Page 46 of Dirty Filthy Boy
Chapter 15
MacKenna
IWAKEIN A SNUG COCOON, engulfed in blankets. The heat never worked right in my apartment. But this morning even my toes are toasty warm. I pat the bed around me, hoping to find Ty, but emptiness greets me. Maybe he's in the bathroom? But only the sound of silence greets me. Wrapping the comforter around me, I head for the bathroom, taking care not to walk too fast. After last night's marathon session, I'm aching in all the right places.
On the bathroom mirror, I find a sticky note. "Off to practice. Back in the afternoon. Make yourself at home. Plenty of food in the fridge."
Of course, he's at practice. He's a football player after all. They train just about every day, as I discovered during my interview with Ron. But can he practice with his arm in that brace? When I asked him about it, he clammed up. I make a mental note to find out about it.
After a soak in the tub, I throw on some clean clothes and head to the kitchen for some much needed coffee. While the Keurig's doing its thing, I open the refrigerator door. He's not kidding about the fridge. It's jam-packed with all kinds of food. Keeping it simple, I scramble a couple of eggs, make toast, pour orange juice. As I'm cleaning up, my cell rings. It's him.
"Good morning," he says in a voice full of gravel.
"Morning."
"Whatcha doing?"
"Just finished breakfast."
"Good. Had a great time last night."
I blush, remembering all the things he did to me, all the things we did together. "Yeah, me too."
"I'll be home by one. See you then?"
Not an odd question. I did walk out on him before. But that's when I had somewhere to go. Right now, I don't. "I'll be here."
"Great." His voice perks up, as if it's that important I remain in his house. Why? I have no idea. It's not like we're an item. Yes, we've had sex—twice. But surely for a playah like him, that's nothing. Except he doesn't sleep with the same woman twice, and he certainly did with me. But I was the one to force the issue last night, wasn't I, after I crawled into bed with him? So it shouldn't mean that much to him.
I can't think about this right now. Not when other things clamor for my attention. I call my boss to let him know my apartment was broken into and my laptop was stolen. He'll need to file a claim with the insurance company and also get a replacement. To his credit Mr. Bartlett is more concerned about my safety than the computer.
"Machines can be replaced. Human beings can't."
"Thank you, Mr. Bartlett. I appreciate that."
"Do you have a place to stay?"
"Yes. I'm bunking in with a friend." I don't tell him which friend. If he finds out I'm in Ty's house, he'll hit the roof. At the very least, he'll take me off Ty's interview. And I can't have that. I have to interview Ty. I need to interview Ty.
He's hiding something. And I'm going to find out what. Ty may not want anyone to know about his past, but unfortunately, secrets have a way of coming out at the worst possible time. But what if it's something bad? Something that could damage his career. And football is everything to him. If it's something unpleasant, I'll deal with it when the time comes. The last thing I want is to hurt him.
"If you need money, let me know. We can float you an advance on your paycheck."
Even though I could use the cash, I decline his offer. I'll need funds to get a new place to live. When I find one, I can ask for an advance then. If I find one. Cheap apartments in safe neighborhoods are thin on the ground in Chicago. "Thanks, but I'm good."
"Well, you let me know, if you do." He clears his throat. "Did you check the Sunday edition of theWindy City Chronicle?"
"No. With what happened last night, I haven't had a chance."
"You might want to."
Does he mean what I think he means? Did the Ron piece make it on the paper? Suddenly breathless, all I can say is, "I will. Thanks again, Mr. Bartlett."
Dying to find out if I'm right, I fire up my smart phone and enter the website's address. Sure enough. My Ron Moss article is front and center. I squeal. And it has comments! I squeal again before settling down to reading them. Individuals who have dyslexia, parents of dyslexic children. And every post is positive, praising Ron for his courage, for bringing this topic to light. There's even one from an eight-year old boy saying he doesn't feel so alone any more. That one brings a tear to my eyes. The more comments I read, the more my heart fills with joy. This is why I wanted to be a journalist. To bring social issues to the fore. Who knew I'd find it by writing a piece about a football player?
I want to call Ron and share my joy with him. But he's got to be in football practice as well, so I put it off until the afternoon. In the meantime, I need to get back to reality. I dig out my landlord's business number. When I call, all I get is voice mail so I leave him a message telling him what happened.
Having done as much as I can about the apartment, I turn my thoughts toward my next interview. Without my laptop, I don't have anything to write on, so I go searching in Ty's kitchen for something to make do. I strike gold in a kitchen drawer where I find a small pad. The kind you use to make shopping lists with. Music helps me channel my inner journalist, so I fire up one my favorite playlists on my smartphone. I spend the next couple of hours, jotting down notes for my interview with Mad Dog Buchinsky. The key to him is to reveal the soft marshmallow heart of the strong linebacker. I'm so lost in my process, I don't realize Ty's home until he rolls in behind me and drops a kiss on my shoulder.
