Totlandia: Summer (9 page)

“As her bestie once again, I’ve no doubt that you can convince her that she shouldn’t feel scorned or vilified, just—
retired
, perhaps. Position it this way. ‘It wasn’t a good fit, is all. But life moves on, friendships are forever, yada yada.’” Bettina’s eyes narrowed. “Jade, only you—and I—can stop her. We mustn’t let her tear asunder all we’ve worked so hard to build. Our little club—the best chance for our children to grow, and to thrive! Kissing and making up with her will make everyone happier. I’ll bet even Brady would concur.”

Bettina gave Jade a knowing wink.
Hell, even if he doesn’t know about it yet, the very last thing he’d want is for the whole world to know his wife was in porn,
she thought.

Finally Jade nodded. “Of course,” she whispered sadly.

That was all Bettina needed to hear.

Without waiting for Jade, Bettina headed for the soccer field. She didn’t have all day for that numbskull pole dancer to pull it together.

It disgusted her that the possible fate of the club now lay in Jade Pierce’s slender hands.

Now she wants me to make up with Ally,
Jade thought.
I can’t do that!

Bettina’s right about one thing,
Jade had to admit to herself.
Brady would love it if I went crawling to Ally for forgiveness.

What the hell should I do?

If only there was someone she could trust for guidance. Maybe Kimberley.

Then again, maybe not. Since divulging Brady’s obsession with Ally, she now noticed that everything coming out of Kimberley’s mouth was drenched in sarcasm, despite the cloyingly saccharine tone in which it was uttered.

If she suspects Brady and I have broken up, I’ll be kicked out of the club for good,
she thought anxiously.
And out of Oliver’s life, too.

I’ll have to use her, like Bettina is using me. It’ll work because Kimberley practically palpitated to stay in Bettina’s good graces,
she reasoned.
But can I do it without letting her know the truth about Brady and me?

Something Reggie had once said to her came to mind:
’tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems.

She didn’t know if Kimberley was her enemy, per se, but one thing she was certain: real friends stood by you, even in your darkest hour.

That was why Lorna and Jillian had risked Bettina’s wrath and followed Ally down the hill the other day.

They would have done the same for her, had it been she who was exiled from the club.

And had the shoe been on the other foot, deep down inside she knew Ally would have been there for her, too—if she hadn’t betrayed her.

A tear fell onto her clipboard, smearing a checkbox in the middle of the Class Assessment sheet.

Quickly, she wiped it away. She hated the way the ink stained her hand.

She hated what she’d become: a silly, stupid fool.

No, I’m not a fool. I’m a bitch
.

11:14 a.m.

“Look at ’em, movin’ like a swarm o’ bees who’s lost their queen. The li’l buggers aren’t too keen on ballin’, eh?” Andy Hepburn’s accent was so thick that at first Bettina could barely understand a word the Twosies’ soccer coach was saying.

Perhaps if his eyes had been less brilliantly piercingly blue, or his shoulders less broad, or his abs not quite so well defined under his tight, cropped T-shirt, maybe she would have marked off a point or two under the category of “communication” on his assessment sheet. As it was, even before he was through explaining his training technique for a group of toddlers who didn’t know a goal from a grasshopper, let alone a goalkeeper from a midfielder, she’d already marked every category with a bold
10
because what he said didn’t matter half as much to Bettina as how he said it:

In a low, husky British accent.

It was certainly not aristocratic, but not Cockney, either. What was it again they called folks from his quaint little village of Manchester? Oh yes, “Mancurians”—certainly not Jane Austen’s neck of the woods. Still, Bettina could easily envision his broad shoulders filling out a billowy white shirt and his thick neck wrapped in a cravat.

And it was certainly easy to imagine how the obvious bulge in his workout pants would look in those britches with the twin rows of buttons.

No, perhaps just a codpiece. Did they still wear those back then?

“—little balls, but it’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.”

It dawned on Bettina that she was staring at his groin. She looked up, to find him smirking down at her.

She blushed. “Pardon me…did you say something?”
Something disappointing, specifically about your anatomy?

“I said, I had a hard time finding footballs—excuse me,
soccer
balls—that are the right size for the li’l tykes. Hope these will do.”

He held one up that was larger than she’d hoped.

Perhaps it’s a promise of good things to come.

Get a hold of yourself,
she thought.
If he’s sucking up to you, it’s only because he knows you hold the purse strings for this gig.

To prove to him—and to herself—that yes, his assumption was right and he should behave himself, she growled at Jade and Kimberley, “Tell the Twosies moms to break up their tots into two teams. Each is to come up with a team name, and a dominant color for their uniforms.”

They stared at her, dumbfounded.

“Go. Do it!
Now.
”

Kimberley and Jade nodded vigorously and took off in the direction of the shouting mommies.

Anticipating that he’d be duly mollified, she glanced smugly at Coach Andy—

Only to find his eyes sweeping over her, top to bottom and back up again.

As they rose, they paused when they reached her breasts.

He winked at her.

She should have been angry, but she wasn’t.

She was thrilled.

Finally she forced herself to say, “The Twosies look like they’re getting the hang of it! Do you think they’ll be able to play each other by the end of the summer?”

“Them babes? Nah! They’re Yanks. Okay, maybe the girls. But the boys’ dadas will push them toward baseball or American football the minute their mums look the other way. Brutal sport, your football. I would have made a good linebacker. I like things rough.” He winked at her again. “I’ll bet you do, too.”

She was too stunned to respond.
How did he know?

His laugh was a baritone wave that roiled with bemusement and churned her emotions in an undertow of promise.

It had been a while since a man flirted with her. If memory served her well, she was supposed to respond by batting her eyes and paying him a compliment or two. Coyly, she murmured, “I’m sure you’ll have them bending it like Beckham in no time at all!”

She knew she’d said the wrong thing when he muttered under his breath, “That bloody git? Bollocks to that!”

“Oh…I’m so sorry! Really, what I meant to say is that I think you’ve got the right touch with them.” Unconsciously she patted his crossed arms.

It put the smile back on his lips, so she left it at that.

As he turned back toward the playing field, he moved beside her. His elbow rubbed against hers.

She didn’t move, even though she knew she should.

He took that as her tacit approval to sidle even closer. As he did, he let his arms fall to his sides.

Every now and then he shouted instructions to the children, who didn’t seem to be listening. How could they, over their mothers’ shouts of encouragement and their own excited squeals? Like their moms, they were too busy to notice Coach Andy, let alone to notice when Andy’s hand went to the small of Bettina’s back.

Or to see it inch down, to cup her ass, oh so gently.

She was disappointed when his hand fell away.

But it returned with a vengeance—not with a pat, but with a hard swat.

She stifled a yelp. She knew she should be angry at his impertinence—that she should tell him, in no uncertain terms, that he’d gone too far.

Or at the very least, if anyone was going to be doling out pain, it would be her.

But the words died in her throat.

Because it felt so good.

Both of them kept their eyes on the field. Not another word passed between them.

When it was time to call it quits, the mothers gathered up their children and walked over to the tot lot, where they would share lunches with their children and their observances on their children’s new coach. Bettina had no doubt as to the adjectives they would use. Hot, for sure. Dreamy, no doubt. And yes, he’d be regaled as a stud.

It broke her heart to think that he might find any of them attractive. She wanted him for herself.

She watched as he gathered up the soccer goals and balls and walked back to his car. She’d have to wait until next Monday before seeing him again. In order to resist the urge to run after him, she dug the fingers of one hand into the fist of another.

In the meantime, she’d work hard to get him out of her mind. One thing she was sure of: Art had the right idea about spicing up their sex lives. But for her, whomever it was couldn’t be someone her club members knew, too. Were she to be involved in the scandal that broke up the club, her reputation would be ruined.

Worse yet, Lily’s would, too.

And Eleanor would never forgive her if that happened.

When Art got home that night, she’d tell him that she’d agree to go to the S and M club—but that club alone, and only because they’d be wearing masks.

Perhaps she’d even try it as a bottom. Not that she’d ever let Art know that.

He touched her.

Kimberley had seen it with her own eyes. Andy had actually put his arm around Bettina. Granted, it was only for a moment. But in those few seconds not only had his arm gone around her back, he had also
patted her ass.

And not a gentle “atta boy” pat, either. It was a full-out “I want some of this” swat.

The same he’d given Kimberley, the first time they’d met.

The referral for the soccer coach had come from a very reliable source—Jerry, Kimberley’s husband, who had raved about the British ringer on his team’s weekly scrimmages. She’d been very pleased with how the interview went. The fact that they met at his insistence at the Hyatt Union bar had been a plus. He flirted the whole time. When he laid a room key beside her empty martini glass, she hadn’t hesitated to pick it up.

Slowly, she sauntered to the elevator bank. She didn’t have to look back. She knew he was right behind her.

This was how he positioned himself in the elevator, too, despite the fact that it was crowded with tourists. The ride up was long—at least, long enough for him to lift up her skirt, slide his hand gently over her ass, and inch his thumb and index finger around her thong, to her sweet, deep spot, which was already drenched with desire.

At the time, she wanted to scream for everyone else to get out, so that she could take him, right then and there.

She had to wait until they reached his room. Once inside, he’d given her plenty to scream about.

Too much, perhaps. After sex, he asked, “Have you ever been spanked?”

When she shook her head, he beckoned her to the chaise. Before she had a chance to lie upon it, he draped her over the back. Holding her down with one strong arm, he hit her with the other: gently, at first, and in no set pattern—pausing to break her anticipation, to whet her desire. But in time, the swats came harder and faster. Soon the pain was so unbearable that she was whimpering loudly, crying for him to stop.

He did, but only so that he could enter her there, where she stood—sore, bruised, and bent over the rounded arm of the chaise.

She never knew pain could feel so good.

Afterward he snapped a few pictures of her with his iPhone from behind, posing her so that her back arched seductively, turning her head so that she could give the camera a come-hither smile. “Something to remember you by, love, all pretty and pink,” he explained, in that deep, drowsy voice.

“We’ll make plenty of memories before I’m done with you,” she promised.

They had, too. She had the bruises to prove it.

They established a standing appointment: always on Thursdays at four, when she left her children with a babysitter, ostensibly to “take a cardio class.”

There was no reason to doubt her, since she never failed to come home with a racing heart.

Their trysts took place at his apartment, on the top floor of a squat, ugly cinder- box building, across the Great Highway from Ocean Beach. She trembled with anticipation as she drove through the streets of San Francisco—south to Geary, then west to the Sutro Baths and historic Cliff House, then south on the Great Highway, along the ocean, beyond the windmills at Golden Gate Park, finally veering off into one of the “alphabet” avenues.

Invariably he’d leave the door unlocked: the last one on the second story, up the rusted wrought-iron staircase.

When she entered, he always made sure that she saw him lock the top bolt.

If she’d been expecting some slick bachelor pad, she would have been sorely disappointed. Furnishings were sparse. The living room held only a large empty desk, and U-shaped modular couch which faced a wall-sized flat-screen television that was interminably tuned to Fox Soccer Plus, where some far-flung soccer game had fans in a frenzy.

In the bedroom was a California king with no headboard, a long, low dresser below a mirror, and a straight-back chair.

He pointed to the room’s focal point: a wall, lined with paddles of all shapes, sizes, and thicknesses.

“You choose,” he dared her.

His place may not have much in the way of furnishings, but what was there he put to good use.

She went home sore, but never disappointed.

Once, when he left her alone in the bedroom while he went to check the score in some game, she rummaged through his dresser. She had hoped to find some sort of souvenir to take home with her: a T-shirt, perhaps, or even better, one of his boxer briefs.

She found a memento, alright—lots of them. As she stared down into a drawer filled with thongs, panties, and G-strings, tears welled up in her eyes.