Can't Get Enough of Your Love (14 page)

Aha! The last binding tie to break is your mama's washer and dryer. “Well, from now on, I'll be doing my laundry elsewhere.” But not in the pond. Even Jenny would agree with me there.

“But … but when will I see you?”

“When
I
want you to.” Damn, I feel powerful.

“Oh. Well, I guess this … I guess this is normal.”

Mama needs an explanation for everything. So sad. “And Mama, I'll call
you
if I need anything from now on, okay? You don't have to call to check up on me anymore.” In a way, I am telling Mama that I don't need her.

“I won't … I won't call you anymore.”

Silence from both of us. What has just changed?

“Um, you get some rest. Goodbye.”
Click
.

It's what I want, right? I want complete freedom, right? I think I've just gotten it, and it makes me feel kind of light-headed. Wow. I think I've finally broken away. I'm free!

Hmm. I'm going to need some quarters for the Laundromat.

A little after eleven, I see headlights flashing through the woods.

Time to get down and dirty.

I throw on an old pair of sweats and an oversized T-shirt, peel off my socks, and get my football. I step out into the rain, and my pepperoni immediately come to life. Roger leaves his headlights on, illuminating our “football field,” which tonight is puddly and muddy and just plain gross.

And therefore cool as a place for a free woman to play one-on-one football with one of her friends with benefits.

Roger takes off most of his clothes, leaving me only a T-shirt and some plaid boxers to grab.

I toss the football to him. “I'm on defense first.”

“You horny devil, you,” he says. “First one to ten wins?”

Though I know we're both about to win, I agree. “Your, um, stuff is hanging out.”

He looks down. “We're playing touch, right?”

I shake my head. “Tackle.”

He puts his stuff back inside his boxers and tucks the ball under his arm. “Let's get it on, then.”

He fakes left, then attempts to go right—the same tired move he always tries—and I hit him hip-high, driving him into the muddy grass. And after that …

We end up in a tie for, oh, about an hour.

Roger isn't my earth brother for nothing.

L
uckily for me and Roger, but not for the team, it rains all week, and Roger and I, um,
practice
together in the mud. After that first night, I decide against wearing anything at all, since the weather is so mild, and all Roger wears is a condom. We even turn off the headlights to save the battery in Roger's truck. Roger is so easy to see, even in pitch darkness, and the last night, I made him wear a glow-in-the-dark condom I bought at Spencer Gifts. It was a hypnotizing experience, let me tell you.

I was just following the bouncing balls!

I know. I'm as big a perv as Izzie sometimes.

Cleaning up afterward is … different. I hope we don't clog up the drains. We both have so many nooks and crannies!

The morning of the Baltimore Burn game, I go through my pre-game routine. At IHOP, I have to eat three eggs over easy and a stack of pancakes drowning in real butter and blueberry syrup, all of it washed down with a glass of freshly squeezed OJ. I once overslept
before a Passion game, wolfed down a stale blueberry Pop-Tart and some Hawaiian Punch, and had the worst game of my life, making only one tackle all day. After breakfast, I go home and take a nap until noon, swing by Mickie D's for a double cheeseburger, and eat it on the way to the stadium in Salem. I try not to drink
any
liquids until after the first hit, and I definitely put my right shoe on before my left.

And no, I am not superstitious. I've just always done it that way.

During the pre-game warm-up, I speak to no one, and no one speaks to me. You can't have a game face if you're running your mouth. Number 39 of the Burn talks her usual stuff across the field, saying she's going to kick my black ass and make me cry for my mama.

Number 39 needs a life, and when I get the chance, I'm going to knock the life out of her.

I feel a hum deep inside me during the national anthem, and it sure isn't from our fans. The class A baseball team next door, the Salem Avalanche, is also having a game, and they have a nice crowd that is actually singing the national anthem. Not ours. I don't look at the crowd and don't take my eyes off the flag because it symbolizes the
white-wench
quarterback I'm going to be sacking, the
blue
welts I'm going to put on anyone who tries to block me, and the
red
blood of number 39 that will be flowing out of her steel-toothed mouth. Those can't be gold caps.

When we win the coin toss and elect to receive, the crowd behind me cheers. Figures. This may be the only thing we win all day. I want to tell them that we've won
every
opening toss this year
except
for that of the game we won.

Deron Lee, our one and only coach, steps up to me. “Feel like returning the kickoff?”

Son of a bitch! He knows no one is supposed to talk to me before a game! He's messing with my mojo!

“Lana?”

Maybe I can nod. That's not talking, right? I nod, and tear off to the ten-yard line. Now I feel the hum, now I feel the energy, now I feel the power from my crusty toes to the top of my peanut head.

Let's get it
on
.

A whistle blows, I see a leg swing, and I lock in on the ball fluttering through the air. “Ball first, ball first,” I whisper. I run to where I think I can catch it with my hands and—

Oh, it's on now!

Ground's slippery, run north and south
, the Super Sugar Crisp bear says in my head, and I take off, cutting right, staying right, waiting for the block, waiting for it—

“Move your fat ass!” I yell.

My teammate crumples to the ground, I step around, and I'm in the clear down the sidelines with nothing but daylight and—

Oof.

Tweet
.

D-damn! That was a
helluva
hit! I have got to get me some more of that and return the favor!

I look up at the legs of some Burn players on the sidelines, a heckling voice saying something about my mama again. I'm sure number 39 is up there somewhere. I toss the ball up to the ref, lean on my left hand, and get to my feet. I take two steps—

Oh shit! Ow!

I fall to the ground holding my ankle. What the hell? Shit. It's already swelling.

“You all right?” our trainer, Tina, asks once she gets her fat ass across the field.

I pull off my helmet. “What do you think?”

She straightens out my leg and holds my heel in her hands. “This hurt?”

Oh damn. “A little.” Flames of pain shoot up my leg.

She turns it from side to side, and I bite my lip. Damn, this shit hurts!

A ref comes over to us. “Can she continue?”

“Can I continue? This ain't no boxing match, ref! Shit, Tina, get me a little ice and I'll be just fine, just fine….”

I'm not fine. I've really gone and hurt myself this time.

I thought I'd be in great shape for today's game after a long week of night practice with Roger, and I was more than ready to knock some damn heads today. But here I am in the locker room with ice bags on both sides of my right ankle from a vicious but legal hit by number 39 of the Baltimore Burn. So now, I have a tricky left ankle and a bruised right ankle. They had to carry me off the field on a stretcher—my only standing ovation so far in my career! And now I'm waiting for—

There he is.

“I brought your car around,” Roger says. “Are you sure you don't want to go to the emergency room?”

I swivel off the bench and grab some crutches. “I'm sure. It's just a bruise.” A bruise the size of a damn grapefruit on steroids. I am going to have stretch marks from this injury for sure.

“I can drive you home.”

I start to the locker room door, one swing of the
crutches at a time. “I'll be fine. Just follow behind me. Oh, and get my equipment.” I point at the pile on the floor.

“I'm glad you don't wear all this when
we
play,” he says, gathering my gear.

“You're the one who needs it more.”

And when we finally get to Jenny's dollhouse, I realize something: If I didn't have three men in my life, I would have no one to take care of me tonight, when I really, really need it. With Karl who knows where and Juan Carlos working all the damn time, at least I have Roger.

And that scares me even more! If Roger is the only one I can count on in the clutch, what does that say about Juan Carlos and Karl? And what does that say about me for picking those two?

Roger practically carries me up the stairs to the bathroom. “This could be an interesting bath,” he says.

And it is, in the most painfully erotic way.

After giving me four Motrin, Roger runs the water and adds some bath oil beads.

“No funny stuff,” I say.

He winks.

“I'm serious, man. This shit hurts.”

Roger helps me into the tub, pulling my right leg out of the tub so I can keep it propped up. This, of course, gives him an excellent view of my stuff. And then he bathes me. Slowly. Carefully. Sensuously, lingering a long time where my hands
keep
him lingering. Without me asking, he joins me, oh so careful to keep my right leg in the air … then my left leg is in the air … and then …

Then we need another bath, and I need four more Motrin.

Though I can limp just fine, I let Roger carry me to the bed. I even let him dress me in some shorts and a T-shirt. Then I let him lie next to me until I fall asleep, dreaming, of all things, of little milk chocolate babies …

And in the morning when I wake up, my ankle throbbing like a drum, Roger's gone. I feel his side of the bed, and it's still warm. I sniff the air. Is that coffee I smell? And what's that rumbling outside?

I slide on my booty across the bed to the window. Outside, on a little yellow tractor, sits Roger, cutting my grass. He spent the night?

Damn.

He spent the night.

The first man to ever spend the night with me, and I wasn't awake for it? He cuddled with me all night long?

This is serious.

I slide open the window, waving my hand. Roger sees me and waves. No, fool, I want you to turn that thing off. I mimic turning a key, and he gets the idea.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Where'd that come from?”

“Mr. Wilson dropped it off.”

Cool. Jenny must have told him. Thanks, Jenny. Maybe with all that grass cut down, the bugs will find somewhere else to live. If I had a bug light, the bugs would have overwhelmed it by now, their sheer weight dropping the bug light to the ground.

“Your coffee's ready,” Roger says. “Want me to bring it up?”

“I can get it.” I think.

“Okay. I should be through soon.”

I close the window as the rumbling begins again. He spent the night, and now he's cutting my grass because
the ghost of the lady who used to sleep in this room told her husband to drop off a tractor.

I'm sure shit like this happens all the time.

Luckily, the upstairs hallway in the cottage is narrow enough that I can press my hands on the walls for support. I make it halfway down the stairs when I hear my cell phone ringing somewhere in the house.

I bounce down the stairs to the kitchen, where I find the phone on the table. “Hello?”

“Where you at?”

It's Karl.

Shit.

After nearly a month, it's Karl.

Which means he's back in Roanoke.

“Where am
I
at? Where
you
at?” I ask with attitude. “I've been paging you for a damn month, man. Why didn't you hit me back?”

“It would have been a long-distance call.”

Cheap ass.

“What you want?” I always get Ebonic with Karl. We from the ‘hood and shit. I can't speak Ebonically to Juan Carlos or he'll learn English wrong.

“What you think I want, girl? I want you, Peanut. I'm driving around town looking for your ass. Didn't you get my message? I left you one last night.”

Shit. Well, eight Motrin and splashing water will keep anyone from hearing a phone. “I didn't get it, and how come you just decide to call me last night?”

And why now?

Why now, when I have a man I need to reward just outside my house on a tractor delivered by a man who still talks to his dead wife?

“I'm back from doing my thing. You miss me?”

I hop over to the counter and drink some coffee. No adding hot chocolate mix this time. I need the real stuff. “I don't know. Did you miss me?”

“You know I did, Peanut. So, where the hell are you?”

Hmm. Roger's almost done…. Izzie's coming over around two…. It's only ten or so now….”I moved.”

“I could figure that out. I drove by your crib and didn't see your car on a Sunday morning, and we both know you aren't a church girl, heh-heh.”

Heh-heh. I hate that laugh. “I'm in Bedford County, Karl.”

“What?”

“I've gone country while waiting on your ass.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah.”

“Where in Bedford County?”

I give him the directions and purposely tell him to turn left at the big oak tree, just in case he makes good time. “Take your time,” I add. “I need to take a shower first.”

“So do I,” Karl says. “See you in a few.”

I finish my coffee and pour another mug, my ankle throbbing worse, my head spinning. This is going to be a close call.

Roger comes in smelling like all outdoors. “How's your ankle?” he asks, kissing me on the nose.

“It hurts.”

“Want to ice it?”

Karl drives like a maniac. Even with the wrong turn, he'll be here in thirty minutes or less. Shit. “Maybe later. Uh, listen, Roger, thanks for taking care of me last night.”