The Good Chase (13 page)

Then . . .
enough
.

There was a frenetic switching of places, of him regretfully extricating himself from her sweet-hard strokes and turning his body around. He took her elbow and pivoted her so she faced the brown dresser with the chipped edges and loose handles. She bent forward, placing her hands over those edges, widening her legs just a bit.

He stood there, captivated by the graceful bow of her back, the way her delicate triceps muscles popped out as she held herself up, the perfectly generous swell of her ass tilted up to him and the long, long,
long
stretch of her pale legs.

The condom on, he came forward but did not enter her. Not yet. Instead he covered her with his body, kissed down and then back up her spine, to end with his mouth against her ear.

“I think you're so beautiful,” he whispered.

There was no tease in that sentence. No joke. That simple declaration of truth was intense. Thrilling. A promise to her. A promise for more. If she'd let him give it to her.

And then he was inside her. He didn't know if her reaction—the buckle of her spine, the drop of her head, the high moan that streamed out from her throat—was because of his entry, or because of what he said.

She felt . . . God, now was not the time for words. Really. It was time for feeling and moving and experiencing and enjoying. His head went psychedelic, spinning and colorful, as the feel of her body around him—tightening, clenching, taking—obliterated any and all else.

The shock of something cool against his hip forced his eyes open. He looked down to see her reaching behind to grab him.
Move
, demanded the pressure of her hand on his hipbone.

Who was he to disappoint?

He pulled out, not completely, but enough for the slow burn of pleasure to squeeze along his dick. Enough for him to crave going back in. When he thrust again, her hand left his side, swinging around to slam hard into the edge of the dresser. She gripped it, knuckles going white, her ass nudging out even more.

She'd tossed her car keys onto the dresser, and every thrust jerked the big, poorly made piece of furniture. The keys rattled in time to her tiny, feminine grunts. The soundtrack to heaven. Still, heaven wasn't enough. He wanted more.

He'd wanted her for a long time. Since that first glimpse of her last year, right in this town. He realized that all the one-night stands and other flimsy, doomed-from-the-start, half-assed relationships he'd embarked on over the past twelve months had failed because he'd been holding out for her. Waiting for the surprise of her reappearance.

Too much thinking, Byrne. Not enough doing. This woman is finally yours.

It was already fucking fantastic for him, but he wanted to make it even better for her. Claiming her waist with one hand, he reached around with the other and found the hardness of her clit buried in slick softness. The feel of her had him swearing under his laboring breath. He strummed her easy compared to how she seemed to want the sex to go, because she was that kind of woman. One who loved those kinds of contradictions.

One of her hands slapped the top of the dresser again and again, and he could feel her legs going a little liquid and shaky. He kept going, never relenting. She was getting close, and he was so pleased to be able to read her body like that, on their first time.

Only after she came—loudly, perfectly, with abandon—did he worry that maybe one of his teammates could hear through the walls. And then he didn't really care. He could feel her coming—on his dick and with his hand, where her thighs had clenched around him—the little contractions, the teasing pulses, and he stayed still inside her, just
feeling
.

When she finished, she collapsed to her elbows on top of the dresser, panting. The picture was incredible, this satisfied woman whom he himself had panted over for what felt like forever. He couldn't take the restraint any longer, and just let go. Let himself fuck her as he remembered this entire weekend. Let the memories of their words and touches, glances and experiences, take his physical sensations and crank them up to a level he'd written off as the fodder for romantic movies and story lines in books—impossible things. Like aliens and unicorns.

Like portals to other worlds.

He swore when he came. A grinding, drawn out “Fuuuuck.” When he bit off the last of the
k
and he was still pulsing inside her, the rubber not diluting a single damn thing, he was vaguely embarrassed for having spewed out such a porntastic exclamation during orgasm.

Shea turned her head then, her profile as gorgeous as ever, and smiled over her shoulder. No embarrassment was necessary, he realized, because even now, in perhaps the most awkward moment of any kind of sex, he felt perfectly comfortable with her.

They both made sounds of regretful sensation as he pulled out, and it took her a few moments to straighten. When she finally turned around, her skin was no longer pebbled with chill but glowing with a sheen of stunning sweat.

The only way the sex could've possibly been any better was if he could've seen her face. Now, however, he could look at her straight on, and what he saw there stole his words. There it was, written in the perfect circles of her eyes, the O of her lips—the very same intense connection he felt toward her, reflected back at him in her expression.

Then she blinked. Gave a little shake of her head. And he knew what she was doing by pushing it all away. Sometimes, when things got to be too much, it was easier to try to ignore them.

Then, true to her surprising nature, she took his face in her hands and kissed him. When she smiled against his lips, he thought,
That's exactly what I wanted.

But as she drew back, he didn't know if he'd meant the kiss, the sex . . . or just her.

She glanced over at their random piles of wet clothes. “Don't suppose this is the kind of place that has free bathrobes.”

He shook his head. “Can I interest you in a towel the size of a washcloth, though?”

“Tempting.”

“I could sew a few of the towels together,” he said. “Something chic to wear back to the campground. No one would ever suspect where you'd been or what you just did.”

“Or who.”

They both laughed. As the sound died, they continued to stare at each other. “Or,” he offered, “you could stay with me until they were dry. I did promise you a second—”

“I'm not staying, Byrne.” Her brow furrowed as her eyes flicked to the door. “I can't stay.”

“Yes, you can.”

She gave him a sad, conflicted smile and went over to her clothes.

He had to get rid of the condom, and dashed into the bathroom. Those five seconds in the fluorescent-lit, generically tiled room gave him a momentary sense of panic that she'd slip out without saying anything else. Jesus, was this how it felt when you really, really didn't want to let someone go?

Wrapping one of those washcloth towels around his waist, he went back out into the bedroom to find that she'd pulled on her damp bra and underwear, her skin was goose pimpled again, and she was holding her black pants and grimacing at them like they were vegetables and she was a three-year-old.

The sight of it created a sharp pang in his chest, the meaning of which he couldn't quite figure out. Was it because she was covering up? About to leave? Or was it the uncertainty about what would happen to them after she walked out that door?

What
would
happen? What did he
want
to happen?

She shoved one long leg into the wet pants and shivered exaggeratedly. It was terrifically cute.

He had to try another angle. “You can't sleep outside in a tent in wet clothes.”

“I've got dry clothes at the site, a rain tarp over the tent, and a good sleeping bag.”

That was his last bullet, and it missed its mark. “Okay.” He ventured a little closer.

She had her pants on but not her shirt. She took her time putting it on, her teeth chattering as she buttoned it. When she finished she looked up at him. “I'm sorry, Byrne. I feel like—”

He waved her off. “Don't apologize. No need.” Another couple of steps closer. “So, I know that since you're here in Gleann under the Amber Lounge–Shea Montgomery banner you don't want patrons to know about your wild sex night with the mysterious rugby player”—she gave him a wry, amused grin—“and I get that. But what if I said I wanted to see you again? Back in the city. What if I wanted to try to be with you? To figure out a way to fit into your life for longer than a night?”

“Well.” Her eyes warmed as she drew a long, slow look over his body, just barely covered in that stupid towel. “As long as you wear that.”

It was enough, and it made him smile.

She grabbed her keys from the dresser, undid the chain lock, and threw the deadbolt to the side. The doorknob turned in her hand, and right before she walked out into the rain, she looked directly at him and winked.

It was only after he listened to the whir of her car as it pulled out of the lot did he remember that he still didn't have her phone number.

10

T
hey said bad things happened in threes, but that day Byrne chose to change the word “bad” to “good.” Two pretty terrific things had already occurred, which made him pumped up and confident that the third was just around the corner.

Early that morning, as he'd been on his way to work, Caroline had called. A Wednesday ring so soon after an off-schedule Friday night phone call. He tried not to let himself read too much into it, but he couldn't help but be on guard.

“To what do I owe this early-morning pleasure, sis?”

“You were right about the ship captain. Badass. Love her.”

He laughed. “Told you.”

“No, seriously, I think I'm in love. I might leave Paul for her.”

He stopped at the corner of Lexington and East 86th, not caring about the press of commuter bodies in the summer heat. “Or you could just leave Paul period,” he said. “Ditch the deadbeat. You could leave him for me and the city. I could—”

“Not an option, J.P. Baby K is his, and I have to look after Mom and Dad.”

He sighed, biting his tongue. Was worth another shot anyway.

“So I know you're probably walking into your high-rise filled with fancy suits and piles of money as we speak,” she said, “but I wanted to call and let you know something.”

The Walk sign clicked white and he crossed, heading for the gum-spotted cement steps leading to the 6 subway that would take him all the way down to the Financial District. “Uh-oh.”

“No, it's good. At least, I'm choosing to believe it's good.”

“Okay.”

“Alex came back.”

Byrne almost tripped down the stairs. He stumbled and caught himself on the railing, and a guy hauling a giant guitar case swore as he had to swerve around Byrne.

“When?” He hopped back out onto the sidewalk so he wouldn't lose the signal underground.

“Late last night. Pulled into Mom and Dad's, and they let him in.”

Holy shit. Caroline had told him this might happen, but Byrne never actually
believed
it.

“They let him in.” He shook his head, trying to absorb that doozy. “Has he asked for money yet?”

“No, that's the thing. He's
got
some money. He says he's been working odd jobs around the Midwest, saving up. The piece-of-shit car he's driving even has his name on the title.”

“Wow.”

“But then he said he'd had enough of wandering and just wanted to come home, to try to make it up to Mom and Dad, to mend fences and all that stuff. He says he wants to get a job here in South Carolina and try to, and I quote, pick up the pieces of his life.”

Byrne's suit coat was starting to make him swelter, and he wriggled out of it, stepping under the awning of a corner bodega. “And you believe him?”

“You know, I think I do.”

“There was a pause before that.”

“He looks good, J.P. Well, good for him. Better than when he last took off.”

“Anyone looks better when they're not drunk and beat up by bookies and angry townies they've hustled.”

“Hmmm,” she said, and he couldn't tell what kind of
hmmm
it was.

He swiped at the back of his neck, pulled at his collar. “Mom and Dad are good with this?”

“They're thrilled he's back. He's out this morning looking for work, and he said he's going to pay them rent until he can get a place of his own. They're actually a little thrilled with the help.”

Byrne gritted his teeth. Alex shouldn't be the one helping their parents with rent. Byrne should be building them a house. On the parcel of land he was so desperate to buy.

“I'll call them at lunch. See how they're doing.”

“Alex should be back then. You can talk to him.”

“All right,” he said, but the response was automatic, like most placating things said to his family.

“Go into it with an open mind, J.P. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised.”

So at midday Byrne had called home. His mom answered, pretending to be surprised at the contact. After the charade was done and he cycled through his typical check-in questions—“Are you eating well?” “Are you getting fresh air?” “Are you sleeping enough?”—Mom cleared her throat, and he knew what was about to come.

“Those books you send your sister make her so happy.”

“Good,” he said.

“And we, um, we got your check, too.”

Here we go
.

“We can't cash it,” she said.

With his mom on speakerphone, he'd turned to the bank of windows in his office and stared without seeing at the buildings on the other side of the glass. “Can you just deposit it then? Save it for a rainy day?”

“It's too much, J.P.” Her voice shook. “And we'll be fine. We've always managed.”

“Mom—”

“I told you not to send any more money.”

“No, you said you didn't want to see any more checks. I addressed it to Dad.”

She'd sighed.

That's when he brought up Alex, because he simply had to. “Caroline said Alex is back.”

Mom brightened. “He is. And he looks so good.”

Byrne ground fingers into his eyelids. “Can you do me a favor then? Can you make sure the check is voided and ripped up?”

In the awkward pause that followed, he worried his mom might actually protest. Then she said, “All right,” and Byrne guessed that Alex was standing nearby.

“That J.P.?” came Alex's low twang in the background. “Can I talk to him?”

Mom handed the phone to Byrne's lost little brother—gone for five years after gambling away the last bit of money Byrne would ever give him.

“Hey, man.” His brother's voice. A stranger's voice. “How are you?”

Byrne made small talk around the erratic beating of his heart and the whirring of his brain as he tried to figure out the reasons behind Alex's sudden reappearance.

“Things are going to be different.” Alex's sincerity sounded so very real, his voice not slurred, his thoughts lucid. “I'm ready to change. I'm really ready, J.P.”

“You understand,” Byrne replied, shuffling through papers on his desk to hand a specific one to his waiting assistant, “that I'm the kind of person who needs more proof than your word.”

“I understand. I do.” Alex sounded sheepish, humble. “I haven't had a drink in six months. Haven't gambled in eight. I'm a changed man since we last spoke. A determined man. I feel the best I've ever felt. I got a job today, too. Third shift at the cotton mill.”

If it weren't for the distinctive accent Byrne remembered so well from their childhood, he might've thought he was talking to an impostor. But it was Alex Byrne, most definitely.

“Good for you,” Byrne said.

“Hey, maybe someday soon I'll save up enough money to come visit you. See how you live, what you've made for yourself.”

“I'd like that,” Byrne said, surprised to realize that he truly would. Maybe, if Alex came to New York, Caroline and his parents would follow. Maybe this was the spark the whole family needed to move forward. It was exhausting, constantly being disappointed in your own brother. Constantly worrying about him and his effect on their parents.

Yet as Byrne hung up with his brother and parents, he found that he wasn't worried. Not for the first time in years.

That was Good Thing Number One.

The second was even better.

He got a return email. At last. After years of unanswered questions and offers and outright pleas, the landowners in South Carolina had finally gotten back to him.

The single sentence read:
Thank you for your continued interest in one of our properties, Mr. Byrne. We may have some news for you shortly.

Hot damn. What perfect timing.

Good Thing Number Two.

Now, with just an hour left before midnight, he was standing in his kitchen, drinking a bottle of beer and hoping for the third.

Four days of waiting to contact Shea was okay, he thought. Four days for them to readjust to their individual lives back in New York. Yet every night he sprawled across his big, empty bed, closed his eyes, and pictured Shea's face as she talked about that old farm. He pictured the sun going down behind her as it had that evening, the gold light painting her hair.

Then, with a shiver of sensory recollection, he'd remember the curves and lines of her body, the way it had felt being inside her, and he'd have to get up and jack off in the shower, wishing it was her wetness around him instead.

It had nearly killed him to wait four days, but work had been insane, and that was great for keeping his mind from thinking about her at highly inappropriate times.

He knew today would be the perfect day to contact her, because the stars had aligned. Great things came in threes, he convinced himself, and the first two had come and gone.

Shea had to be three.

On his way home from work that day, he'd taken a chance and called her office at the Amber. Voice mail.

“Hey. It's me,” he'd said.

It's me?
Already he was saying that? Every guy who'd ever tried to get ahold of her probably said that, so he quickly added, “It's Byrne. Since I know you'd like me to stay away from the Amber right now, I'm hoping that I'm allowed to
call
you at work, since you left me standing there in a towel without your personal number. So with that, I'm going to be all cool and casual and completely non-stalkerish, and ask you what you're doing next week. Maybe Tuesday night? I'd love to catch up.”

I can't stop thinking about you
.

“Maybe some dinner?”

More sex would be fantastic
.

“Anyway, let me know. Here's my number.”

That had been three hours ago. It was probably high serving time at the Amber right now, the place filled with people like Bespoke Byrne on a work night, entertaining clients and such. If he heard back from her, it probably wouldn't be until tomorrow, and he'd be in meetings all day.

The phone rang. Dropping the beer bottle from his lips, spilling a little on his favorite Boston College T-shirt, he lunged for his cell phone where it sat on the black soapstone counter next to his open laptop. He didn't recognize the number, though it had a Manhattan area code.

Could it be?

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

Good Thing Number Three.

Her voice was friendly, with the perfect amount of emphasis, not too much enthusiasm. Like she'd practiced the single word before dialing his number. That made him smile.

“It's kind of late on a school night,” she said, and he could picture her wry expression so vividly. “I took a chance and thought you'd still be up.”

“Always up at this hour,” he said. “Usually working. When I was just out of grad school, I'd still be at the office now.”

“Wow, really?”

He didn't want to talk about that. “I had no other way to reach you. Hope it wasn't a big deal, leaving that message at your office.”

“No, but I'm calling you back from my cell.”

Translation:
Here's my number, for future reference.

Good Thing Number Three Point Five.

“I'm saving it,” he said.

“I'm still at the office, too,” she added.

“At least your job is fun. Interesting.”

“You don't love your job?” Genuine surprise.

He considered that, leaning against the counter. “It's not a matter of love or hate. It's what I do. It gets me where I want to be.”

“That's a lot of effort, a lot of time and stress, for something you don't love.”

“There's a method to my madness.”

“Which is?”

Money
.

She filled in his silence with a drawn-out, “Ahaaaa. So, let me ask you this: When will it be enough?”

Glancing across the breakfast bar, into the living room, he stared at the green toy train engine on the coffee table and thought about the mysterious email he'd received from South Carolina earlier that day.

“Soon,” he said. “I believe soon.” He shifted the phone from one ear to the other, suddenly feeling like a teenaged boy calling a girl for the first time, not a grown man who had clear chemistry with the grown woman on the other end.

“For someone with such a wildly successful business,” he said, “why are you so mistrusting of money?”

“I have reason,” she replied dryly. “Good reason.”

It seemed they both had little stories tucked away inside. And that was okay. This thing between them, whatever it was, was new and sparkling clean. No need to rush it or muddy it up. Nothing to do but enjoy it. Speaking of which . . .

“So,” he said. “Tuesday. Are you available? Can I see you?”

“I actually have plans that night.”

“Oh. Well, maybe—”

“But I was wondering if you'd like to meet me there?”