by Hughes, Maya
“What makes you think I won’t walk out of here?” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“You can. The door’s right there.” I lifted my arm, knowing the clock was ticking on someone walking in and breaking through the cocoon we were in right now.
His jaw twitched, but he didn’t move.
I lifted the bottle and took a gulp and winced. “Does that count as a double?” I wheezed out.
“Now you’re drinking my booze?”
“I heard you had an open tab for the whole bar. I’m getting my slice of the pie.”
He reached for the bottle, but I whipped my arm behind me, crashing my elbow into the mirror. I sucked in a sharp breath between my teeth, glad a cascade of broken glass hadn’t showered down around me.
“I’m trying to have a good time.”
“By getting blackout drunk?” This was the hard part: getting him to see that whatever the hell was wrong wasn’t the end of the world. Life would go on. There might not have been rainbows and unicorns at the end of that tunnel, but it was a hell of a lot better than wallowing until the light was gone.
“You’re not my babysitter.”
“Nope and that’s why I’m drinking this.” I tipped the bottle back again, bracing myself for the sharp, crisp hit in the back of my throat. “I hope you didn’t have babysitters growing up that would chug booze straight from the bottle.”
He plucked the bottle from my grip. “I was the babysitter.”
“Lucky girls.” I grinned, trying to get him to crack even the slightest hint of a smile.
No dice.
He threw his hands in the air. “What is up with you? Why’d you drag me back here? We barely even know each other. We’re not friends.”
Ouch. Anyone else feel like they got left out of the school-wide candygram delivery? He was way too drunk to have a serious conversation about whatever was going on. I needed to get him away from the booze and to somewhere quieter that wasn’t a women’s bathroom.
“Maybe not, but I remember you taking the time to sit down with me once when I was upset and I thought I’d return the favor.”
“You don’t need to. I’m absolving you of any obligation.”
“How magnanimous of you. And from how sloppy those words were, I’m still staying.”
He made a noise that sounded a bit like he was trying to snort fire or breathe it. I half expected a curl of smoke to shoot out of one nostril. Fine, if he wanted to be a dick about it, I’d annoy him until he told me what the deal was or got so pissed he forgot about the sadness for a little bit.
“I don’t remember you being half this annoying.” He tilted his chin to the side, but kept his eyes trained on the door like even he didn’t know why he was still in here with me.
“My clients would disagree.” The curses people can string together when you’re pushing them to get back on their feet—literally—can be quite colorful and creative.
“Clients?” His gaze narrowed.
“I’m a physiotherapist, remember? I went back to school for it.”
He harrumphed.
The door flung open, two women stopped short when they spotted Colm, then me. Their eyes widened before one broke free from the other’s grip and burst through the stall door assuming the this-is-going-to-be-a-long-night position and yakking in the toilet. Her friend took up post behind her, rubbing her back.
Colm took the distraction to storm out of the bathroom—fleeing like only a six-two guy who weighed at least 200lbs could. Not that I blamed him.
I bobbed and wove through the crowd to stand beside him.
His gaze cut sideways. “You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?” The resigned sigh was one I’d heard many times before.
“Not planning on it.” I kept my voice light and my gaze trained on him. Tension radiated off him, like he might hulk out of that suit jacket that probably cost more than my rent. “Why don’t we get out of here?”
His head snapped up and he stared at me with narrowed eyes. I had to rewind a moment before I realized how that might have sounded.
My cheeks felt like they were glowing under his exacting gaze, but his pain was palpable. I could taste it in the air, stinging and deep at the same time. I could never walk away from that. He needed a friend right now.
“Fine.” He waved to the bar manager and said something to him. The guy disappeared before coming back and shaking Colm’s hand.
He lifted an eyebrow like a challenge he didn’t know he’d already lost. “Your place or mine?”
3
Imo
I knew the perfect place. I walked outside, not letting him know I wouldn’t be scared off that easily. The noise and heat dropped the second we crossed the threshold.
“Neither.” I raised my arm for a taxi as Colm joined me, standing beside me.
“Kinky.”
A taxi screeched up to the curb like it had been waiting for him. Perks of being with a hot, well-dressed guy.
He held the door open for me, but not in a way that seemed to be anything other than reflex.
I ducked inside, wondering what exactly this version of Colm had gone through. From what I’d heard he’d gone out to California after an injury and was back ready to play better than ever once the season started. Of all the guys he always had the easiest smile, but not a goofy one like Heath, who epitomized surfer dude chic in the Kings. Ford and Emmett were more sullen and quiet. Declan was more of an every dude, but Colm always had the kind of polish that screamed trips to the Hamptons, private islands, and first class flights.
I gave the driver an address and we pulled into traffic. The taxi ride was pin drop silent aside from the rumble of the tires on the road. A few minutes later, we pulled up to our destination. Big, metal block letters sat above the windows.
“Jones, really?” He lifted an eyebrow.
“Where did you think we were going?” I shrugged. “They have excellent meatloaf.” The elevated comfort food always hit the spot after a late night.
Our dinner was what I’d imagine it was like sitting at a table with two parents on the verge of a horrendous divorce, when neither wanted to give way to the other in front of the kids. Colm ordered his food and I couldn’t stop myself from getting the crème brûlée brioche French toast for dessert even though it was supposed to be its own meal.
At least Colm wasn’t drowning himself in booze. He had ice water and I had an Irish coffee, keeping an eye on him. The rawness of whatever he was going through was there, but he wasn’t teetering on the edge of that yawning abyss.
I’d been there. I’d felt that. I was tempted to sneak away and call Declan to find out what the hell was going on.
Maybe Colm’s recovery hadn’t gone well? “How’s your leg?”
He stretched it under the table almost like even he wasn’t sure. His foot brushed against mine. That full body tingle from the bar was back.
Not now, Imo.
“Rehab finished two weeks ago. I’ll be back on the ice as soon as the pre-season starts.”
“I’m glad you’ve made a solid recovery.”
“Once the season starts it’ll be like it never happened.” His fingers tightened around his glass, and droplets of condensation dripped onto the table.
“It’ll always be something you have to work on, though. I’m sure they gave you exercises you need to be doing in addition to your other training to keep it from happening again.”
He grumbled and stabbed at his mashed potatoes.
The rest of the meal was filled with tense silence.
At least my meatloaf was as good as I’d remembered.
I couldn’t stop the happy dance in my seat when the French toast came after I’d stuffed myself on comfort food.
“Do you want some?” I nudged the plate toward him.
“No.” He drank from his glass.
“You sure? It’s so good. It doesn’t even need syrup, but if you’re going big, might as well go for it, right?”
He tilted his chin
and peered over at me.
It took everything in me not to squirm in my seat. The intensity of his gaze made it hard to think straight this close to him. I shouldn’t have picked a booth. I should’ve gone with a table, right up against the window.
He watched me eat the sweet, eggy bread until his attention came to be too much and I was dropping syrup everywhere—well, not just syrup.
I coughed into my napkin and waved over the waiter for the check.
Colm tried to pull the whole I’m-a-man routine, but that was why I’d already given them my card when I dashed off to the bathroom.
He was pissed.
And why did that make me so happy? Teasing him? Making him mad over something so small? It cut through the self-imposed timeout he’d put himself in.
“Why’d you do that?”
“I don’t make pro athlete money, but I can spring for a dinner for two.”
We walked out of the restaurant. I’d been enjoying needling him way too much, but the way he moved once we hit the late night air killed some of that fun.
His gait was like an animal newly deposited in the zoo. Darting gaze, unable to stand still, body radiating tension and discontent. Apparently, the booze had worn off. What was he trying to drown in a sea of anonymous faces and generous drink pours? “I live not too from here. I’ll walk. Let me get you in a taxi.” He stepped toward the curb.
I wrapped my fingers around his arm. Beneath the soft fabric, the muscles rippled under my touch. “I’ll walk you home.” It would take nothing for him to put me in a taxi, go out and do something stupid. If I at least got him home, he’d be less likely to do something that would get him in trouble or that he’d regret in the morning.
His glare was like disgust and annoyance had had a love child. “I already said I didn’t need a babysitter.”
“Didn’t say I was one. I’m walking in that direction anyway.”
“You don’t even know what direction I’m going.”
Looked like he’d sobered up enough to catch me in that lie, but he led the way. It doesn’t mean he was happy about it. The grumbling didn’t stop. Any lightness in his mood evaporated a little more with every step toward his house. Apparently, ‘not too far’ meant a twenty-minute walk. He hadn’t wanted to get back in a confined space with me.
He pulled his keys out and stopped in front of a modern brownstone nestled in amongst other turn of the century historical homes. “There, I’m home. You’ve made sure I’m safe and sound. You can go now.” He moved to close the door.
“You’re really not going to tell me what’s going on?”
“What about how tonight has gone so far made you think I’d want to sit down and shoot the shit?” He bristled with anger.
Maybe it’s because I’ve stood my ground in front of clients—usually very physically imposing athletes—when they’ve gotten in my face with all their bluster and rage at their situations. Or maybe it’s because I’d stood in front of Preston when he’d had the same kind of pained outburst that you can only really unleash on the people you feel safe around. Or maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment. Whatever it was, I couldn’t let this go.
“Not shoot the shit, no, but you need to get whatever is bothering you out before it poisons you completely. You helped me before. I’m returning the favor before you do something you can’t take back.”
“You and the beach. It was years ago, forget about it. I have.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Maybe I was being nice to you to get into your pants. Ever think of that?” His silver-tipped tongue was also good with the lashes. But I’d been here before. I’d seen how this could spiral out of control and refused to let that happen to Colm.
“Maybe you were.” I approached him with my hand out like I’d stumbled on a wounded animal.
“Would you stop being so nice to me?” He dragged his fingers through his hair again, looking like he was on the verge of breaking down. “Stop it. I can’t deal with something real right now.” His voice cracked and I had to tighten my muscles to keep my wince at bay. His pain was palpable, hanging in the air like an oppressive fog threatening to swallow him whole.
His red-rimmed gaze clashed against mine.
A step closer and the gap between us evaporated. I touched my palm to his chest. “Everyone deserves something real.”
A look flashed across his face and it felt like someone had plunged a knife into my heart. “Not everyone. It’s all my fault.” The words were ripped from his throat. This was an old hurt, something deep that had never healed. I’d felt those wounds. Sometimes you had to get good at covering it over because there weren’t enough bandages in the world to fix it.
He dropped his hand onto mine. His hold was so fierce and heavy it stole my breath away. There were tears in his eyes, threatening to crest over his lids and fall.
“You need to leave.” He slammed his eyes shut.
“You can talk to me. I swear, I won’t tell anyone.”
“I don’t want to talk.” His eyes snapped open. Under all the pain, under all the hurt, under the walls he’d put up was something I’d seen before. That night on the beach I’d run from him because the feeling burning in my chest had scared the shit out of me. He’d made me feel alive when it was all I could do to drag myself out of bed every day, but I’d done it for Fern and Charlie, for everyone else who needed me to get through that hard time.
With him, I’d wanted to run out into the surf, laughing and living. To feel his arms wrapped around me. His lips crashing down on mine like the rolling waves of the ocean. Those were things I had no right to feel, a betrayal that shook me to my core. He’d scared me with the glimpse of what could be beyond the loss consuming me.
I was still scared, but there was something else. I’d help him. And maybe, selfishly, help myself quench the longing for connection, the longing to have a second chance at that night and the desire I’d thought had been turned off forever because after that night the door felt closed. Until now. There was an ache between my thighs that I’d ignored since he’d plucked that drink from my hand and his fingers had brushed against my lips.
“Then don’t talk.”
My words fell between us like I’d thrown down a glove that challenged him to a duel. His face cycled through too many emotions to name with each excruciating second. My heart beat rabbit fast and I locked my knees so I didn’t sway on my feet as doubt crept in. What was I doing? What was I saying?
His lips crashed down on mine, so fast my questions whooshed away in the late spring air.
Our teeth clinked, gnashing as he pulled me up the steps in front of his place. His chest slammed against mine and our bodies collided. The hard press of the circular band of metal that I wore on a chain around my neck dug into my sternum.
He was drowning. I was his oxygen and he was gulping me down. I could say I was doing this to help him, that he needed this to let him deal with whatever was going on, but a part of me had wanted to feel him like this since that night on the beach. It was the night I’d had my heart wrecked all over again.
Who better than another broken person to look through the cracks in the armor he wore?
Who better to make me feel something I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time?
Alive.
4
Colm
The question had been running through my head all night: how could I get her to leave? But I didn’t want her to go. And now the maple syrup and cinnamon taste of her sent me hurtling close to the edge of my control. Those reserves were running on fumes.
Everyone else had been run off by my anger or blinded by my money, but not Imogen. If anything, she battled me, pushing me like she knew I needed it. She wouldn’t let me hide the splintered and cracked pieces of myself that I was barely holding together.
She didn’t push me to talk, just slid in past my defenses and got me to say more than I should.
“Do you want me to stop?” I ran my fingers through her hair, tugging on the roots.
Her lips parted in a gasp and I deepened the kiss, needing to taste even more of her. She’d teased me, eating that French toast that smelled like a vanilla and cinnamon factory had exploded when it arrived at our table.
She stared into my eyes, heavy breaths shuddering past her lips. “Hell no.”
I’d have laughed if the words hadn’t sent me into overdrive. Kicking the front door closed, I dropped my head to her neck and raked my teeth along her thumping pulse point.
She shuddered and shivered in my arms. Her fingers went to the buttons of my jacket, flicking them open like the practiced fingers of a globetrotting playboy. Not to say my fingers weren’t doing the same.
There wasn’t a preamble.
There weren’t soft, gentle words.
There was the ferocious need to get her naked.
I was starving for her. It was like a switch had flipped in my mind and I realized that every meal I’d had over the past four years had been figments of my imagination. Since the first time I’d seen her standing in the hospital hallway after swearing I’d never set foot in one again, I’d wanted this moment. Maybe not consciously; how much of a dick would that have made me? And after Preston was gone, she was so damn sad. The kind of sadness that radiated off someone so thick you could taste it.
She always tried to take care of everyone, make them laugh or make them smile, put them at ease like her feelings didn’t matter. But tonight I had her and I’d serve up every blissful feeling on a silver platter, playing out my list of every fantasy I’d had about her in as many hours as it took for her to pass out, only to have her wake up to the second half of that list.
Her jeans hit the wall with a thud. My belt jangled around my thighs on my pants’ way to the floor and I kicked them off. They might have landed on top of the TV or fallen into a portal to another dimension for all I cared.
Pushing her against the kitchen’s island, I slid my hand down between us and caressed her stomach before dropping my hands lower. I dropped to the floor, not even wincing at the small pinch in my knee. I didn’t even care.