Tangled(68)

After a minute, Kate clears her throat. “I should go. It’s late. And I have a lot of work to finish.”

“Yeah. Okay. Me too.”

“Good night, Drew.”

I grin. “It could have been. But you’re across town.”

She laughs then. It’s quick and muffled, but it’s genuine. And I’m pretty sure it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.

“Sweet dreams, Kate. You know, the ones with you and me in them. Naked.”

Click.





Chapter 23

THE MOST IMPORTANT GAME in a rookie pitcher’s career isn’t his debut. It’s his follow-up. The second showing. He has to prove that he’s consistent. Reliable.

Today is my follow-up game. The day I show Kate she’s not getting rid of me and that I’m one hell of a clutch player. I’ve started with something simple. Elegant. Something less in-your-face than the Three Man Band. After all, you don’t always need to drop a nuke to win the war.

I had Kate’s office filled with balloons.

A thousand of them.

Each printed with I’M SORRY.

Too much? I don’t think so either.

Then I had a little something delivered to her office. From Tiffany’s. A small blue box with a note:


You already own mine.

Drew


Inside the box, on a platinum chain, is a flawless two-carat diamond heart.

Sappy? Sure it is. But women love sappy shit like that. At least according to the films I stayed up until three o’clock in the goddamn morning watching they do.

I’m hoping it’ll knock Kate off her feet. Right onto her back—and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how much I like her in that position.

Just kidding.

Kind of.

Besides, I get the feeling Kate isn’t used to getting presents, at least not of that caliber. And she should be. She deserves to be spoiled. To have nice things. Beautiful things. Things her dipshit ex-boyfriend couldn’t afford and probably wouldn’t have thought to give her.

Things I can. And will.

I wanted to be there when she opened it. To see the look on her face. But I have a meeting.

“Andrew Evans. Still as handsome as the devil himself. How are you, m’boy?”

See that woman hugging me in my office? Yes, the auburn-haired, blue-eyed lady who’s still a knockout, even in her fifties? She used to be my sixth grade teacher. Back then, her skin was as smooth and creamy as her Irish brogue. And she had a body that begged for sin. Lots and lots of sin.

She was my first crush. The first woman I ever masturbated about. My first Mrs. Robinson-like, older-woman fantasy.

Sister Mary Beatrice Dugan.

Yep, you heard me right—she’s a nun. But not just any nun, kiddies. Sister Beatrice was a NILF. I don’t need to spell that one out for you, do I?

In those days, she was the youngest nun any of us had ever laid eyes on—unlike the bitter, black-robed hags who looked like they were old enough to have actually been around when Jesus was alive. The fact that she was a woman of the cloth—forbidden—and in a position of power over us naughty Catholic boys just made it all that much more erotic.

She could’ve spanked me with a ruler anytime.

And I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Just ask Matthew.

When we were thirteen, Estelle noticed Matthew was wincing when he walked. She dragged him bitching and moaning to the doctor’s, where he was promptly diagnosed with CPS.

Chafed Penis Syndrome.

The doc told Estelle the condition had been caused by leaving wet swim trunks on too long. And she believed him. Even though it was November. Matthew’s dick was raw all right, but it wasn’t because of a fucking bathing suit.

It was because of Sister Beatrice.

“You’re as stunning as ever, Sister B. You decide to leave the order yet?”

I don’t go to church. Not anymore. I’m a lot of things, but a hypocrite really isn’t one of them. If you’re not going to play by the rules, you don’t show up for team meetings. Over the years, however, I’ve kept in touch with Sister Beatrice. She’s the principle at St. Mary’s now, and my family has always donated generously.

She taps my face. “Cheeky boy.”

I wink. “Come on, Sister, be fair. God’s had you for, what? Thirty years? Don’t you think it’s time you gave the rest of us a shot?”

She shakes her head and grins. “Ah, Andrew, yer charms would tempt the virtue of a saint.”

I hand her a cup of tea, and we sit down on my unadulterated couch.

“I was surprised by yer phone call. And more ’an a bit curious. What hole ’ave you dug yerself into, m’boy?”

I called her yesterday. And told her I needed her help.

“I have a friend I’d like you to speak with.”