Pitbull: He plays hard on the field...He plays harder off it. (8 page)

Having money was a perk. Damn right it was, but I'd discovered that the saying I never thought would apply to me was correct. Money
couldn't
buy you happiness. It couldn't buy health either — my mother was testament to that.

I let the breeze play on my face and watched the birds circling above. One of them was a seagull, and as it floated on air, I wondered if the second psychologist I'd seen had had a point after all. Maybe it was liberating to feel like a soaring bird, not a worry in the world, and the whole of the globe to navigate with nobody to answer to.

I shook the depressing thoughts from my head and looked down onto Budbury. The small town, half the size of Bristol, snaked alongside both banks of the river, the two halves connected by four stone bridges.

It may have been a relatively small town, but there was a lot of places among the old streets where a man could get lost in his thoughts. I licked my lips at the thought of a cold beer, and decided on a plan of action that would solve all my problems. I would get pissed.

To hell with Harry, and to hell with psychologists. I could sort my own problems out.

****

The back room of the pub was relatively quiet for a Saturday afternoon, and I sat alone with a pint of lager in front of me watching a football game on the wide-screen that hung on the wall.

The King's Head was a mix of old and new. Brass plaques lined the walls and a fire roared in an open hearth, around which sat three old men, pints of bitter and newspapers in front of them, their walking sticks leaning against the nearby whitewashed wall. Most of the tables were rickety and it was a skill to keep a full pint from spilling over the rim of the glass if you dared put any weight on the table top.

The landlord had sneaked modern touches in with the TV's that lined the walls and the internet connected jukebox which stood in the corner behind a pool table and next to a dartboard.

It was a place I came when I wanted peace and quiet. When I wanted noise and people I went to one of the wine bars or clubs that lined the high street.

I'd had to sign a couple of autographs and listen to a few armchair pundit's opinions on my ban, but by and large I'd been left alone. People were used to seeing members of the team in town, and it was rare that a player got pestered.

I lifted my head as the door opened and my breath caught in my throat. Disappointment followed as I realised that the red head with her friend wasn't Emily.

Emily had got inside my head. There was no denying that. When I'd seen her being attacked in her office I'd felt a fierce protectiveness which I hadn't felt since my mother had fallen ill.

I took a swig of lager and wondered what I'd do next. Emily had made it quite clear that she wouldn't help me out, and I wasn't about to go running around trying to find a psychologist or therapist who would.

Alcohol would help me work out the answer, so I downed the rest of my pint and ordered another.

While I waited for the barman to pour me a drink, three young men came bursting through the door. They were loud, and obviously a few pints further along than me.

I nodded at the first one to arrive at the bar, and his eyes narrowed as he stood next to me. "Jack Bailey," he said, slurring his words.

"Yeah, that's me," I said.

"Pit Bull," he said, shuffling closer to me, his arm almost touching mine.

"Yeah, that's me too."

He turned to his friends. "Look boys, It's Jack Bailey, the man with more bans than a drunk driver's convention."

His friend's laughter spurred him on. He was obviously on a roll, or thought he was. "You've been for an early shower more times than a…than a —"

"Than a?" I said, rising to my full height. "Go on, you can do it."

"Than a blind painter," he said, looking pleased with himself.

The lack of laughter from his friends proved that either they didn't get it, or they were as unamused as I was. "That one didn't work very well, did it?" I said, "it wasn't even funny. You need to try harder."

The barman rolled his eyes at me as he slid my pint across the bar. "That one's on the house," he said, "some of us respect you."

"Respect?" laughed the would be comedian. "For him? He's a joke, a fucking disgrace to the game."

"Easy," said the barman, "we don't want that sort of talk in here. Jack's a regular, he's just here for a quiet drink."

"Yeah, well I don't fucking respect you," said my antagoniser, with a smirk on his face. "I think you're a prick."

Before I knew what I was doing, my hand shot out and grabbed his thumb. He squealed in pain as I bent it towards his wrist, stopping only when it was at the sweet spot between fully functional, and broken.

"I don't give a fuck what you think about me," I said, bending his thumb a fraction further, feeling the tendons stretch.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, his other hand trying to prise my fingers from around his thumb. "Please let go."

I released his thumb and smiled as he placed his hand between his thighs, groaning and swearing.

"Go on, get out of here," said the barman, "and take your friends with you."

The man with the thumb that was going to be a dark shade of blue in the next few hours, opened his mouth to say something to me, but thought better of it. "Come on," he said to his friends. "This place is crap anyway."

They left with glaring stares over their shoulders, which I acknowledged with my widest smile.

"Sorry about that," said the barman, as the door slammed shut behind them. "Can't handle their beer."

Six pints and three whiskies later, I said goodbye to the barman and left the pub, the cool air outside hitting my face and upping my level of intoxication by at least two notches.

I wandered through the back streets making my way to a taxi rank, glancing in through the windows of shops and pubs as I passed. As I walked by one little shop, with a colourful canopy and a table of old books on the pavement outside, something in the window that glinted in the sunlight caught my eye, and I immediately thought of Emily.

I tried my best to look sober, and entered the shop.

Fifteen minutes later I emerged, four hundred pounds worse off and considerably soberer than when I'd entered. It had been a long time since I'd bought someone a gift, and I liked how it made me feel.

Chapter Twelve

~Emily~

"Morning, Sandra," I said, breezing into the small reception area.

"Good morning, Emily," she replied, "I've put the mail on your desk… there's a package for you today too."

"Oooh," I said, "I wonder what that is. I haven't ordered anything."

"Go and find out," said Sandra, "I'll put the kettle on and bring you a cup of tea."

I closed the office door behind me and hung my coat on the stand in the corner. I enjoyed the beginning of the day, just me in my office and one of Sandra's near perfect cups of tea. Strong, and with just the right amount of milk. Good tea making seemed to be a dying art as more and more coffee shops popped up, a lot of them delivering hot drinks to offices, but Sandra kept things traditional — she even had a teapot complete with a knitted cosy on the small table behind her desk.

With a satisfied sigh I sat in my leather chair and slipped my shoes off. I flicked through the small pile of mail, disappointed that there wasn't a letter from Germany. The more I thought about it, the more I was getting excited about working in a different country. Yes, I would miss Megan, and my dad, but Germany was only a short hop by plane, it wasn't like I'd be going to the other side of the world.

The package that Sandra had mentioned was a small square box, with my name and office address written on in thick black marker. I picked it up and was surprised at how heavy it was.

My nail made quick work of the tape that held the lid down and I prised it open, to see a smaller box inside with a folded piece of paper on top.

The note was handwritten, in an untidy scrawl, and as I read it my breathing slowed.

Hi Emily,

I saw this in a shop window and thought you'd like it. The owner promised me that it's an antique, but it looks pretty fucking new to me. If you don't like it just throw it in the bin or give it to Sandra - whatever.

I was hoping I could talk to you. I got into a little bit of shit at the club and my coach is breathing down my neck about seeing someone like you. I could do without his crap, so if you have a change of heart, give me a call. I've put my number at the bottom.

Jack.

I glanced at the phone number and put the piece of paper aside. The smaller box was covered in a purple velvety material and had a lid which was hinged with tiny brass fittings.

The lid opened with a small squeak and inside was the most exquisite paperweight I had ever seen. I was no expert by any stretch of the imagination, but as I lifted it carefully from its box, I could see it was old, and more than likely French.

I held it up to the light and studied it. It was beautiful. Bursting with colour from the myriad of millefiori flowers that glinted in the sun, it took my breath away. What shocked me more though was that Jack had chosen, and bought it for me.

It couldn't have been cheap, and Jack had not really shown any interest in my broken paperweight. I remembered him saying 'sorry about that' or words to that effect, but that had been the extent of it.

It amazed me that he'd sent such a casual note too. He'd done something really nice, but packaged it as if it was just one of those things you did.

I placed it carefully on the desk in the same position that my old one used to be, and closed my eyes. The gift had either been a way for Jack to manipulate me into agreeing to see him, or a genuinely kind gesture. I decided on the latter. I always saw the best in people, it was my main weakness according to Megan, but I liked to think that everyone had a decent heart inside, however badly they dressed up their exterior.

I opened my eyes as Sandra entered, a steaming hot mug of tea in her hand. "Here you are, Emily," she said, "just how my grandmother used to make it." Sandra gave the same one liner every time she delivered my first tea of the day.

"Thank you, Sandra," I said, pushing a coaster across the desk towards her.

She placed my drink on the mat and spotted my new paperweight next to the empty box. "Wow," she said, "that's beautiful."

"It is, isn't it? It was a gift."

"From who?" she said, bending down to study the flowers inside the glass.

I took a sip of tea. "From a very intriguing person," I said.

Sandra straightened her back. "Well whoever sent it has certainly got an eye for pretty things."

I felt my cheeks warming. I had to get a grip of my oversensitive blushing reaction. Sandra had
not
meant what I'd taken from her simple sentence.

When Sandra had left the office, I picked up Jack's note and my phone. I wondered yet again why I had a secretary when I made most of my own appointments. As Jack answered and I heard him speak, I knew why I'd rung him myself — I wanted to hear his voice, and that scared me.

Chapter Thirteen

~Emily~

Jack arrived five minutes early. That was a good sign, maybe he was serious about sorting his life out.

"Morning, sweetheart," he said as he entered my office, wearing a tight white t-shirt that struggled to contain his bulk, and a pair of jeans that emphasised the size of his thighs
and
the bulge between his legs.

"I'm not your sweetheart," I said, as I gestured at one of the comfy armchairs. "Sit down, Jack."

Floorboards creaked under his weight as he made his way to the seat and lowered himself into it. He sat with his legs slightly apart and his head tilted to the side, his eyes running up and down my body. I ignored the fluttering of butterflies in my stomach and sat in the seat opposite him, only three or four feet between us.

"Thanks again for the paperweight," I said, "it's beautiful."

Jack followed my eyes to the glass ball's place on my desk. "I'm glad you like it, but there's no need to thank me again. You thanked me on the phone."

"It was kind of you, that's all. Anyway, shall we make a start?" I said, opening the notebook on my lap. "We've got a lot to cover today."

"It's not going to be like this is it, Emily?" said Jack, failing, or not even attempting to hide the amusement on his face.

"Like what?"

"Like this… formal. I'm not just another one of your clients, Emily."

I fixed him with what I thought was a hard stare. "What are you then, Jack?"

He licked his lips and stroked his chin with a big hand, the muscles of his forearm tensing beneath his tattoos. "For a start, I'm the man who saved you the other day, and secondly, I'm the man who made you come harder than you've ever come before. Your words, not mine."