In “Security Blanket,” set the week after Alice’s second contract night (which she has never fully described for us) during Chapter 5 of Playing the Game, Jay gets a lesson in what Alice does all day at work and realizes why Henry’s so certain about her.
Pinecones and fir boughs woven into a perfect wreath. Henry called Alice’s hazel eyes an earth-toned kaleidoscope, but Jay carried years of muscle memory of wreath-making. Over and under, twisting and tying, arranging pinecones with a pinch of randomness to create the illusion of natural placement.
Alice didn’t need illusions. Dark and inviting, her eyes. He and Henry agreed. Crazy fucking beautiful when she came, too, only Henry’d blindfolded her again last Friday.
“—Jay? Because I think I’m boring you.” Alice rolled her straw’s paper cap between her fingers. “We can make a no-shop-talk rule for lunch if you want.”
“It’s not that.” Acourse, regaling her with how fucking hot she’d looked wide-eyed and moaning across the table that first night wouldn’t meet Henry’s standards for lunchtime etiquette. “I got lost down the wrong fork in the brain. So you’re making some thingamajig?”
“I don’t make thingamajigs. Not yet, anyway.” Tipping her head, she pushed her hair off her shoulder. Blond strands dangled and swayed. “I fiddle with designs in the computer.”
He lacked a comb to offer her, like the flowery one Henry’d put in her hair for their concert date scene. “You draw bridges and stuff.”
Two Saturdays back, he’d tagged along while Henry took the hair comb and sketches to a metalworker friend who made artsy sculptures. Cool studio, with blowtorches and scrap piles.
“That’s more civil engineering. What I do is—” Twisting in her seat, she scanned the restaurant with a frown.
Her thin blue blouse pulled tight across her breasts. Sweet curves ripe for sucking. She’d freak right the hell out if he dropped into a waiting pose and asked. But at home, on their Fridays, he worshiped her the way she deserved.
“Oh, I got it.” She waved toward the window. “Your bike.”
“My bike?” He spared a glance. Locked nice and tight out front. “Looks fine to me.”
The artist’s miniature metal flower had shown up a few days after their visit and just as quickly been whisked off to Alice’s apartment. Jay didn’t dare ask what she’d done with Henry’s gift.
“No, I mean”—she squinted, her rich wreaths lost behind pale lids—“anybody can buy a bike for their kid, right? But they gotta make decisions. How tall, how many gears, whether it’s got hand brakes, that kinda thing.”
“Sure, they got tons to pick from.”
“But you look at more details. Like”—leaning in, she planted her elbows on the wobbly table—“umm, tires.” She grabbed a handful of sugar packets. “Hold the edge, okay?”
He clamped the table. Her requests lacked Henry’s command tone, but he’d render her any service she wanted so long as it didn’t conflict with his rules.
“Yeah, you want slick tires on the road and nubby ones off it—”
She bent over and shoved the packets under the table leg.
“—thin ones for speed, wide ones for a smooth ride.” Like the ride they gave each other, courtesy of Henry. Getting smoother with practice. “Lots of choices.”
Sitting up, she grabbed the table and shook the sides. No wobble.
“Thanks.” Her smile lifted her whole face. “So you decide on tires, and then it gets more specialized. All-weather grips for the bars or a broader seat so you don’t smash your—for comfort.”
“Gotta keep the important junk safe.” He pushed away the urge to pat his dick. Henry’d tell him it worked fine. Maybe he’d get to demonstrate tonight. “I’m protecting for two these days.”
Smiling, she rolled her eyes. “Plus add-ons for carrying more than you can fit on your back.”
“Fold-flat panniers.” Safer territory. His joke skirted the boundaries, and his dick had already gotten too invested in lunch with Alice. “My guys are rough on ’em, but they hold up. The logo on the side’s good advertising.”
“Custom job?” She nodded like she didn’t have to ask.
“Henry knows a guy. I got a deal on the screen printing.”
“If the price was right, you’d go custom on the whole bike, wouldn’t you?” She flexed the spoon from her place setting. The metal bounced in an arc between her hands. “Reshape the frame to match your height and reach, pick a body material to give you the precise tradeoff between weight and speed and traction and cargo space.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s high-end shit for racers with sponsors or rich guys with money to wave around.” Waste of resources, all flash and no substance. “Cost’s not worth it for my profit margins.”
“Right, but I’m the woman you’d pay to design that model. We work on a bigger scale, for companies that’ll save enough in the long run by having something designed to fit their site. Manufacturing facilities, assembly line machines, product packaging, all sorts of stuff, mostly industrial for my team.” She talked with her hands, giddy and excited, her cheeks flushed foreplay pink. “I find the perfect custom fit so all of the pieces work together the way they should.”
“You do”—for objects what Henry does for people. The surge in his dick matched the thrill of hanging a left in the second before opposing traffic caught wind of the light change.
“I do what?”
Fuck. Sharing his understanding would yank off her security blanket.
“I get it.” Why Henry figured she’d be the right woman for them. “What you do.” What Henry meant by the blindfolds. “So start over, and tell me about the dumbass with the crazy demands.”
“You sure?” She eyed him as if he stood in front of an empty cookie jar with crumbs clinging to his lips. “We can talk about something you like.”
Alice paid attention to everything except herself. Or didn’t see herself, not the way he and Henry did. She needed her security blankets, her blindfolds and contract hours and no-stringedness.
Not him. He’d been a mess, spilling emotions all over the fucking place when Henry’d started training him. He’d learned more control. She needed to learn less.
“I like you.” Slouching back in the scrawny chair, he folded his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs. He tapped his sneaks against her little boots. “And I already hate this guy for shitting on your awesome morning customizing his thingamajig.”
Their love crept up in her blind spot. She had inattentional blindness going for her, the looked-but-didn’t-see defense. Same reason he’d slammed his hand down on a hundred car hoods.
“God, that’s exactly it. Huge pile of shit.” Dragging her hands down her face, she blew out a breath. “I worked on this gorgeous design for days, and now we’ve got completely new parameters. Square Onesville.”
Henry’d let her get away with hiding her feelings until they pressed her so hard she’d have to feel ’em. On the streets, that’d look an awful lot like getting a faceful of door. A banged-up Alice, bruised and maybe broken without the right cushion. Henry’d be at her side to help her, sure, but what if love smacked her in the face on Jay’s watch instead?
“A nightmare.” She propped her chin on her fists. “Like if you ordered a custom bike for off-road riding and called two days before delivery to say you’d changed your mind and wanted a submarine, not a bike at all.”
He’d be the security blanket for her security blanket. Double-wrapped. So when she popped, the emotional explosion sounded less like the bang of an overinflated tire and more like her sweet giggle when he flicked his tongue in the crease of her thigh.
“A submarine?” He shot her his best grin, the one Henry sent him to his knees for. “Do you get to wear a wetsuit for inspiration?”
She giggled. That giggle.
A perfect custom fit.