Page 11 of The Seven Month Itch
My smile dissolves when a brunette behind him drapes her arm over his shoulders. Elton John sneezed on her. That’s the only explanation for the sequins on her halter top of a dress.
She traces his collar with her finger. “There you are. Thought I lost you.” The woman, who goes by the name Ava based on her name tag, has long hair and sways on hot pink heels. “How long do I have to wait before we take this party somewhere moreprivate?”
Terrence chokes, and whatever moment we shared leaves as quickly as it came. Those were old feelings, anyway. Remnants caked on a jar you wash out and recycle. He’s moved on, and Malibu Ava wrapped around him like a drunken tie is all the proof I need.
I knock back the rest of my drink, stand, and give him the glare of a thousand scorned wives. He will not break me again.
He searches my face and grimaces when Ava breathes on his neck. How drunk is she?
Terrence gulps down his drink and stands. With his hands in his pockets, he says, “Ask her,” before he leaves.
Ava stares at his back like she’s been stood up at the altar. She spins to me with flared nostrils. “So, who are you, his sister?”
“I’m his wife.”
Chapter 5
Terrence
Had I followed my gut, I’d be upstairs enjoying a porterhouse steak and cold beer. Now I have to miss the game because I chose to attend this mixer against my better judgment.
When I registered for events, I didn’t see the disclaimer about free admission to a drunken mating ritual. There should be a banner that says, “Enter at your own risk,” the way people are at it. Something is in the air or the liquor, which is why I’m at a table in the far corner of the room with a bottle of water.
And, yes, I checked the cap.
The brunette I left next to Justice—Amy, I think?—reeked of perfume and was way too eager to get back to my room. Before Amy was Tracy, a dental hygienist who pawed at my crotch with a promise to “drill” into me that sounded a lot like pegging. Not a chance or my butthole.
I had my fill of women the first two years of college. I was a starting linebacker with a “bad boy” reputation by default, asI’m a Jersey boy. I was the Afro-Dominican playboy with great instincts on the field and panties thrown in his face off of it. Not the kid from Newark who was on a plane every chance he got to spend time with his grandmother during her chemo treatments.
I indulged in every bodily pleasure a woman offered because I thought I missed out growing up as the man of the house. But temporary pleasure didn’t cut it. I wanted substance over convenience, and I found it my junior year in the form of a shy freshman who made me prove I was worthy of her love. A woman who became one of my best friends and opened my heart in ways that terrified me.
Justice made me wait an entire semester before she said yes to a date, and six months after that to be my girlfriend in fear of the “groupie” label. Since our split, when I’m not in Austin, I’ve tried a handful of dinner dates to numb the pain. It’s a lost cause at this point. My work schedule prevents me from anything too heavy right now anyway, and that’s fine with me.
I used my love of sports and degrees—a bachelor’s in business and a master’s in sports science—to become a strength-and-conditioning specialist to athletes. It was a slow climb to build up a name for myself, but it pays to not be a dick and maintain good relationships. College connections led to working with teams across Los Angeles. By the time Justice and I moved to Austin for her job, I’d established a clientele that extended to Texas.
My services are for professional athletes and celebrities across the world on an exclusive basis. It keeps my calendar full and me out of the house that’s become a shrine to the failure that was my marriage.
People thought I was nuts when I didn’t want to go pro. As much as I love football, it was a means to get to college and have a real chance at a stable life. I had no desire to roll the dice on anopportunity to earn millions with the risk of CTE due to repeated head traumas.
Travel consumes my days now that I don’t have anyone at home. Have a fighter in Brazil with an eight-week MMA training camp? No problem. A production company wants me in Australia to help some up-and-coming star for a few months? Sure, why not. After years of hard work, I get to live out my dream. Business couldn’t be better, and I have enough passport adventures and money in the bank to last me a lifetime.
So why am I so damn empty?
“Terrence Reyes.”
I look up at the person who knows my full name, which isn’t on this god-awful name tag, and meet hazel eyes. The woman’s curious stare morphs into a smile. Her thick hair is up, and the spaghetti-strap number she’s in molds to her curves like a second skin.
Madison Monroe.
“I can’t believe you’re here! What a small world.” Thick thighs and wide hips strut toward me in black come-get-me pumps.
I cough in a failed attempt to mask my shock. “What are you doing here?”
She takes me in, stalling at my lips. Even with heels on, her head stops at my chest. “I should ask you the same thing, but I know the answer. We’re both here for the singles’ retreat.”
Like me, Madison took the entrepreneur path after college. She became a personal stylist who grew her brand to include some heavy hitters in the entertainment industry. We see each other sometimes because of work, which makes this reunion very odd.
I didn’t mention the singles’ retreat, and neither did she.
