Page 52 of Sure Shot
* * *
After we eat, the guys take another crack at putting together Delilah’s home recording studio. “Now that I’m actually reading the directions, I think we can figure this out,” Silas says.
“Didn’t I just suggest that a few minutes ago?” Bess asks, giving him a playful slap on the back of the head.
“Hush,” Castro says. “It’s hard for a man to admit he needs to read the instructions.”
“Especially when he’s naturally good with his hands,” Silas says, smirking.
“TMI,” Georgia says. “Somebody put me to work. Which piece goes on next?”
“All of them,” O’Doul says, reading over Silas’s shoulder. “But we need somebody inside this thing, applying pressure to the frame while we all screw in the panels.”
“I’ll do that,” I volunteer, stepping into the center of the frame. “You guys can trap me inside where I won’t be able to hear you mock my Texas beer.”
Silas laughs. “Fine. Actually, we need two people, one to lean on each side.”
“Bess will help,” I say before anyone else gets a chance to speak up. “She’s just standing there drinking a non-Texas beer.”
She gives me a grumpy look. But then she puts down her beer and steps into the sound booth with me.
“Maybe we need one of these for the office,” Bayer quips, a screwdriver in his hand. “Bess needs privacy for when she’s dropping the hammer on the GMs during contract renegotiations.”
“Good call.” Bess turns her back to me, while O’Doul and Castro each lift a panel into place.
“I’ll get the last one,” the rookie Anton says. “Bess, if you use your tuchus to brace the end-piece, you can use a hand for each panel.”
“Good idea,” she says. “This backside should be good for something.”
It’s a reflex when I open my mouth to make a joke. Because I have quite a few uses for Bess’s ass. But her glare silences me just in time.
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 thisissoundproof,” 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.”
