A Kind of Romance (24 page)

“Hmm. Did Da—George bring you flowers today?”

“Yes! I’m not sure if it was George, but yes… someone did! He has a crush on me,” she giggled. “Who do you have a crush on?”

I smiled and gamely switched gears. She’d moved into a girlish, high school mode I’d have a hard time keeping up with for long. But I’d try.

“His name is Benny.”

“Benny. I like that name. Is she pretty?”

“Benny is a man. But yeah… he’s pretty.”

“Mmm. What’s he like?”

“He’s fun. Kind of colorful. He has dark hair, brown eyes, and—”

“Is he tall?”

“No, he’s short. Well, shorter than me, but taller than you.”

“Does he know you like him?” she whispered conspiratorially.

“I think so.”

She pointed suddenly at the biggest flower on the vine next to her and then at me. It was a familiar gesture. Quintessential Miri. A pointed finger at one object then at a person meant business. “Make sure he knows you like him. Bring him roses.”

“Uh….”

She giggled and leaned into my side affectionately. “Tell me more. I want to know everything! I can keep a secret. I won’t tell George. Go on.”

As with every visit, my heart soared and then plummeted. “George knows Benny. He likes him too.”

“Good. George is a nice name, isn’t it? Tell me about him!”

I found the even ground in between the thorns in her conversation. A place to drift without succumbing to anger or sorrow. In this space, I could simply be. I could set aside my outrage at the horribly unfair twist of fate that had taken my mother from me. This was worse than death. It was endless torture. She was here, but she wasn’t. Even when the glimmer of her true self was evident… she was a shadow I couldn’t trust. I had to learn to be content with what she could give and who she was now.

TWO HOURS
later, a text message from Benny blinked on my phone.

They’re beautiful. Thank you.

Ur welcome. I’ll see you at the restaurant.

I set my phone on the kitchen island and stared into space. I couldn’t say why I sent him roses. Perhaps it was a hint from Miri. A piece of advice or a finger pointing me in the right direction. The mother I remembered would have probably given me an exasperated headshake and told me to stop being a fool. I didn’t want Taylor, so why waste time? But Benny scared me. We were traveling too fast and getting too tangled. Someone was bound to get hurt here, and it might even be me.

The one thing I always came away with after a visit with my mother was to seize every moment because life could turn sideways in a flash. The woman who spoke with a girlish longing that afternoon had once known true love. Now she couldn’t recognize the man who brought her favorite flower as anyone more than a sweet suitor. She couldn’t remember the famous story of the day she’d met him at Bowery Bagels decades ago. He’d literally stumbled at her feet, dropping a basket of bagels in his haste to greet the dark-haired beauty. They used to laugh at the memory and share a special look. One that seamlessly told us that was where we all began. But that was only his story now. She couldn’t remember it. Nor could she remember his proposal in her parents’ garden or walking down the aisle. She didn’t remember giving birth to her four sons or the years she’d raised them with “her George.” She didn’t know her grandchildren or her friends, and she’d long forgotten the kinds of foods she liked.

But she remembered the roses.

BENNY SAT
at my kitchen island, tapping his fingers excitedly. I caught myself staring at his profile as I poured him a glass of wine. He was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt in deference to the crisp October evening. He looked beautiful. Handsome, happy, and brimming with an enthusiasm he could barely contain. He was telling me about a fledgling theater production he and William were hoping to help salvage. It was a promising musical that he thought could use some polish.

“William can rework the score in an afternoon. He’s that good. And me? It might take a week to deconstruct all that horrid crinoline and lace and sprinkle in some snappier colors, but I’d really like a shot. If we can convince the producers we know how to fix a portion of their problem, we might have an in on our first real Broadway show. Well… off-Broadway show,” he amended with a light chuckle.

“You’ll get it,” I said with confidence, lightly clinking my glass against his.

“Unfortunately, you don’t get a job ’cause you want it. You network, you audition, you stay up all night worrying that you’re a bust and no one wants you, then you get up the next morning and start all over again. Of course… if you can find who to blow to get the gig, that’s always helpful.” His eyes took on a faraway look as he tapped his fingers against his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder who—?”

I set my glass aside and moved around the island toward him. His eyes were lit with ready humor he tried to disguise with faux nervousness when I pushed his knees open and stood between his thighs. I cradled his face in my hands and gently bit his bottom lip before pulling back slightly to give him a pirate’s smile.

“You’re hysterical, Benny baby. You want to blow someone, you got me. No one else. Am I clear?”

“Oh my gosh. Are you asking me to go steady with you?” He batted his eyelashes theatrically.

“I thought we’d already established that.”

“We alluded to it.”

“Alluded. Hmm. Then let me be clear… you’re mine.”

Benny collapsed onto the island in a faux faint with his arms splayed in front of him. I ran my fingers through his hair and bent to kiss his ear. Then lick it. He sat up with a start and gave me an evil look as he swiped at his ear. “Yuck.”

I snickered at the over-the-top reaction and then ruffled his hair playfully. “Come on. Let’s—”

“Wait up, Mr. Romance. So you’re saying what exactly?”

“Uh… well, I was going to suggest that game of pool you keep weaseling out of, but….” I swallowed hard before continuing, hoping I’d get this right without promising more than I could give. “Nothing’s changed, Ben. We know who we are to each other, right?”

“Yeah. Right.”

I hated the instant flicker of hurt I saw cross his face.

“We can try to—”

“Zeke, no more talking. You’re doing that compliment thing again. Let’s move on. What did you say about a game of pool?”

“Uh… I was saying we should play,” I said as my brow puckered with confusion. “We’ve never gotten around to it and—”

“Fine. Let’s do it. You can show me how.” He winked as he jumped off his barstool gracefully and headed toward the pool table. “What color should I be?”

I gave a half laugh and draped my arm over his shoulder. “That’s not quite how it works. Let me explain the rules.”

I spent a few minutes giving him a basic tutorial on how to play pool. Benny nodded profusely with a serious expression as though trying to memorize every instruction and helpful tip.

“Okay. I’m ready. What are we betting?”

“Betting? Baby, you’ve never played befo—”

“Loser must grant the winner a favor their choice.”

“Sex?”

“Or breakfast in bed. Anything goes.”

“You’re on.” I unbuttoned my sleeves and rolled them to my elbows. Beating him was going to be fun.

I WAS
known for having an above-average intellect, and I had a degree from a prestigious university to prove it. But sometimes I was unbelievably gullible. After a few months of spending almost all of my spare time with Benny, you’d think I would have caught on when he was up to something. He won the first turn on a coin toss. After I racked the balls, I stood behind him to give another tip or two regarding how best to hold his stick. Much to his amusement. I molded my chest against his back and let my fingers roam along his sides and over his crotch before positioning the rod at his side.

“Keep the stick at your hip and bend your body forward so you’re staring down the line of the pole at the cue ball.”

“Like this?” he asked, wiggling his ass suggestively against me.

“Mmm, that’s it. Make sure your hands are relaxed and supple. Now make a bridge with your left hand and set the tip between your thumb and forefinger. Good. That’s your balancing point. We’re going to keep it simple the first time around. You chose stripes, so call the ball you’re going to sink and which hole you’re aiming for.” I jutted my hips and slid my hand over his jean-clad ass before stepping to his side. “We won’t count fouls. The only big rule is you can’t hit the eight ball. The person who sinks all their balls and then the eight is the winner.”

Benny straightened and cocked his head inquisitively. “Can I touch your balls?”

I chuckled at the obvious innuendo and then reached for his hand and set it over my half-hard cock. “Feel free.”

He smirked as he turned back to the pool table. I stared at his ass until the sound of his voice above the din of balls colliding shook me from my reverie. The look of satisfaction on his face told the whole story. But I hadn’t clued in yet.

“Good job. Which one are you going to try to hit into which pocket?”

“Ten ball in the corner pocket,” he exclaimed, pointing toward the far right side of the table.

I leaned on my cue stick and gestured for him to proceed. He bent over the table and lowered his body as he eyed the angle of the shot. It was a terrible angle. I was about to tell him so when he stood abruptly and moved to his left. He took his time eyeing the little white ball at the end of his stick, shifting an inch to his right, then another half inch to the left. That was probably my next clue, but I didn’t heed the warning. My gaze was locked on the view. Benny moved like a dancer, with an effortless grace. I loved the way his biceps flexed as he slowly pulled the stick back. I licked my bottom lip and adjusted my dick clandestinely through my wool-blend trousers. A moment later he whooped with joy and threw his hand up for a high five.

“Next one will be the twelve in the side pocket,” he declared, moving toward the opposite end.

I nodded and gave him a friendly smile of encouragement. He banked his shot easily and then went on to shoot the next three like a fucking pro. He didn’t commit one foul. He was never in danger of striking the eight ball or any of mine. It took a while for me to clue into a few other important details. He knew how to position himself with the appropriate amount of space between his torso and the table and how to recognize the best angle in one sweeping glance. He altered the bridge of his left hand depending on the shot. And he didn’t so much as brush his hand on the table. His movements were studied, deliberate, and precise. The way they had been when he’d kicked my ass bowling months ago.

When he finally missed a difficult shot with only four balls left, I’d gone from thinking he had a mad case of beginner’s luck to realizing I’d been had.

“Oh darn. I guess it’s your turn.” He shook his head mournfully and then flashed a grin as he hopped back a few steps to perch his cute butt on the arm of one of the leather chairs next to the built-in bookshelves.

I crossed my arms and gave him a withering once-over. “You’re a fuckin’ hustler,” I said in a low, menacing tone.

Benny busted up laughing. And once he started, he couldn’t stop. He fell into the chair sideways and curled his knees under him as tears streamed down his cheeks. I huffed indignantly before turning to hang my stick on the wall. Benny hiccupped in his effort to regain composure.

“A hustler? C’mon, Zeke. It’s not rocket science. I can’t help it if I know a thing or two about balls… and sticks,” he snorted, launching into another fit of laughter.

“Hmph. Come here.”

“If you forfeit now, I win. You’ll have to grant my wish anyway.” He sobered and gave me a curious sideways look. “What are you going to do?”

My grin was more of a lopsided upturn of lips that slowly morphed into something I knew looked a little dangerous. I’d spent a number of years playing with big boys in a shark tank. If you didn’t make it clear from day one you were a predator, you wouldn’t last ’til lunchtime. It was better to be known as the guy who kicked ass and took names later than as a nice guy any day of the week. Nice guys didn’t survive. And obviously I’d been a little too “nice” to Benny.

“You’ll see.”

He didn’t obey immediately. He held my sharp stare for a long moment before slowly rising from the chair and walking toward me. I crooked my finger when he stopped a few feet away.

“Keep movin’,” I said.

“No. You look scary.”

“I
am
scary.”

“Then I’m not going to—”

“Come.”

He glanced at me warily before taking a tentative step forward.

“Closer. That’s good. Now take your clothes off.”

“Here?” His eyes went wide as he turned to the open blinds on the windows in the living area.

“Yes.”

This time when our eyes met, the air sizzled between us, as though a wire had been tripped. There was no escaping the powerful current in the room. We may have been playing a game, but neither of us knew the rules now. I couldn’t tell what he’d let me get away with, but I was driven to push him. I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I waited with the patience of a hunter who finally had his prey right where he wanted him.

Benny lowered his gaze as he raised his fingers to unbutton his shirt. He took his sweet time, revealing only a hint of skin as the fabric fell open slowly inch by inch. When he reached the last button, he looked up at me as though waiting for further instruction.

“Off,” I commanded in a firm tone that brooked no argument.

He slipped his shirt from his shoulders and let it fall carelessly to the floor.

“Now your jeans.”

“But the blinds are—”

I flipped two switches on the wall next to me, sending the entire room into darkness. The only illumination was from the streetlamps outside and the usual reflection of city glare from traffic lights and other people’s homes. Since I lived on a relatively quiet street in SoHo, it meant the great room was now draped in shadow.

“Now.”