Page 63 of Not Just a Trick Play

My jaw clenches as I stare straight ahead. “Of course, I confronted him. Guy ended up pummeling me and went on to say nastier shit after. I hated that I couldn’t make it better for her.” Old helplessness bubbles within. I’m not that boy anymore, but part of me still wants to track down that asshole and do some real damage. Too bad he vanished long ago. Plus, since I’m the bigger person now, I can only hope he steps on LEGOs at least once every day for the rest of his life. Fine. Twice. “He was her first boyfriend. Her initiation into the world of pencil dicks.”

Amelia looks at me sympathetically. “I suppose there are lots of pencil dicks out there.” She turns away, staring out the window. “Ben was my first.”

For a moment my mind blanks, but as reason kicks back in, a new equation forms. If she and Ben had a thing right until she moved here…that means I’m only the second person she’s slept with. Yvonne works fast, but even she couldn’t have found a whole stable-full of studs to service Amelia before we started our arrangement.

“Did you love him?”

“I thought we’d take over the inn together. Kids, dogs, the lot. I didn’t realize I wasn’t his first choice. I was the fallback plan.”

A surge of protectiveness swells within me. “Ben was stupid enough to abandon you and get someone else pregnant, so he’s clearly a dumbass you shouldn’t pay attention to.” Fuck Ben. Amelia should never doubt how amazing she is. That she ever felt less than incredible ignites something fierce in me. She’s noone’s backup option, and I’m going to make sure she knows it. She’s getting my A game, every single time.

Cars finally start moving, and I shift the Ferrari into gear. My hand slides onto her thigh, and I tangle our fingers together. We pass the sign for the Apollo Theater, and I give her a sideways glance. “So, have you hit the Apollo yet? I mean, it’s basically music history’s version of Disneyland.”

Her face lights up. “Obviously! It was one of my first stops. Did you know Ella Fitzgerald was discovered there?”

“Get out,” I say, genuinely surprised. “I knew it was iconic, but never would have guessed that.”

“It’s the birthplace of legends.”

I squeeze her hand, grinning. “Tell me you got on stage for amateur night.”

She snorts, shaking her head. “God, no. I’m strictly a spectator. Nobody needs to witness me butchering a Beyoncé song.”

“Shame,” I tease, my grin widening. “Next time, you’re coming with me. And when I get up there, you’ll be mesmerized by my amazing vocal cords.”

Her laughter fills the car, and it’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. “You sing? Oh, this I have to see.”

“Just you wait, Sweets.” I wink. “You’ll be fangirling before I’m done.”

She rolls her eyes but can’t resist launching into a spiel about “real” artists, passion dripping from every word. The way she talks about the city, its music, so completely in love with it, I’m hooked.

An idea strikes. And for once, it’s not about rushing her into bed—yet. I’m grinning like an idiot, already imagining her reaction. She’s so caught up in her lecture that she doesn’t notice when I veer left onto the FDR instead of driving down thewest side of the island. A few turns off the Lower East Side, I’m parking on Rivington, my surprise ready to go.

I grab my sunglasses, round the hood, and tug Amelia out. “C’mon, Sweets.” I guide my mummified girl under a green and white striped canopy, and into a piñata—which is effectively where we are. It takes a moment to adjust to the fluorescent lighting as the scent of my childhood hits me.

Amelia’s gaze darts about, drinking in the explosion of vintage candy. “What is this place?” Her voice is laced with awe, like we’ve stumbled upon a hidden treasure trove.

“Economy Candy,” I respond. “It’s New York’s oldest candy store. Been here since before the Great Depression.” It’s pure sugar carnage, as if a sweet bomb detonated, scattering colorful debris in every direction.

Metal racks packed tight with goodies climb nearly to the ceilings and bins in the center overflow with Pop Rocks and Nerds and Pixy Stix. Giant lollipops dangle overhead, and a scale by the window allows customers to shop by the pound.

This place is all retro charm with ancient sticky floors and classic coin-operated machines by the register. No fancy packaging or artful displays here, nothing that resembles designer shops like Dylans, or the M&M and Hershey’s stores in Times Square.

“How in the world did I not know this existed?” It’s as if she can’t decide where to look first.

Her gaze flits around before she walks to a nearby shelf. “My god, they have Maltesers. And Cadbury Flakes! Smarties—you can’t even get those in the UK these days.” Her finger runs down the yellow wrapper almost reverently.

“So? What are you waiting for?”

She bites her lip.

“Come on,” I coax. I nudge her with my shoulder. “You know you want to.”

She gives me a sidelong glance, but then leans into my side. “Maybe.”

I grab her with one hand and push a blue shopping basket at her so I can toss in the items she’d just been eyeing.

For a second, she’s torn, but quickly gets into the swing of things and scoops up a handful of Bazookas. “God, Gran would die,” she says gleefully. My chest eases at seeing her smile again.

---