Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

Both sides of our relationship—the friend part and the fuck buddy part—collided in that phone call.

I didn’t want it to end.

Judging by the way Gracie lingered on the line for another hour after we decided she’d be the one to get the lube, the two of us talking about everything and nothing, she didn’t want it to end, either.

I know I gotta be patient. She’s been nothing but honest with me, and I understand why she needs to take things slow. But we’re now two bucket list items into this thing, and I’m already struggling to hold back.

I want more than her Friday night. I want her Saturday morning and her Sunday afternoon, too. Maybe that makes me a greedy son of a bitch, but I don’t care.

I’m not gonna get any of her time, though, if I bungle our first kinda-sorta date. I gotta get my shit together here. Something that feels harder and harder to do the more mansions I pass.

Is this where Gracie usually comes to cocktail parties?

Is this where she usually spends her Friday nights?

It’s a world away from my usual beer and barbecue sandwich at the local joint out on Sullivan’s Island.

My insides feel all tight and strange as I troll the street for parking. I really should’ve paid more attention to the address, because all the parking down here is residential permit parking only—meaning you can only park here if you live in the neighborhood and have the permit to prove it.

I head back up Meeting Street a bit, and manage to find a spot in a garage. It’s a good walk back to the party. Thankfully it’s a nice night, the humidity not too bad. So I hook my blazer on my fingers, flip it over my shoulder, and head south on King Street.

The house is even bigger and more imposing up close. Beautiful. The glossy door reflecting the glow of the gas lamps on either side of it. I check out the small white plaque nailed to the fence—the preservation society has these all over the city—and discover this house was built circa 1823.

Glancing up at it, I imagine it looks much the same now as it did back then.

The rise and fall of voices fills the air. My gut clenches. I hope I don’t make a fool of myself in front of these people. What kind of cocktail party is this anyway? Who does Gracie know that owns a place like this?

I lean my back against the stuccoed pillar at the bottom of the house’s front steps. Glance down the street both ways. No sight of Gracie.

I grab my phone out of my pocket and shoot her a text.

I’m here, I say. No rush.

She responds right away. Walking over now. Be there in 5. So sorry I’m running late. Shitshow of a day.

I’m sorry. I’ll make it better, I reply.

How? Perhaps by using your soapy cock?

I laugh out loud at her raunchy reply. My anxiety lessening the tiniest bit. We may be going to a fancy-pants party. But Gracie is still Gracie. Pervy, unpretentious, quick.

I am normally anti-Emoji. But I can’t resist sending her an eggplant, along with the soap Emoji and the okay-hand one.

Then I tuck my phone in my pocket. Shrug into my blazer. It’s the nicest one I own—I had it custom made when I was playing pro ball in Chicago. Used to fit me like a glove. Now it’s a little looser in the shoulders and chest. Still looked all right to me when I did a last minute check in my bathroom mirror before leaving the house earlier.

I don’t hate getting dressed up. But I don’t love it, either. Once upon a time, I wore these designer jeans and custom shirt and blazer more often than not. Travel, press, nights out on the town—that sort of thing. These days, though, my happy place is in my broken-in Levis and a Rodgers’ Farms tee.

I just don’t got much to prove anymore. It’s a nice feeling.

I’m sliding my hands into the stupidly small front pockets of my jeans, casually wondering what kind of lube Gracie bought, when I hear approaching footsteps.

My stomach dips. I turn my head in the direction of the sound.

Gracie rounds the corner. She looks up and our eyes meet and she smiles, lighting up. And y’all—I get this feeing, this sensation of my heart being neatly scooped out of my chest and deposited outside my body.

I can only stand still, heart beating somewhere behind me on the sidewalk, as I look at her. Devour her more like it. She’s wearing this amazing black cocktail dress that’s sleek and sophisticated, tight in all the right places. Heels that make her legs look a mile long. Big earrings and glasses and this bright red lipstick.

Hoo boy, I am done for.