Sexiled: an enemies-to-lovers standalone Read online

  Morgan

  My client today, a thirty-something blonde crosses her arms and eye-fucks the shit out of me from her seat at the other end of the conference room table. “Mr. Kennedy, can you tell me a little more about how you’re going to manage my assets?”

  I’m still standing up after my presentation to an investor who flew in, feeling a little Don Draper-y from Mad Men right now.

  See, I’m the closer.

  If Gabe or Vinny can’t get the job done, they bring me in to finish their dirty work and get our clients to hand over their signatures, thus locking up their money with Murphy Capital for anywhere from two to five years.

  For whatever reason, I have the gift of gab, and clients like dealing with me.

  “Miss Brockway, our handpicked team of analysts and—”

  She cuts me off. “Okay, that’s enough. I’m in. You sold me.”

  My heart burns with victory.

  Booyah.

  The team stands up and starts to head back to their desks. I notice April lingering, looking over some sort of document.

  Miss Brockway starts to sign the papers, and then flashes her eyes up at me before her pen hits the paper. “By the way, when do you get out of this prison? Want to go have a drink? I’m staying at the Rubey. The rooms are quite nice.”

  April tilts her head, and I think she realizes the same thing I do.

  Miss Brockway is low-key hitting on me.

  And she’s not even being too low-key about it.

  “Hey, Mr. Kennedy, do you have a sec?” April calls.

  “Yes. What’s up?”

  “You know that project we talked about recently? U.B.M.O.D.?”

  Miss Brockway furrows her brow. “What’s U.B.M.O.D.?”

  I look over at April. “Yeah, what does it stand for? I don’t believe you ever filled me in on that.”

  “It’s, uh, confidential. I’m sorry,” April says, looking over at Miss Brockway.

  “Oh. Uh, okay,” Miss Brockway says.

  “Right,” April goes on. “Operation U.B.M.O.D. needs to happen soon, or I might lose all restraint here. Sorry, Miss Brockway. It’s urgent.”

  I turn to Miss Brockway. “I don’t mean to rush things here. Thank you so much for signing with us. I’ll have our analyst Gabe take you out and meet up with you after. How does that sound?”

  “Well, I suppose that’s all right.”

  “Operation U.B.M.O.D. might take a while,” April adds in with a smile and shoulder shrug. “It’s part of this mentorship thing I’m doing.”

  “Oh,” Miss Brockway says as she signs the papers. “Well, I bet that’s fun.”

  I lead April to my office, and she shuts the door behind me.

  If she was sexy this weekend in—and out of—that red dress, today she’s looking one-hundred percent the part of the intern who has an H.R. violation written all over her.

  She’s got on a pink skirt that comes down a few inches above her knees and would definitely get her written up in Catholic school the way it showcases her curves.

  “What’s up?” I ask, trying to keep up some semblance of business demeanor going between us in the office.

  “I was walking in downtown San Juan during my break and I saw this. I was thinking about what you said—how if you don’t remember those stories about him, no one will. So I brought you this.”

  She pulls out a CD.

  “Remember, you said Michael really loved this band when he studied abroad, right? Andrés Calamaro. Well, I walked into this shoe store and they were playing some music I really liked. I asked the store owner what it was and turned out it was him.”

  “Damn. That’s…kind of a crazy coincidence, actually. He’s pretty obscure at this point. Not many places play Argentine rock from the 1990’s.”

  She walks over to my side of the desk and smiles. “Well, maybe it’s not a coincidence. Maybe Michael heard us talking about him the other night.”

  I feel a knot in my throat when she puts the CD on my desk. It’s just a silver, burned CD with the name Andrés Calamaro written on it.

  I look up at her, a little confused. “You bought a burned disc?”

  She sits on my desk and faces me. “I asked the store owner if she had an extra copy. She got this strange look in her eyes and asked me why I needed it. I explained to her about what you said about Michael and how you thought if he were reincarnated, it would be as an Argentine rocker. She went to the back, came out with the CD, and gave it to me for free. I tried to give her money and she refused. She literally wouldn’t let me walk out of the store without the CD. She insisted.”

  I turn my head and massage the bridge of my nose. “You told her this…in English?”

  “No, in Spanish.”

  “That’s quite the gesture, April,” I say, and I’m getting choked up.

  “I’ll go,” she says, hopping off the desk. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bombard you with this emotional stuff. I probably should have waited to give you this until a more appropriate time. But I was thinking about looking at the stars with you and I thought I’d tell you this story. I can’t stop thinking about what you said, and how you need to keep talking about him so we don’t forget him.”

  “It’s fine. Thanks,” I choke out. I turn and stare out the window to the sparkling blue ocean. She squeezes my shoulder but doesn’t say anything.

  When she’s closing the door to leave, she pops her head through a crack in the door.

  “I’ll text you about Operation U.B.M.O.D. It’s top secret.”

  “That sounds good. I’m honestly quite curious. Is this work related?”

  She smirks. “Kind of.”

  “Okay. And hey, one more thing,” I add.

  “Yes, Captain?” she says, and this time the word sounds sweet, not sarcastic.

  As I look at her, I wonder if maybe April is right, that there still is some magic left in this world. I wonder if she still thinks about that night we had dancing in the rain back at Greene State. I’d love to do that night over, and hell, I’d even love to get a full band to play for her, just for the hell of it, as a thank you for how I feel myself coming alive again lately.

  But, on the other hand, this seems a little silly, considering the seventh rule we both agreed on.

  “Thank you for remembering that,” I say simply. “It means more to me than you know.”

  After work that night, I head to Condado and have dinner at a beachside restaurant.

  It’s been one helluva day, and I need to clear my head. April is off meeting with her “spiritual advisor” Sandra, and says she’ll meet up for dinner when she gets done. Whenever that is.

  Spiritual advisor. What nonsense.

  Although, shit, I need a freaking advisor these days.

  My world is spinning, being turned upside down again.

  And I have April to blame. No one I talk to understands me like she does. She won’t just let those little details slip through the cracks.

  She goes and tells the freaking store owner a story about reincarnation, and she then gives the CD to me.

  But it’s not really about the CD. It’s about the fact that she remembered.

  I’m glad she did.

  I’ve started to try to move on from Michael’s death and attempt some semblance of a new life without him, largely out of a vague sense of self-preservation. I jumped at the shot to take this position in Puerto Rico. I’d sworn off baseball, which yes, had to do with the surgery.

  But it was more than that. Michael died in September, and I made the choice to force my way through to the World Series in October while my mother and I, his friends, our friends, grieved. I pushed my body to exhaustion, but I also exhausted my mental resources.

  Any time I picked up a ball on a field, I’d think about Michael and me growing up together, playing catch, going to the park to play home run derby, escaping whatever flavor of the year father figure happened to be within our midst.

  Baseball was an escape for us from a ch
ildhood that wasn’t altogether too terrific. It was more than a game to me.

  To us.

  Now, the game’s nostalgia has been replaced with a painful pang in my heart.

  I pay my tab and head home, deciding to walk the long way today. April isn’t text me back, so I figure she’s going longer than normal for her session with Sandra.

  I pass by a baseball field where there’s a bunch of guys laughing and playing, and I stop and watch the game for a few minutes, leaning up against the fence.

  These guys are in their mid-twenties, and after watching them for a few minutes, I can tell they aren’t half bad. Most of them might not make it to the Major Leagues like maybe they might have dreamed at this point, but the way they’re joking around during the game, it’s evident they enjoy the true spirit of the game.

  After the inning ends and the teams are switching offense and defense, one of the infielders comes over to me.

  “Hey, man, we need to settle a bet,” he says.

  “Oh yeah? What’s the bet?”

  “Bet is whether or not you’re Morgan Kennedy.”

  Holy shit. These guys recognize me.

  I shake my head. “I was Morgan Kennedy. I’m not that guy you think I am anymore.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I point to my arm. “I don’t play anymore, man. I’m done.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “I had surgery on my right arm, blew it out in the World Series.”

  The man furrows his brow. “You got the tendon switch surgery too?”

  “Too? You got the Tommy John surgery?”

  “Man, I got that when I was twenty. Your arm is ten times stronger afterwards. Look, man.”

  “Hey, Sanchez!” he yells, then throws the ball clear to right field to the guy out there. He turns back to me. “See? No problem. When’s the last time you threw?”

  “Over a year-and-a-half ago.”

  “Aww, man. You’re good now. Want to play?”

  I have to laugh. He’s seriously inviting me to just jump into a game?

  “I can’t. I’ve only got this suit. Not playing in this thing,” I say, even though that’s not the real reason at all.

  “We got a uniform for you. Come on. Throw one inning. It’ll be fun. We’ll go easy on you,” he jokes.

  I feel a bubbling up in my stomach, my need for a challenge rising and propelling me forward.

  Then a little kid walks up to me.

  “Mr. Kennedy,” he says, handing me a ball and a pen. “Can I have your autograph?”

  “Of course.”

  As I’m signing the ball, I look at the gleam in the kid’s eye, and I remember something else Michael used to tell me when he came out to the games. A motto I lived by.

  You’d better play your damned best every day, because you never know when there’ll be a new kid in the stadium watching you for the first time. You have to remind him that the game is about something greater than just baseball. It's about hope.

  Strangely, I hear the words of Sandra echoing in my ear about how I’ve got a stick up my ass and don’t like listening to the universe.

  Kind of echoes my mom’s advice that I can be closed off. It pains me to admit that they both might have valid points.

  “Screw it,” I finally say. “I’ll throw one inning.”

  “Hey! Kennedy is gonna play!” he says. “And Sanchez, you owe me twenty dollars! It’s really him! Morgan Kennedy, bro.”

  The man comes back, then tosses me a glove, a t-shirt, and some pants.

  I have to laugh, because these were not made for a six-foot-six individual whatsoever.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “I’m Antolín, by the way,” he says. “Everyone calls me Sapo.”

  “Well, Sapo, I appreciate you letting me jump in here.”

  “Aww, the pleasure is all on our side. Plus.” He nods toward the bleachers on the other side of the field. “Scouts are here today. Not going to lie, man, there’s a few of us who’d love to say we have a hit off of Morgan Kennedy. Even if you are at half-strength.”

  “I thought you guys were going to go easy on me.” I grin.

  I knew they’d never do that. Sapo just smirks at me, knowing he’d never do that to a World Series champion.

  “Hey, kid,” I say, turning to the little boy who is staring at the ball I just signed as he sits on the bleachers. “You want to play some catch?”

  “You want to play catch…with me?”

  “That’s right. I need to warm up.” Little does the kid know that having not thrown for over a year, he’s probably on my level. “Just let me get this uniform on and I’ll be right back. What’s your name?”

  “Fernando.”

  “All right, Fernando, wait here a moment.”

  I head to the bathroom where I can change, and that’s when I see something that gives me pause.

  Antolín is right. Davis Schmidt, owner of one of the West Coast ballclubs, is sitting on the bleachers on the other end of the field.

  Holy shit. What’s he doing here?

  But even wilder is the woman who is with him.

  Erin Yonkers.

  How on earth did she end up here? I mean, I know there’s talent in the Puerto Rican winter leagues, but it’s quite a coincidence to see her here.

  Once I change, I come back out and start throwing with the kid, and dammit, Sapo is right. Maybe the surgery did make me stronger. Because my arm feels damn good.

  25

  April

  After work, I’m headed to meet with Sandra when a strange number pops up on my phone, asking me how everything is going.

  Worried it might be a client, I respond respectfully.

  April: Who is this?

  The number types for a few minutes. I see the dots going. And then the message comes through.

  Message: It’s Matt

  My eyes widen, and I actually have to laugh.

  I haven’t thought about him once since I’ve been in Puerto Rico, and I don’t really care.

  I block him, which I should have done a long time ago, and put my phone away.

  “How are you doing with your meditations?” Sandra asks me as I sit in her booth again.

  I’ve been coming here about once a week on average now.

  “I feel a lot different this week,” I say.

  “I notice your energy has some orange moving in. Your sexuality, creativity, and general flow is increasing. It’s very good.”

  “I’m impressed you can see all that.”

  “What has changed from the weeks past to now?”

  “Well, I’ve been doing the meditations,” I tell her. “At least once a week.”

  “That’s good. And they’ve been helping. Anything else going on?”

  “I…kind of have a little romance going.”

  Sandra just smiles. “I know I could see the energy between you when you walked in the first time. You two are connected.”

  Goosebumps rise up on my skin. “That’s so wild that you can see that. But I hated him when I came in here with him.”

  “Of course. But with hate, at least there is feeling. You are happy to feel something, I can tell. How is it with him now?”

  “It’s very new. But it’s a good thing.”

  “Well, if it is good, I am happy. He has opened you up.” She pauses, and her eyes flicker. “And with that, you’re opening him up, too.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. How are the candles? Are you using them for meditation? When a big change happens, we can’t forget to do the little things for ourselves.”

  “I’ve been trying my best.”

  “And you are in tune with yourself this time?”

  “I think so.”

  “What’s different in this relationship than in your last relationship?”

  I sigh. “Well, when I was with Matt, I always felt like I was just not good enough for him. No matter what I did, he always wanted just a little m
ore from me than I had to give.”

  “I can imagine that is the worst feeling to give as much as you have and feel like you’re not enough.”

  “Yes! Exactly. I felt like I wasn’t enough, no matter what I did. Like there was something faulty within me.”

  “And how do you feel with the new one, the one who doesn’t believe in energy candles?”

  I chuckle. “He just has a stunted attitude toward the supernatural because of his brother’s passing, I think.”

  She reaches down. “I sense that. Why don’t you take him this?”

  She pulls out a blue candle.

  “This is a very special candle,” she says. “Very powerful.”

  “What can it do?”

  “Everything that Mr. Stick-Up-His-Butt believes it cannot.”

  “Okay.” I laugh a little at Sandra's "technical" terminology for Morgan.

  “Take it to him. He needs it.”

  “What about me?”

  “You know in your heart what you want. You are listening to that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet there is still a conflict, I sense?”

  “I’m pretty sure my dad would throw a fit if he knew I was dating someone from the company.”

  “You’re a little rebel now, aren’t you? What would your mom say?”

  “She’d say to do what makes you happy. If she knew how unhappy I have been over the past almost seven years, she’d say, ‘Follow your heart, trust yourself, do what you think is right.’”

  “Your mother sounds like a very wise woman.”

  Later that night, I stop by the bar where I was supposed to meet Morgan for dinner, but he’s gone, and not picking up my texts. I go for a walk around the neighborhood, and I hear a raucous cheer coming from up the block, so I follow the noise.

  It leads me to a baseball field where there has amassed a horde of spectators of all ages.

  I creep closer to the fence to see what they are watching, and my jaw drops.

  Morgan is on the pitcher’s mound, wiping sweat from his brow. He winds up and throws a pitch, and the batter whiffs badly.

  “He’s throwing as fast as he used to,” says a suave female voice to my right. “Maybe even faster.”