Page 11 of Brick Wall
And I’m loving every minute of it.
The most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on is cradled in my arms, her head on my chest, her heart beating in time with mine.
It’s a hell of a moment, and I’m holding on to it.
I’m also slinking down a hallway with my back pressed to the wall like I’m starring in next summer’s blockbuster action flick.
I’m not.
I’m looking for a first aid kit so I can wrap Maggie’s ankle and clean out the nasty cut on her leg. I lost her for a second in the crowd, and the next thing I knew, she was rolling down an embankment and getting torn up in the process.
I come to the end of the hallway and see three doors. Statistically speaking, at least two of them are bedrooms. The third is either a closet or a bathroom. Tilting my head to the left, I listen hard, but there’s just silence. The room’s got to be empty. I’m about to lean forward and twist the handle when the door flies open. All my flexibility training comes in handyas I dart back into the shadows when a pissed off woman stalks out, tying the strings on her bikini top and bitching up a storm.
“What a waste,” she huffs, power-walking down the hall. I figure she’s headed up to the main floor to commiserate with her friends, but it turns out she’s not done with the poor sap she left behind in the bedroom. “You’re hot and all, but damn,” she says, lobbing the words over her shoulder. “That was the worst kiss of my life, and I had such high hopes for you. You need, like, sex lessons or something.”
I can’t help the shiver that runs down my spine at her words. She’s not talking to me—hell, she doesn’t even know I exist or that I’m roughly three feet away from her. But damn, that’s cold. I wait a second to see if the poor bastard will follow her out here and plead his case, but he doesn’t show. Can’t say I blame him.
I’m trying to figure out where the bathroom is, but that’s hard to do when I can make any noise or draw attention to the fact that we’re down here. Just as I’m about to ask Maggie to pick even or odd, she taps me on the chest and whispers, “Try door number two.”
I turn the knob and flick on the light. My girl’s got good instincts. The bathroom’s small, but it looks fairly clean—or at least a hell of a lot cleaner than any of the bathrooms at the hockey house.
“You can put me down now,” she says, smiling up at me.
I should set her down and then see about scrounging up some ice, but I don’t want to let her go. It’s not just that I like the feel of Maggie in my arms, but also the fact that there’s not a lot of available real estate in here. The vanity has barely any counter space, and if I set her down on the floor, she can’t stretch her leg out. I give the bathtub a glance…it’s got promise. Not only is it a decent size, but it’s also covered in a strip of tape with the word SANITIZED printed in bold letters. Yeah, we definitely don’t have bathrooms this clean where I live. I notice the same type of tape stretches across the toilet lid, so I set her down on top of that and turn over the empty trashcan for a makeshift footstool.
“Nice work, Doc,” she says, beaming at me and at this very moment, I know I’ll do anything—any fucking thing—to earn another of her smiles.
I squat down in front of the sink and check the contents of the cabinet underneath. “Jackpot!” I say, holding up the red plastic first aid kit like it’s the Vezina trophy. “You want to sort through this while I scrounge up an ice pack?”
She nods. “Just don’t?—”
“I’ve got you,” I assure her, opening the door and turning the lock. “The password is icepack. Got it?”
“Icepack? That’s genius,” she quips.
“I promise I’ve got more creativity than that,” I assure her. “I’m just saving it for later.”
Her cheeks turn pink as I slip out the door.
I’m not sure what’s up with her need for stealth mode or why she cares so much about privacy. Yeah, we’re probably the only two sober people in this house, but that shouldn’t really matter. It just means no one else will remember us or care that we’re here. But laying low seems to be important to her, so I’ll play along.
I hit the top of the steps and stride into the kitchen, making a beeline for the fridge like I live in this house. And no one calls me on it. I know a couple of the guys in here from the baseball team, and there are a few other familiar faces, including the guy who dragged me here tonight.
Ollie’s leaning back in a kitchen chair with his feet propped up on the table. “Briiiiick!” He drags out the nickname I hate, but I don’t flinch or correct him. I just grab a Solo cup from the stack on the counter and hand it over to him. “Ice me.”
Dunking my cup in the cooler next to him, Ollie looksright at home manning the makeshift bar. He slides the cup my way, and I give him a salute.
“You don’t want any alcohol in that?” he asks, clearly stymied.
“Nah. They’re serving up margaritas in the living room. Ollie nods as though my explanation makes total sense.
I head out the way I came, swiping a dish towel as I pass the stove. They have actual dish towels here? And sanitized bathrooms. Is it too late to pledge this paradise?
I’m three steps down when I hear my name being called. I turn to see the first baseman—Chad? Brad?—pointing in my direction. “Party’s that way,” he says, pointing in the direction of the living room.
I hold up my cup. “Toad wants a margarita,” I tell him, pulling the catcher’s name out of my brain at the last second.
“Fuck. He’s a sloppy drunk when he drinks tequila.”
