Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

It had been difficult for Griff Burkett to penetrate her. That she was dry and inflexible said much about the status of her private life, and that had been mortifying. But at least he’d had the sensitivity to realize her condition and to hesitate. He’d even seemed reluctant to proceed, knowing it would hurt her. In fact, he had…

No. She wouldn’t think about it. Wouldn’t think about him. Doing so would make it personal. If it became personal, her argument wouldn’t hold. The argument she’d used to convince herself to go along with Foster’s plan was that using a surrogate father to conceive was just as clinical as, and no more emotionally involving than, undergoing artificial insemination in the sterile environment of a doctor’s office.

But the tenderness between her thighs was a taunting reminder that she had been with a man. A man moving inside her. Climaxing inside her.

How could she have thought for one foolish moment that it would feel clinical?

THE SPORTS BAR WAS CROWDED AND NOISY, BUT GRIFF HAD thought if he spent one more evening cooped up inside his apartment, he was going to go round the bend.

Without anything constructive to do during the day, the evenings were particularly long. His tan was already too deep to be healthy. Although he kept to a strict exercise regimen, he was bored with working out. He’d seen all the current movies, some more than once. He’d caught up on his reading. Everything he found entertaining anyway.

Marcia was completing her recuperation at home, and via Dwight, she had asked Griff not to visit her there. “She’s dealing with a lot just to recover. Then she’s facing the plastic surgery,” Dwight had told him. “She needs some space. I’m sure she’ll contact you when she’s back to her glorious self.”

The message had been polite enough, but Griff could read between the lines. He was an additional complication she didn’t need. She didn’t blame him for what had happened, but distancing herself from him would be safer and healthier, for herself and for her business.

Consequently, he didn’t even have his daily trips to the hospital to look forward to. He was bored. And, possibly for the first time in his life, lonely. Being a social outcast was different from choosing to be alone.

One of the things he’d hated most about his incarceration was the lack of privacy. During those five years, he’d yearned for solitude, and swore that when he got out, he was never going to take it for granted again. But at least when he was in the mood to talk, there were other prisoners to shoot the bull with. His meals were eaten in the company of other people.

Now he had nobody with whom to do anything. Days would pass when he didn’t exchange a single word with another person.

Not that he was gregarious by nature. As Bolly had so candidly pointed out, he’d always been a loner. No doubt that tendency was a holdover from his childhood. His mother’s neglect had taught him to be self-sufficient. He’d relied only on himself for everything-sustenance, pacification, and entertainment.

That mandatory self-reliance developed into a personality trait. It also became a weapon he used to keep other people at arm’s length, out of either dislike or mistrust. He didn’t see the percentage in letting anyone hold sway over him. Even the most casual friendship required too much. To be a friend, one must give as well as accept. Griff found both equally difficult. Coach and Ellie had finally figured that out and had stopped pressuring him to make friends, resigning themselves to his preference for his own company over anyone else’s.

But in his former life he’d at least been around other people even if he didn’t mingle with them. At school, with the Cowboys, at Big Spring. Now he was actually lonely. So a few days ago, out of desperation, he’d called one of his former teammates, one with whom he’d been comparatively friendly.

The former tight end, who owned a successful software company now, congratulated him on getting released and lied by saying that it was great to hear from him. But when Griff suggested they get together for a beer, the guy ticked off a dozen excuses in the span of thirty seconds, one being that he’d gotten married.

“She’s a great lady, don’t get me wrong. But she keeps me on a tight leash. You know how it is.”

Actually, he didn’t. But what he did know was that this big, tough former NFL player would rather Griff think he was a henpecked husband than drink a beer with him.

Tonight, unwilling to spend another night in the solitary confinement of his apartment, Griff had dressed and gone looking for a crowd. He’d found one at an expensive sports bar in an upscale neighborhood. The place was sleek and snazzy, serving more fruit-flavored martinis than beer. It catered to the young, beautiful, and fit. Griff’s was the palest tan among them.

He was ogled by the twenty-somethings in skimpy summertime tops and short skirts. He ogled back, but not ambitiously. Which was somewhat surprising, since he hadn’t had sex with anyone since Marcia.

Well, and Laura Speakman.

Don’t go there.

That was what he told himself every time his thoughts went there.

People were standing three deep at the circular bar. He had to wait almost half an hour before a barstool became available. He claimed it, ordered a beer and a burger. While he ate, he watched a baseball game on the large-screen TV suspended over the center of the bar.

He’d become aware of a brunette sitting on the far side of the bar, facing him. She flashed him a smile and a glimpse of tit every time her boyfriend-or husband or whatever he was-wasn’t looking. Beyond that, Griff let the barroom dramas pulse around him without taking notice.

He stretched his meal out over five innings of the Rangers game. To maintain ownership of his barstool, and to keep from going back to the empty apartment, he ordered a second beer he didn’t want.

The Rangers were up by three. They were having a good season. If they made it to the play-offs, he would become interested. Otherwise, he didn’t much like baseball. He couldn’t make sense of a sport where the perfect game was one in which nothing happened. Baseball aficionados would disagree, saying that plenty happened during a no-hitter, but he couldn’t appreciate it.

Of course, it was a hell of a lot more fun to watch when you’d wagered on the outcome.

His gambling had started out as innocently as that. He did it for fun. Even while he was at UT, he would make calls, place bets on NCAA games, although he’d never bet on a Longhorns game. But he’d wanted to. He didn’t yield to the temptation of betting on his own games until he was drafted by the Cowboys.

The shrink who’d counseled him at Big Spring had a theory. He said Griff had felt guilty over his good fortune. The Longhorns had won the national championship his senior year. He’d missed being awarded the Heisman by two votes. He was the number one pro draft pick that year and an enviable prize for the Cowboys, whose veteran quarterback had retired. When he signed with the team, his picture was on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Fame and fortune at twenty-three. Heady stuff.

The shrink’s take on it was that he’d gambled in the subconscious hope of getting caught, being punished, and losing everything, including Coach and Ellie’s affection. The shrink had emphasized that. “Coach Miller is perhaps the one individual in the world you respected and for whom you felt affection. Yet you deliberately did what you knew he couldn’t forgive, the one act that would cause an irreparable breach in your relationship.”

His summarizing analysis was that, subconsciously, Griff felt he should be penalized for all the good things that had happened to him-beginning with Coach giving him a home and ending with him becoming starting quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys-because in his deepest, darkest self, he’d felt these boons were undeserved. His ruin had become a self-fulfilled prophecy.