Toxic masculinity ruins the party again.
–Karen Kilgariff
My Favorite Murder episode 44
Brent
Within minutes we’re driving back to the apartment and I’m mentally berating myself.
Why did I snap at her for the hanky-panky comment? Granted, there’s been zero hanky-panky in my recent past, so I’m a little touchy about the issue, but I normally don’t let those things get to me. Having a potentially lethal heart condition is a lot more serious than sex.
What is it about her that gets under my skin?
And why did I invite her to stay with me? What was I thinking?
I was thinking Marc told me to check on her. She’s an obligation.
Then again, maybe it’s because she’s a distraction. A very attractive one. Even with her funky pajamas and makeup-free face, she glows with vitality and moves with an innate sensuality that draws me like a fish to a lure.
These thoughts aren’t helping.
It’s just one night. She’ll be gone in the morning.
“What kind of car is this?” She’s stroking the armrest and eyeballing the interior like she wants to make out with it.
I yank my gaze back to the road because her roaming hands are giving me dirty thoughts. Thoughts that will lead nowhere. Maybe since I can’t actually have sex, I’m becoming overly focused on it.
Also still feeling a little emasculated about our last conversation.
She was just teasing me. It shouldn’t bother me. It wouldn’t bother me if I weren’t dealing with manhood issues already. And probably even less if I hadn’t just spent the night with my father.
“It’s a Porsche Panamera.”
“It’s so pretty. Can I drive it?”
“The only other person who’s driven Carla is Marc.”
“Carla? You call your car Carla?”
“Shhh, she’ll hear you.” I pat the dash.
“Yeah and she’s gonna be pissed you gave her such a lame-ass name.”
“What would you call her?”
“Pepe le Hot Stuff,” she says without hesitation.
I laugh and a bit of the tension in my body releases at her words. Anyone who wants to call my car Pepe le Hot Stuff cannot be taken completely seriously.
It doesn’t take long to reach the building in Greenwich Village because of the late hour. I hand my keys off to the parking attendant and then wave to the doorman as we pass through the lobby. Bethany keeps pace behind me at an angle, her body turned and hunched behind mine. She’s clearly trying to hide but only succeeding in drawing more attention to herself.
“What are you doing?”
We reach the elevator and she shuffles to keep herself from view of the front desk. “They’ll see me.”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not. But aren’t you some kind of celebrity? You don’t want the paparazzi catching you with some nobody who can’t even put on real clothes.” She tugs on the hip of her sleep pants.
The elevator opens and we step inside. I press the key for the tenth floor. “I don’t really care what the gossip rags say. I’ve been through worse.”
She scoffs as we move up. “Everyone says that, but it’s a lie. I’m sure there’s something you wouldn’t want everyone knowing.”
I almost choke on my own tongue.
Once we’re in the apartment, I toss my keycard on the table in the spacious entryway and hold the door open for her.
She walks past me, kicking her shoes off onto the tiled floor and leaving them by the door like she’s been here a hundred times. Which, I guess, she has.
“I guess I don’t have to show you around.” My gaze runs over the open floor plan, the white walls with original prints from expensive artists, the luxury furniture. Is this all an elaborate ruse for her to stay here instead of her shitty apartment in Morningside Heights? It wouldn’t be the first time a woman has taken advantage of my wealth.
Maybe not. I did invite her here, after all. She would still be at the office if I hadn’t happened to stop by.
She turns to face me, wringing her hands. “This is weird, isn’t it?” She bites her bottom lip. “I’m so sorry. I’ve basically taken over and ruined your night. It’s late. I’ll just use the facilities and get out of the way.”
“It’s fine, really. I’m glad I’m able to help. Just let me know if you need anything.”
She nods and disappears with her bag down the hall.
All my thoughts about her being a gold digger fly away. Her distress at taking advantage was too genuine. If she really wanted something from me, she’d be a lot more brazen and a lot less eager to flee.
I change into sleep pants in my room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I breathe in the faint scent of Bethany that still lingers on the sheets. Wildflowers and mint. The fact I slept better the other night than I have in months has to be a fluke. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it’s because I was back in my own bed after being away for so long. That has to be it.
Curious about how my houseguest is faring, I find her in the guest bathroom, digging through drawers, toothbrush in hand.
“Can I help you find something?” I ask from the doorway.
“Oh, hey.” Her eyes flick over me and then immediately fly to my face. “I was just looking for toothpaste.” Her cheeks flush pink.
I’m not wearing a shirt.
May have been an intentional choice. And it was worth it. She’s totally checking me out.
My chest puffs slightly.
It’s been a while since I’ve felt attractive enough to enjoy attention. My job is basically to work out every day and be in tip-top shape but . . . after Bella dumped me and then Gwen rejected me for Marc, my ego has been bruised.
I catch her checking me out again when I hand her the toothpaste tube, forcibly swallowing the grin threatening at my lips.
Her cheeks are still tinted pink. She uses the tube, hands it back without meeting my eyes and then starts brushing with vigor.
Bethany is different from most of the women I’ve known. Not only is she a terrible liar, everything she thinks is immediately reflected on her face. It’s kind of fascinating. She clearly likes what she sees and yet she’s trying to hide it. Why? Because she thinks I’m some kind of man-slut?
She spits, then meets my eyes in the mirror. “How are you tan in March?”
“I did some traveling after the season ended.” I shrug and lean against the doorframe. “Needed to get away for a bit.”
“Where did you go?”
“Turks and Caicos.”
“Oh, right. Turks and Caicos.”
She doesn’t exactly roll her eyes and say poor little rich boy, but I swear it’s what she’s thinking when she turns her face and keeps brushing.
When she’s done, I hand her a small towel so she can wipe her mouth. “So when did all this stuff with the apartment start? You said a few weeks ago, but you moved in a couple months ago, right?”
“Yeah, I moved in after Christmas. Things didn’t start getting weird until last month.”
“Was there anything else happening to explain the noises? Construction? Change in ownership? New neighbors?”
“No. But I don’t really know my neighbors anyway, except Steven and Martha, so I wouldn’t know if any were new or old or whatever. And I’ve asked Steven if he ever hears anything. He’s a heavy sleeper and Martha has hearing aids, so they were no help.”
“Hm.” I speak before thinking. “What time do you get home tomorrow night?”
“Probably around seven. Depending on how long Mr. Crawford wants to torture me. Why?”
“How about I pick up dinner and meet you there at seven thirty? I bet between the two of us, we can figure this thing out.”
“Dinner?” She’s frowning.
Why is she frowning?
You should absolutely leave her alone. You are no good for anyone right now.
But I want to help.
And it’s more than generosity of spirit prompting my actions. The past few months have been a lonely stretch of bleak days, one after the other. Bethany is like a spark in the darkness. It’s the only explanation for why my tongue keeps misbehaving. “What, you don’t like food?”
“I love food. It’s just that . . . dinner sounds really date-y to me.”
A surprised chuckle escapes me. “This isn’t a date. I’m helping you.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“Do you have anyone else?”
She frowns. “Not really. But why do you care?”
What a great question.
Why do I care?
I shrug. “Marc told me to look out for you. You need help. And I’m here. I promise it won’t be date-y. We can just be friends.” I give her my best, most charming smile, the kind that makes the fans cheer and the press snap photos like they’re at a royal wedding.
She gasps. Her eyes widen and she covers them with her hands. “Oh, no. If we’re going to be friends, you can’t do that.”
“Can’t do what?”
Her fingers are still hiding her eyes. “Smile with your face! Those dimples are lethal. What’s next? Are you going to cuddle some puppies?”
I laugh and tug her hands from her eyes. “Hey. I kind of have to use my face to smile, you know.”
“Yeah, well . . . it’s kind of shitty of you.”
Now I can’t stop smiling. I’m still holding one of the hands I pried away. “I could use a friend right now, to be honest.”
I think I’ve laughed more since I met Bethany than I have in the last year.
“You’re right.” She bites her bottom lip. “I could use a friend, too. I don’t know anyone here. The only parts of the city I’ve seen are on the subway route between Park Avenue and Morningside Heights.”
I gasp in feigned shock. “You’ve been here for months and you haven’t seen the city?”
“Afraid not.”
“That needs to be rectified immediately. So, see, we would both benefit.”
After a slight hesitation, she nods and sticks out her hand. “Friends.”
We shake on it and I ignore the way her slim fingers slip over mine, warm and solid, a shot of lust going straight down my stomach . . . and settling like a clogged drain.
“Friends.”
When I walk past Marc’s room the next morning, it’s empty, the bed neatly made.
The kitchen and living room are quiet, but there’s a clean cup left next to the coffee maker with a note.
Dear friend,
Thanks for the toothpaste and letting me ride in Pepe. You’re swell.
B
I make my coffee with a smile.
Sleep wasn’t great last night. It’s not just being in my bed that made the difference.
After I shower, there are a couple hours until I have to meet with my agent, Roger, and then get my tasks sorted for the day.
I pick up my old football and pace the living room, half watching a sports network on TV.
The leather is soft and worn beneath my fingers. I toss the ball in the air and catch it. I feel . . . better. Lighter. Maybe the meds are kicking in.
I drink my coffee and prep a few meals for the week. I have to get back on my diet for the season. The irony of the action isn’t lost on me, but if I defer from my habits too much, I might crack. Technically, I’m not required to return to work until mid-July, but there are minicamps coming up and I agreed to help with training. It’s good for morale, getting to know the new players and reconnecting with the returning veterans. Nothing brings men together like sweating and bench pressing and tossing around the old pigskin.
After I’ve done all my chores for the day, I head uptown to see Roger. A few hours later, I’m leaving Roger’s office for a press obligation when my cell rings.
“Hi Brent, it’s Angela Sinclair,” a breathy voice says. “We met the other night at dinner.”
“Right. How’s it going?”
“I’m great. I was wondering if it was possible to bring the signed football you promised for the charity to my apartment sometime this afternoon. If you’re free.”
I glance at my watch. After the interview, I have to meet the director of Marc’s kids club and there are a few extra things I want to pick up before I meet Bethany at her place tonight.
“I can have someone bring it by. Text me your address.”
“Oh. Right.”
There’s a long pause. Long enough that I’m about to check if she’s still on the line or if I’ve lost her, but then she speaks. “Sounds good. I’ll text you now. Thanks, Brent.”
She hangs up and I pull the phone from my ear and frown at it. No doubt Dad will give me shit for ducking this setup, but I don’t have time to dwell on the conversation because I need to get across Manhattan for my next meeting.
Three hours later, I’ve just parked outside the kids club in the Bronx. I have a meeting with the director for the annual charity baseball game.
It’s important to my mother’s legacy that this event goes off without a hitch. She started the program before she died. She always had a soft spot for children in need. The kids club for underprivileged Bronx youth gives them somewhere to go after school and provides a ton of enrichment programs, from sports to art to music.
I’m getting out of my car when my phone rings again.
“Hey, Dad, what’s up?”
“Brent,” he barks. “You need to get uptown to bring Jim’s daughter the football.”
“Um, I’m kind of in the middle of something. I’m having an assistant drop it off later.”
“That’s unacceptable. Jim is my friend.”
What does that have to do with anything? Frustration lends sharp edges to my words. “I don’t have time this afternoon for a silly errand.”
“It’s not a silly errand. Jim is an important investor. For his family, you will make the time.”
“But Dad—”
Click.
I stare at my phone.
He hung up on me.
I groan and my head falls back against the seat.
Ten minutes later, I really don’t have time for Dad’s shenanigans.
“Our event planner is inaccessible,” Rosemarie tells me as soon as I’m sitting in her office inside of the kids club.
“Inaccessible?” I ask.
“She’s in Japan, trying to find her mom.”
“Japan?”
Rosemarie sighs and pulls her wire-rimmed glasses off, cleaning the lenses with her shirt. Her brown eyes are tired when they meet mine. “June’s mom has dementia. Periodically she leaves the country without notice and flies back to Japan on her own. Normally, June would get a call from the authorities when they find her mom wandering around, but this time no one can find her. So June had to leave. I haven’t been able to reach her since she took off last week.”
“And there’s no one else who can take over?”
“We can’t even get into her computer to see what she’s taken care of so far. And once we have that, we still need more hands. We barely have enough in the budget for the people we already have.”
I nod. “Okay. I might have a solution for getting into the computer. I’ll work on the rest, I promise.”
I leave a still frazzled Rosemarie behind.
Maybe I can borrow an assistant from Roger. I already do that a lot. Or one of the IT people at the company. I know there was a computer tech who volunteered to set up a website for the kids club, a friend of Marc’s.
Angela lives in the East Village. I’ll have to run by my apartment in Greenwich before heading to her place. Bethany’s apartment is in Morningside Heights. This means I’ll have to drive to the other side of Manhattan Island and back during rush hour.
I sigh.
I’m going to be late.
Since I don’t have Bethany’s number, I call the office to reach her.
“Mr. Crawford’s office,” she answers, her voice crisp and professional.
“Hey, it’s Brent.”
“Oh, hey.” There’s a pause and then, “Did you need to talk to your dad?”
“No, I actually wanted to talk to you. I’m going to be a little later than I thought.”