Finally Us (7 page)

I
’m also crying because even when we aren’t together, he still manages to hurt me. This time it’s the
Chicago Tribune
that ran an article and pictures (of course) in the Entertainment section this morning that showed Jag and supermodel Eva (pronounced E-vay which makes me roll my eyes) Coutu coming out of Trump Tower where they both live. An unknown but very reliable source said they’d seen the two out on the town the night before laughing and holding hands, looking very cozy.

Ugh.

I think about earlier when Austin had come with me to Thanksgiving dinner. Since he’s originally from South Carolina and his parents were on vacation in Europe, he hadn’t planned on going home so I went ahead and invited him along. And something new I’d learned about him today is that he’s rich. As in mega-rich. As in, he plays professional baseball just for the hell of it. As in his salary from being a pro athlete doesn’t even make a dent in what his family makes. Or what he makes from it. His father owns a digital marketing firm that’s worth millions, and Austin and his two sisters are shareholders, so each of them is worth gobs. Finding that out today blew me away because he’s never acted like he was wealthy. 

Anyway,
when we’d driven by Jag’s parents’ house I hadn’t thought anything about it until I’d seen Jag in the yard.

“Hey, that’s Jag Jense
n,” Austin had said and did one of those guy head nods at him. “He’s our new pitcher. I think he’s gonna bring a lot to our club. Well, if he gets healthy. Bedoya’s getting old and just isn’t the same. Jag came in at just the right time.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled
. “He’s my ex.”

He’d
looked over at me and said, “Really?” When I nodded, he’d just made a “Huh” face then gone on to talk about stats and all kinds of crap that I had no interest in. We’d finally arrived at my apartment, I told him I had a headache and he’d left.

And now here I am.

I think about calling Jag, but change my mind. If he wanted to talk to me, he’d call. Then I think about all we’ve been through with Alessandra (God, how I loathe that name) and Dirk (that name’s a close second on my Hate Scale), and how Jag never did anything to rectify the situation with either of them. He continuously allowed the she-bitch into his life all the while knowing it hurt me, and he kept his agent Dirk when he’d been a total dick to me.

I sit up suddenly, sick and tired of feeling sorry for mysel
f and decide to do something about it as I keep thinking about our past.

If he really loved me
, he’d have done something about those two. But he kept them around knowing how they’d done things that hurt me. Someone who loved me wouldn’t have kept hurting me in that way.

I
knew he’d been young and a rookie at all that stuff, but as time passed, he’d known how much I’d been hurt by the things they’d done yet, not to sound like a broken record, he’d done nothing to change it. It wasn’t like if he’d fired Dirk and lost some endorsements he’d be broke. He was a flippin’ millionaire from the minute he’d signed with the Dodgers, so if he walked away from one of the companies he represented, it wouldn’t have broken him. Also, he was hot at the time too. Everyone wanted him, so it’s not like Nike would’ve dropped him, and if they had, Adidas or another company probably would’ve picked him up in a heartbeat.

As I think about all this for the eighty kabillionth time, it’s like a light bulb turns on inside my head. I start
thinking about what Mom said to me the other day and realize that, by God, I
am
a strong, intelligent, independent woman and I
do
deserve better. And Austin’s been giving me better from day one.

I fall asleep thinking things are going to change starting tomorrow.

“Your client’s already in your room,”
Courtney says when I make it to work the next morning. I notice Trina standing with her arms across her chest glaring at me. There are two Starbuck coffee cups on the desktop in front of her and I wonder what that’s all about. I actually didn’t put her on DatingPsychos.com, although it was tempting, so I don’t know why she’s acting mad at me.

I nod at Courtney as I hang my jacket up then it hits me and I turn to her. “Wait, I don’t have a client
until nine. It’s seven-thirty,” I say.

She shrugs. “You got switched with Trina.”

I look at Trina who’s still glaring at me, and now I know she’s angry because I’ve taken her client by no fault of my own, I might add. Then she glances at the coffee cups then back up at me and I have no idea what that means. Alrighty then. I shrug and turn to go to my room, and as I’m walking down the hallway I stick my head in Gary’s office.

“
Hey, Gary. Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?” I ask.

He chuckles. “If you conside
r teaching two fifteen-year-old boys how to drive nice, then I guess it was.”

“The twins are that old now?”
Dang. I’ve known Gary for quite some time as he teaches some classes at Feinberg on managing the business side of PT.

He sighs. “Yep. Good thing is Garrett’s got it. He’s
surprisingly pretty decent at driving. On the other hand, Tristan, well, he’s got a ways to go. He seems to think that curb jumping is the thing to do. Extreme driving at its finest.” He shakes his head.

“Oh, boy.” I laugh. “Glad you survived.”

“I’ll pass along the sentiments to Blair,” he replies.

This makes me laugh even more. “She went with you guys?” His wife Blair is the nicest woman ever but she’s a little tightly strung. I can only imagine her in the backseat freaking out with the boys driving.

“Oh, yeah. She thought it’d be ‘fun’ to ride along. Needless to say, she’s turned it all over to me from here on out.”

“Aw. I’ll have to send her a card of encouragement,” I say with a giggle then leave his office heading to my room. I’m curious to see who I’ve picked up, but there’s no paperwork clipped to the outside of the door. Hm. I open the door and go in, a big smile on my face, but upon seeing who’s in my room, my face falls.

Jag sits on the treatment table smirking at me. I look at him and feel my heart jump to my throat. Oh, God, how am I going to deal with this? He’s at my work.
He’s at my work!
And I have to be professional. This isn’t like Starbucks where if I throw my coffee mug at him and get fired it’s not a big deal. This is my career! Besides, if I threw any of the instruments that are in here, I’d probably do some major damage to him.

My first instinct is t
o get the hell out of there, so I turn and open the door, but suddenly it’s pushed shut and he’s right behind me, his hands pressed against it to either side of me. Shit. I stand there frozen staring at the door and I can’t catch my breath.

“El,” he whispers in my ear
, and I close my eyes as my heart clenches in my chest. Oh, God, why is he here? “Baby,” he says which makes my eyes come open and I have to get away from him.

I somehow maneuver under his arm and move to the wall, turning to look at him. He takes a step toward me and I step back, putting my hand up
and pointing at him. “S-stay right there.”

He puts both hands up in surrender as he raises his eyebrows and goes to the treatment table and sits on it, just another patient ready for his physical therapy
session, and all I can do is just stand and stare at him. Until I notice the look on his face, and my level of pissed off hits DEFCON 4. Why’s he smirking at me? What’s that all about? Is he trying to rub it in my face that he’s doing fine without me? Or that he’s dating yet another supermodel?

As I keep staring at him, I see his lips twitch as if he’s trying not to laugh at me, and
DEFCON 3 of pissed off hits and my hands go to my hips as I grit my teeth trying to keep myself in check. Then he scratches his chin like he’s trying to figure out what to do next and that distracts me.

Okay, this is pretty shallow, b
ut, jeez, has he always been this hot? He’s got on a blue beanie that makes his eyes even more shockingly blue, he’s taken his hoodie off and he’s wearing a white Nike t-shirt that says, “Skilled in Every Position,” and my stomach does a flip flop as I remember how skilled he was… and in every position.

Damn it, El! Get a grip!

I’m trying to regulate my breathing but it’s like all the air in the room is gone. I may as well be done with breathing when I notice he’s also wearing dark gray sweatpants, the same ones that he used to wear when we’d lounge around his condo on Sundays. The same ones that hang low on his hips when he’s not wearing shorts under them and show that perfectly sexy V line that disappears down inside them. The same sweatpants that when he stood in the kitchen one morning cooking breakfast, to show my appreciation for his culinary skills, I got down on my knees in front of him and untied the string with my teeth before giving him a blow job.

I close my eyes again as I try to push that thought out of my head.

Have I ever mentioned my abundant abhorrence at how well my brain retains memories? No? Well, I fucking hate it. I remember everything about him, the way he smells, the way he tastes, the way he laughs, how he sounds when he comes. Oh, God.

I wonder if
it’s against the law to voluntarily be lobotomized?

I
open my eyes and keep staring at him and think maybe he’s not really here. I’ve not been sleeping well lately, so maybe I’m dreaming. Or, even more fun, maybe I’ve finally snapped. My brain has had all it can take, I’ve gone off the deep end and I’m hallucinating that he’s here. That’s got to be it. Yep. I’m completely demented and I’ll probably spend the rest of my days institutionalized sharing my feelings in group sessions, munching on Abilify like it’s going out of style and honing my backgammon skills. Can’t wait.

So back to Jag
, who may or may not really be here but who’s dazzling me with his good looks and that flippin’ scruff. Good lord. I won’t even go into what
that
does to me.

Then he grin
s and I narrow my eyes at him, which makes him smile. Yeah, he’s here all right. Which just pisses me off all the more. DEFCON 2 of pissed off established. Just one more level to go and I’ll be in full-out crazy psycho-bitch mode.

And now I wonder w
hat did I ever do to deserve this? I must’ve been a telemarketer in a previous life and now I’m being punished for it.

“Hi, El,” he says and his eyes go soft as he looks at me.

I take a deep breath and nod. “Jag.”

“I, uh, thought we could talk,” he sa
ys, his azure eyes fixed on me.

I
turn and see his paperwork on the counter picking it up and reading over what I need to do to get him started. Then I begin to get the room ready to work on him. I decide I’ll just treat him like any other patient and move along to the next.

“El,” he
says softly.

M
y back’s turned to him as I pull resistance bands out of a drawer and I close my eyes and take another deep breath.
You can do this. Just get through this session and then he’ll be gone.

He say
s my name again and he’s right there, standing behind me. I jump and turn to face him leaning back against the counter trying to put distance between us but he leans in putting a hand on the counter on either side of me, blocking me in.

“B-back away
,” I tell him, my eyes looking anywhere but at him.

“El…”

“Jag, back away,” I whisper. He
knows
how much I hate being cornered, damn it.

“Look at me, El.”

I can’t. If I look at him, this’ll be real and I can’t take real right now. I shake my head, lowering it, refusing to look at him.

“Look at me,” he whispers leaning down trying to see my face.
When I don’t cooperate, he takes my chin in his hand and pulls my head up. “Look at me,” he demands.

DEFCON 1
achieved. And I look at him all right, my eyes sparking lightning flashes at him. “What? What do you want, Jag!” I hiss. God, if I weren’t at work, I could really go off on him. Damn.

And then he grins at me. What the fuck?

“Better,” he says putting both hands back on the counter
still holding me there.

I shove his chest trying to get him to back away but he doesn’t budge.

“Let me out,” I snarl.

“No.”

Oh, my God. Why does he always do this to me? “Jag!” I growl. “Let. Me. Out.”

“Not until we talk.”

And now I’ve had it. “Talk?” I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Talk about what? About you and Eva Coutu? Or how about Ariana Evans? Oh, I know! How about you and Alessandra and your wedding plans. Now, there’s one for my scrapbook!”

He sighs and
his head goes back as he looks at the ceiling then he runs a hand over his scruff. I use this opportunity to get the hell away from him, quickly getting by the side on which he’s raised his arm and move to stand as far from him as I can which is close to the window.

“You know that’s all bullshit. I’ve tried explaining it to you. The media, the paparazzi, they’re ridiculous. You
know
that,” he asserts.