Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(40)

But something special happens when we spend time together. I forget to be that angry guy. At first I thought it was just the sex. And lord knows my rusty libido needed a kick-start.

There’s more to it, though. Bess is special. She has a lively energy that I didn’t appreciate when we were younger. Or maybe I did, even if I never managed to articulate it. I remember heading back to New York after a road trip, counting the minutes until the plane touched down so I could flag a taxi and sprint to her little studio apartment in Midtown. Those memories are faded with time, and probably tinged with nostalgia for a moment in my life when everything was still on an upward trajectory.

But thirty-year-old Bess is even more interesting to me. I watch her laughing with Delilah, and then chatting with Eric. And I want to cross the room and kiss her hello. I want to hear whatever she’s saying, because it’s probably something sharp and funny.

I feel the pull. It’s not just my libido that Bess has woken up. I feel her presence in the empty hollow in the center of my chest. Right where my heart is supposed to be.

As I watch, Bess’s face crumples, and Eric puts his arm around her. And just like that, my appetite is gone. Bess looks so sad that I have to fight the impulse to walk over there and pull her into my arms.

She wouldn’t want me to, though. Fuck.

I’m not the only one who notices. A worried frown crosses Castro’s face. A minute or two later, he sets down his pizza to walk over to Bess and give her a one-armed hug. She smiles at him and then wipes her eyes one more time.

“Who is it?” Castro asks loudly. Then he starts to shadow box like a goofball. “I’ll fuck him up, Bess. I mean, I lose every fight I’ve ever gotten into. But it’s the thought that counts, right?”

She laughs. “Don’t hurt your hands, fool. There’s nobody who needs an ass-kicking, anyway. Thank the lord.”

“You just let me know. I’ll show him who’s boss. I got the moves.” Castro lifts an arm, strikes a ridiculous pose, and flexes his biceps until Bess laughs again.

Well, fine. If the kid tries to cheer up Bess when she’s sad, I guess he can’t be that bad.

I pick up my slice of pizza and try to catch Bess’s eye. Does it make me an asshole to say I’m positive Bess is having as much trouble ignoring me as I am ignoring her?

“There’s more pizza,” Delilah says to me, opening another box. “Thanks for coming to help tonight. I’ve never furnished a home before. It’s fun, but it’s a lot of work.”

“No kidding,” I agree, dragging my attention off Bess. “If I ever find an apartment in Brooklyn, I’m going to hire somebody to buy everything for me.”

“There’s another solution,” Patrick O’Doul says, grabbing a slice out of the new box. “I bought my apartment from two guys—a married couple. They were starting over on the West Coast, so I bought all their stuff. All the coffee cups, the towels, the butter dish. Everything.”

“But they had excellent taste,” Delilah points out. “Like, Architectural Digest taste. That’s just lucky.”

O’Doul looks at me and shrugs, as if to say, I didn’t even notice.

I’m warming up to these guys, little by little. O’Doul seems like a solid enough captain. He teases his troops sometimes, but I haven’t heard him be cruel to anyone. Not like Palacio was.

I guess there’s one thing I don’t miss about Texas.

“What kinda beer is this, anyway?” O’Doul asks, inspecting the six-pack I’d brought.

“What do you mean? It’s Shiner Bock. Just one of the best beers in Texas.”

“Texas,” he says slowly, like the word doesn’t feel right in his mouth.

“Dude, I know you hate Dallas. But don’t hate on my excellent beer. Try one.” I pull a bottle out of the pack and thrust it at O’Doul.

“Thanks, man.” He gives me a serious nod. This is how I know I’m not one of the crew yet. He doesn’t tease me. Until they’re ragging on your taste in beer, the pattern on your tie, and your underwear-modeling career, you aren’t really one of the team.

When O’Doul looks at me, he still sees a fight we had in 2017. I’d bet any amount of money on it. I’ll bet I know which one, too—because he didn’t win. There’s no getting around it. I just have to ride out the awkwardness until these guys notice we’re wearing the same jersey now.

“Hey, Mark?” Georgia reaches past me and plucks a slice of pepperoni out of the box. “Can I have a minute of your time?”

“Of course.”

She beckons to me, and I follow her out of the kitchen area and into an alcove that has nothing in it except for some empty bookshelves hung on the brick walls.

“This building is killer,” I say, trying not to sound jealous.

“Isn’t it? Leo and I rent our place. But we love it here. Our apartment isn’t this big, though.” She wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Listen, I’m sorry to ask. But I’m getting a few questions from the media, and I wanted to check in with you.”

“Questions about… My shitty performance against Philly? Or my divorce?”

She flinches. “That second thing. And it’s only a couple more bloggers asking the same questions that Miranda did. We’d never comment on your marriage, unless you asked me to handle something. But I just wanted to ask you if there’s anything I should know.”