate, her touch almost tickling me. For a moment, I stand like an idiot holding her hand and staring at her. Her blouse is more sheer than I first thought, embroidered with pale flowers.

“You look incredible.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“What do you want me to say, ‘you clean up nicely’?”

“Maybe. You sure do,” she cocks her head to the side. “I hardly recognized you.”

I snort. “Right.”

“So where are we going?”

“To eat. Come on.”

Phoebe jangles a set of keys, and drops them in my hand.

“What’s this?”

“We’ll take my car.”

“The cop car?”

“Yeah, why not? You drive.”

I shrug. Sure, what could be the harm?

I unlock her door first, and take her by the elbow to lift her inside. She gives me a sharp look, but her lips tremble, as she holds back a smile.

Usually when I pick up a girl, I don’t drive their car, and their car doesn’t have a bracket bolted to the dashboard to mount a shotgun. At least, I think that’s what that welded box thing does.

The big SUV starts up with a purr.

“They let you take this home?”

“Yeah. I work on her myself when I can. Mostly change the oil and stuff.”

I glance at her.

She shrugs. “What?”

“Anybody ever call you a tomboy?”

“Yeah,” she says, sharply. “I don’t like it.”

“Oh. Sorry about that.”

I put the truck in gear and back out of her driveway. The switch marked SIREN is a temptation as I wheel it around.

“Listen,” she says. “Did you see a carrot orange V W around here lately?”

I shake my head. “No, why?”

“Just wondering. Where we headed?”

“Wesley House.”

She shifts in her seat. “I… you know, I can’t really afford…”

I snort. “Oh, please.”

“I can’t just…”

“Yes, you can,” I snap. “I’m paying for dinner, and holding the door for you, and helping you out of the car, and treating you like a goddamn man treats a lady, and you’re going to like it.”

The look on her face is so cute I could kiss her right here at the red light. She crosses her arms over her chest and sticks out her chin, pouting.

“I don’t know why I agreed to this.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“I think you were.”

It’s not a long drive. I roll into the parking lot and slow down, looking for a spot. It’s crowded.

“Can we take a handicapped spot?”

Phoebe rolls her eyes.

“It’s not like we’ll get towed.”

“No,” she sighs.

She tries to get out before I get to her side of the car, only to find me standing there to take her hand as she steps down from the running board. I close the door and put my hand on her arm as I walk her up to the front door.

Inside, it’s much cooler and quieter, though loud with conversation. The house is packed. The hostess looks up from her podium, then looks up some more to meet my gaze. She ignores Phoebe completely.

“Oh crap, you’re you.”

“I usually am.”

Phoebe clears her throat.

“Ah, yes, Wright party of two. Right this way, please.”

I can feel fifty people staring at me as we weave through the crowded dining room following the hostess. She seats us near the back the room, in a deep, high round booth that closes us off from the rest of the patrons.

Phoebe settles in across the table and takes a menu.