Chapter 20
brooks
Is there going to be a next time?
I’m sitting at my desk, tossing and catching a ball of elastic bands. I’ve been doing so for the last twenty minutes. Izzy has gone out for a walk because we’ve completed our sessions for today, she put out social media posts about her book, and she’s bored of sitting around doing nothing. I’m waiting for my next PT client and though I may look like I’m doing nothing but tossing a ball, my mind is about as active as it has ever been.
There’s no denying I liked waking up with Izzy in my arms this morning. I enjoyed finally falling into a sated sleep curled around her. I am definitely not complaining about the amazing sex. In fact, I’m not complaining or regretting anything, except maybe the point where I led her to believe it could happen again.
Can one amazing night change who she is, who we are? For years, I’ve dealt with the backlash of falling in love with a girl whose upbringing and parents tore us apart. I had a kid with her, for Christ’s sake. Even that wasn’t enough to outweigh prejudice. I’m okay in my life. Yeah, I get bored and occasionally I wouldn’t mind company, but I have the gym. I’m here every day for most of the day. It keeps me occupied.
I stand up and continue throwing the ball as I wander around my office. I’ve fallen for Izzy. I knew it before last night, and I knew it definitively when I looked in her eyes as I made love to her. Yes, we fucked, and it was incredible. But there were moments when it felt like more than that. I can’t even describe it. It’s something I haven’t experienced before. More than a youthful desire to have sex or even sex with a first love. More than perfunctory sex with one end goal. It was like I had to be with Izzy. I had to be touching her, inside her, connected to her.
I feel it now, just thinking about her. And the question I would like my messed-up mind to answer is this: How in the hell did you fall for that pompous, fame-hungry Brit?
She’s funny, my mind shouts back. She’s vulnerable and seems lost sometimes. How can that same person be so obsessed with book sales, best-seller titles, Prada shoes?
She has a shitty attitude and she wants to damage my reputation for her own personal gain. Then again, she said she didn’t come to the bar last night for media attention or more readers for her blog.
Ugh. I launch the ball at the office wall and catch it when it bounces right back at me, mirroring the back-and-forth of my chaotic brain.
The thing is, it doesn’t matter what my mind tells me, because the erratic thumping in my chest when I think of her wins out. That’s why I’m terrified. That’s why I can’t let myself be in this position, again.
She’s another Alice. In any event, she’s going back to London in just over a week. Why put myself through that? Yet, even as I think that, I’m craving more of her touch. More of her scent. More of her taste. She’s gone for a walk and I fucking miss her relentless jibing at me. I’m a horrible person around her. The worst. But she’s like an insatiable craving for something I know I shouldn’t want. It’s a hunger, a thirst, a need like oxygen. Fighting with her, laughing with her, even at her, is the most awake I’ve felt in eighteen years. I’m high on her.
The ringing of my cell is a welcome distraction.
“Hey, Sarah.”
“Hey yourself, charmer. I have to tell you, I loved your dramatic exit last night. Slamming down money, sweeping her off her feet. You were like Richard Gere, only without the limousine and billions of dollars. Tell me, how hot was the sex?”
“Did you call for a reason or can I hang up?”
“Look what she’s done to you. You’re normally so laid back you’re horizontal, but Izzy Salsa Queen has got you all in a tiz.”
I sit back in my chair. “I’m going now.”
“Wait, wait. I’m just teasing. I did call for a reason. I wanted to say, stop what you’re doing.”
“Huh?”
“I know you, Brooks. That’s how I know you’ll be sitting on a weight bench or in your office chair right now, thinking of all the reasons you shouldn’t be with Izzy. Think of me as your subconscious, but prettier. I’m here to tell you to stop thinking of all the reasons not to and concentrate on the reason you should.”
“Which would be, exactly?”
“She makes you breathe, Brooks. Do you know how long we’ve all been waiting for you to breathe?”
“Sarah, she’s—”
“I know. But she makes you smile and laugh and she makes you angry. People only fight when there’s something worth fighting for, Brooks.”
I throw the elastic ball at the far wall, this time letting it bounce to a stop. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course, I’m right. I’m always right. Hey, she isn’t with you, is she? I’d like to try out some new British words on her.”
“You’re the one who has psychic powers. You tell me.”
“Um, let it be noted, I do not appreciate your tone. And if she isn’t with you, go goddamn get her.”
* * * *
With my hair still wet from showering, I knock on Izzy’s door. “One sec,” she calls. I smell meat cooking, sensitized to it like a wild beast, and decide she must be making her own dinner tonight. I don’t have time to be disappointed before she is standing in front of me. Her hair is also wet, and she’s wearing a white shirt. Only a white shirt.
She looks from me to the guitar in my hand. “What’s that?”
“You asked to hear me play and you said you were bored.” She reaches out to take the six-string acoustic from me. “Ah-ah. That’s for me. First, I’m going to cure your boredom.” I step inside and set the guitar against the wall, wasting no time before picking her up and wrapping her naked legs around me.
She kicks the door closed, kissing me back as frantically as I’m kissing her. The urgency, the overwhelming need I felt last night, comes back to me. I walk us into the living room.
“Wait, wait. I’m cooking.”
My mouth locked on hers, I carry her into the kitchen. She turns off the gas under the frying pan. I start walking us away.
“No, no, the oven is on too.”
I pull back from her and raise a brow; she just giggles. I like that I can do that to her. She fiddles with the oven knobs and, finally, I get her to the sofa.
I bring her down in my lap, her legs straddling mine, and grip her hair, pulling her to me. As I slip my tongue into her mouth and feel her chest pressed to mine, I know Sarah was right. I just need to go with it.
I’m already hard before she starts rolling her hips against my crotch. I run my thumbs down her neck and she rocks her head back, giving me access to her soft skin.
“You seemed distant today,” she says, breathlessly. “I wasn’t sure this was in the cards.”
“I was thinking, that’s all.”
“Dangerous. What did you think about?”
“I decided we should think less and kiss more.” She smiles and presses her lips to mine for a lingering, torturous kiss.
I flip us so she’s sitting on the sofa and I kneel between her legs, bringing her feet to my shoulders. “I thought about tasting you again, a lot.”
She whimpers when I lick her clit, and she opens her legs wider.
“You look so fucking hot like this.” I unbutton her shirt to give myself access to her breasts. As I take the tip of one between my teeth, she makes quick work of freeing me from my jeans. I can’t even wait for her to remove them. I let her push them down as far as my thighs and drag her to the edge of the sofa. I cover up my member quickly, her eyes on me the entire time.
I push into her all at once and feel her like a plug to a socket, filling me with electricity. As she comes around me, quickly, violently, my own pleasure courses through my body. Every bit of strength, desire, and power inside me rushes to my dick. Hearing her pant my name is the final match to my fuel, and I explode.
She flops back into the sofa and brings me to her chest. I wrap my arms around her, wondering how I could have ever lived without this. Without ever knowing how intense sex could be. Not with anyone, not ever, has it felt so all-consuming.
If I were a religious man, I would curse God right now. Why send this incredible feeling to me in the form of an antagonizing, self-righteous, amazing woman?
We lie together until our breathing calms and my heart stops racing. For a fit guy, my recovery time after going a round with Izzy is pathetic.
She strokes her fingers through my hair and I think for a second I might never move, but I do need to get rid of this condom. I stand and bring her with me, carrying her like a monkey. She laughs as I struggle to walk while holding her and trying to keep my jeans from falling around my ankles. In the bathroom, I set her down on the vanity unit, discreetly trash the condom, and set the shower running.
As steam fills the room, we undress each other and I lead her into the shower by the hand. We wash each other, her hands like a warm blanket folding around me as she touches every inch of my skin.
“You never did tell me about this tattoo,” she says. I don’t have to open my eyes to know she’s talking about Alice in Wonderland.
It’s the opportune moment to tell her, or at least give her something. Mention Alice, drop in Cady. But I don’t because I haven’t got this all straight in my own head yet and right now, I just want to be uncomplicated Brooks who can simply enjoy this woman touching him.
“A guy called Crazy Joe from Brooklyn gave it to me. It was my first tattoo. Before I really thought about how they would all look together. He was an old veteran who went mad. When he died, he left me some money—not a lot—and said in his will that I was to open my own gym.”
“Wow, and that’s where it all started?”
“Yep. Why don’t you tell me about the tiny love heart I’ve noticed on your hip bone?”
“It’s pitiful really, isn’t it?” She looks down at the solid inked heart, which can’t be bigger than a thumbnail. “I wanted to defy my parents but didn’t really want a tattoo. I wanted to do just enough to tick them off but didn’t dare go further.”
“Your parents seem to have quite a lot to answer for.”
She shrugs as I turn her away from me so I can rinse her hair. “Not my dad. He was never around enough to have anything to answer for. At least not when the business took off. I was still young then.”
I turn her back to me and peck the tip of her nose. “What business is your dad in?”
“Have you heard of Russell’s Crackers and Rumble Tum biscuits?”
“Um, no.”
“Well, they’re just two of the better-known brands owned by my dad’s company. They’re very big in Europe.”
I whistle through my teeth. “You really are a rich girl.”
“No, my parents are. And, boy, does my mother like everyone to know it.”
Feeling her mood shift to something less than happy, I hold her face and kiss her. “You must be ready for that steak now.”
We dry off and I put my jeans back on. Izzy puts the sexy white shirt back on. Between us, we make an outfit.
She puts a large bowl of green salad on the kitchen counter with two plates, while I get us two glasses of iced green tea—actually not as awful as it sounds. After ten minutes of messing with the stovetop, she puts a sirloin on her plate, then turns to the oven and takes out a tray. I watch her in astonishment as she uses a spatula to put a chicken breast on my plate.
“What’s this?”
“A peace offering. You were right; maybe I do need to think more about tailoring plans to different needs.”
“I see. And by tailoring my plan, what you really mean is giving me sufficient food to power your orgasms.”
She plants a hand on her hip and points the spatula toward me like she might point a finger. “Do you want the chicken or not?”
“Hell, yeah. I also want the orgasms.” She snorts as she laughs. “Real attractive, Iz.” My words only make her laugh harder.
After dinner, we sit on the sofa and I get the guitar. “Here, it’s yours, on loan, until…” I can’t bring myself to finish that sentence.
She takes the guitar from me and rests it across her knee. “Why?”
“Because you’re bored and I decided today that I would rather have you rattling away at my guitar in my office than walking outside where I can’t see you.” She looks up at me with wide eyes. “What?”
“I think that might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
I fight my curling lips. “Yeah, well, you need to get out more.”
As I settle into the opposite corner of the sofa, she starts to strum a song I don’t recognize. She stops to tune the guitar and sets off again. It’s a delicate picked opening, using only the bottom three strings. Then she starts to strum, and a gentle, melodious voice follows.
She sings about a soldier leaving for war. About the people he leaves behind and the friends he’s going to make. The song and her voice are enchanting. I’m drawn in by the smooth flow of her wrist, the gentle shuffle of her fingers, the movement in her neck as she forms the lyrics.
When she’s finished, she hands the guitar to me. “Your turn.”
I take it from her. “You didn’t tell me you could play and sing like that. What was that song?”
“It’s actually something I wrote. Did you like it?”
“Like it? Izzy, that was amazing.”
Her cheeks flush as she curls her legs beneath her and rests an elbow on the back of the sofa. “It’s what I used to want to do.”
“Sing?”
“All of the arts, really. Singing, dancing, songwriting, theatre.”
“Why didn’t you stick with it?”
Suddenly her warmth fades. “Because my mother stopped me at every opportunity. Because it wasn’t taking steps toward being a doctor. Because it wasn’t guaranteed to earn money. It was like the figure skating. As soon as I started competing, she stopped me. When I wanted to apply to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, she refused to let me.”
“So now you sort of dance for a living but don’t?”
“But don’t. That’s funny. Now I pretend I know what I’m talking about and make YouTube videos and I wrote one book but don’t have enough material for another without completely going against my own advice. I never go out and I have no friends, so who won?”
“If you don’t enjoy it, why do you do it?”
“There’s a question.” She forces a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, then sighs and rests her head on her palm. “I love dancing and being fit and healthy. If the book is a success, then… I don’t know, I guess I feel like I have something to prove.”
“To your parents?”
“It sounds silly, doesn’t it? You don’t even have to answer that. I’m twenty-eight years old and I still give a shit about what my parents think.”
I swallow hard, knowing this is another opportunity to mention Cady. I don’t.
“You want to break free of your parents, defy them, and make them proud all at once. It doesn’t sound silly so much as limiting.”
“How do you mean?”
I run my thumb gently down the strings of the guitar, thinking of the right thing to say. “At some point, you need to start living your life for you and not other people.”
The irony of that statement is not lost on me. For so long I’ve been living for what could have been. Under some illusion that maybe if I was good enough I would get Alice back, that we would be a family with Cady. In reality, my daughter is about to go to college and her mother is never going to be mine.
Maybe Izzy’s right. Maybe it is time I think about what I really want from life. Maybe I need a new plan.
I sit forward, set the guitar across my knee, and start to play the chords to Johnny Cash’s “Hey Porter.”
I set all other thoughts aside and in my best version of Johnny Cash’s southern accent, I sing the opening lyrics to the song.
The sound of Izzy’s laughter is reason alone to keep playing and forget everything else. I strum faster and sing harder. Izzy stands on the sofa and starts wiggling her hips and turning her arms to the beat. Soon, she’s singing along. Both of us are happy and carefree.
Tonight, life is better than okay.