So Different Page 6

  “No one yet.”

  “That’s good. Amber’s a sweet girl. Everything goes over her head, which is in an excellent attribute for working with your brother.”

  “Don’t I know it. Where is he?”

  “In his office.”

  “I’m going to see what needs doing. I’ll see ya later.”

  “Yep,” he replied and she set off to find her brother. She walked down the hall to his office, drinking from her bowl of soup as if it were coffee.

  She entered Joshua’s office, which was sparse in its furnishings: there was a desk and two chairs, one behind it for him and one in front. He looked up as she entered.

  “I need you to review the books for me,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Sure.” He was handsome, her brother. Wore his hair in braids. They could have passed for twins. She’d heard that comment all of her life. He was older than her by about five years.

  “Heard you lost,” he said.

  “Yep,” she said, taking a seat in the chair across from him.

  “Not off to a good start.”

  “I agree.”

  “Well, no use dwelling on the bad. Here, look these over,” he said, passing a folder over to her.

  “Sure. Any new waitresses I need to train?” she asked, taking another sip from her bowl.

  “Nope,” he said, standing up and making his way to the door. “I’ve got to get back to the front. Come up when you’re done.”

  “Will do,” she said, opening the folder he’d given her.

  * * *

  Adam sat at the computer at his desk at the end of his lunch hour. It was the end of the week. He was surfing, specifically searching for information on her. He’d located the website for the Austin Flat Track Roller Derby. It’d been two weeks since he’d seen her skate.

  He wanted to see her again. She’d lingered with him—her skin moist from exertion, smiling her snarky, self assured smile, her nose stud sparkling against her skin, her eyes full of mischief and challenge, the way she’d felt in his arms, her soft body next to his. It really had been a while, he thought as his mind moved to something other than the things he would do to and for her.

  He found himself thinking back to the derby often, the way Mariah’s body poured into her outfit; the way she played, the fire that he caught in her.

  He looked at the computer, clicked on the calendar, and found the next bout. It was scheduled to take place in two weeks, the last Saturday in March. He clicked the button that took him to a list of the teams. There were four.

  Okay, so she’d become a preoccupation, and yes, it was a purely a physical reaction to her on skates, in those clothes, bumping into the other women, falling down, getting back up, pushing, shoving. There was something sexy about her toughness. He was a male, so shoot him if his reasons weren’t romantic or long-lasting.

  He knew she was single courtesy of his dad the matchmaker. She was as different from Jamie, or from any other woman he’d dated, for that matter, as night from day, and that held another appeal. Her most promising attribute, next to her body in those clothes, was that she posed a very limited threat to him. She would only be a change of pace at best.

  He found her team and clicked on it. She stood in the front, bent over in a nice pose. God, she had great breasts. The team stood next to a car, leaning into the camera.

  He clicked on the individual picture of her. Nice, he thought again. She was in a white corset, her breasts lifted, waist cinched, a short plaid skirt, and thigh-high white stockings held up by garters. They were beautiful against the brown of her skin. Her hair was blonde and spiky at the time the picture was taken. His pulse hummed; he so loved blondes. She was all attitude, with her arms crossed at her chest as she stared into the camera. Cocky was the set of her mouth and challenge could be found in the tilt of her head and the look in her eyes. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and sat back in his chair. What a kick it was to realize he’d misjudged her so completely and that she’d gone along with it, toying with him, exposing another layer to her.

  He’d read her profile on the site. Mariah Sullivan—derby name—Mariah Scary. She was a jammer for the Brass Knuckles, a team with no discernable uniting theme, at least on the surface; ten women, seven white, two African-Americans, and one Asian.

  He went back to the game schedule. Her team would play the Prissy Missies next. He found the spot to purchase tickets, clicked on it, and added his credit card info. No way was he asking his pops to borrow his tickets. He was involved too much as it was; he was also glad that he had the privacy and freedom of his own apartment, too. If he could talk Mariah into it, he would really like to make use of said freedom, reminding him of the old days before he became so preoccupied with marriage and his plans for his life. See where that had gotten him. It was time to go off the reservation, so to speak, and explore what the natives had to offer.

  Maggie rapped on his door and made her way to his desk and around to his chair to peer over his shoulder.

  Maggie didn’t surprise him anymore. She was the mole, the loyal and faithful employee of his dad’s, another mother. She’d told him on his first day that it was her job to keep tabs, make sure he wasn’t sitting in his dad’s old desk watching porn; she’d have to report that to his father.

  “Going to see Mariah?” she asked.

  “No, not that it’s any of your business. Just representing the office. We are a sponsor, you know,” he said.

  “I know, but that’s not why you’re going.”

  “Why am I going then?” he asked, exiting from the site.

  “The reason that all men go, at least initially: to see scantily clad women, bent over, rolling around the track, tits and asses showing, pushing and shoving each other. If they get into a fight, that’s like icing on the cake for your gender.”

  “It’s a sport, in case you haven’t heard,” Adam said.

  “Right,” she said, stepping away from his desk. “They don’t fight any more. Hate to disappoint you, but your next patient is waiting to see you, very patiently I might add, while you’re in here seeking pin-up material.”

  “Why do I put up with you?” Adam said, chuckling.

  “I work for the senior, and he told me to look out for you,” she said, grinning back.

  “I don’t need looking after.”

  “Sure you do. The line of women that come here is growing daily, and you couldn’t pick out a good one if your life depended on it,” she said.

  “I…”

  “Your ex, don’t forget,” she said, her hand raised, cutting off any rebuttals. “Although, if you’re going to see Mariah, maybe you’re growing up a little, learning to choose more wisely,” she said, closing the door behind her.

  * * *

  Third week in March

  Adam entered what was turning into to his second source of food, after his mother’s, of course. The Taco Post was packed with people this morning. Mariah stood at the front of the line, hair still red, she in a nice flowery skirt today, hoodie, and combat boots. What an odd choice in clothing she had, and different from the expensively garbed he usually dated.

  She spotted him and smiled. He smiled back and walked over to stand at the end of the line. His eyes trailed her as she strolled over to the wall to wait for her order. He hoped she wouldn’t leave before he’d had the chance to talk to her.

  “Breakfast,” he said, as he walked over to join her, five minutes later.

  “Yep. You, too, I see.”

  “Good food,” he said.

  “It is.”

  “I enjoyed watching you skate the other day. You are good, at least from my limited perspective,” he said.

  “Thanks. Talk to your dad?” she asked, smiling, eyes twinkling.

  “That was just plain mean,” he said, smiling. “He likes you.”

  “What’s not to like?”

  “I agree,” Adam said.

  They’d been standing side by side, but he turned to face her.
She took a step back; he was something else up close.

  “So, Mariah, what do you do for fun?”

  “Don’t really have time for much fun,” she said.

  “Too bad. Are you seeing anyone?” he asked.

  “Besides my boo?” she asked with a chuckle. He laughed. “Ahh…no. I’m not.”

  “I was thinking that you and I should get together, hang out, hook up, whatever,” he said.

  “You do, huh?” she asked, her voice dragging her words out, as she smiled up into his face.

  “I do. I like the way you play, the way you push and shove,” he said, quietly, all sex appeal, eyes smoky behind his glasses.

  “Oh,” she said. Her food order number was called; she was relieved, because her mind had started to picture them, pushing and shoving.

  “That’s me, got to get back to work. It was nice seeing you again,” she said, nodding toward the counter, pushing away from the wall. She felt his eyes on her as she walked away.

  He met her as she came away with her food.

  “Call me,” he said, handing over his card. “My cell number’s on the back,” he added, giving her another one of his dreamy smile.

  She smiled back, took the card, and left. What to do with this? She knew what he was asking for, what he wanted from her. Been here before, usually most men weren’t that hard to shrug off. Of course he was different, had been from the start.

  If she had a quarter for every time some man after a match, caught up in the throes of whatever grabbed men after seeing women with tight and limited clothing pushing and shoving each other, asked her to go home with them, she’d be rich enough to buy the additional property that her brother wanted. Seems like Junior D.D.S. had traded in one assumption about her for another one, but the bigger question was what she was going to do about it.

  She was sure he’d be worth it, but was she up for it? He was so not her type. He wasn’t serious about her, or anyone for that matter, but particularly her. Back to their differences again. She had heard about the ex fiancée—the polar opposite in looks and life from her.

  Did she want to be the one night—or many night—stands for Junior D.D.S, just kicking it, having fun? She was past all of that, wasn’t she? She thought about it, rolling it around and around in her head. To screw or not to screw? That was the question? She just didn’t know the answer.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Last Saturday in March

  Brass Knuckles vs. Prissy Missies

  Adam made his way to the front of the Rail Yard a week later. He learned since his last trip to leave early, and as a result he’d procured a nice parking spot near the front of the building this time. He needed to pick up his ticket from the will call window, so he’d allowed extra time for that, too.

  Was he excited? Was that the name for this low humming, this current of eagerness that ran though his bloodstream? He looked around as he walked and, like his first trip here, the crowd caught his attention. This time he noticed the others besides the rockers with the brightly colored hair. There were people here dressed liked him; families with children; couples; a mix of ages, mostly white, and a few people of color all making their way to the front doors.

  He spotted the will call line; not too long—ten people max. He made his way over to it. He could hear the band, loud from outside. The line was moving surprisingly fast, and ten minutes later he was handing his ticket to a derby girl sitting behind the glass. She was wearing a tight-fitting top and shorts and the fishnet hose that he was rapidly developing a fondness for.

  Two minutes later he was at the front of the line to enter the building, noting for the first time the other derby girls on duty—two at the door, one taking tickets, the other with her stamp pad, placing a stamp on the back of the patrons’ hands, his included.

  The place was about half full, he noted, looking around at the crowd. Same crowd inside as he’d seen outside, families and couples—some same-sex, some not. Playing for the other team had never bothered him, although he’d always preferred the opposite sex. He also recognized that some thought his singular preference for quiet, tanned blondes with small-to-medium breasts was a little troublesome, so he tried to avoid judging others.

  He entered and stood for a second, then spotted his dad with two of his buddies. He quickly stepped back, surprised to see them, suddenly remembering his dad’s comment about being a regular. He laughed as he recalled his dad’s trickery again. Adam stepped further into the shadows. His ticket wasn’t in their area, so maybe he’d be safe. He found a spot near the wall, where he could see but not be seen.

  “Hiding from someone?” Casper asked, looking down into his eyes.

  “Casper,” he said.

  “You remembered. Yes, it is, or would you prefer Boo?” she asked and laughed.

  He smiled at her teasing. “Not hiding, exactly. Well, maybe a little…from my Pops. I forgot he was a regular.”

  “You can hide if you want to,” she said, grinning now. “Good to see you back.”

  “So your friend is playing tonight?” he asked.

  “My friend? I’ve have lots of them here. Which one would you be referring to?”

  “Mariah,” he said.

  “You’re interested in Mariah?” she asked.

  “Not interested. Just curious.”

  “Now that you know she’s not an abuse victim,” she added, laughing again.

  He joined in. “You and she been friends a while?” he asked after their laughter died down.

  “We go way back, since third grade. We grew up close to each other, took the same buses to school.”

  “You two don’t play on the same team,” he said.

  “Nope. I joined the derby two years before she did, and after I’d finally talked her into giving it a try, my team was full and she was assigned to a different team after her training. I still love her, though,” Casper said, grinning. He was quiet, leaning against the wall. He could hear the train rumbling off in the distance. As it drew closer, he watched as the fans stood and started stomping their feet.

  “That is one crazy ritual,” he shouted.

  “It fits with us, with derby, don’t you think? Or at least it used to. Derby is changing in a lot of ways,” she said.

  They stood quiet, letting the roar of the crowd settle as the train moved past and fans settled down. The lights dimmed and the two teams rolled onto the rink. He found Mariah, dressed in tight biker shorts, an equally small t-shirt, and knee-high socks. All her pads were in place—elbows, knees, wrists, and helmet.

  “She’s fun to watch,” Casper offered.

  “Yes, she is,” he said, watching as she stood in line, waiting to be introduced. She was something, Mariah Scary. He’d thought her pretty, but this was more than that. This was sex on wheels.

  “Mariah is tricky,” she said. Wasn’t that cryptic? “Hey, you want a beer?” she asked, a little abruptly, like she’d said too much.

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be back in a second. You probably want to watch Mariah alone as she makes her way around the track,” she said, giving him a grin before turning away.

  He did, and stood up straighter as she was called onto the track. He followed her as she made her one loop around, leaning forward, her hands resting on her knees as she rolled around the track, gave a wave, and skated over to join her teammates. He was so interested; he hoped he hadn’t blown it with his bum’s rush. It had been a while and she looked so good; that was his only excuse.

  Five minutes later the game started. Just like his first trip here, eight women stood in front, two a little further behind them.

  “That is the start of the jam,” Casper said, moving to stand next to him, handing him his beer. She pushed his hand away as he tried to pay her.

  “You can treat me later,” she said and leaned back, crossing her legs at the ankles. He noticed she was an inch or two taller than him.

  “A jam?” he asked, turning his attention to the track.

&nbs
p; “A two-minute period. You see the two women in the back with those stars on their helmets?”

  “Yes.”

  “They are the scorers, also known as jammers. The women in the front are the blockers. Each team has four, and one of the four is a pivot. See the woman in the front of the pack, with the stripe on her helmet cover?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s the pivot. The blockers want to keep the other team’s jammer from scoring while helping their own jammers score. The jammers have to make their way through to the front of the pack. The first one that does is the lead jammer.”

  They were silent as the ref blew the whistle and the women in front took off. A few minutes later, the ref gave the go-ahead to the two jammers. They watched as the jammers caught up to the pack, trying to move ahead of them.

  “See, the ref is pointing to the lead jammer now,” Casper said a few seconds later.

  Adam could see the Prissy Miss jammer had made her way to the front and was starting to make her way back around.

  “Once they make it through, the lead jammer can now score, but she has to go around and make her way through the pack again. This time she scores a point for every opposing team’s skater she passes,” she said.

  They watched as the Prissy Missies jammer made her way around, followed by the Brass Knuckles’ jammer.

  “Can the other team’s jammer score at the same time?”

  “Yep, but the good thing about being the lead jammer is you can call off the jam when you want to. The object is for her to score as many points as she can while her team keeps the other jammer from scoring. If she does, the lead jammer can call off the jam.”

  He watched as the Prissy Missies jammer cleared the final Brass Knuckles blocker and hit her wrist on her hip, standing up straight and skating easier now.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “The lead jammer is calling off the jam, and they now switch jammers and it’ll start again. It’s Mariah’s turn now,” she said and Adam watched as Mariah received the cap with the star, placed it on her helmet, and skated over to get in position.