Forgetting Popper (Los Rancheros #3) (10 page)

BATTY-

During the week, I can almost convince myself
that Sadie is a spoiled, messed up young woman. A young woman that
has no business in any part of my life. I think of the flighty
fighter and know that nothing more will ever come of our
relationship than a physical attraction.

But then Sunday comes. I fucking live for
Sundays. What was once an obligation is now the only time I can
take something for myself. And I do. I take everything Sadie will
give me, and it’s enough to keep me coming back for more.

Except that she doesn’t just give all of
herself to me. That little brat shattered every illusion I had of
her on her first visit. I thought I almost had her when she looked
away from the little boy. Jayden was his name. She looked away and
I saw the hurt in his eyes. I was ready to pull her out of there by
her little yellow cape, but then she turned to the window and made
up some crazy ass story that led to one of the greatest moments of
that kid’s life. I think that’s when I decided to take her home. I
think that’s when I wanted to feel what that was like, to touch all
of that life running through her veins.

Here I was spending months with these kids,
and Sadie gives them excitement and exhilaration in their last
hours. Who wouldn’t want to see what that tasted like?

“Is there anything you can’t do?” I ask,
interrupting the quiet.

Batty shifts gears before answering. “Yeah,
plenty.” He chuckles.

“Like what?” I shoot back, getting
comfortable on my side of the car.

“Let’s see . . . okay. I can’t sing, or play
an instrument, either.”

“What?” I scoff. “With those hands? I don’t
believe it.”

He smiles wide. “I tried for years before
giving up. Decided to use my hands for other things.”

“Hmm,” I reply, fighting a smile.

“Might you know what I’m talking about, dear
Sadie?”

“Please. Like you need me to stroke your
ego.” I roll my eyes.

Batty lets out a loud huff of laughter. “Men
always like to be stroked, baby. You should remember that.”

I chuckle. “I’ll have to write that down.” My
lingering smile fades. “How much time do you think she has?”

Batty knows that my thoughts have gone back
to little Ella. He shrugs helplessly. “A week. Hopefully
longer.”

“Yeah . . .” I trail off. How many times have
we done this since Thanksgiving? Too many times, is the answer, and
yet it’s not enough. My mind goes back to the skating rink, to the
words of the song. I remember watching the movie with Ella for the
last few Sundays, and how her eyes would sparkle as she mumbled the
words in her big bed. I think of going home to learn the words of
the song, singing it in the shower until it was perfect for her.
For the last month I’ve lived the song, taking from it the message
that most don’t see.

Letting go of the past is not easy. It’s a
process, and a difficult one at that. I identified with the
overplayed song, and would never admit to having recited the lyrics
in vulnerable moments as I let go of Popper to figure out who Sadie
is. I honestly can’t say that without Batty I would have ever come
back to the cancer ward after that first visit. But those kids have
given me a purpose that goes beyond playing a superhero or Disney
character. They’ve given me purpose and direction on this mountain
that has no trail. I feel like I’m still moving up, but I hope the
view is amazing.

I look around as the car engine gets cut off.
I must have been more lost in thought than I realized. Batty beats
me to opening my door, and his smug look tells me he enjoys it. His
hand goes to my lower back as we move up the stairs and through the
front door. I drop my purse and phone on the kitchen counter,
toeing off my shoes at the same time. Batty watches me silently
then follows me up the stairs.

When we reach the bedroom, he wraps his arms
around my body, pulling me into his warmth. His hands cross under
my shirt and rest on my waist. I close my eyes.

“Are you okay, baby?” he whispers behind my
ear. I nod.

“How have you been doing it for so long? You
must have lost so many,” I say quietly.

He sighs and squeezes me tighter. “As much as
it hurts us, it’s not half of what those kids feel, or what the
families go through. I can’t stop.”

My chest moves on a silent sob. “Me either,”
I admit.

“You make it better,” Batty confesses.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He moves his hands so that he can gently push
me toward the bed. “Lie down, Sadie.”

I take my shirt off and place it on the
dresser, when any other day I would toss it on the floor. Batty
does the same. I crawl to the head of the bed and move to my back.
In the moonlight, his muscles are highlighted with shadows as he
takes off the rest of his clothes. He slides in next to me,
propping his head up with a hand.

My chest feels tight, like I could shatter
into tears at any second. I’m panting, my chest moving rapidly when
he moves a hand to my chest. His eyes are on where he feels my
heart racing. Batty leaves it there for several seconds before
lifting up to put his lips over the beat. I close my eyes on a
sigh, winding my hands in his hair, holding him to me.

I don’t realize how strongly I’m pulling him
to me until he tries to move. Forcing my arms to let go, Batty
moves to my lips. I open my eyes to watch as he brushes his lips
against mine, so softly it’s like butterfly wings. My lips start to
tremble. This is a new Batty, one I’ve never met. Maybe this is
Finnigan?

His head dips to mine again, and he takes a
sip from my lips. The sound is erotic in itself. He does it twice,
three times more before opening his mouth. I watch his tongue open
to catch my top lip. I part my lips for him and he dips in, so
slowly my toes curl. Batty pulls back to study my face seriously
then moves down to my mouth again.

We kiss so slowly, for so long that time
slips away. Nothing exists but where our mouths speak in a language
neither of us quite understand, but our bodies know how to
translate.

When he moves over me hours later, it’s like
the epilogue of a good book. There is no haste, everything is
healed and resolved. Nothing is wrong with the world after those
kisses. We move together as slowly as we kiss. We cling and gasp
almost in unison.

The orgasm that comes is like a wave on a
calm sea. Rippling in and making the sand smooth once again.

When Batty pulls away, my heart clenches,
thinking that he will leave, but he grabs my hand. He’s staying, at
least for now.

I move to my stomach and bend my arms under
my chest. We’re silent, studying each other after this deviation
from our norm. I move one hand to his chest and trace part of the
angel’s wing around his ribcage. That’s one thing about Batty that
I never would have expected, even before knowing he wore suits by
day. The tattoo covers him from collarbone to navel, with the wings
wrapping around the sides.

“Who are you?” I ask gently, fearful of
breaking the spell around us.

He breathes deeply through his nose and I
feel his lungs expand beneath my fingers. “You sure you want to
know the answer to that?”

I nod, but stay silent. I’m torn, scared to
death by the unknown, but curious despite that. Batty grabs my hand
in his and kisses it after he rolls to face me, propping his head
up again in the other hand. “I’m your Batty.”

I swallow past my disappointment and try not
to get wrapped up in the possession he placed in my hands with that
statement. “Who is the angel for?”

Batty places my hand on the sheet facedown
and starts outlining it with his index finger. “A woman.”

My fingers spasm on the sheet before I force
them to relax. Batty acts like he didn’t see it, or feel it
happen.

“Was she pretty?” I ask, wanting to snatch
the words back as soon as they leave my mouth in that small
vulnerable voice. Shut up, girl!

He nods his head. “She was very pretty,
beautiful, really.” He finally looks up from my fingers and leans
in for a kiss. “Your eyes are turning green, I think, little
Sadie,” he says into my mouth. When his tongue enters my mouth, I’m
almost positive it’s to shut me up before I even get a chance to
become indignant. When he pulls away, the way he sucks on his lower
lip, as if to savor the taste of my mouth, has me forgetting his
comment.

“You know what one of the things that had me
guessing Popper wasn’t the real you was?”

I shake my head against the pillow. He moves
the hair away from my neck softly, moving his hand once down my
spine. On the trail back up, he traces the shell of my ear. “You
don’t have any ink. Your ears aren’t even pierced.”

I shrug and his hand goes back to tracing my
spine.

“So what?”

“So, that’s one of the first things that
happens with your colleagues. But I have a theory on that.” Batty
watches his hand as it goes from my neck to ass, and back up, as he
talks. I shiver, and again Batty acts like he doesn’t notice.

“What’s your theory?” I ask warily, terrified
he sees entirely too much.

He leans toward me and presses his lips to
mine briefly. “You’re afraid of needles,” he whispers.

I’m shaking my head and trying to sit up
before he finishes the sentence, but his hand that has been so soft
palms the middle of my back and the pressure has me sliding back to
the bed.

“You look away when the kids’ IVs are capped
to leave the hospital. Usually it’s to look out the window, but if
you can’t get there you dig through your purse. The thing that I
love is that you won’t leave the room, no matter how uncomfortable
you are. You won’t have the surgery . . .”

“So you think you have me all figured out,
huh?” I mumble.

“No.” He laughs. “I definitely don’t have you
figured out. Yet.”

Because I’m pretty sure he can hear my heart
pounding out of my chest and echoing around the room, I admit, “I’m
so scared.”

Batty reels me in and palms the back of my
head until I’m situated under his chin. He sighs against my hair.
“Oh, baby, me too.”

When I wake up he’s gone, but I’m not
surprised. I am however, shocked to my bones to see a folded piece
of paper on the nightstand.

Never took you for a snorer. –B

I fall back on the bed and giggle in relief.
Last night seems like a dream. A wonderful, odd dream. If I didn’t
have that delicious ache in my muscles from coming so hard, I would
question if it happened. Oh, and the note. With one sentence he’s
put us back onto the same page.

BATTY-

Last night was too fucking intense. I even
sat and watched her sleep like some creeper. But there’s something
magical about Sadie Dinah at rest. It’s rare and fleeting, like an
eclipse of the sun. She’s so bright and . . . alive all of the
time. She feels with her whole body. Christ, when she has an orgasm
it’s like solar flares, singeing my body with her heat. She makes
me want to stay in her orbit, forever.

I force myself to leave, but come back
several times before I can tear my eyes away. Sadie sleeps like she
lives, without caution, without discretion. She’s completely naked,
on her back with the sheet around her ankles. I shake my head as
she throws an arm onto the pillow I was using ten minutes ago. My
girl’s a little abusive.

I take the stairs and close the door firmly
behind me. I don’t have any business thinking those kinds of
thoughts. She’s not mine. She can’t be.

It occurs to me several hours later that
Batty and I are alike, in that we can’t take an easy path to
anything. Why must people do that to themselves? I don’t fucking
know, because it’s a pain in the ass.

“I think we should do an impromptu
performance, raw, every episode moving forward.”

I glare at him and shake my head. Batty just
gives a slight eye roll and swivels his leather chair around to
look at the rest of the room.

We’re in a conference room discussing the
layout of the show over its season. Somehow I know that he’s
recommending this because he found out that I bargained for more
money per performance. It’s kind of sweet, but I can look out for
myself.

“It worked great the first time, but…” one of
the producers trails off.

“It’s something no other show has brought to
the table. As long as there are no copyright issues, I don’t see a
problem.” Batty leans back in his fancy leather chair and steeples
his hands in front of him with his elbows on the arms.

“Why don’t you ask the artists who would
actually be performing if we want to do it? Why are you talking
around us?” I ask, trying to keep the pissed off out of my voice.
Really? He’s going to try to get them to agree, like I’m not
sitting right here? I’ve played that game my whole professional
life. I will not have another person tell me where to sing, or who
my audience will be. He can damn well ask.

The production leader concedes and motions
with his hand. I raise my eyebrows before looking around the room.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Was that meant to be a question?”

I hear Batty sigh across the wide table, but
ignore him.

“Popper—”

“Sadie,” I interrupt.

“Right. Sadie, would you be willing to
perform with only the instruments on hand each episode? Do you
think you can perform on the fly no matter the venue with zero
practice time?” he tries to needle me.

Now it’s my turn to lean back in my chair. I
purse my lips and tap my finger against them. My eyes cut to Batty,
and my stomach flutters seeing his eyes riveted to my mouth.

“Well, Gary—”

“Jerry,” he interrupts.

“Right. As long as my terms stay the same, I
see no problems. Daniel? Fandy? What do you think?”

Fandy sighs and puts his hands flat on the
table. His rings make several clacking sounds as he taps them
before going still. “The only way I can see it being successful is
if we have a rehearsal once a week. I don’t even know if that would
work, but at least we would have something to fall back on so we
don’t look like amateurs.”