Arnold made a point of looking at the cold sweat Griff could feel beading on his forehead, but he didn’t comment further. “How are you doing otherwise?”
“Good.”
Arnold looked around the apartment, taking in the fancy TV, the new furnishings. “This is a nice place.”
“Thanks.”
The man’s eyes moved back to him. “How’d you pay for it?”
“Cash. Which I came by legally.”
“How?”
“It has nothing to do with Vista, none of that. I haven’t broken any laws. I haven’t placed a bet.”
“Do you have a job yet?”
“I’m looking into a couple of things.”
“You were going for an interview…”
“It didn’t pan out.”
“What was it?”
“I didn’t get the job, so what difference does it make?”
Arnold didn’t get visibly ruffled over the attitude behind the question, but he repeated in a no-bullshit tone, “What was it?”
Resigned, Griff said, “I asked a sportswriter if I could do legwork for him. You know Bolly Rich?”
“I read his column.”
“I proposed becoming one of his stringers. He turned me down.” Actually, Griff was glad Arnold had pressed him about this. He hoped the probation officer would call Bolly for verification. Bolly would confirm that Griff had tried in earnest to secure employment.
“Anything else?”
“Nothing concrete.” Griff hoped Arnold would let it go at that, because basically Griff liked the guy. He had a rotten job, but somebody had to do it. Griff had nothing personal against him, and he’d have hated lying to him.
“Let me know soon as you land something. It’ll look good on your record.”
“Will do. Soon as I land something.”
“In the meantime, no bookies, no Vista.”
“Hell, I know that.”
“No matter how discouraged you become.”
“Believe me, Jerry, I want nothing to do with them.”
“I do believe you.” He said it like he wanted to but didn’t. “Try to stay out of places where you might run into football fans.”
Griff gave him a look.
Abashed, he said, “Hard to do, I know, but try not to provoke another incident.”
“I didn’t provoke this one.”
“I believe that, too.” And this time he sounded sincere. He stood up to leave. Griff tried not to let his relief show. “Stay where you are,” Arnold said when Griff made to get up. “I’ll see myself out.” He turned to go, then came back around. “Have you heard anything from Stanley Rodarte?”
Griff was glad for the concealing effect the swelling and bruising had on his expression. “Actually, he showed up at the prison the day of my release.” He admitted it in case this was a trick question. Arnold might have been in contact with Wyatt Turner, who could have mentioned Rodarte’s unwelcome appearance.
“Did you talk to him there?”
“No.” Again, the truth.
“He’d mean trouble for you. The last person you’d want to see coming.”
“You can say that again.”
“I’d like to know if he comes around. In fact, I need to know.”
“Absolutely.”
“You’d be dumb to take him on alone, Griff.”
“I won’t.”
Thoughtfully Arnold threaded his clip-on necktie through his fingers. “His reputation being what it is, I’m a bit surprised he’s keeping his distance. Nothing from him since that day at the prison, huh?”
“Nope. Nothing.”
So much for not lying to his probation officer.
Griff’s physical strength and conditioning served him well, and he mended. During the week following the surprise visit from Jerry Arnold, the swelling around his eyes and mouth subsided and his face began to look familiar.
The bruises faded to an ugly greenish yellow, then the green began to go away, leaving him with only an overall jaundiced look. The gash above his eyebrow was reduced to a faint pink line. It matched the faint pink line across his cheekbone, a lasting gift Rodarte had delivered himself that night in the parking garage.
Rodarte had a shitload of grief to answer for. Despite what he’d told his probation officer, Griff couldn’t wait for the opportunity to pay the bastard back.
He hadn’t resumed his multi-mile runs yet, but he had swum laps the past two days. His muscles were sore, but in the good way that came from exercise, not from being pounded on by fists that had felt like meat tenderizers.
He wasn’t up to full speed, but he no longer moved like a ninety-year-old with arthritis in every joint. He was feeling more like himself. Which was good. Because Laura Speakman called one morning as he was stepping out of the shower.
“One o’clock?”
“That’s good for me.”
“I’ll see you then.”
He looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of his bathroom door. If she had turned her head away from him before, she might go into a full-fledged cower at the sight of him today. His appearance had improved, but he still looked like he’d taken a sound beating.
He gave himself another critical once-over in the mirror, front and back.
One good thing,
he thought,
she won’t be seeing me naked.
L
AURA OPENED THE DOOR FOR HIM, THEN STOOD ASIDE AND
motioned him into the house. No sports jacket this time, she noted. He was wearing a white oxford cloth Polo shirt tucked into his jeans, and brown cowboy boots, which he’d been wearing the other two times she’d seen him. He was carrying a small white paper sack.
She closed the door and joined him in the living area just as he was taking off his sunglasses. She managed to keep from gasping but just barely. His face, particularly around his eyes and along his jaw, was bruised.
Gauging by the sickly color of the bruises, they were a week or so old. They must have looked much worse when fresh. The cut above his eyebrow was new. The one on his cheekbone was fainter than it had been a month ago.
Either he was accident prone or…
She didn’t want to speculate on the
or.
None of the possibilities that came immediately to mind were good.
He noticed her staring, but since he neither acknowledged nor explained his battered appearance, she didn’t ask about it. He set his sunglasses and the sack on the coffee table, then stood looking at the closed doors of the armoire for several moments before turning back to her. “It didn’t take?”
Because she was still wondering under what circumstances his face had become so bruised, it took a second or two for his question to sink in. Looking away, she shook her head. “If it had, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Right.”
The a/c cycled off. Without its soft whir, the house seemed abnormally quiet.
“Well—”
“I—”
They began at the same time. Laura motioned for him to go ahead.
He reached for the small sack he had carried in with him and passed it to her. “I brought this.”
She looked at him curiously, then opened the sack and peered inside. When she saw the box, her heart gave a little jump.
“It’s, uh, it’s not the kind that has a spermicide,” he said. “I double-checked, ’cause some of them do. Have it, I mean.”
Not trusting her voice to speak, she nodded.
The cowboy boots shifted slightly. “I just thought since—”
“Yes. Thank you.” Before any more could be said, she hurried toward the bedroom.
Once inside, she closed the door and leaned against it. She had the sack clutched in a death grip. Her palms were actually damp. This was silly, getting so flustered. But what flustered her more than the tube of lubricant was that he had thought to bring it. That he had thought at all about what they would do today.
She set her handbag on the dresser and went into the bathroom. The mirror above the sink reflected an image that looked surprisingly normal. Dark hair. Gray eyes that verged on green, a distinctive black spot in the right one. A triangle-shaped face, the brow slightly wider than the jaw. It was saved from being too prim by her lips, which were full and—she’d been told—sexy.
Her color was a little high. She attributed that to the midday heat.
A month ago, as well as today, she had carefully selected what to wear, dressing in her most structured business suits. Nothing too feminine, certainly nothing provocative. She took off her suit jacket, skirt, and shoes. As before, she left on her top, which today was an unadorned V-necked T-shirt, light blue, not too fitted. She also left on the three strands of silver chain around her neck, which somehow made her feel more dressed than
un.
She took the box out of the sack, opened it, removed the tube. Just in case he was wrong, she read every word on the label. Twice.
Afraid that she’d taken too long, she hurried from the bathroom, folded back the covers, and got into bed. She removed her panties and tucked them between the mattresses, as she had done last time. She raised the sheet to her waist, then a bit higher.
She closed her eyes and tried to relax and control her hectic breathing. Her heart was beating way too fast. This waiting for him was agonizing.
What was he doing out there?
Well, of course she knew what he was doing. She just wondered
what
he was doing. Was he sitting up? Lying down on the sofa? Did he feel any self-consciousness at all? Was he the least bit anxious about his ability to perform? Had it occurred to him to wonder what she was thinking about while she waited for him?
She hadn’t heard any sound coming from the living room either the last time or today, so she imagined he had decided against the videos in favor of the magazines.
Or maybe he didn’t need either and was simply fantasizing, conjuring up his own prurient images. Surely he’d been with countless women. When he was a football star, women would have thrown themselves at him. Undoubtedly many still would. He would have had hundreds of erotic experiences from which to draw.
What kind of woman appealed to him? Tall or petite, slender and athletic or curvy and buxom, blond or redhead? Brunette?
His knock was soft, but it still gave her a start. She took a deep breath. “Come in.”
He stepped into the room. Although they were the only two in the house, he closed the door. Even without his boots he seemed towering in the confines of the bedroom. Their eyes connected for a nanosecond as he walked toward the bed. He sat down on the edge of it, his back to her.
He hesitated for several beats, then raised his hips only high enough to push off his jeans. He worked them down his legs and left them lying on the floor. She thought he removed his socks, too, but she couldn’t be sure.
He started to get between the sheets, then muttered something she didn’t catch. She cut her eyes to him, about to ask what he’d said, when he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and pulled them off.
She glimpsed a tan line at his waist. There was a stark contrast between the brown skin above it and the white skin—
dear God
—below. And then his shirttail dropped back into place.
He raised the sheet and slid in beside her. “Did you use it?”
“Yes.”
With no more preamble than that, he rolled onto her and separated her knees with his. His first thrust lodged the head of his penis inside her. But just. She closed her eyes and turned her head aside, but she could sense him looking down at her with dismay and anger.
Using one straight arm to support himself, he worked his other hand between their bodies. She tensed. But he didn’t touch her, he stroked himself in short, rapid tugs. A few times his knuckles brushed against her.
Soon, she sensed the tightening of his muscles. His breath became uneven and hot against her face. He gave a soft groan a heartbeat before he removed his hand, pushed himself into her fully, and came.
The arm he’d used to bear his weight gave way. He settled on her heavily, all six feet four of him. Tanned skin and white skin. He pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He rearranged his right leg. It felt muscular and hard against the inside of her thigh, and rough with hair. His shirt was slightly damp with perspiration. The dampness seeped through her T-shirt, into her skin. She could smell his sweat. Soap. Semen.
When he moved, he moved suddenly, as one does when on the verge of sleep and muscles are seized with a violent twitch. He raised his head and levered himself up but was yanked back down on top of her. Laura, not realizing what had happened, tried to push him off.
“Relax!” he growled.
Then she saw the problem. One of her chains had looped itself around a button of his shirt. He fumbled with it, cursing under his breath, until he worked it free.
Less than five minutes after pulling off his boxers, he was pulling them back on. Laura kept her eyes averted, but in her peripheral vision, she followed his motions, which were jerky and abrupt, those of an angry man barely holding on to his temper.
He stuffed his shirttail into his jeans as though he was furious at it. He buttoned up his fly with dispatch, but his belt buckle presented a challenge. When he finally managed it, he slapped it lightly into place and turned to face her.
“Why did you lie to me?”
“I didn’t use it because I was afraid it would make a difference.”
“You’re damn right it would have made a difference. That’s why I brought it.”
“I mean I was afraid it would prevent conception.”
“I told you it wouldn’t.”
“It might have affected the motility of the sperm. Something. I don’t know,” she said defensively. “I just didn’t want to take a chance.”
“Well, I didn’t want to hurt you again.” His loud vehemence seemed to surprise him as much as it did her. It rendered them both silent. Finally he said, “Look, I know you have a low opinion of me. You think I’m an outlaw. A criminal. A big, dumb football player. Well, fine. Think whatever you want to. I really don’t give a rat’s ass so long as your money’s good.”
He paused for breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was gruff. “But I hurt you. Twice now. And I resent you thinking that would be okay with me. Because it isn’t.”
She sat up but kept the sheet pulled to her waist. “It shouldn’t make any difference to you.”
“It does.”
“Well, it shouldn’t!” He was provoking an emotional response from her, and she didn’t want to feel any emotion, even anger. “This isn’t about how you feel or how I feel.”
“I understand that. But if you’ve gotta do it this way, you could at least make it easier on yourself. Why don’t
you
watch the dirty movies?” He raised his hands to stop her from commenting. “Forget it, forget it.”
Again, he paused to take several deep breaths, then said, “No touchy-feely. Fine. I’m not into all that, either. No kissing or foreplay because that would…Because…I get why there’s no kissing or foreplay, okay? But couldn’t we at least have a conversation first?”
“What for?”
“Because maybe that would stop you from cringing, and I wouldn’t feel like I was violating you.”
“I don’t think of it as a violation.”
He snorted in disagreement. “Could have fooled me. You don’t even look at me.”
She gave him a meaningful look then, but she didn’t dare verbalize what she was thinking—that looking at each other would make it harder, not easier.
He seemed to realize that, too, because he turned away and mumbled a string of swearwords. He tilted his face up toward the ceiling, placed his hands on his hips, and blew out a gust of breath. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Christ.” After a time, he looked at her again. “I walk in here, we’ve barely made eye contact. You’re lying there, still and silent, resigned to a fate worse than death. How do you think that makes me feel?”
“I don’t care how it makes you feel.”
She did, but she couldn’t let him know that. Actually, his concern touched her, and that was a dangerous sentiment. They couldn’t be friends. Or enemies. They could be nothing to each other. Between them there must be nothing except total indifference, or she could never return to this house.
Her features impassive, her tone cool, she said, “This is biology, Mr. Burkett. Nothing more.”
“Then why don’t you just have me jerk off into a bottle and hand it over? You’ve made it plain how distasteful it is to have me on you. Admit it, you came unglued when I put my hand down there. Hell, you panicked when your chain got caught on my button. If it’s so god-awful, why do you put yourself through it?”
“I thought you had that figured out.”
“You were driving the night your husband lost his manhood. Poor you. You’ve got that cross to bear the rest of your life. This is your penance, I guess. Screwing a lowlife like me. Is that it?”
He’d scoured an open wound, and she lashed back in self-defense. “If I can stand it, surely you can.”
His expression changed to match hers. The skin of his face was pulled tight, actually changing the configuration of the bruises. “I didn’t sign on to be insulted.”
“And I didn’t promise to make polite conversation. Stop worrying about how I feel and just—”
“Play stud.”
“That’s what you agreed to do.”
“Well, I’m rethinking our agreement. I don’t need this shit.”
“No. Just our millions.”
He glared at her for several seconds, then turned. He reached the door in two long strides and flung it open so hard it bounced back when it hit the wall. “I’d say ‘Fuck you, lady,’ but I already did.”
He slammed the front door on his way out, thinking he was leaving for the last time. Even if he wanted to come back, which he didn’t, his exit line was reason enough for them to fire him.
Fire
him? Like this was a normal job. Like the terms of his employment would ever be a matter of record. He could just imagine some time in the future being interviewed by a prospective employer.
What was your last job, Mr. Burkett?
I was paid to fuck this rich wacko’s wife.
Uh-huh. And you failed to perform the task?
Oh no, I performed just fine.
Then what was the cause of your dismissal?
I lost my temper and told her off.
I see. And all you had to do was show up, keep your mouth shut, and just fuck her?
That’s right.
You’re not very bright, are you, Mr. Burkett?
Apparently not.
It sounded like a third-rate joke.
She must have parked around back, where he’d parked the first time, because the red Honda was the only car in the driveway. In the time it took him to reach it, he was already considering going back inside to apologize. He was still mad as hell, but he couldn’t afford his anger. The price tag of it was half a million now, and millions more to come. Not worth it. Not by a long shot.
He turned on his heel and had started back toward the house when he spotted something that drew him up short.