The Passion Play (8 page)

CHAPTER NINE

Two Friday nights in a row he came to her new favorite club.

Now, a third time, he was here again.
Wretched man.

She turned away with a scowl on her face, determined to act like she did not see him, just like she had last Friday night, and the Friday night before.

He would be studiously ignoring her right now. Mostly that was what he did. She knew because she looked at him over and over again through the evening, covertly. Pretended her eyes were closed, that she was lost in the music, the rhythm, the dance, but watched him under her lashes to see if she could catch him watching her, sometimes with that dreamy smile of his, sometimes brooding. He danced too, with other women, if he was invited. It happened. Women approached him, the tall, attractive guy at the bar, quietly holding on to his one drink through the evening.

Yes, he seemed quiet, until he got on the dance floor. Then he moved like the beat incarnate, unself-conscious and fluid. He made them look good, the women who took the trouble to ask him, making the dance about the two of them, reflecting her moves, his own easy to follow. He had some skills. It was hard not to watch. Hard to remember she was pretending to be oblivious.

Then when he had had enough, or the woman had, he would chat to her for a while, smiling and nodding. Maybe she would join him for a drink. They might sit there, talking and laughing. Three times now she had caught that final moment when an offer was made, an invitation, a phone number written down. Each time the woman issued it. Each time he had put his hand on his heart and said thank you but shaken his head no.

Other times Felicity turned around and saw the woman had gone and he sat there alone.

Honestly the first Friday night he showed up she found it kind of creepy. She wondered what he would do next. Would he make a nuisance of himself? Would he . . . follow her home?

It was not as if she had ever had that vibe from him before, but never had a guy shown up somewhere in search of her before either, and he was very big and she was a small woman living alone . . .

She set her burglar alarm when she went to bed, as well as when she went out.

The next day – Saturday – he was absent, and it was a relief. Of course he had not come. He had a game tomorrow. He would be at the team's hotel, maybe in some other city. She could have looked it up on the schedule but she did not. She did not need to know.

Going out dancing was truly enjoyable now she had found the right club - a place where the lighting was better and the music more mellow, easier to dance to. And it was fun to move her body to the beat, to be approached by this man or that one, to accept a drink, to chat. It felt like a wall of cool detachment stood between her and those men, and she accepted that was how an emotionally bruised woman would be, disinterested in connection. It suited her exactly. Yet it was good to know she could fit into this scene if she ever was ready. She drank little, left early, hired a taxi to drive her safely to her car which was parked too far away.

It was a fun time, now she was less awkward and out-of-place. She took Caroline with her and had a giggly, raucous evening, and was approached less often. She eyed up various men Caroline pointed out, trying to imagine herself b
old enough to lure one home. No one truly appealed, which disappointed her only slightly. Her mind was not yet made up to natural conception. Only her stymied libido wanted her to rush things, and mostly she had that well under control.

Except with regards to Luke.

He was there again the second Friday night, and it annoyed her, but she tried to put his presence out of her mind, remembering she had never felt afraid of him before.

Strangely that night it changed things for her to watch other women admire him, pick him out, want to know him better. It made her see
him as the desirable man he was. Polite with it, attentive, a nice guy. Respectful. She had seen it all before of course, but then she did not know him well, truly. For her he was a member of the team first and foremost, then the sexy guy with whom she might have scratched an itch. She had objectified him, failed to even consider his viewpoint, and then been shocked and humiliated when he did not just want to put out on demand.

Remembering her self-absorption, she winced. His assumptions about her grated, but her own about him were embarrassing. He was a man, not a sex toy.

Goodness, look at him dance. He was one stunning man. She looked away.

It was completely over-the-top irritating to discover she was comparing other guys to him and finding them falling short, as if he was some gold standard. She wanted to tell him to go
away, he was making the others look bad, which was nonsensical. Plus she never got the chance. He never came over to chat. They ignored each other until it was almost a farce.

Tonight - the third Friday night - she felt irritated, anxious . . . curious. What
did
he want?  Surely it was no coincidence he kept coming to the same place she had chosen? Perhaps next time she would choose a different club, see if she could shake him off. The song ended and she leaned in close to Caroline. "I'm tired. Shall we sit down, maybe get a drink?"

"I'm about ready to go home, actually. I just can't handle these late nights anymore. Man, I feel so old. You'll be okay if I go?"

"Of course. I'll see you on Wednesday for that run."

"You're trying to kill me."

"You love it."

Caroline went and Felicity eased through the genial crowd to the solidity of the bar. At the other end of it he sat, gazing meditatively at the bottle of beer in front of him, a slight tension to his shoulders, a stillness, making her think he knew she
stared. 

Now, in this moment, she had had enough of this crazy game of his. The whole thing was just stupid. Forget ignoring him. He was driving her nuts. She stalked over to him and stood beside him, fists on hips. He looked up in innocent enquiry, and then pretended to recognize her with a start of surprise.
"Felicity! Hello. What are you doing here?" he said.

"Shall I ask you that question, Mr Barrett?"

"It's Luke. Sit down, sit down. Can I get you a drink?"

She hesitated, and her hands unclenched and drifted down her sides. Surprisingly she was tempted, really tempted to follow his lead, to just pretend it was okay to sit down and have a chat.
So much more pleasant than a squabble. This was the same compliance to the wishes of others that had made her a doormat for Dan. That thought gave steel to her willpower. "No, thank you. I'd like to know what you're trying to achieve," she said, chin lifted. "Why do I keep seeing you here?"

His eyebrows went up and his eyes opened very wide. After a moment he said – as if surprised by the question – "The beer's very good? And the music's even better?"

"You think I'm stupid?"

"Absolutely not," he said promptly, and with such firmness she found it hard not to smile. Obviously he had learned from his last experience of her putting words in his mouth.

"Then what do you think you're doing?"

He gave an excellent performance of great puzzlement. "Enjoying an evening in a nightclub?" his questioning tone implied this should be obvious.

She did not know what to do, how to come to grips with this slipperiness, so she frowned then gave up, turned on her heel and stalked back out into the crowd, annoyance a reckless quiver through her.

Half in challenge, she approached a group of young guys who looked like they were in their early twenties, joined their loose bunching on the dance floor and danced with them. They accepted her instantly, surrounded her and made her their focus. For once she moved provocatively, from the hips, the sort of undulation that made her heart beat harder, and they hooted and cheered in encouragement and acclaim. It was all light-hearted, still early in the evening and no one was drunk enough to touch her, but she felt the thrill of it as she tested the boundaries and broke her own unwritten rule not to lead men on. Not to cause confusion over what she might want out of the evening.

It was not wise, sober behavior. She did not feel like being wise. She was angry that Luke might have expectations of her, of something she ought to do for him, some way she ought to be for him. She did not want to please any man. She wanted to please only herself.

Minutes later she decided it was time to go home and she chose one of the young men with whom she danced – the one with the sweet eyes and the shy smile – and spoke directly in his ear. "I want to go back to my car now. Would you mind walking me?"

He nodded willingly enough. She hesitated, then added: "And I want one kiss. A goodnight kiss. Will you give me one?" His eyes lit up and he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her and kissed her.

She was startled. She had meant at the car, when they said
goodnight, and he had clearly misunderstood, but oh, this was okay. She put her arms around him too and kissed him back. It was soft and gentle, lips and a little tongue. He was paying attention and being careful, quite a feat in the midst of his friends who started to holler.

When she came up for air she was warm and laughing and he looked dazed, and she tilted her head towards the door and they went. The air was cold outside. He gave her his jacket that he had collected at the door. She wrapped it around herself, smelling the scent of a supermarket brand deodorant, thin and crisp, and was glad of the extra warmth over her dress. Her heels tapped lightly on the pavement as they walked together.

"You're a great dancer," he said, looking at the ground in front of him.

"Thanks. You're pretty good yourself," she said, thought 'not as good as Luke' and rolled her eyes in frustration.
Stupid Luke.

"Do you go there often?"

"Quite a bit lately."

"Maybe I'll see you again there sometime."

"That would be nice."

How did people do it? How did they translate this awkward sort of conversation into casual sex? She had never really understood it. Maybe it was because she never drank too much. She never had her inhibitions lowered to the point where 'anything goes
’. To her this kind of self-conscious talk was the opposite of a turn-on.

How had it been so easy with Luke? To go from 'hi, how are you' to '
ohmigod take me home so I can rip your clothes off' kind of lust in just a few minutes? What was the difference? She did not like that she could not control it, switch it on and off at will.

She had not even kissed Luke. It seemed ridiculous to be mooning over him like this when she had never even kissed him.

They reached her car and she stopped. "This one is me."

"Okay. So, uh shall I see you around?"

"Sure. And I want that goodnight kiss, too." She wanted to see if she could make it happen, that zing, that lustful magic, here in the quiet. There were plenty of people in the street, people passing them by, so she felt perfectly safe. She just wanted to try again. To try and control it.

"Oh." He was surprised. "Oh, okay, sure," and he grinned and like before, stepped in to hold her. He was maybe five foot nine or ten, and he had to hunch just a little. He put his hand on her waist inside his jacket, the other arm around her shoulders and it was a nice hug, a nice kiss, perhaps slightly more daring than on the dance floor, slightly intrusive. There was no zing to it at all. It disappointed her.

She pulled away and shrugged out of the jacket, handed it over.

"Thanks for the escort. Have a nice night," she told him.

"You too," he said with a smile, turned and walked away with a spring to his step.

Beyond him, about a block away, Luke leaned against the wall of a building. He was not hiding, nor watching her. He was just there, staring out at the cars
in the street. When the young man passed him he waited a few seconds and then moved away from the wall. He started to walk away, and it occurred to her maybe this was not stalking her but watching over her. Now she was safely at her car he was going.

"Luke," she called out, not very loudly. "Luke."

On the second call he stopped, half-turned to look back at her. She put her hands on her hips. When he stayed where he was she beckoned him, and slowly he came back, at a saunter.

Her heart started to beat very slow, very hard, the rush of blood loud in her ears.

As he drew level he stopped, four yards away, giving her plenty of space.

"You following me now?" she asked.

"Not . . . exactly."

"Then what is it . . . exactly . . . you
are
doing out here right this second?"

He thought it over, his head tilted back a little. "Providing a solution should there
be a problem," he finally offered.

"You think I might need solutions?"

"Maybe. Better to have a solution you don't need than vice versa."

"So this is a noble cause?"

"Perhaps."

"You weren't just
perving on me."

"
Perve. On. You. I would
never
. No! Absolutely not!" There was a hint of little-old-lady to his protestations that did not fit this big, muscle-bound jock.