Page 11 of Never Dance with the Devils
“Youcouldbe having some letdown pangs from the season being over, or disappointment that we didn’t win the Cup this year.” He opens his mouth to argue, but I steamroll right over him. “But you’re not.” He clacks his mouth closed and I flash a grin. “You’re being a bitch because you need your dick drained.”
Riggs grumbles like I’m annoying him, spinning away to bury his head in the fridge like he’s looking for something, but the bottles of his favorite post-workout chocolate milk are right up front where they always are.
I’m getting close to the truth. Or I’m praying I am.
“But not by justanyone. Nah, you need a good fucking by someone in particular.Amiright?”
Riggs stands up, hand still on the fridge door and still not looking at me. “Like who?”
“A tall, pretty blonde with blue eyes that shoot fire and a mouth that says the most out of pocket shit. Goes by the name…” I pause dramatically, and seeing the clench of Riggs’s jaw, I finish with a pointed whisper, “Kay.”
He grabs a bottle of milk, turns back to drop it to the island, and plants his palms wide on the cold surface I think the realtor called something like ‘fantasy brown’. Not that I gave a shit about countertops. All I cared about was that Riggs and I were buying a house fancier than anything I’d ever dreamed of. It was brick and stone proof that I’d made it as a professional hockey player.
Eyes narrowed and shrewd gaze locked on me, Riggs replies, “Why are you asking about…her?”
Despite being very obviously unable to say Kay’s name, he tries to sound casual, like he has no idea why I’d be bringing up the woman we slept with months ago, but the mere fact that he doesn’t deny it off-hand speaks volumes about my quiet friend and his thoughts. I swallow my pride, nearly getting it stuck in my throat, and admit, “Because you haven’t had anyone since then. And… I’ve been thinking about her too.”
It's the truth. I have been thinking about her, though probably not the same way Riggs has been.
Something changed that night for him, in the way I always hoped it would. He found an unexpected connection during the hours in that hotel bed. Yes, withthe sex, but more so, while we were shooting the shit over paper boxes of fried rice, moo goo gai pan, and sesame pork. He was comfortable and confident. He was happy, and I haven’t seen that type of emotion in him in years. Scratch that, maybe ever.
And I want that for him with my whole being. It’s been my goal all along—for Riggs to find the balls to risk his heart again because despite his full and complete shut-down, he’s a lover by nature. He wants someone by his side and wants to be that someone for his woman too.
As for me, I don’t chase women, I don’t beg for more, and I certainly don’t do commitments outside hockey, but I’ve replayed that night in my fantasies too, grunting Kay’s name when I jack off and waking up to fresh disappointment when I reach for her to find she was a figment of my sleep-induced imagination.
After a beat where he scours my face to see if I’m fucking with him, Riggs lets out a sigh of relief. “You too, man?” He chuckles as all the tension drops off his shoulders. Shaking his head, he asks, “Goddamn, what the hell happened to us that night? I swear I’ve been jonesing for another hit of her ever since. She’s like crack, one taste and I’m hooked.”
He makes it sound like he wants to fuck her again, and while that’s true, there’s more to it. So much more. But Riggs isn’t someone who can handle the bare, honest truth of a direct center hit. He needs a gentler touch to get to the nitty gritty or he’ll clamp down tighter than a virgin’s ass. Hell, he’s probably not even aware that the last time he smiled was when Kay was tracing his tattoos with her fingernails, lifting gooseflesh over his arms and chest like the room was cold.
Measuring my verbal steps toward my target, I tell him, “I’ve been Googling her like the world’s shittiest private investigator. Haven’t found a damn thing.” The confession is mild compared to the reality of hours I’ve spent poring through my memories, looking for some clue about how to find her.
“Me too.”
We look at each other in silence for a long moment. I’m weighing what I’ve already said versus what more I could say. I think he’s doing the same.
“We have to find her.” I don’t know if I say it or he does, but the declaration echoes through us both, resonating deeply.
“Are you sure?” I ask him, hesitant to blow up our lives if he’s not. And even more reluctant to blow hers up with a Riggs-sized grenade.
“Surer than I should be after a one-night stand.”
“You think that’s all it was?” I’m testing him, no doubt about it.
A repeat performance of our one-nighter is probably all Riggs will admit to at this point. That’s his comfort zone. But if I can get him to take a chance, this has the potential of being something greater. Whether that’s all three of us, or more likely, me playing matchmaker and then bowing out gracefully, I don’t know, but I’m willing to play along and find out. More orgasms for all and Riggs not trying to squash himself like a bug beneath too-heavy weights? Sign me up for that all day and twice on Sunday!
Instead of answering directly, Riggs asks a question of his own, the words slow with meaning. “What was it to you?”
I don’t do sweet words. I use dirty, filthy ones, andwhile I want to say all those things to Kay again, I enjoyed those hours in bed afterward too. The ones where we talked and laughed, and I fed her noodles, sharing them like those dogs eating spaghetti in that movie I watched when I was a kid. I want that feeling again—of lightness, of rightness, of completeness.
I want to see my friend smiling and laughing rustily, like he hadn’t done it in so long that his vocal cords forgot how to make the sound. I want to see Kay, the sad and sassy woman who approached us at that bar, become wild and radiant, owning not only her own pleasure, but also Riggs and me, dick and soul.
I don’t know how to say all that, so I answer plainly, “Everything.”
Riggs nods his head once, agreeing, and then goes so far as to say, “Me too.” Again, two little words, but they tell me all I need to know.
In minutes, Riggs and I have turned our media room into a war room, with both of us posted up in front of our laptops, clickity-clacking away as we try to find someone named Kay, who’s an angel investor, likes scotch, has a ticklish spot on her left hip, takes no shit from anyone, and ghosted us after an amazing night.
Admittedly, it’s not the best list for a Google search, but we’re trying.