Love Game (28 page)

My mind raced a mile a minute. I thought of Mavis and Felicia, most likely behind bars at that very moment. I still had Felicia’s book, and now I would never be able to return it to her.

Mostly I thought of their pain at the deaths of their
family and friends. Their loss must have been terrible for them to seek justice the way they did, to turn violent and not care who they hurt in the scheme of their revenge.

I knew something about loss. I had lost my father at an early age, and his death altered my grandmother and my mother and, by extension, me. Instead of avenging his death by hurting others, however, they had decided to hurt themselves, to be self-destructive in different ways.

I dried my hair and put it up in a ponytail. I dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, a bulky V-neck sweater, and boots.

Grandma had gone to bed, and the house was quiet. I took my shearling coat out of the closet in the entranceway and bundled up. It was the perfect night for a long walk, cold, with a sky full of stars.

At the end of the driveway, I took a right toward Main Street. White twinkle lights were hung on every store and tree, a reminder that we were heading into the holiday season. A few tourists were walking on the sidewalks, as well. They stopped to look in shopwindows and raised paper cups of hot apple cider to their lips.

I couldn’t deny I lived in an idyllic setting, peaceful and beautiful, even if I did find more than my share of murders. I had lived in Cannes for the last five months, which was the longest I had lived in any one place since I’d left home when I was sixteen years old.

My commitment issues battled with my general contentment at living here on a daily basis. I had made only a handful of matches and one unmatch, which wasn’t a staggering success. Still, Grandma
seemed pleased with my progress and insisted that I had the gift, whatever that was. So I supposed I would stay on a while longer and see where the matchmaker business took me.

My love life, however, was a total bust. Holden had vanished, and Spencer would never change his womanizing ways. I felt a kernel of loneliness in the pit of my belly that wouldn’t go away. It was my way of living with loss, with the failure of my so-called relationships with Spencer and Holden.

I kept walking until I found myself at the easternmost corner of the historic district, on Gold Digger Avenue, in front of Cup O’Cake. The shop was dark, and a
CLOSED
sign hung in the window.

A wave of guilt joined my loneliness. “I should feel good,” I said out loud. “I did good today.”

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I turned to see Remington. “Out for a walk?” he asked. “Me, too. Funny how we both wound up here.”

Remington wore a black peacoat, jeans, and boots. He smelled good, like soap. He was a breathtaking man. He exuded power and strength and something else. Gentleness.

“I might feel guilty,” I said.

He put his hand out for me to take. “Come on,” he said. I put my hand in his, and we went up Gold Digger Avenue, walking the perimeter of the historic district. His hand was warm and dry and held firm.

With each step, my loneliness left me, and my guilt receded into the corners of my mind. He stopped us at a café and led me to an outside table.

The waiter took our orders—cider for Remington and coffee for me and a slice of apple pie to share. A
cool breeze blew my hair out of its ponytail, and Remington ran his fingers through it, lifting it off my face.

His eyes were large and dark and wholly fixed on me. I sensed desire, but I also sensed that he wouldn’t demand anything I wasn’t prepared to give. I enjoyed his company, even if he wasn’t a big talker. He was easy to be around. Comforting. And I was in no hurry to finish my coffee and go home.

I retied my ponytail and dug into the pie. “You were pretty impressive at the fight last night,” I said.

“So were you.”

I laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“No, I mean it. I’ve seen first-time corner men pass out. I saw one throw up on his fighter.”

“I wanted to do both of those things,” I said. “But I held it together so Spencer wouldn’t kill me.”

At Spencer’s name, we grew quiet. I knew that Remington had questions, but he let them rest unanswered. He put a few bills under his cup and stood. He put his hand out and helped me up.

We continued our walk, but this time he wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me against him. The last of the shops were closing, and the streets were devoid of tourists, or anyone else for that matter.

Then we stopped. “Where are we?” I asked. But I knew.

Remington released my waist and took my hand again, giving it a little squeeze. He pushed open the door to his apartment building, and we walked up the old staircase to the top floor. He unlocked his apartment, allowing me to enter first.

The décor was alternately nerdy fella and cool
Fast & Furious
. A leather couch, coffee table, and big-screen television were surrounded by weight-lifting paraphernalia and
Star Trek
memorabilia.

Remington faced me and unbuttoned my coat. He slipped it off my shoulders, folded it over the arm of the couch, and laid his on top of mine.

The muscles in his back rippled as he moved, pushing against the material of his shirt. I felt a slow burn travel from my head to my toes. He turned sharply, as if he felt the change of temperature in the room. He studied my face for a moment and then, most likely seeing the emotion there, took my hand and pulled me into his bedroom.

The song “Love the One You’re With” played in my head. Out in the recesses of my mind, I searched for Spencer. I had wanted more from him, a confirmation from him that I was special, that he wanted more from me than just a roll in the hay. And also … what? That he wouldn’t grow tired of me and move on to his next conquest.

And here I was in the bedroom of a man I didn’t know anything about except that he was beautiful and wanted me tonight. Beyond that, he made no promises, and I didn’t care. In his arms, the loneliness and fear vanished. I was safe.

Remington wrapped his arms around me and held me against his broad chest. It felt so good to be held like that, completely desired. He brushed my cheek with the back of his fingers and cradled my face in his hands. His eyes were fathomless, deep and impenetrable. I gasped, taking in needed oxygen.

He leaned down and captured my lips with his. More than a kiss, something strong passed between
us, as if we were sharing our essence. I ached for more and took a step toward him.

He deepened the kiss, exploring my mouth with his tongue, and I groaned with desire. The kiss went on and on and the world fell away. Remington’s bedroom, apartment, the town, all the demands on me and feelings for others—all washed away within our kiss.

I was transported.

Remington made quick work of our clothes and carried me to his bed. He parted my legs with his knee and settled himself between them. He was ready, and I realized I was, too.

“You are quite possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said.

“Right back at you,” I croaked. He was hard everywhere. Granite. A complement to my soft flesh, which gave way to welcome him.

I kissed his neck, settling on his pulse, which was going at a pretty good clip. His mouth searched lower with little kisses until he found my breasts. He teased a nipple, making me writhe under him.

Despite my protests, he lifted himself off me, but my protests stopped suddenly when he began to make love to me with his mouth. I started to tremble.

“You are so good at that,” I breathed.

“You are so good,” he said. “I can’t get enough.”

He slowly brought me to climax with his tongue. Wave after wave of pleasure hit me, and I drowned in it, thoroughly satisfied.

Wordlessly, he moved on top of me again and fit himself into me. I lifted my knees, bringing him nearer. He held me close, as if he was afraid I would
run away. He thrust in and out, and my hips arched upward as another climax built in my body.

I was attracted to him, but my body’s reaction was more than attraction. Here was my moment to heal, to let go of doubt, to forget anxiety, to totally succumb to another and be washed clean. Reborn.

After, he covered me with the blanket. He watched me as I dozed on and off on my side. He let me rest for about ten minutes and then he kissed my eyelids, my forehead, my ears.

A person can go for years without thinking about their earlobes. Then one day a gorgeous man sucks on them, and they become the favorite body part. Ditto the underarms, small of the back, and toes.

Remington Cumberbatch was very talented with the whole sex thing. “That’s your influence on me, Gladie,” he insisted.

“For someone who doesn’t say much, you’re a really good liar.”

“There are no lies in this bed,” he said, and made love to me all over again.

The second time was significantly more athletic. We covered pages six through fourteen of the Kama Sutra, and I surprised myself with my increased flexibility. I figured it was because we had warmed up before.

Remington hopped out of bed and came back with a towel, which he used to dry me off. “Water,” I begged. “Please. I have no fluids left in my body.”

“Well, we’ll need those,” he said with a smile.

“We will?” I asked, but he was already in the kitchen. I heard the clanking of ice. He brought back
two glasses, sat on the edge of the bed, handed me one, and drank from the other.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He took my empty glass and placed it on the nightstand. “I like your hair like this, like you’ve been used.”

“I
have
been used.”

“I have a secret,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Uh-oh, here it comes.”

“I’m going to tell you, but I need you to swear to secrecy.”

I stuck three fingers in the air. “Girl Scouts’ honor, unless it’s disgusting, because then I tell everyone.”

“I’m only telling you because I think you’re Twinkie-worthy.”

“I’m what? Is Twinkie the name for you-know-what?”

“Come on.” Remington tugged my arm, helping me out of bed. We walked hand in hand, naked, to the kitchen. “Remember, top secret,” he said.

He opened the cabinet above the refrigerator. The inside was stuffed with Twinkies boxes.

“Jackpot!” I yelled.

Remington took out a box and walked me back to bed. He handed me a Twinkies package. “You’re the hoarder of my dreams,” I said. “If you have a cabinet of Oreos cereal, I’ll marry you.”

Remington opened a second package of Twinkies. “Interesting. Marriage for cereal. A lot cheaper than a diamond ring.”

“Are cage fighters allowed to eat Twinkies?” I asked with my mouth full.

“I’m expecting to work off more calories later tonight.”

“You are? Will I be there?”

“That was the plan. Hey, you want to dance?”

“Can we dance naked?”

“Like there’s any other way,” he said.

We didn’t dance for long. Two naked people rubbing up against each other while they sway to the music makes things move along pretty quickly.

AFTER OUR
fifth time, I realized I had discovered the best diet ever. Bird could juice all she wanted, but she would never get the happy results I got eating Twinkies and bonking with Remington. My jeans were looser on me when I put them back on, and even my boots were slightly bigger on my feet.

The sun was rising, and Remington’s bedroom was infused with a red glow.

“This was a lot of fun,” I said.

“More than a lot of fun.”

“Five times more than a lot of fun,” I agreed. I tried to run Remington’s comb through my hair, but it was no dice. I had a rat’s nest on my head. “This is going to be a long walk of shame.”

He offered to drive me home, but I was in the mood to walk and breathe in the early morning and prolong the evening as much as possible.

“Excellent. I want your hair to announce to the whole town that Remington Cumberbatch fucked you good.”

He kissed me within an inch of my life and sent me out the door, dizzy and euphoric.

I was so high from my sexcapades that I walked through town without realizing it. It wasn’t until the smell of coffee hit me in front of Tea Time that I woke up and became aware of my surroundings.

Plastic sheets hung down as a makeshift wall, pleated in the middle to create a doorway. Inside, Ruth had made amazing progress. The rubble had been cleared out, and new tables and chairs filled the space, as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened at Tea Time.

Ruth was behind the bar, cleaning it off with a wet rag.

“Latte, Ruth,” I called, waving a five-dollar bill.

“Holy crap, you have been fucked good!” she pronounced.

“No, I haven’t,” I said, smoothing out my hair with my hand.

“Oh, please,” she said.

I leaned over the bar. “Okay, I admit it. I’m flying high.”

But then I crashed to the ground in a pile of guilt I hadn’t been expecting. All because of two little words.

“Hi, Pinkie.”