Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(18)

Yeah. Dave said he was leaving, but he’s still talking to Beacon by the door. Want me to grab him?

No, I text back in a hurry. I was just checking on him. Night!

When the elevator doors part, I dart through the lobby, fly out the revolving doors, and stick my hand in the air. A taxi swerves and halts at the curb. Thank you, taxi gods.

I open the door and jump inside. “Two-twenty-seven Water Street,” I say to the driver. “There’s a ten buck tip in it for you if we get there inside of ten minutes.”

The tavern on Hicks Street—where the hockey players hang out—is between here and my apartment. But if Dave yammers with Beacon a few extra minutes, I can still beat him home. And it’s such nice weather that he may decide to walk.

My phone vibrates with a new text from Eric. Where are you, anyway?

Why? I reply, paranoid.

Just curious, he replies. It’s almost like you’re trying to beat your brother home.

Oh dear. I hired Eric because he has a sharp mind and great intuition. That feels like a mistake now. You can be Employee of the Month for the rest of the year if you just forget we had this conversation.

Awesome. Can’t wait to see this plaque.

I snort as the driver flies up Jay Street. Traffic is so light at this hour that I think I’m going to make it.

He just walked out, comes a new text a minute later.

“Damn it!” I squeak, and the driver turns his head in confusion. “It’s fine!” I tell him. “Just late for my curfew.”

He guns it.





I have never run up three flights of stairs so fast. There’s no strip of light coming from under my door as I turn the key. Yes.

I step inside, happily noting that the place is empty. I turn on a lamp and rocket into my bedroom, where I hop around like a monkey as I try to unzip my dress. I throw on an old Detroit Tigers T-shirt and some sleep shorts. Then I try to get a few tangles out of my hair.

The apartment door opens and shuts not more than three minutes after I’ve returned. He must have taken a cab.

Gently, I open my bedroom door. “Dave?” I call, trying to sound sleepy.

“S’me,” my brother slurs. “Did I slam the door? Shorry.”

I emerge from the bedroom, ditching all pretense. Maybe I don’t need to be subtle, because Dave is blitzed. “Did you make it up the stairs okay?”

“I’m very coordinated,” he says. And then he burps.

“Right. Well, let’s get your coordinated self into bed. Did you have a good time?”

“The best time. Except I lost at darts.”

“Can’t imagine why.” I remove the couch’s cushions and extract the pull-out bed. “How about some aspirin?”

“Yes, please. Hey—Happy Birthday! I’m the first to tell you, right?”

“Right,” I lie cheerfully. Take a number. “Thank you.”

I spend the next few minutes shaking out the sheets and helping him make the bed. When I look up, he’s watching me. “Isn’t it kinda late?” he asks suddenly. “Weren’t you asleep?”

“Not at all,” I say breezily. “I just got home from a wild night of naked debauchery with a random guy I picked up after the party.”

Dave lets out a belly laugh. “You’re hilarious. G’night, Bessie.”

“Night!” I toss him a pillow and go back to my bedroom.

Ten minutes later the apartment is quiet, and I’m lying in my bed in the dark. What. A. Night. I’d worn a dress, for starters. And things had only become weirder from there. I had birthday sex with Mark Tankiewicz again. Twice. Unbelievable.

I wonder if he’ll wake up and think—what the hell did I do? He hadn’t used condoms—a fact that might hit him in the morning. I’m a faithful user of birth-control pills, but Tank doesn’t know that. At some point tomorrow he’ll remember that a single guy is supposed to be vigilant about such things, and he’ll panic. I can picture him grabbing his face in two hands and letting out a scream worthy of Home Alone.

He has nothing to fear on that front. Just because I have baby fever doesn’t mean I’m dumb enough to have a child with a man who doesn’t love me.

You’re just what I needed tonight, he’d said.

Note the temporary nature of that statement.

Still, it lit me up to hear it. But I won’t delude myself. Sleeping with players is still not something I do, and a guy who’s just been dumped by his wife is not looking for a long-term girlfriend. So there’s no point in dreaming about more.

I roll onto my side, let out a satisfied sigh, and make a pact with myself not to regret tonight. Not too much, anyway. I’ll look at it as the last, pointless hurrah of my twenties. I’m entering a new decade. I need different things now.

That’s why I’d spent time last week making a personal life plan with color-coded sections and a detailed outline. The first section is titled: “Dating.” There are action steps for apps to try, and a list of friends who could possibly introduce me to thirty-year-old men who might also be ready to get serious about the future.

I have other goals, too. More time with friends. More time with family.

I’d moved to Brooklyn to change my life, and tonight’s adventure didn’t really advance my goals. Still, Tank is special. And now I know I hadn’t just been building him up in my memories, because wow, the man is seriously talented. Talented, and yet unavailable.