Moonshot
Page 53
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He said nothing, just pulled at my shirt, up and over my head. Then my sports bra. I was taken back to that hotel room, my back against the door, Chase’s breath heavy. I opened my eyes and willed it away, meeting Tobey’s eyes, his hands quick on their pull at my pants, and he gave me one long kiss before he stepped to the bathroom.
The shower started, a steady patter of drops against tile.
Steam floated off the spray, my hands helping him as he undressed.
The loosening of his tie—pulling the silk slowly through the knot.
The unbuttoning of his shirt—pushing it off, my eyes floating over the tattoo on his shoulder, the initials of our unborn son, the letters curling through an orchid bloom. I swallowed a lump of emotion and pulled at the thick leather of his belt, his hands brushing over my breasts, gentle and soft, as I undid the top of his dress pants and pushed them down.
In the shower, his hands ran over my hair, pulling out the elastic. The froth of bubbles, soap on his palms, slick against my skin. He stood behind me, the sting of water everywhere, our slick bodies constantly touching, brushing. We kissed under the spray, it dripping in my eyes, in our mouths, our touch growing stronger, frantic. I gripped him, and he bit at my lip. He turned me, tilting me forward, his hand brushing over me, fingers sliding in me, and I moaned when he pushed inside, half a cry of pleasure, half one of pain.
I cried in that shower. I held on to the stone wall, his hands settling on my waist, gripping me there, my face turned sideways, cheek pressed against the rough cut of granite, and silently sobbed, every thrust an invasion, not just of my body, but of my heart. He fucked me, and I remembered so much. So many times he was wonderful. So many times he was sweet. So many minute moments that made me love him. I didn’t fall, but I grew in love with this man. This man who fucked me in his shower and mistook my cries for pleasure. The one who turned me around, lifting me up, his kiss missing the salt of my tears, the pour of water from overhead erasing all evidence, his cock pushing back in, my legs around his waist, his hands holding me up, our movement slow and beautiful.
Slow and beautiful.
Heart breaking. Of mine as much as his.
And he never knew. He bit out a cry as he finished, thrusting deep inside of me, my nails tightening against his skin, my hands shaking as he lowered my feet to the ground, his final kiss soft and sweet, his thank you almost lost in the sound of the water.
I didn’t look at him as I dried off. I didn’t speak as I crawled into bed. I waited until the sound of his snores drifted across the room, and then I let myself cry.
I emailed Chase back in the middle of the night, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, my butt on the bare floor, my back against the foot of the bed, the flames of our fire flickering before me, the phone heavy in my hand as I pressed SEND and dropped it to the floor beside me.
No. not anymore.
100
World Series: Game 1
It was us against the Cubs, the Series starting in New York, and would finish here, in our stadium. My last games in pinstripes.
“Tell me what’s going on.” My father’s voice scraped through the receiver, sounds of the airport behind him. He and Carla were coming home, their flight getting them in with only a couple of hours to spare. They would watch the game from our box, fully clad in team apparel, Dad’s number retired and already in the Yankees’ Hall of Fame.
“I’m waiting until after the series.” I eyed Tobey through the window, by the pool, a phone to his ear, his hands gesturing, face upset. Probably on the phone with his sister. Margreta wasn’t coming to the game, a development that had infuriated Tobey and given me a tiny bit of pleasure. The woman liked to chat, and I was the most frequent recipient. I couldn’t be polite with her anymore, not today. Not when we were in the World Series, and I was days away from leaving her brother. Not when I had Tobey beside me, and Chase before me, my dad watching the entire thing. It’d be hard enough as it was, without her asking questions, her eyes critical, seeing everything, the woman a damn vulture without a bone.
“This is a big decision, Ty. Are you sure about it?”
“I am.” It felt like the first decision I had ever made for myself. Funny that it would be the biggest of my life.
“If he hurts you, I will kill him.” My father’s threat made me smile, the vigor behind it warming my heart.
“I don’t think he’ll hurt me. I think he’s more worried about me hurting him.”
“Good.”
I watched Tobey sit down in one of our patio chairs, his legs stretching out. I considered my words carefully before speaking. “I know it was embarrassing, Dad, when I got pregnant.”
“You’ve never been an embarrassment.”
“This will be embarrassing. Tobey will—” my words broke off. I didn’t know what Tobey would do. “He might try to punish you. The tickets, the box … all of that will be gone.”
“You think I care about sitting in an air-conditioned box next to them?” Dad swore, and I heard the shush of Carla next to him. “I care about you. I want you to be happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. Don’t worry about me.”
I smiled despite myself. “Thanks.”
“See you tonight. Take care of yourself ’til then.”
“Always do.”
He hung up, and I locked my phone, taking one last look at Tobey before stepping away from the window.
The game was six hours out.
Third inning. Neither team had scored. I stood from my seat and stretched. Walked to the window. Stared down at the dugout. Walked back.
“You don’t like baseball?” the idiot of a woman before me tittered, her straw swirling in a drink that looked like piss.
“Of course she likes baseball,” another woman chimed in, reaching over the kitchen’s island to pluck a carrot from the tray, dragging it through the artichoke dip. “She’s Tobey’s wife.”
The front door was only twenty or third steps behind me. If I took off, I could hit a full sprint in enough time to blast through it, these three-inch heels be damned. “I’m a Yankee fan.” I spoke up before these women discussed my whole life right here before me. “Don’t have a stake in this game.” Only a half-truth. I’d love to be in the other room with the guys, gathered around the giant screen, watching the play and discussing the game. It was the World Series for God’s sake. Seven games that the world stopped spinning for. Except that the Orioles had made it. Chase had made it. Which put me here, in this kitchen, staring at these women and trying not to strangle any of them.
The shower started, a steady patter of drops against tile.
Steam floated off the spray, my hands helping him as he undressed.
The loosening of his tie—pulling the silk slowly through the knot.
The unbuttoning of his shirt—pushing it off, my eyes floating over the tattoo on his shoulder, the initials of our unborn son, the letters curling through an orchid bloom. I swallowed a lump of emotion and pulled at the thick leather of his belt, his hands brushing over my breasts, gentle and soft, as I undid the top of his dress pants and pushed them down.
In the shower, his hands ran over my hair, pulling out the elastic. The froth of bubbles, soap on his palms, slick against my skin. He stood behind me, the sting of water everywhere, our slick bodies constantly touching, brushing. We kissed under the spray, it dripping in my eyes, in our mouths, our touch growing stronger, frantic. I gripped him, and he bit at my lip. He turned me, tilting me forward, his hand brushing over me, fingers sliding in me, and I moaned when he pushed inside, half a cry of pleasure, half one of pain.
I cried in that shower. I held on to the stone wall, his hands settling on my waist, gripping me there, my face turned sideways, cheek pressed against the rough cut of granite, and silently sobbed, every thrust an invasion, not just of my body, but of my heart. He fucked me, and I remembered so much. So many times he was wonderful. So many times he was sweet. So many minute moments that made me love him. I didn’t fall, but I grew in love with this man. This man who fucked me in his shower and mistook my cries for pleasure. The one who turned me around, lifting me up, his kiss missing the salt of my tears, the pour of water from overhead erasing all evidence, his cock pushing back in, my legs around his waist, his hands holding me up, our movement slow and beautiful.
Slow and beautiful.
Heart breaking. Of mine as much as his.
And he never knew. He bit out a cry as he finished, thrusting deep inside of me, my nails tightening against his skin, my hands shaking as he lowered my feet to the ground, his final kiss soft and sweet, his thank you almost lost in the sound of the water.
I didn’t look at him as I dried off. I didn’t speak as I crawled into bed. I waited until the sound of his snores drifted across the room, and then I let myself cry.
I emailed Chase back in the middle of the night, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, my butt on the bare floor, my back against the foot of the bed, the flames of our fire flickering before me, the phone heavy in my hand as I pressed SEND and dropped it to the floor beside me.
No. not anymore.
100
World Series: Game 1
It was us against the Cubs, the Series starting in New York, and would finish here, in our stadium. My last games in pinstripes.
“Tell me what’s going on.” My father’s voice scraped through the receiver, sounds of the airport behind him. He and Carla were coming home, their flight getting them in with only a couple of hours to spare. They would watch the game from our box, fully clad in team apparel, Dad’s number retired and already in the Yankees’ Hall of Fame.
“I’m waiting until after the series.” I eyed Tobey through the window, by the pool, a phone to his ear, his hands gesturing, face upset. Probably on the phone with his sister. Margreta wasn’t coming to the game, a development that had infuriated Tobey and given me a tiny bit of pleasure. The woman liked to chat, and I was the most frequent recipient. I couldn’t be polite with her anymore, not today. Not when we were in the World Series, and I was days away from leaving her brother. Not when I had Tobey beside me, and Chase before me, my dad watching the entire thing. It’d be hard enough as it was, without her asking questions, her eyes critical, seeing everything, the woman a damn vulture without a bone.
“This is a big decision, Ty. Are you sure about it?”
“I am.” It felt like the first decision I had ever made for myself. Funny that it would be the biggest of my life.
“If he hurts you, I will kill him.” My father’s threat made me smile, the vigor behind it warming my heart.
“I don’t think he’ll hurt me. I think he’s more worried about me hurting him.”
“Good.”
I watched Tobey sit down in one of our patio chairs, his legs stretching out. I considered my words carefully before speaking. “I know it was embarrassing, Dad, when I got pregnant.”
“You’ve never been an embarrassment.”
“This will be embarrassing. Tobey will—” my words broke off. I didn’t know what Tobey would do. “He might try to punish you. The tickets, the box … all of that will be gone.”
“You think I care about sitting in an air-conditioned box next to them?” Dad swore, and I heard the shush of Carla next to him. “I care about you. I want you to be happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. Don’t worry about me.”
I smiled despite myself. “Thanks.”
“See you tonight. Take care of yourself ’til then.”
“Always do.”
He hung up, and I locked my phone, taking one last look at Tobey before stepping away from the window.
The game was six hours out.
Third inning. Neither team had scored. I stood from my seat and stretched. Walked to the window. Stared down at the dugout. Walked back.
“You don’t like baseball?” the idiot of a woman before me tittered, her straw swirling in a drink that looked like piss.
“Of course she likes baseball,” another woman chimed in, reaching over the kitchen’s island to pluck a carrot from the tray, dragging it through the artichoke dip. “She’s Tobey’s wife.”
The front door was only twenty or third steps behind me. If I took off, I could hit a full sprint in enough time to blast through it, these three-inch heels be damned. “I’m a Yankee fan.” I spoke up before these women discussed my whole life right here before me. “Don’t have a stake in this game.” Only a half-truth. I’d love to be in the other room with the guys, gathered around the giant screen, watching the play and discussing the game. It was the World Series for God’s sake. Seven games that the world stopped spinning for. Except that the Orioles had made it. Chase had made it. Which put me here, in this kitchen, staring at these women and trying not to strangle any of them.
