Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(42)

One by one, the other players lift all six panels into place. As Silas fits the last panel in snugly, I’m closed inside the space with Bess. And it is quiet. I can’t hear any voices outside.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“Hi,” she whispers back.

“Do you think this thing is actually soundproof? Because it might be the only way I can get you to talk to me.”

“I’m sorry,” she says in a low voice. “I shouldn’t have come here tonight. You’re bonding with your teammates.”

“Don’t be silly. You can crash my party any day, sweetheart. But now I gotta know if they can hear us. Hey Castro!” I shout, because I can see him through the little window.

The young forward doesn’t look up from his screwdriver.

“All right,” I say. “We have privacy unless he’s faking. Quick—tell me some team secrets.”

Bess smiles in spite of herself. “Fine. On the night you get your first goal for Brooklyn, don’t let them convince you that everyone celebrates by getting the Brooklyn Bridge tattooed on his ass.”

I snort. “Like anyone would fall for that.”

“I think Anton got one.” Then she raises her voice. “But it’s okay, you sweet summer child!” She waves at the young D-man through the window. “Chicks dig tattoos!”

Anton waves back, looking unconcerned.

“So this is soundproof,” I say. “You can talk to me for real now. I know I’m your dirty little secret. But I’m fine with that. Because at least I like dirty secrets.”

“Tank,” she says with a sigh. “We can’t be each other’s dirty secret. I would never date a client.”

“This again?” I argue, bracing one of the panels a little more firmly as someone screws it into the stud. “I didn’t understand the deal I was making when I asked you to be my agent. I need to renegotiate our contract.”

“No.” She lifts her chin defiantly.

“But I’m your Kryptonite,” I point out. “You should be fainting right now. I could carry you out of here and back to my hotel room.”

Bess lifts her eyes to the ceiling. “That’s not happening, stud. And I hope nobody can read lips.”

“Let’s see if they can.” I turn my face a couple of degrees, so that I’m framed in the window. “Let’s get naked again and have lots and lots of sex.”

Since Bess’s hands are busy bracing the panels, she has to resort to kicking me gently in the shin. “Stop that. It won’t work, anyway.”

“It’s not nice to kick your client.”

“That wasn’t a real kick,” she says, her bright eyes full of fire. “If I kicked you for real, you’d be crying right now.”

“Uh-huh.” My face cracks into a smile, which is something that only happens when Bess is nearby. I don’t think I smiled for three months before she turned up. “But what are you going to do about it?”

“About what?” she asks.

“About us.” I give her a hot glance. “You think you can just ignore me forever? I don’t think I’m that good an actor.”

“Tank,” she says gently. “We’re in a different place in life, you and me. I can’t be your rebound girl. The sex is great—”

“Amazing is the word I’d choose,” I break in. “And please don’t feel guilty about us just because I’m a player. If you feel guilty, then I’ll have to feel guilty. And I don’t want to feel guilty because I really like spending time with you.”

“It’s not just the professional issues.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what to think about the little…habit we’re developing. You’re on the rebound. You aren’t thinking with your brain, Tank. Hell—you don’t even use condoms.”

Oh Jesus. Bess must think I’m an idiot. “Okay. Hold up. I’m really sorry about the condom thing.”

“I’m covered, Tank. I am not going to get pregnant. But you’re not in a place to—”

That’s when Silas suddenly opens the door to the booth. “You kids okay in here?” he asks. “I think we’ve got it pretty tight now.”

“Uh, great,” I mumble, stepping out of the booth. Bess follows me, her eyes full of unresolved tension.

We need to finish our conversation, but obviously we’ll need to do it somewhere else.

“Wow, I can’t believe it’s done!” Delilah cries, taking in the finished booth. “It looks amazing!”

“Take it for a trial run, honey,” Silas says. “Grab your electric guitar and let ’er rip.”

Delilah runs out of the room, coming back a few moments later with a guitar and a little amp. “I’m going to keep turning up the volume. Can you wave at me when you can hear the guitar?”

“Sure, babe.” Silas plugs in her amp and then leaves the booth, closing her in there.

Delilah’s smile shines through the window as she tunes up her guitar. Can you hear this? she mouths.

We all shake our heads. She’s playing the guitar in earnest now.

“This is the worst concert ever,” Georgia complains. “She’s right there and I can’t hear a thing.”