CHAPTER NINE
Cole
I shouldn’t have come over. Holding her in my arms is the most addictive thing I’ve done in a long time. She just fits perfectly against me. Her body is so soft and gorgeous that all I can think about is taking her again. It’s been a long time since a woman’s done that to me.
The way she kisses me isn’t the way you kiss a one-night stand. It’s the kiss you give a lover. I think about running right then and there. I promised myself that I wouldn’t do that. Not ever again.
Even as I think about getting the hell out of there, I think about her being with someone else. I don’t have anyone particular in mind, but that doesn’t matter. Reflexively, my arms tighten around her. Already, I feel the rage of jealousy boiling in me like bile. No, I can’t let her go, I just can’t stand to let her too close either.
I exhale a long breath. “I’ll do your interview on one condition. If you—”
“I thought I’m already helping with your school work?” I like the way her nose crinkles along with the flash of anger and annoyance in her gaze.
I shrug. “Well, I’m changing the bargain a little. You’re still going to help me with my homework. I gotta keep my grades up if I want to stay on the team.”
She pulls away, arms crossed, brow cocked expectantly.
Turning away from her, I zip up my pants and throw my jacket back on. I don’t want to look at her because I’m pretty sure I already know her answer. Not that I can blame her. It’s taking too much and giving too little, but I’m going to ask anyway.
She takes a long time to say anything, but then says, “Well? What is it?”
I can feel her staring at me, likely upset because it’s clear I’m both demanding things from her and leaving right after sex at the same time.
“I want to do this again.” It isn’t a question. I’m going to have her again.
Becca doesn’t say anything, and I don’t wait around to see if she gets the gumption to do so. I leave and don’t look back to see if she’s hot on my heels.
She isn’t.
***
I still think about Joanie from time to time. It’s the little things that remind me of her. Bread twist ties. Sounds stupid, I know, but she’d always take them off and twist them around her ring finger and say, “See? I’d marry you even if you proposed with this.”
I would have proposed. I was going to. She was the only person in my life that had been good. Or so I thought.
Joanie was a year older than me and the first girl I dated when I got to college. She was so beautiful. Not my usual type. Her dirty blonde hair was in a pixie cut, and she was more comfortable in my t-shirts than a dress. She didn’t get her nails done or wear a lot of makeup. Joanie was down to earth, funny, and wild.
For a long time, I couldn’t understand why she was with a guy like me. She was so sweet and always put up with my bouts of temper. After about a year, I began to feel like I deserved her. I was faithful, another new one for me. I never knew, until the end, that she wasn’t.
I didn’t know that she was just using me. That she was the type of girl who followed athletes around and got rid of them when she could upgrade to a more successful model. She never came across that way, but I guess that’s what made her good at what she did.
It isn’t that she cheated that hurt so much. That just pissed me off. It’s that I told her things I’d never told anyone else. I told her about my dad, about all the abuse and how he beat me and my mom. I showed her the damned scars and handed over my wallet for whatever she wanted.
I sit in my living room and try not to think about her. I thought I was over it, but being around Becca brings some of it back. I guess a lot of people think I hate women now, but the truth is it takes a few bad apples to spoil the bunch. Either that or I’ve managed to pick the wrong girl every time. Either way, it doesn’t matter that I don’t trust myself or the women I find attractive.
Bottom line is that I don’t want to trust Becca, even if she’s a different person. I can’t afford to throw it all away like I did last time. Besides, I’m screwing up in class, and I need help. If I want to focus on my pro career, I can’t get all twisted up and involved with a woman. I just can’t.
The idea of giving myself to another person after what Joanie did is unbearable. It isn’t even noon, and I’m already drinking the pain away. I’ve gone through a six pack and am working on my second. Fuck it. I just need to make it through the next few hours until my dealer shows up.
Dealer.
Shit. I still can’t believe I have one. Hell, that I need one. But need seems to be the operative word these days. I’d never done drugs in my entire life until Joanie. Not that I blamed her for that, really. I make my own damn decisions, for better or worse.
When I caught her fucking a teammate she’d decided had more potential for the NFL, that was it. That was the breakup. We didn’t talk afterward. We didn’t try to work it out. She ghosted. I came home, and her things were gone. Not a note. Not a text to say she was sorry. Nothing.
I cratered. I fucked up. I lost it.
I skipped classes and practice. I was in the process of throwing it all away when the coach sat me down a week or two later and warned me that I wasn’t performing. He reminded me that I’d been given a full ride to college to play ball, and he just assumed I didn’t care because I was an entitled prick who got everything I wanted in life. I was benched. It was all falling apart.
I can’t remember exactly how I started taking steroids. I was drinking hard back then, so most everything is a blur. I do remember that a buddy of mine suggested it, and I was desperate. I needed to improve my performance. I paid people to help me with school. I bribed a teacher or two. I trained non-stop.
I won’t lie. Steroids helped. A lot. They gave me so much more stamina and strength. I built muscle fast, gained thirty pounds of lean muscle in a year. No more eating a dozen eggs a day to bulk up and not seeing results I needed.
Now, I’ve scaled way back, and I keep telling myself to stop, but graduation is so close, an NFL contract within reach. I need to be my best on the field.
Sure, it costs a lot and causes problems. It’s against policy to use them, but I don’t give a shit. I can’t. The college doesn’t scream about anabolic steroids, just street drugs like marijuana and coke. So the risk is low and the gain very high. In the back of my mind, I keep thinking that, without them, I’ll end up being the person my father always told me I would be. A loser. A nobody. I’d have to move back in with my mother and work at a local gas station. I can’t let it be true.
When the knock comes on my door, I’m on my feet in an instant. It’s Kirk, a brown paper bag in his hand.
“Long time, Cole my man,” he says and offers me a fist to bump.
I play the game and bump it back. “Yeah. Ready for another cycle to get me through the rest of the year.”
He acts like he wants to stay but I hand over the wad of cash and hold open the door. He nods, taking the hint. “Let me know if you need anything else. Will be sorry to lose you as a client after graduation.”
I don’t say anything, just close the door in his face. Graduation seems a million miles away, an impossible journey from where I am right now.
I suck down another cheap beer and crush the can on the coffee table. Keeping my eyes down, I refuse to look around the house. It’s a mess. Another source of shame. What I want to do is go back to Becca’s house and fuck her. I’m not sure that’s it either. Not completely. I want to hold her. I want to bury my face in her hair. I want her to hold me back and tell me it’s okay.
Funny how that shit happens. I promised myself never to feel anything for another woman, and I go and do it anyway. But I’ll be damned if I don’t fight it.
Getting up off the couch, I take a shower, tossing the brown bag on the counter. I make the water so hot that it scalds me, sobering me up. It feels okay, but it isn’t her arms, and I know it.
I’ll go out. I’ll find another girl to forget about my problems with. Any girl. I won’t be picky. Some bleached blonde with nice tits. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.
I get out my rig — needles, steroids, and rubbing alcohol — and stare at it, trying to remember where I last injected. It’s been a couple months. I know it wasn’t the biceps, those were used up the first year. Not the thigh either. Glutes it is. Eventually, if you shoot up enough, you get scar tissue, and it hurts like a mother when you shoot into scar tissue. I need to be smart and not allow that to happen.
I stack the first dose of the seven steroids, then just stare at the needle. Fuck. I toss the syringe down, watch the sharp needle snap off the end. I push the plunger and shoot the dose down the drain.
Fuck!
Looking at myself in the mirror, I examine the ripped muscle. When will enough ever be enough? And what would Becca think if she saw me right now? Would she understand or would she run screaming from the room? And why the fuck am I thinking about her?
After splashing on some cologne and running a comb through my hair, I’m ready to get out of this place. I toss the drugs in a drawer — I’ll think about injecting later. Right now, I need Becca off my brain.
But when I go back into the living room to get my jacket, I just sit back on the couch. I can’t do it. I don’t want anyone else. I don’t want to play the game. Hell, I don’t even want another beer.
Somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, I started feeling things for Becca. She climbed in my head, and I can’t seem to shake her loose. I keep catching myself wondering what she’s doing, thinking. I wonder if she thinks about me too.
Pissed. I’m so pissed and disappointed in myself. It takes so much resolve not to pick up my cell and call her. Even if it’s just to hear her voice. And I know she has no idea I feel this way. I’ve behaved like I feel the exact opposite.
I realize for the first time in forever that I’m worried about another person’s feelings. I wonder if what I’ve done has hurt her. If she cried or feels bad. Maybe Dad is right. I’m a piece of shit. I’m a loser. She doesn’t deserve having to deal with me walking out like that on her. I’m not any better than Joanie, using her like that.
I pick up my phone, and my finger hovers over her number. The least I can do is say I’m sorry, but I’m pretty sure I’m not strong enough to do it.
Becca
Mia calls several times, but I avoid her. I avoid everyone. I work feverishly on the questions I want to ask Cole while simultaneously trying not to think of him in a personal way. This proves to be an impossible task.
I keep thinking of the sex we had last night, how good it was, and how upset he seemed afterward. I wonder why. I could tell he wanted it as badly as I did. I could tell by how fast he came and how rough he’d been. I have bruises on my hips that are from passion, not violence. Being with him feels like being consumed, like walking into fire and not getting burned. Like drugs. I want and need more.
It flies in the face of everything I’m trying to do at school. If this was the Washington Post or The New York Times, I’d have already been fired. A laughingstock. I’d never work professionally again. I know what Mia would say… so what? It’s just a college paper, and no one cares, not really. I’m the only one beating myself up over this.
But it feels right and fair to be hard on myself. Success doesn’t just happen to people. They work for it. What I’ve been doing feels like self-sabotage, and it makes me so angry. Why does he have to be everything I want and nothing I can have? I remind myself that Cole doesn’t want a relationship. Last night had been about emotion for me, but not for Cole.
I even say it out loud. Maybe that will make it real for me.
“Cole doesn’t care,” I say to my cold and austere apartment. “Cole only fucked me because I let him.”
It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t drive away the memory of his lips and hands on my body. I can’t help but worry that I’ll never find another man who can touch me and kiss me the way Cole James does.
So, I have a decision to make. I have to do more than just try to forget. I have to get the interview over with. The only thing that would work is to go over there, ask my questions, write out the story, submit it to Rob, and move on. After that, I’ll lose his number and regroup by focusing on school and writing in my current events blog.
Something about making a decision like that makes me feel like I’m finally moving forward. That everything will be fine and will go back to how it was before I was assigned this stupid story.
Maybe I should get fixed up for the interview. Makeup, professional clothes, the works, but I know where that will lead. The very thought of it makes my pulse jump and heat rise to my cheeks. No, I won’t do that. Instead, I decide to wear jeans and an oversized college sweatshirt. I pull my hair into a ponytail, brush my teeth, and wash my face. Just a little lip gloss and that’s only because my lips are chapped. Cool weather always makes them dry. At least that’s what I tell myself.
It would’ve makes sense to call first, but I know that if I hear his voice, I might chicken out. Or worse yet, he won’t answer, or he’ll tell me he’s busy. I’d rather just drive over there and risk getting rejected in person. And besides, maybe I’ll catch him off guard, and we can both get this over with. The only comfort I have in this situation is that it will all be over soon.
I get there just a little after dark, thinking he should be out of practice by then. I can see that all the lights are on at Cole’s house, so I assume he’s home. I head to the front door and pause. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Maybe I can just email him a list of questions. I can just skip the in-person bit. Rob doesn’t have to know what happened between Cole and me.
My hand curls into a fist and hovers inches from his door. What if he tells? What if he tells his friends and word gets back to Rob? It will utterly ruin my integrity. That does it. That steels my resolve. I knock. And wait. And knock again.
Cole opens the door, looking haggard with bloodshot blue eyes, reeking of cheap beer. His eyes devour me and all hope of remaining professional flees. I take a step back reflexively. Not because I’m scared of him. No. I’m scared of myself, and my inability to maintain control.
At first, I think he looks angry. That same rage I saw the day we met. As I stand there, I watch it drain away, and he sighs, running a hand through his shaggy, messy hair. He’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt and somehow manages to make that look sexy. He doesn’t greet me. Doesn’t say hello. He just opens the door and heads back inside.
I only hesitate a moment in the chilly evening air before I step in, shutting the door behind me. His place is still a filthy mess, and I can’t help but think it needs a woman’s touch. Of course, I tell myself, not my touch. I’m not anyone’s maid.
It just strikes me as incredibly sad. I don’t know what about him I find so sad, but there it, staring me in the face. My aunt always said that one’s surroundings mirrors what is going on in their head. Even as I think that about Cole’s little house, I think the same about my apartment. I wonder what it says about me? That I’m empty inside? Cold? I feel a little sad then, standing amid the wreckage of Cole’s life.
He flops down on the couch and eyes me almost like I’m a tornado that has set down in his living room. I’ve never seen him look at me that way. I don’t know quite what to make of it.
“Hey,” I say, feeling uncomfortable. “I thought, um… I can help?”
He quirks a brow at me.
“You know, with your school work?”
The embarrassment is back. The glimpse of shame. “Oh. Yeah. Sure.”
He doesn’t move to get any of his books, so I sit on the couch too. Sitting next to him, I just want to lay on his chest. I don’t know why. I feel more alone in his company right then than I did before coming over.
“So,” I begin awkwardly. “What subjects are you having trouble with?”
He shrugs, not looking at me. He pops open another beer, and I frown. “All of them, I guess. I’m a dumb ass. Always have been. Always have shitty grades.”
Cole strikes me as a lot of things, but dumb isn’t one of them. He has a bright cleverness in his gaze, the type of intelligence that can’t be taught, like a sharp, night time predator. “You’re not stupid,” I say.
He seems genuinely surprised and laughs a little, though it isn’t a nice laugh, more of a dismissive snort. “You don’t have to kiss my ass.”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe you’re used to that. But I don’t do that. I don’t kiss anyone’s ass. Look,” I say, leaning forward, forearms on my knees, hands clasped. “I can just tell when people are stupid. Ya know? I wouldn’t want to interview you if I thought that. I don’t really care what anyone else says about you, but you’re not stupid. A jerk? Sure. Full of yourself? Absolutely. But not stupid.”
He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head and then he genuinely laughs. “A jerk, huh?”
I nod. “Yeah. A real jerk. Fuck you, by the way. For yesterday.”
All good humor flees his expression. “Yeah, yeah. Get off my back about it.”
“Off your back? I’m not on your back. I’m just supposed to be okay with that shit? You can fuck me, but you can’t even stay long enough for me to get my clothes on? It’s not like I asked you to cuddle.” My tone has more venom than I intended. It hurts. A lot. I don’t even want to admit to myself how much it hurts and now my eyes sting with tears. I refuse to cry in front of him. I just can’t handle that much humiliation.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding like a little boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar. I can tell it’s hard for him.
We fall into a sort of silence for a while. It isn’t uncomfortable, and for some reason, I feel like we’ve come to some sort of silent agreement. I don’t feel as angry or hurt. He’s a mystery. Under all that rage and callousness, I know he’s someone else. Someone he’s kept hidden from everyone. Even himself. I can sense it. He really is sorry.
I get up and gather any textbook I see. Eventually, he helps me by getting his book bag and a list of assignments and test schedules. We sort it out, talking very little. He seems to sober up some, which I appreciate. I put a study aid app on his phone, and we make a schedule for me to come over to help him get his shit together.
When we’re done, I have a beer, and we talk a little, mostly about nothing until I can’t keep it to myself any longer. “Cole, look. I need to ask you not to tell anyone about what… we’ve been doing. You know… the sex.”
He leans back and narrows his eyes at me. He looks offended. “Yeah? You embarrassed?”
I shrug. “A little. I’m trying to be professional and do a story about you. I’m crossing a line. If this was a major newspaper, I’d be fired, and my reputation would be ruined.”
He rolls his eyes and scoffs at me. “It’s not the fucking Times, Becca. Jesus.”
Why does everyone keep saying that?
“Yeah, I know that, but it’s a bit more complicated, okay?”
“Does it dirty your good girl facade?” There is more than a little meanness behind his tone and in his expression. I feel hurt all over again.
I look away. “No. I don’t care about that. If we’re in a legitimate relationship, things would be different, but you’ve made it pretty clear that something like that won’t happen. Which is fine. Whatever. My ex is the editor of the paper, Cole. And if he catches wind of this, I’m pretty sure he’ll make life as difficult for me as possible.”
He holds up his hands with a big, lofty sigh. “Yeah, okay. Fine. I won’t say a word.”
When I look back over at him, he’s giving me a heated look. God, I want him. Even after he’d been a jerk again. I can’t seem to help it. I want him. For the first time, I can really sense a deep sadness in him, and though it isn’t a part of the story, I start asking him questions. “Why are you like this, Cole?” I ask, immediately wishing I hadn’t. It’s too personal. I know I’m taking it too far.
Naturally, he seems taken aback and scowls. “What the fuck do you mean?” he barks out.
I sigh and drop my face in my hands before taking a deep breath. I hate when I put my foot in my mouth, but this is a conversation we need to have. “You bite my head off. You want me, but you hate me. I don’t get it.”
He shakes his head, clearly defensive. “I don’t hate you. Jesus Christ, do you have to be so overly dramatic?”
“You act like it. You act like I’m putting you out.” My defense mechanisms are up, and I know this is taking a bad turn. I know I should shut up, but I still feel so hurt.
“Maybe you are, ever think about that? I bet guys do whatever you want. Because you’re the pretty, good girl. Some nice piece of ass to bring home to Mom and Dad. So, they just fucking fall over themselves to please you. I’m not that guy. I don’t buy that bullshit for a minute.”
I bristle. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
He leans in, getting in my face. I don’t back down. I don’t shrink back into the couch like I want to. “Sure, I do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so mad now. I hit the nail right on the fucking head.”
I want to slap him and kiss him at the same time. “I can tell you’re hurt!” I blurt out. “You seem really sad… that’s why I asked.” I hate how my voice quavers and how my chest gets tight.
“Sad?” he sputters. “I’m not sad! I’m fed up! Fed up with women like you!”
I stand, furious now. I knew it would go this way. I’m mad at him and at myself. “You have never met a woman like me. I’m sure you’ve been burned before, but you know what, you’re not the only one, Cole. Your pain isn’t special!”
He stands too, towering over me. I don’t back down. Once more, I stand my ground. “I get it! I know I’m not special. My dad told me so every fucking day.” His hands shoot out, and he grabs me by the upper arms. At first, I think he’s going to shake me or push me, but he draws me close instead.
His lips crash against mine. The kiss steals my breath and all my anger. I’m right, of course. He’s hurting. And this is what he needs to make the pain stop. He has been running on fumes, and I’m going to make it all better. As mad as I’ve been, I know I can do this for him.