Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

Griff remembered, not long after his dad had been put in jail, crying because his mom had locked the door to his bedroom and he couldn’t get out, couldn’t get away from the spider that had crawled onto his bed. The guy she was with that night had finally come into his room, killed the spider, patted him on his towhead, and told him it was all right, he could go back to sleep now.

When he was old enough to be sent outside to play, some of his mother’s men friends had looked at him with apology, even guilt. Especially if the weather was bad. Others didn’t like having him around at all. That was when his mother told him to get lost and stay lost for a few hours. Sometimes he was given money so he could go to a movie. Most often when banished from the house, he would wander the neighborhood alone, looking for something to occupy him, later looking for mischief.

Some of his mother’s friends had given him no more notice than they would a seam in the faded wallpaper. Not many, but a few, were actually nice to him. Like the guy who’d killed the spider. But, unfortunately, he’d never come back. One guy, Neal something, had stayed a month or so. Griff got along with him okay. He could do a couple of magic tricks with cards and showed Griff how they were done. He came into the house one day with a shopping bag and handed it to Griff saying, “Here, kid. This is for you.”

Inside the bag was a football.

Years later, Griff wondered if Neal had recognized him when he got to be a pro player. Did he remember giving him his first football? Probably not. He probably didn’t remember Griff or his mother at all.

Men came and went. Years passed. His mother would leave. But she would always return.

And then that day came when she was covertly packing the car that belonged to a guy who’d shown up with her a few weeks before and had stayed. His name was Ray, and he’d taken an instant dislike to Griff, who would snort skeptically whenever Ray launched into a story about his phenomenal record as a rodeo cowboy before a bronco stepped on his back and ruined him for the arena. Apparently the bronco ruined him for everything else, too, because as far as Griff could tell, Ray had no visible means of support.

Ray didn’t like Griff, and he made no bones about it. But Griff wasn’t very likable, either. By the time Ray appeared on the scene, Griff was fifteen, full of himself, full of anger and rebellion. He’d been busted for shoplifting and for vandalizing a car, but mercifully got probation both times. He’d been suspended from school twice for fighting. He carried a chip on his shoulder that begged to be knocked off. Over the years, his hair had darkened, and so had his outlook on life.

So that evening when his mother followed Ray to the front door and turned back to tell him good-bye, Griff feigned indifference and kept his eyes trained on the TV. It was secondhand, and the picture was snowy, but it was better than nothing.

“See you later, baby.”

He hated it when she called him baby. If she’d ever babied him, it was so far back he couldn’t recall it.

“Griff, did you hear me?”

“I’m not deaf.”

She heaved a dramatic sigh. “Why are you being so pissy tonight? I’ll be right back.”

He turned his head, and they looked at each other, and she knew that he knew.

“You coming, or what?” Ray bellowed from the front yard.

The look Griff exchanged with his mother lasted a few seconds longer. Maybe she appeared a little sorry for what she was about to do. He wanted to think she was. But probably she wasn’t. Then she turned quickly and left. The door slammed shut behind her.

Griff didn’t leave the house for three days. On the fourth day, he heard a car pull into the driveway. He hated himself for feeling a surge of hope that he’d been wrong and she’d come back after all. Maybe she’d seen through Ray and his bullshit. Maybe Ray had seen her for the whore she was and was bringing her back.

But the footsteps on the porch were too heavy to be hers.

“Griff?”

Shit! Coach.

Griff hoped he couldn’t be seen where he was slouched on the ratty sofa watching TV. But no such luck. The door squeaked when it was pushed open, and he cursed himself for not having locked it. In his peripheral vision, Coach appeared at the end of the sofa. Hands on hips, he stood looking down at Griff with disapproval.

“I missed you at practice. School office tells me you’ve been absent from classes the last three days. Where’ve you been?”

“Here,” Griff said, continuing to stare at the TV.

“You sick?”

“No.”

A pause. “Where’s your mom?”

“Fuck I know?” he grumbled.

“I’m gonna ask you again. Where’s your mom?”

Griff looked up at him then and with exaggerated innocence said, “I think she’s at the PTA meeting. Either that or the church ladies’ sewing group.”

Coach walked over to the TV. He didn’t turn it off; he yanked the plug from the wall outlet. “Get your stuff.”

“Huh?”

“Get your stuff.”

Griff didn’t move. Coach walked toward him, his footfalls rattling the empty cereal bowls and soda cans littering the TV tray Griff had placed in front of the sofa. “Gather up your stuff. Right now.”

“What for? Where am I going?”

“To my house.”

“Like hell.”

“Or cop an attitude with me, and I’ll call CPS.” Coach placed his meaty fists on his hips again and glared down at him. “You’ve got one second to choose.”

Laughter from a nearby table jerked Griff back into the present. At some point during his reverie, the waitress had brought his Perrier. He drank it like a man dying of thirst. He was covering a soft belch when the woman he’d been waiting for came through the revolving entrance door. He stood up and waved at the waitress to bring his check, and by doing so attracted the woman’s attention.

Upon seeing him, she stopped suddenly, obviously surprised.

He signaled for her to wait while he took care of his tab. He did that with dispatch, then walked toward the woman where she still stood halfway between the entrance and the elevators.

“Hey, Marcia.”

“Griff. I heard you were getting out.”

“Bad news travels fast.”

“No, it’s wonderful to see you.” She smiled and looked him over. “You look good.”

He drank in the sight of her, from the top of her tousled auburn hair to her high-heeled sandals. The curvy terrain in between made him light-headed with lust. Laughing softly, he said, “Not as good as you.”

“Thank you.”

He held her gaze for several moments, then asked, “Are you available?”

Her smile faltered. She glanced around the lobby, her unease showing.

He took a step closer and said in a low voice, “It’s been a long five years, Marcia.”

She considered a moment longer, then, reaching a decision, said, “I have someone at midnight.”

“It won’t take me near that long.”

He took her elbow, and they walked to the elevators, saying nothing until they were inside one of the mirrored cubicles. She inserted a small key into a discreet slot in the mechanical panel. Responding to his quizzical look, she said, “I’ve moved up a couple of floors, into the penthouse.”

“Business must be good.”

“I have three girls working for me now.”

He whistled. “Business is really good.”

“The market for my product never goes soft.” Laughing, she added, “So to speak.”

Griff was even more impressed by her success when they stepped out of the elevator into a lobby with a marble floor and a clear skylight for a ceiling that provided a view of a quarter moon and a sprinkling of stars bright enough to defy the skyline lights.