Chapter 18
brooks
Day 4.
Rather than eating breakfast alone, I have Angie rustle up my green shake this morning in the bistro. There is no sign of Izzy all morning. I keep checking between my PT sessions, and when I have half an hour to myself, I find myself sitting at my desk, staring at the empty chair next to me.
At lunchtime, Angie makes me a garden salad and I eat on a stool, talking to her both for company and for distraction. I miss Izzy. I don’t know how or why but I do. You know the phrase I’ve missed you like a hole in the head? It’s supposed to mean, you wouldn’t miss a hole in your head, therefore you don’t miss the person you’re talking about, right? Well, suppose you did have a hole in your head. It’s painful as hell most of the time but one day it closes up. The ache is gone and it feels like something that has become a part of you has disappeared. That’s the only way I can make you understand the peculiar way I wish Izzy was here. I miss her like a hole in the head.
At two thirty, the agreed-upon time for our Saturday salsa session, I head up to Studio A. The number of reporters is fewer by half today, no doubt because it’s the weekend. I have no idea whether Izzy will show, so I have no idea what to say to them. I just stand in the middle of the room, waiting. Feeling exposed and ridiculous.
After five minutes of standing around, my legs seem to lose their energy and I sit on the floor in the middle of the room.
“Where is she, Brooks?” Steve Sitwell asks.
“I really don’t know, man. Sorry.”
After ten minutes, I lie back on the wood floor, my knees bent. Two reporters leave. I don’t care. I just want to see her and say I’m sorry.
When fifteen minutes have elapsed, my sympathy for her, my guilt because I kick-started our almost fuck and abandoned it midway, are gone. I stand up and turn to the remaining four reporters, or bloggers, or whoever they are. “Sorry, folks, I guess she couldn’t handle two weeks after all.”
“Oh, wow! Sorry I’m late. There was an enormous sale in Prada.” Just then, Izzy walks in and dumps bag after bag of what look like shoe boxes and clothes in the corner of the room. She finally meets my eye and there is fire in her own. But not like the flames between us last night. No, these are satanic flames. “My apologies, Mr. Adams, I made a unilateral decision to change something we had already committed to.”
I feel my eyes narrow. “That’s how you want to deal with this?”
She clears her throat, her focus moving from pressing a remote control in the direction of the large projector screen back to me. “I’m sorry, this?”
“Wow, you really do only know how to get your own way, don’t you? Screw doing the right thing.”
She lets out one angry laugh. “Screw. That’s funny. You don’t seem to screw much.” She dumps the remote and moves to the wall by her bags, leaning back with her arms folded across her chest. “I’ve decided you can dance the Charleston today, Mr. Adams.”
I’m no dancer but I do know this is that ridiculous, freakin’, Gatsby-era dance.
“You’re joking, right?”
She turns on the fakest smile I have ever seen. “I most certainly am not.” Glancing at the reporters, she tells them, “You might want to get your cameras ready for this.” Then she hits Play.
I take a breath that fills my lungs to the max and bite down hard on my cheeks. She wants me to dance the Charleston? I’ll fucking Charleston.
After five minutes of on-screen Izzy—a much-improved version than the reality—I’ve got the two basic moves. Step and tap, back and tap. Stay on the toes. Swivel, swivel, swivel.
It’s not so bad. I look like a fool but it’s just the feet that have to move. And it’s actually working up my heart rate. Screw you, Izzy Coulthard.
On-screen Izzy steals my attention. “Now, we’re going to introduce the hands, like this, side to side.” I growl under my breath. I am starting to look like a bigger fool now with twinkle fingers. “And the last thing we’ll add is a subtle wag of the head, like this. Let’s put it all together to music.”
“I’m not wagging my head,” I snarl at the real-life Izzy.
“Oh, but Mr. Adams, it’s all part of the deal. Unless, of course, you can’t keep up with my plan?”
Fuck you. Fuck you so fucking hard. “Fine.”
The music starts and I’m like a dancing goddamn bear on cocaine in the 1920s. I just need a striped suit, a twirling mustache, and a cigar.
Blanking out the snorts and laughter of the reporters behind me, I dance to the end of the music. Then I make a quick exit from the room, but not before coming to a stop, face-to-face with the devil. “You think that’s funny, Izzy? Making a bigger dick of me than I already look?”
“From what I saw last night, you weren’t a big dick at all.”
I curl my fingers into a claw, fighting the urge to wrap them around her neck, and ram the side of my fist into the studio door to open it.
Thirty minutes later, Izzy is wishing she never played hardball. I’ve increased her interval training in speed and length. I increase her weights and number of reps. To finish her off, I put her back on the treadmill at the end of our session and give her ten more minutes of sprint training.
By the time she’s done, she hits Stop on the tread and rolls back off the belt. Her legs wobble beneath her as she tries to walk to the mats. “Stretch yourself,” I tell her, before retreating to my office, so fucking pleased that I stopped what almost happened between us in that shower.
* * * *
Sitting around two old whisky barrels in Rocky’s Sports Bar, I’m wedged between Madge and Sarah, both of them relentlessly asking questions about Izzy and me.
“There’s really nothing happening?” Madge asks.
“No. Like I said, the sooner this whole thing is done, the better.”
Kit and Drew make their way over with their hands full of drinks for the five of us—Marty is out of town on business, and Becky and Edmond will be joining us after service at the restaurant has finished. They nudge past a few small groups of people standing around the dingy bar. It’s the type of place that fills with sports fans on Saturdays and Sundays. A place we can wear jeans and hear each other speak. Plus, there’s a karaoke bar on the basement floor and Sarah likes to get in on that action when she’s had enough wine.
Kit sets down a club soda and a bottle of beer in front of me, then steps back, holding out his hands as if to ask, What did I do? “Just in case the soda gets dull,” he says.
“Don’t tempt me, man. This whole thing has got me wanting beer more than ever.”
“And by whole thing, he means Izzy,” Sarah says, winking at me as she leans forward to take a handful of Bombay mix from a ramekin.
“Is this going to go on all night?” I ask, sipping my club soda and leaning into the high-back stool.
“We’ve all seen the pictures, Brooks,” Kit adds.
“Whose fucking side are you on, man?”
“His wife’s,” Madge says definitively, finishing with a swig of white wine for added effect.
“Sorry, Brooks, but she controls my balls.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
“Hate to get in on this but those rumba photographs looked like pretty damning evidence to me,” Drew adds.
I shake my head because I can’t fight all four of them. “Ah, fuck it.” I reach out for the bottle of beer. Before it reaches my lips, a familiar and unwelcome voice comes from over my shoulder.
“Put that down right now, Brooks Adams.”
I put the bottle down and drop my face into my hands, wondering whether I’m starting to hear her voice or whether the demon really is on my shoulder.
“Izzy, we’re so glad you could make it,” Madge says.
“Are we?” I ask from behind my hands.
“Give Izzy your stool, Brooks. You can get another one.” I raise my head to Sarah and she giggles when I give her a look that says, Are you shitting me?
She’s infiltrated my friends. My friends. I met this woman less than two weeks ago and she’s turned my life upside down. As the women start talking bags and shoes and giving out compliments like it’s Christmas, I get up from my stool, not looking at Izzy. I won’t spoil the get-together because she has turned up and her very presence pisses me off.
There isn’t a spare stool in the bar so I head back to the barrel-cum-table empty handed. Since she’s in conversation with Drew, I see no harm in finally looking at Izzy. Her blond hair is down, not in her usual ponytail. As she talks, she pulls it across one shoulder. The ends fall across her chest and between her breasts, exposed by the scoop neck of the expensive-looking pearlescent tee she’s wearing with her jeans. She crosses her legs, and I get a look at her new Prada heels. For very different reasons from Madge and Sarah, I quite like those shoes.
How could she ever have doubted whether she was slim enough or pretty enough at school?
I start talking sports with the guys, and a group of men next to us join in as we talk football, somehow transitioning to Formula One. When it’s my round, I bring a tray of drinks back to the barrels. When I hand Izzy a club soda, I meet her eye for the first time. Her expression is cold. Heartless. The Izzy I met on the first day at the gym. She doesn’t even say thank you.
I lean against the barrel and continue the sports chat, but my mind is not on the conversation and my gaze keeps flicking—without my say-so—to Izzy. More than once, I catch her looking back at me, wearing a scowl.
By the time Becky and Edmond come into the bar, the others are already merrily on their fourth or fifth alcoholic drinks. I wish I were too, because the way Izzy’s ignoring me is starting to drive me crazy. Part of me wishes I could go back to that shower and finish the job.
We move downstairs to the karaoke bar. Something seems to light up in Izzy as she walks down the steps to the basement, excitedly discussing what Sarah should sing. I walk behind her, ready to catch her in case she trips in those fuck-me heels. With the aid of the stair rail, she makes it safely down to the concrete shell, where the karaoke is already in full swing.
The basement is dimly lit. The “stage” area for the budding karaoke stars is lit by eighties-style multicolored bulbs. It’s an awful place, but we’ve had some seriously good times in here. Two men in vests and shirts are onstage taking the parts of George Michael and Elton John as they slur-sing their way through “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me.”
We gather around one tall table. Sarah already has the songbook and she’s looking through it with Izzy.
“Another Brit to keep me company,” Becky says, leaning toward me but inclining her head to Izzy.
“Not you too. She’s not a permanent feature.”
Becky smiles, that cute dimpled smile she has. Drew drapes a lazy arm across her shoulder and kisses her cheek. “You giving my friend grief, baby?”
“I’m just saying it’s nice to have another British infiltrator around here. I approve of the choice. She was really sweet when I met her in Barnes & Noble the other night. And it was kind of you to set that up for her.”
I wiggle my head subtly. I don’t want Izzy to know I sent them. I don’t know whether I cut Becky off soon enough because when I glance at Izzy to check, she is as still as a statue, staring back at me.
“What will you sing, Iz?” Sarah asks, stealing Izzy’s attention.
With his free arm, Drew drops his hand to my shoulder. “Hate to tell you, buddy, but once Sarah has gotten involved, it’s a done deal.”
“Can no one see that the woman is going to put me in a mental asylum?”
This time, Izzy definitely overhears. She glowers at me before turning back to Sarah. “I’ve never done karaoke sober. It’s your night tonight.”
“Or, we could remedy that,” Kit says, returning from the bar and planting a glass of wine in front of Izzy, then a beer in front of me.
Damn, I want that beer. My eyes are fixed on Izzy’s. She wants it too. But she says, “I’m okay, thanks. I don’t really drink.”
“Yeah, that’s why she has no friends,” I quip belligerently, knowing it will rile her.
“That was a low blow, tit-face.”
I pick up the bottle of beer and snort-laugh as I take a drink.
“Ha! I knew you couldn’t stick it!” Izzy shouts so loud other heads twist to look at us.
I remove the bottle from my lips and look at it like it picked itself up and climbed into my mouth. “Fuck!”
Izzy laughs and starts doing some goofy dance on the spot. “I win!”
“What the hell is that?”
She stops dancing.
Sarah lifts up the wineglass in front of Izzy and wafts it under her nose. “Why don’t you two call a truce and just have some fun with friends for tonight?”
I see Izzy swallow hard. That reached her and I know why. She takes the glass and holds it up in my direction. “One night and one night only.” She takes a large drink and so do I.
An hour later, she’s draining the last of her second glass of wine as I come back from the toilets. I’ve seen this play out enough times when people are training hard to know that if she doesn’t slow down, this night could end badly and her morning tomorrow will be even worse.
“Go steady, Izzy. You don’t usually drink.”
She registers my hand on the small of her back before I do. I snatch it away from her. “We called a truce, Brooks. You can’t tell me what to do tonight.”
I lean into her ear, the soft fruit smell of her hair filling my nose. “I’m not fighting with you. I’m trying to keep you from feeling like shit tomorrow.”
She spins sharply to face me, the tip of her nose almost touching mine. “You didn’t care yesterday how shit I would feel this morning.”
She tries to storm away in the fashion I’m becoming accustomed to. I grab her hand and tug her back to me so fast, I have to lean back to stop our heads from clashing. “You have no idea why I stopped things from going further. It’s something I feel strongly about, all right?”
“I know exactly why you stopped, Brooks. You saw me naked and you touched me and kissed me, and…” Her eyes fill. The sight is like someone driving a roundhouse kick into my gut. “Don’t. Don’t touch me. I get it. I wasn’t what you expected or wanted.”
“Izzy, please.”
“Please, what? Huh?”
Before I can think of the right words. Before I can tell her she was more beautiful than ever when she was naked, that kissing her was like my entire world breaking from the safety of orbit and spinning into outer space, her name is called by the guy running the karaoke.
She tugs her hand out of mine and makes her way to the stage. I move into the group as Sarah, Becky, and Madge start whooping and whistling.
The music begins to play and I recognize the track right away. Cher’s “Just Like Jesse James.” Izzy stands on the slightly raised stage. She is looking down when she first starts singing. It gives me a chance to think, Hot damn, this girl can sing. When she dips into her lower register, her voice is husky, yet soft, with a British lilt. It drives straight to my groin without stopping to look for hazards.
When she glances up, there is no mistaking the intent in her eyes or who she’s aiming her words at. Her voice grows sterner as she calls me out with the lyrics of the track.
The others start to talk about how good she is. Then I hear a few comments about Izzy and me. Someone asks if I’m certain there’s nothing going on between us.
All I tune into is Izzy, as she sings, “If you’re so tough, come on and prove it.”
One night.
I push aside everything running through my head, telling me this is a bad idea. It can’t be one night. There’s tomorrow, in the gym. She’s just another Alice. You’re setting yourself up for a painful letdown.
Tilting my head back, I drain the last from my bottle of beer, and pull my wallet from my back pocket. I slap sixty dollars on the table for the next round and make my way across the bar, with only one thing on my mind.
She watches me make strides toward her. Her voice falters but she keeps singing. I step onto the stage and take the microphone from her hand. “So, you want to know what my loaded gun is for, Izzy?”
As she looks up at me, her lips part, and I think she might have stopped breathing. I wait, praying that this is going to end the way I want it. My heart is thumping so loud she must be able to hear it. My entire body is charged with desire. I want her. Hell yeah, I want her.
Eventually, she nods.
I lift my hand to her cheek. She watches me, unmoving, until I slide my fingers into her hair. She closes her eyes and I press my mouth to hers. Her lips are as soft as I’ve been remembering. Her taste, something that’s delicious and distinctly her, is mixed with wine. It’s a heady concoction.
“I’m taking you home.”
She opens her eyes and licks her lips. “One more,” she says, before grabbing my T-shirt and pulling me to her. She kisses me in a way that makes me need to get off this stage.
I take her hand and lead her through the bar, noticing how her fingers seem to fit between mine, as if we have been holding hands for years.
There’s a breeze outside that blows her hair from her neck and whips her perfume past me. I pull her into my side as I hold out a hand and flag a cab.
The cabdriver tries to make conversation. I respond on autopilot, not registering his questions or the appropriateness of my responses, desperately willing my dick to relax, which is not helped by Izzy’s fingers slowly tracing the line of my erection over my jeans.
She keeps going until I can’t even pretend to listen to the driver. I hook her leg over me and squeeze her ass as I fuck her mouth with my own. We make out like teenagers who’ve never kissed before. I run my hand down her leg and over the bare skin of her foot.
“When we get back, I’m stripping you of everything except these shoes.”
“You noticed them, huh?”
“Izzy, I notice everything about you, even when I try not to.”
The cab stops outside our building. “Go inside and strip down to those heels.”
Her eyes seem to grow heavy as she looks at me then gets out of the cab. I pay the driver and follow her in. I watch the elevator numbers descend as it comes back down from dropping Izzy at the twelfth floor, damn happy right now that the thing is finally fixed. It gives me a chance to pause and just breathe. I need to calm down or this will be over too quickly. As I stand here, rational thoughts try to pierce my lust. I push them away. Not now. Not this time. This is happening.
Upstairs, the door is open. Izzy’s apartment is lit by lamplight only. A heady song, maybe Sia, is playing in the background.
I close the door behind me and step into the empty living room. I hear her footsteps and watch as she walks along the hallway toward me, naked but for those sinful heels. Her legs are endless. I follow them up to her bare pussy. She’s slim, but her waist still dips into an hourglass. Her small but perfect breasts bounce gently with each footstep. Her nipples are only a shade darker than her flesh, and they’re ready.
My cock feels uncomfortable in my jeans but I stay where I am and let her come to me. I pull my T-shirt over my head and slip out of my boots. My hands ache to feel her skin.
“Is this how you wanted me?” she asks. Her voice is hoarse, low, and drenched in sex.
I reach out and grab her waist, pulling her the last step into me. “Fuck, yeah.”
My hands roam over her ass, up her back, savoring every inch of her silky skin. I cup her breasts, rolling my finger and thumb around her hard nipples. She sucks in a breath when I wrap my mouth around one stiff tip.
I kiss her again, unable to get enough of her mouth on mine, my fingers slipping into her hair. The arguments are gone. Forgotten. Because in this moment, all I can see is her smiling and laughing, making me laugh.
We swallow each other’s moans as the kiss grows in intensity. I lift her bare legs around my waist and carry her to her bedroom. The double bed is covered in my sheets. The room is candlelit.
“You did a lot in five minutes,” I say against her lips, not willing to break the contact.
I feel her lips tighten and curve up as her tongue slips into my mouth. “I’m a very resourceful woman.”
“Let’s see how well you can multitask.” I lay her back on the bed and hover above her, sliding my fingers into her wet pussy, groaning when I feel how ready she is, as if her pleasure is my own.
I want to be inside her. God, do I. But first, “I want to taste you.”
I part her legs wider and bend her knees, planting her feet on the mattress. The height of her heels exposes her fully to me. Every delectable inch of her. I turn my tongue around her nipples, then draw a line down her abdomen, kissing, licking my way south.
Her back arches and she groans as my tongue finds her clit. Her taste is sweet and sour all at once. She whispers my name, breathlessly. I could never tire of hearing her call out for me like this. She fists the sheets at her sides as I suck her sweet spot and push my fingers inside her. I feel her build, her insides clenching around me. When she lets go, I watch her unravel. No attitude. No sass. Just an ethereal woman, giving over to me completely.
She giggles and writhes on the covers when I lick one last time through her plump folds. I move over her, taking my weight on my arms, and let her taste herself.
“I think we’ve finally found your talent, Mr. Adams.”
I smile and bite playfully on her bottom lip. “How about seeing to this loaded gun you were singing about?”
Her humor fades as heat comes back into her eyes. She pushes me back until I’m on my knees. With her legs on either side of me, she sits, eye-fucking me as she unbuckles and unzips my jeans. She takes them, with my boxers, down my thighs and grabs my hard cock in her hand. It’s my turn to drop my head back and groan.
She shifts to her knees; then her mouth is on me, the moist heat gliding up and down my length. “Izzy, fuck. That’s good.”
She grabs my balls and presses on the base of my erection as she moves up and down, flicking her tongue across my sensitive spot on each rise. I feel myself harden the last bit and I’m on the cliff’s edge when I lift her head. “Not like this. I want to be inside you.”
She sits back, her teeth dragging across her lip, as she watches me strip out of my jeans and roll on a condom from my wallet. I crawl back over her and she wraps her legs around me, the points of her heels pulling my ass to her.
Our mouths meet but our eyes are open as I slide into her. I pause for a second, finding the strength to hold back my climax. Her pussy is tight around me and when I begin to move, she squeezes my cock.
“Jesus, Izzy.”
I draw out and drive back into her. Her back bows; she presses her head into the bed, pushing her breasts against me. I lift her hips and thrust into her, over and over, until a white ecstasy takes over my vision. She calls my name as I pour everything I have into her.