Fair Game: A Football Romance (41 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Major

THOT

Getting my ass chewed by a superior isn’t the way I enjoy starting my day, but I think it brought a tiny bit of joy to Corporal Jamison’s heart. I’ve been such a prick to him lately that he deserves some retribution, even if he isn’t dishing it out personally.

After a night of licking frosting from every inch of Violet’s body, talking until dawn, and the two-hour drive home that should have only taken forty-five minutes, I should be exhausted. But I’m not. Quite the opposite, in fact. For the first time in months, I feel rested and light and—fuck, I don’t know—happy, I guess. It’s been forever since I told a woman other than Sabrina that I loved her, and the fact that Violet confessed it first made it all that much sweeter.

I’m not going to lie. I was worried about the good doctor. But, there’s no way she could have done the things she did to me last night with another man on her mind, and I intend to keep it that way.

I’m going back down to San Diego Friday to spend the weekend with Violet and double date with Garcia and Kimber. They’ve become pretty close. I wouldn’t be surprised if he pops the question before her baby is born. My blood boils every time I think of her cock sucking ex-husband and the way he left her high and dry when she got pregnant—with his own fucking kid. What kind of Marine does that? What kind of
man
does that? I wonder if he’s noticed the subtle changes in his duties over the past few months. Ranking Major has its advantages, and Karma’s a bitch . . . sucker.

I’m looking forward to dinner tonight with Malory at Sam’s. She’s such a good mother. She must have inherited good mama genes from our biological mother, because our adopted mother doesn’t even deserve the title.

My phone vibrates on my desk and I pick it up. A picture of Malory that I’ve assigned to Samantha’s number flashes on the screen. I click the accept button.

“Hey, what’s up? How are my girls?”

“You sure are chipper today,” Sam says. I can tell right away that something’s off. Her usual musical voice is monotone and flat.

“It’s been that bad, huh?”

“Yep, you were putting the dick in ridiculous for sure.”

I chuckle. Even when something’s wrong, Sam tells it how it is.

“I wanted to talk to you before you came over tonight.”

“What’s wrong? Is it Malory? Is she okay?”

“No, she’s fine. It’s not about her . . . well, not directly anyway. Sawyer, Craig wants a divorce. There’s someone else,” her words trail off, and I hear her start to cry.

Fuck.

“Sam, why haven’t you said anything until now? Is he sure about a divorce? It seems sort of sudden.”

She sniffles and blows out a shaky breath. “I didn’t know. God, Sawyer, I had no idea he wasn’t happy or that he was screwing around on me. Some woman called the house the other day. She said she was sleeping with my husband and I needed to wake up and smell the coffee. I told her to go to hell and mentioned it to Craig that night in bed. He admitted he was cheating on me and asked me for a divorce all in the same breath.” She starts to softly cry again.

She doesn’t deserve this. Nobody does, but Samantha has been a model wife for going on ten years. She skipped college to help put Craig through medical school, and she helped him open his own chiropractic clinic. She sacrificed years of her life taking care of him and their children—and mine. Malory . . . she won’t be able to take care of Malory if she’s single, with no degree and no career. That’s got to be why she’s calling.

“Sam, we’ll get through this. We always do. I’m here for you. I’ll help you any way I can. You know that.”

“I know.” Her breath hitches between sobs. “But what am I going to do? I won’t have a job. I’ve been doing the books for Craig’s office for years, and I never got a chance to go back to school.”

“One thing at a time. I’ll have a talk with Craig tonight when I come over and find out what the hell is going on. In the mean time, you call this number. Do you have a pen?”

“Uh huh.”

“555-9218. That’s Brad Stetson. He’s my lawyer. Tell him I gave you his number and explain your situation. If Craig’s going to be a dick about this, you need good representation. He’s going to have to pay you alimony and child support. You won’t be broke. I’ll find a way to take Malory back to ease the burden if need be. Just take care of yourself for now and leave the rest to me.”

“I don’t want to give her up, Sawyer. She’s my daughter just as much as she is yours, but if I can’t make it, I don’t want her to suffer, you know?”

“Sam, it’s all right. We will figure it all out. Just call Brad, okay?”

“Okay, I love you, big brother. Thank you,” she says with a wet sniffle.

“I love you too, Sis. Dry your tears. I’ll see you soon.”

“Bye.” She hangs up the phone, and I want to hurl mine across the room against the wall. So much for my good mood. I swear, I’m gonna kill that pansy ass motherfucker when I get my hands on him for hurting my sister like this.

I don’t want Malory in that kind of environment. She doesn’t need to be witness to a crumbling marriage and all the fallout that comes with it. Sam wouldn’t come right out and ask me to take her, but I know it would ease her responsibility. I don’t know what I’m going to do, though. I can’t be a single father and a Marine, but I can’t be a father without a job either.

All this because fucking Craig can’t keep his dick in his pants.

It’s past dinnertime. I wasn’t in the mood to sit down and play big happy family with my sister and Craig. I’m not good at keeping my anger under my hat, and I’m so angry with Craig right now, I feel borderline homicidal.

I pull into the double driveway of their four-bedroom suburban cookie cutter house and brace myself for combat. Before I can get out and storm the front line, a text pings on my phone. It’s Violet. Just seeing her name is like a dose of Valium. Every twisted muscle in my neck relaxes, and I open the text to see what she has to say.

I miss you and your cupcakes, and thank you for the sunglasses. I wore them today. They’re beautiful – Love, Target girl

Visions of pink and white frosting smeared on her silky dark skin fill my head, and the fury that was just pumping through my arteries lessons. Violet may have singlehandedly saved old Craig’s life with her simple text.

I’m glad you liked them. I miss you too. I loved watching you lick frosting off my—well, you were there. I don’t have to tell you. I’ll bring more dessert Friday – Love, MSS

I press send just as a little hand knocks on my window.

“Daddy, look what I made!” Malory slaps what I can only guess is a painting of abstract art on my window, and it’s still wet. I stretch my neck left and right and open the door. Its times like this that I know I did the right thing letting Sam raise Malory. I can blame almost every neurotic idiosyncrasy I have on the Corps, but this? This is OCD, pure and simple.

“It’s stuck,” she says, pushing her bottom lip out in a pout.

“That’s okay, it’s beautiful, honey.” I close the door and hug her tentatively. She’s got blue paint in her hair and on her cheek, but I do my best not to show how much it bothers me.

I peel the painting off my window and hold it out away from my body by the only corner that’s dry. My skin is crawling, and that familiar ball of anxiety starts to ravel in my chest.

Sam appears out of nowhere and grabs the painting from my hand.

“Oh, honey, let’s keep your artwork inside. We don’t want it to get ruined, and it’s not dry yet. Hey, Sawyer.” She kisses me on the cheek, and I take Malory’s slimy hand and grimace as we head inside.

“Daddy’s going to wash his hands. Why don’t you come with me and wash up, too?” I say, making a beeline for the closest bathroom.

“Can she take a shower, Sam?” I call over my shoulder. The more I look at her, the more paint I see. I wonder why I can smear frosting on Violet’s skin from head to toe, but I can’t stand the feel or sight of paint on my little girl. Something about that woman makes me almost normal.

“Sure, knock yourself out. Dinner’s in fifteen minutes.”

I rinse our hands in the sink and turn on the shower.

“Arms up.”

She lifts her arms high, giggling when I brush my pinky fingers against her bare armpits. I peel her shirt off and let her take off her own shorts. She steps in and immediately, the bottom of the tub is covered in green and blue paint. I watch it flow down the drain and think about how it would be to have Malory living with me in my house.

I’m so flawed, so damaged. I can’t imagine living in an environment that’s not sterile and catalogued. Children are the opposite of sterile. Violet is wrong. Being anal isn’t a good quality in a parent. It’s stifling and suppressive. Kids need to be allowed the freedom to grow and express themselves. They require endless amounts of patience and understanding, undivided attention, and time. I have nothing to offer this beautiful child who looks so much like her mother. Looking at Malory is like looking into Katie’s eyes every time I see her, a constant reminder of what a failure I was as a husband.

“Daddy, I need shampoo. I can’t reach it.” Malory is pressed against the side of the shower, reaching for the bottle of shampoo. I take it down and squirt some into my hands and lather her hair. Even the suds are light blue.

“How did you get so messy?” I ask.

“Auntie Sam said go crazy!” she yells, waving her arms in big circles. Yep, sounds like Sam. “And guess what, Daddy?”

“What, honey?”

“She let me paint at Uncle Craig’s desk.”

I laugh. Now I’m getting the whole picture. Samantha’s finding her own ways to seek revenge on a whole different level.

“That’s great. I hope you were super messy,” I say and dab a clump of soapsuds on her nose.

Her mouth hangs open and she gasps. “You do?”

I stretch to remove the showerhead from its cradle to rinse her hair.

“Yes, is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes,” she says matter of factly and presses her lips together in a straight line, as if she’s daring me to say otherwise. She’s right. She’s only six, and she knows I have a problem. Maybe I should finally consider Katie’s suggestion and take my ass to a psychiatrist. I can’t imagine it would help. Old dogs don’t learn new tricks, and I’m getting to be an old dog.

“Okay, smarty pants, let’s get you out so we can eat dinner. What’s Auntie Sam making for dinner?”

“Pot roast.” She cups the side of her mouth and whispers, “And vegetables, ew.”

“You don’t like vegetables much, do you, Mal?”

“No, hate ‘em.”

“We can just eat roast, then. How’s that?”

“Dope.”

I stop rubbing her hair dry with the towel and throw my head back and laugh. This kid is killing me with her responses today.

“Did you just say dope?”

“Yup.”

“Where’d you learn that?”

“From Davy.”

I shake my head and wrap the towel around her, tucking the corner in along the top edge to keep it from falling off. I point her in the direction of her room and gently swat her behind.

“Get dressed, Boo, and hurry.”

She takes off running, her little feet slapping against the hard wood. I search under the sink for bleach to clean the sink and shower with, and when I’m done, I take Malory’s paint-covered clothes to the kitchen and open the stainless steel garbage can with the foot pedal. I’m about to drop them in when Sam stops me.

“Those are salvageable, you know. It’s just paint.”

“I wonder if Craig will be able to salvage his office.”

A sly
he can go fuck himself
smile slides across her face.

“She told you about that, did she? Little traitor. She was supposed to keep that a secret.”

“Where is Mr. Wonderful anyway?”

“Probably with THOT.”

“I’m sorry, with what?”

“It’s slang for that hoe over there. The kids have been decoding the latest slang for me.”

“Ah, I see. That explains Malory using dope as an adjective.”

“Yep, she’s dope.”

“You guys are having a lot of fun today. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

“Thank you for giving me your lawyer’s number. He reassured me, as you did, that my future isn’t so dim. I’m still in shock and my heart’s in a billion pieces, but I have you, so . . .” She gives me a side hug with one arm while she stirs something on the stove.

“Yup, you got me, and I’m pretty legit.”

Her eyes light up. “You’ve been brushing up on slang too.”

“I work with young Marines. I hear things.”

“Huh, yeah I guess you do, don’t you? So tell me what—or who—is making you so much more tolerable today?”

“Remember when I told you I bumped into a woman at Target a few months ago, and then saw her at a bar that night?”

“Yes, I believe that’s when you started acting like a major douche waffle.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, and I believe douche waffle may be one of the slang terms you want to cut from your arsenal. I think it’s out.”