Block Shot
Dammit.
I won’t pretend to feel remorse for what I’m going to do. I won’t fake regret. I will take her from him, little by little, day by day, until he doesn’t even cross her mind. In business and in life, I always take the shortest route between me and what I want. In this case, the shortest route to Banner just happens to run right over Alonzo Vidale. It’s a shame, really, but there are other girls for him. Dozens of girls he could live with, love, whatever. Banner is the only one I can tolerate.
Okay. More than tolerate. Crave. I kind of crave her company.
Being around her again reminded me how much I like her. The way she challenges me and makes me laugh. She’s the only one I enjoy being with, and the only one I’ve ever felt I could be myself with. That she’d accept my good, bad, and ugly. Good, the little there is of it. Bad, my wealth of bad. And ugly. I’m not an ugly guy. I know that without conceit. Conceit is such a waste of time and energy. I’ve always known that, though Banner was attracted to me, for her it wasn’t about how I looked. Not really. Just like it wasn’t about that for me either. I would have fallen for Banner blindfolded. You can camouflage flaws and fool a man with implants and the right trappings, but you can’t fake a brilliant mind like Banner’s. Or feign her obstinate belief in people, her desire to help them. Or all the other qualities that make her distinct from every other woman I’ve ever met.
The door opens, and she’s standing there, a curious look on her face.
“You’ve been at my door for five minutes,” she says, hands on those curvy hips. “Are we leaving or what?”
“Oh. Yeah. I was thinking.” I look back at my car and then return to her, hoping she buys my lame excuse. “You ready?”
“Yes.” She steps out, offering me a wry glance, and locks the door behind her. “Five minutes ago.”
She looks down at herself.
“I should have asked what to wear,” she says, frowning. “Is this okay?”
I don’t know how to talk about Banner’s body without offending her. I’ve never thought she was fat, but she didn’t believe me. Now she’s even less fat, toned with curves for days, most notably a spectacular ass. She’s tight, but there’s a seductive swell to her hips and butt and thighs. I love that she’s more brick house than stick thin, but I’d probably step in it if I say any of that, so I’ll play it safe.
“You look fine,” I reply neutrally.
“You sure it’s not too casual?” she asks, pinching the skirt of her dress.
The halter ties behind her neck, leaving her shoulders bare. The dress is red with black accents at the pockets and hem, which hits just below her knees. It falls loosely, hinting at the full curve of her hips and butt. Her breasts sit high and proud and full. I remember those breasts in my hands, between my lips. The sweet nipples—
“Jared.” Banner snaps her fingers in my face. “Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.” No idea what she’s talking about. I’m stuck on sweet nipples. “I agree.”
“You agree?” She looks at me like I’m not all there, which I’m not. “You agree that it’s too casual or—”
“Oh. That. No. It looks fine. You look great.”
I touch the small of her back, just above the swell of her ass—so close and yet so far—guiding her down the short flight of steps toward my car. She walks a little ahead, pulling away from my hand.
Oh, it’s like that.
She reaches for the door, but I hit the clicker to lock the car, hanging back so she’s tugging on the handle uselessly. She turns to face me, leaning on the car.
“Open the door,” she says, a slight smile tilting the corners of those Pretty Woman lips.
“I’m a gentleman,” I remind her. “I’m supposed to open the door for you.”
“I can open my own doors. Have been for a long time.”
“You’re too liberated for simple good manners? To accept kindness?”
“When was the last time you were kind?” she huffs with a laugh.
“You got me there,” I admit with a chuckle.
“I thought so.”
“You look beautiful,” I tell her, dropping all pretense of banter, meeting her eyes frankly. I step closer, sandwiching her between my body and the car, reaching behind her for the handle so my arm brushes her bare skin. I smell her hair and her perfume and her. My gaze trickles over her, savors her in centimeters, starting at the hair caught up, soft tendrils escaping and curling around her hairline and at her neck, taking in all the dips and swells on the way to her feet in red open-toed high-heeled sandals.
I reach up to toy with her gold hoop earrings. “I like these.”
“Thank you. My boyfriend gave them to me,” she says pointedly.
I bite back a grin. That’s so cute. She thinks I give a fuck about her boyfriend. She thinks she can put me off by pulling away from my touch, reminding me about what’s his name. She doesn’t realize yet that I don’t care. She’ll soon see. Maybe even tonight.
I click the door unlocked and step back so she can get in. At the wheel, I check the mirrors and hover my finger over the button to peel the roof back.
“Roof up or down?”
“My hair.” She pats the dark strands held perfectly in place. “Up going. Down on the way back.”
“Up it is.” I take over and fiddle with the system. “Driver is DJ.”
“No.” She groans and flops her head back. “How long is this drive again?”
“I have great taste in music.” I spare an offended glance from the road. “We’ll every other it, but I go first.”
“Of course, you will,” she mutters under her breath. “Always do.”
“What was that?” I ask, enjoying myself.
“Nothing.” She creases her face with a quick fake grin. “You’re the driver.”
“That’s what I thought you said.” I cue up my first song: “Get Lucky” by Daft Punk and Pharrell.
Her head bops and she pats her thighs.
“So you like it?” I ask. “‘Jared, you have great taste in music’ will suffice in lieu of a formal apology.”
“One song does not great taste make.” She laughs, searching Spotify on my phone for the next song. “Oooh. I’ve got a good one.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“I think we should each get one judgment-free song.”
“What? You can choose a crap song and I don’t get to laugh at you?” I shake my head. “I would never miss an opportunity to demean your choices.”
“I’m well aware,” she says wryly. “But it also means you get a judgment-free song,”
“I don’t like crap music, so I don’t need a bye.”
“Everyone needs a freebie sometimes. We should all get one shitty choice.”
“I never would have thought that you’d want a shitty choice.”
“I’m not perfect, Jared.”
Pretty close.
I don’t say it because her knowing how much I’m into her works against my end game. If she heard a warning shot like that, she’d run in the other direction. I need her off guard, taken aback. Unprepared. By the time she realizes I’m pursuing her, I want her begging to be caught.
It’s her turn, and she chooses one of my favorite songs of all time. I don’t give any indication that I love “Crazy” by Gnarls Barkley.
“Oh, come on, Foster.” She points at me, laughing and shaking her head. “I know you love this song.”
“It’s alright,” I deadpan. Shrug.
“Hmmm.” She folds her arms over her chest, pushing her breasts up and almost distracting me from the road, but . . . discipline. “This was the top song on your study playlist senior year.”
Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. She remembers my details, too.
“Was it?” I feign ignorance like the great feign-er I am. “I don’t even remember that. How would you remember that?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs smooth bare shoulders and scrolls through the phone for her next choice. “Just popped in my head for whatever reason.”
“Ahhh. The way I remembered your dryer sheets?” I ask innocently. “Just popped in my head, too.”
Silence. She sits back to enjoy the Pacific bordering the road. I opted to take PCH, which is a little longer drive, but Banner in the car for more time is no hardship. Gives her something to look at while she regroups. We go back and forth on songs for the couple of hours in the car. I deliberately avoid shop talk, not wanting to remind her that I’m supposed to be the opposition.
“Okay, here’s my judgment-free pick,” she says after a while, giving me wide eyes and twitching lips. “Don’t hate on my jam.”
“You calling it ‘your jam’ already has my Hatorade out.”
“And you using the word Hatorade has mine out.”
We both laugh, and I wait to hear just how bad her song sucks.
It’s pretty bad.
“Seriously?” There’s a slow-down up ahead, so I can look at her fully while we idle. “One Direction?”
She turns up the volume so “What Makes You Beautiful” soaks the interior of my car. I’ll have to hose it down later, but watching her dance beside me, the most carefree I’ve seen her since our laundromat days, is worth enduring a British boy band that is not the Beatles.
“Okay.” She hands me the phone. “Now you choose your craptastic song so I don’t feel so bad.”
“I told you I don’t listen to shit music,” I remind her.
“Oh, come on. You’ve got one. Everybody does.”
I mentally flip through the songs I listen to, struggling to find something that isn’t great.
And then I have it.
One eye on the road, one eye on my phone, I search until I find it. Never have I looked so forward to a ball-busting as when the soft, melodic strains of Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me” fill the air. PrevNextTip: You can use left and right keyboard keys to browse between pages.
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