Chapter 9
RAFAIL SLUTSKY—I’M SORRY, EXCUSE ME, Rafail LYING CATFISHING PRICKWANGER Slutsky—was carrying me in a fireman’s lift. I called him all these names and more as he reached his car. He’d caught up to me somewhere on the boulevard. He only got the drop on me at all because I’d torn out of that book shop blind with rage and hurt.
He’d grabbed my hand to halt me, then said something I didn’t distinguish directed at the crowd of interested onlookers.
They didn’t rescue me. No, because as he’d chased after me, he’d ripped away his padded overcoat, leaving him in mouthwatering jeans that clung to a pair of unbelievable legs and a black tee shirt that showed off droolworthy chest and arms, and one of the onlookers recognized him under the street lights. She started gushing and then the EVIL DECEIVING BASTARD let them take a selfie, with me glowering and him grinning.
Then he contemplated me, sighed, tossed me over his shoulder, and waved to his gullible fans, who actually believed this INSULTING MEATHEAD was some kind of role model.
The only reason I didn’t disillusion them was that I didn’t want to get him arrested. Being dubbed a kidnapper would surely hurt his charities.
The world spun and I landed gently on the ground. We were on the lake shore, in a moonlit parking lot. I shivered, remembering I'd left my coat behind. I recognized Slutsky’s vehicle. It wasn’t a fancy sports car, but a shiny, roomy pickup truck I remembered he’d posted a picture of two years ago on social media.
At the time I’d applauded his choice of a sensible vehicle. I’d had no idea that one day he’d be opening the door of it and I’d be slamming it shut again angrily.
"Scumhole!"
"Cecily, I know you’re mad—"
"You joined BodyDraw under false pretenses! Admit it!"
"-and you have every right to be—hey, what do you mean, false pretenses? Nobody said we had to use our real names."
"That’s not the point. You joined knowing a bunch of us worshiped you. You let me talk about him. About you. Slutsky. You’re him!" I shook my head in disbelief, then folded my arms across my chest and turned my back to him. "You were laughing at me the whole time!"
He circled around into my field of vision. "Only at first. I never asked to be worshiped. In fact, that’s why—Cecily, will you fucking turn around and listen to me?"
"You let me befriend you and you said nothing!" I shouted.
"I didn’t do it to hurt you."
"You led me on. You—oh my god, you returned my tweet! You knew who I was! I’m CecilySketchily, and you knew who I was! You jerkwad!"
His jaw tightened and he fixed me with an intent glare. "For you anonymity is optional, Cecily. For me it’s a damn lifesaver. Not once since I was a kid could I get away with going unrecognized, short of disguises like this one." He pointed to his face. "I could never have interacted on that forum the way I did if everyone knew—"
I mowed right over him. I did not want to think that he had a valid perspective here. "Everyone? What about me? You never said anything. Not even a hint. We were getting to be friends! I thought you were a sweet dorky guy! You—oh god, you said—you wanted—last night we—" I couldn’t even get the word sexted out. I was too mortified. Too humiliated. I rubbed my hands up and down my arms but the chill was more from what I’d done than the winter night.
He huffed out a breath. My poor, plunging heart went pitter-patter at how grieved he looked, but the rest of me was still outraged.
"Was I just a big joke to you all this time?" I whispered, tears trailing down my cheeks.
He muttered something under his breath and reached out to gently stroke my cheek. "No. You aren’t a joke. Look...I’m never sure why somebody likes me. I wasn’t sure about you. I wanted to tell you, but..." He drifted off, his gorgeous baby blues evading mine.
I guessed, "You thought I’d flip out. Scream. Tell everyone."
His sidelong glance said I was at least partly right.
"I—I—" I bit my lip. Truthfully, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have gone completely insane if I’d known that Rafail Slutsky had talked to me on the forum...thumbs-upped my posts...PM’d me...texted me...asked to meet me...sexted with me.
We’d sexted.
We’d sexted. We’d sexted. We’d sexted.
Kill me now...please, somebody kill me yesterday.
"I’m surprised you wanted to meet at all if you were so afraid I’d ruin your fun," I said bitterly.
He swept tendrils of my hair behind my ear, and I shivered despite my distress, not from cold but pleasure. My dumb body was still convinced he was a sweet guy.
"Of course I did." His voice deepened. "I told you I wanted to fuck you. But I didn't just want to fuck you. I wanted to see what you were really like. You might have been a royal bitch. You might have been a fake. Or," he said softly, "you might have been as special...and infuriating...as you seemed online." His mouth quirked. "Now I know you’re worse than a coach for the hell you give."
I shoved at his chest.
I found myself gathered breathlessly close, my front plastered against his hard self, his hands on my ass, lifting me up to him as if it were no big deal. For a guy of his strength, I guess it wasn’t.
His breath came in pants. "Ponytail, forgive me. Having met you, I regret tricking you. I hope you can at least understand why I did it when you cool down...but will you please forgive me somewhat so I can kiss you?" Before I could even decide whether I was still mad at him, he gently released me. "On second thought, this goop is itchy as hell. I have to clean it off. Come on."
I planted my feet, even though he hadn't reached for me. "To the restaurant?"
"Or we could go to my place...but then I suspect I'd have that dress off you the moment I got out of the shower. Damn, Cec...that body..." His eyes rose to my mouth, then my eyes. "You have no idea, do you?"
"Of what," I said idiotically.
He shook his head. "Come with me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I promise."
FAMOUS SPORTS FIGURE OR NOT, I WASN’T GOING anywhere with him without texting my girlfriends. That’s just common sense. Tank—he confirmed I should still call him Tank—watched me in this bemused way that said he didn't get to see many doubters in his life.
I didn’t pause to read my friends' squeeful replies. We decided to walk to the restaurant. He grabbed a coat from the truck, put it around me, and held my hand as we walked.
I can’t say that didn’t melt my heart a little. I kept shooting him puzzled glances as he asked me questions about my life, about my family. It hit me that he was as sincerely interested in me as I was in him.
Dinner at the restaurant was surreal. He was recognized even before he darted into the bathroom. It was a while before he returned, his face all red and raw from forcibly scrubbing off the adhesive goo. As we ate, people came up to our table and asked him not so much for autographs, but pictures. I guessed phone pics were the new autographs.
And we talked.
I asked him every question I could think of. I drilled him ruthlessly. I spared him no mercy. I figured he’d hidden his identity from me, so the only fair payback was to satisfy my curiosity...about everything.
He answered every single question.
Tank shared things I knew he wouldn’t want the media to know. With each revelation, I saw he was being real with me.
When he told me about his bond with his Russian grandmother, that he'd basically dedicated his career to her and lost a lot of his drive to compete at her death, I softened.
And when he explained the true reason he'd ended his swimming career was because of his young nieces, I melted.
"Their bitch of a nanny told the girls breast cancer was going to kill their mother," he said bitterly. "I fired her. If Iona'd been stronger she'd have smacked me down, but I figured those girls didn't need to hear that negative shit. Angie and Jean asked me not to leave. So I moved in. I've been their stay-at-home uncle for a while now."
Melted. Into a puddle.
I’d been staring at him across the table for so long, connecting with that focused gaze, listening to his velvety voice share his truths, finally getting what he’d been trying to tell me—that Rafail Slutsky was no fantasy, no unreal idol—that he was a human being with struggles and emotions and opinions and yes, he was even a geek in his fashion...that he was a man, in fact, not so different from the very sweet guy I’d hoped to meet back on New Years Eve...staring at him for so long that I realized I urgently needed a change of panties.
"So, do you forgive me?" he asked in a low voice as he led me out to the street.
"Mostly," I grumped. That was the first lie I’d told him tonight. I’d completely forgiven him. But he didn't need to know that yet.
"Good. Then we can start over." He squeezed my hand. "I'm Tank Slutsky. And what's your name, Ponytail?"
I blinked at him. "Cecily Spangler." Then I gave him a sly look. "I've heard of you. Rumor has it you're an octogenarian."
His smile widened. "Oh, yeah? I wonder how that one got started."