It’s just what Ido.
I look up, words at the ready before my brain can even really consider them.This doesn’t mean anything. Obviously we can’t do that again.I can’t mess this up for Tegan.
But Adam’s expression has shifted, too. If these arehisfactory settings, then I can see why he was so good at football, because he looks . . . he looks almost . . .
Is heangryat me?
“Don’t say it,” he says, his voice tight. “Don’t say whatever you were going to say. Not now.”
It is so exactly the opposite of anything Adam has ever said to me.
It is also, inconveniently, very reminiscent of that hallway bathroom fantasy I had a few minutes ago. The place between my legs practically vibrates with frustrated longing.
Before I can think of how to respond, he moves: one knee and one hand on the mat, that slow and intentional stiffening again. When he stands, it’s not like he’s on firm ground, but it’s not like he’s on a trampoline, either. He’s mastered himself, somehow, and those locks inside me go loose again.
I doubt I could get up right now if I tried.
He turns and slowly makes his way toward the net opening, his steps careful, his shoulders impossibly broad. I want to say something, to call his name, to call himback, but that is definitely not something I do.
Just as I think he’s about to jump down without another word, he pauses, keeping his back to me, his hand clasped around the net he holds open. He turns his head the slightest amount.
“Jess.” His voice is so low I wonder if I’m imagining it.
“Yeah?” I am, embarrassingly, still short of breath. All anticipation.
“I want these two fucking days,” he says.
Then he jumps down, bending to swipe his discarded boots off the ground in one smooth movement before he stands tall and walks—barefoot—toward the house.
Leaving me wet and breathless and wobbling.
And more speechless than I’ve ever been.
The Last Con of Lynton Baltimore
Transcript Excerpt from Episode 3, “The Baltimore Trap”
Durant:You look happy in these photos, Natalie.
Natalie Basham:I was happy.
Durant:I mean that you both look happy. You and Lynton. You both look very much in love.
Basham:I guess he was good at looking like that. I guess that’s how he got us all.
Durant:Was there ever a time where you doubted him? Where you thought, something doesn’t feel real about this guy?
Basham:He doesn’t really give you time to think that. He doesn’t really give you time to think at all.
Chapter 16
Adam
When I first wake up, I wonder if I’ve gone back in time.
I’m on the couch in the basement of the house I grew up in—a green and navy plaid monstrosity that has always been, for me at least, as comfortable as it is hideous. I can stretch all the way out on it, my feet not even close to hanging off the edge, and the cushions are firm enough to feel the right sort of soft for my body.
When I was a teenager, this is where I slept after every Friday night football game—the perfect spot for the comedown I always needed. I’d watch TV or play video games for a while, too keyed up to sleep right away and trying to keep my noise away from the rest of the family. Eventually I would nod off and doze until I got ravenously hungry again—I ate all the time back then, trying to keep weight on—then I’d make my way quietly up the steps and rustle around in the fridge, usually finding leftovers my mom set aside for me, or sometimes my favorite roast beef sandwiches that she’d made in advance. A few times, when I was in my junior and senior years, I’d spend at least a couple hours after home games on this couch with Emily, a girl in my class who I had an off-and-on thing with, mostly during the season, since she sort of seemed to lose interest at other times of year. Looking back, I can’t say I blame her, since what we did here was pretty clumsy and quick, me too naïve and hair-triggered with postgame adrenaline to be any good at fooling around.
