by Sophia Henry
“I get it,” Bree says. “It’ll be like that for a while. The start of next season, the playoffs, talking to your friends—the cycle will start over each time. But it will get better. I promise. It always does.”
I lean closer to her and take her hands in mine. “Are your parents still pressuring you to figure out a way to get Mason on the ice?”
She shakes her head. “No, but now they think I can motivate him to get off his ass.”
“Another thing we have in common.” My voice is barely above a whisper. I turn to face forward and drop my head back against the seat.
“What’s wrong, Luke?”
“It’s like you said when we met up that morning at the Philadelphia.” I pause, still staring out the windshield at the ice rink, instead of looking at her. “It was something to the effect of ‘You do what you have to for family. Even when you know you can’t help, you still try.’ ”
“It’s true, right?” she asks. “I spent years trying to help Mason, even though I know he’ll never be able to play again. It killed me, but I wanted to do it for him. And for my parents. I love them with every inch of my being, but I know how they are. A lot of our life is about status, and keeping up appearances. Mom wanted to tell people her son plays professional hockey. Dad wanted to tell people that Mason is a chip off the old block.”
Bree punches my shoulder softly, like I’m one of her dad’s cronies. Which makes me turn to face her.
“Sorry,” she says quickly.
“It didn’t hurt, Bree,” I assure her.
“I love my parents. They don’t love each other, but I know they love Mason and me. We aren’t just trophies for them to show off.” She twists her hands in her lap, lacing and unlacing her long, slender fingers. “But that’s the way it feels when your parents are the founders of Healthy Girl products. Gotta keep up with the Joneses. We had to have the biggest houses and the most expensive cars, even if we didn’t need them. I appreciate the life my parents created for us, but I had to get away from all the pressure and the superficial bullshit.”
Her words stun and deflate me simultaneously. Bree’s the only woman I’ve wanted to get close to in a long time. Which makes me hate that my immediate reaction is to pull away. But that’s always what happens when someone wants to get too close or know too much.
“Your parents are the founders of the Healthy Girl products?” I lift my eyes to hers.
She sighs. “Yeah.”
Fuck me. All this time I thought Bree was this amazing, down-to-earth, beautiful, kindhearted nurse. I didn’t think our lives were that much more than a college degree apart.
But, no. She’s a fucking socialite. The daughter of multimillionaires. She probably got invited to Paris Hilton’s birthday parties. Or brunch with the fucking Beverly Hillbillies.
Fuck my life.
“Your parents are the founders of Healthy Girl products,” I repeat with a soft laugh, turning my head to the front again. “Your parents are self-made millionaires and my mom’s a fucking junkie.”
“Luke, stop.” She sits upright in her seat and leans toward me.
I’m a masochist, I admit it. I like to feel pain, because if there’s no pain, I don’t feel anything.
“I know all about pressure, Bree,” I say, turning toward her again. Then I take her hands and squeeze them. Maybe she’ll understand. Maybe she won’t judge me by my mother—or by my upbringing. “I know how hard it is to do everything you possibly can for your family and still not be able to help. And like you, I keep trying.”
“I know you do. I love your strength and compassion. I love that you won’t give up on yourself or your family.” She shakes one hand out of my grasp and brings it to my face.
She feels sorry for me. Which makes me want to slit my fucking wrists. I close my eyes, unable to look at her because I know she’ll see the weakness in them.
She wants to fix me. But she can’t. Because she can’t change the past. Mine or hers.
Bree doesn’t say anything. Instead, she leans close and presses her soft lips to mine. Then she lifts her mouth away just enough to whisper, “I need you, Luke.”
The familiar taste of her cherry lip balm stirs up a carnal need, but I bite it back. I rub her back gently as my mind swirls. “I need you, too, Bree.”
She shakes her head and I feel like I’m missing something, but I’m so distracted by my own fucked-up thoughts, I could miss a bomb blasting the rink to pieces right now.
She reaches between us and tugs down the front of my athletic pants, saying, “I need you right now.”
That’s when I realize what she means by needing me. Sex. I’m totally down for fucking her at any given moment, and I understand replacing the agony of grief with the ecstasy of an orgasm, but I want to know why Bree wants to take away pain with sex.
Instead of asking, I’ll make her give me everything she has. I’ll make her take me deep and fuck me hard. I’ll make her transfer all her pain and frustration to me, so she can be at peace again. Because that’s what she wants. And I’ll always give her what she wants.
Automatically, I slide my arms around her waist and pull her closer. She responds by climbing over the console and straddling my lap. Her hands are in my hair and she’s pressing hard against my lips.
There’s is no better feeling in the world than Bree’s body molded to mine—except maybe the feeling of being inside her. I trail my hand from the soft curve of her hip to her upper thigh. I’ve got no access, since she has yoga pants on. I need to rectify that.
I lift her hips, pat her ass, and say, “Jump in the backseat.”
As I climb after her, I look up and catch her expression. She’s lying back, waiting for me, holding her bottom lip between her teeth. She doesn’t tear her gaze from me as she shimmies her pants to midthigh. Then she spreads her legs open for me and my heart slams against my chest.
“Grab the condom,” I growl, removing my wallet from my front pocket and handing it to her.
While Bree works on that project, I lower myself to her stomach and place a soft kiss there before maneuvering to my knees in the tiny backseat of my Jeep. Once I’m settled in as much as I’m ever going to be in such a cramped space, I lift my gaze to hers. I’m met with wide, blue eyes swirling with lust and anticipation. Her sex appeal is effortless and constantly engaging. I can’t wait another second to bury my face between her legs.
—
“Still wanna skate?” I ask.
Our bodies are a sweaty tangle of limbs in the backseat my Jeep. The poor girl is sticky and sweaty, so I grab the hem of my T-shirt and clean her stomach. I feel bad that I don’t have a wet wipe or anything similar in my glove compartment. Then again, I wasn’t expecting to fuck her in the parking lot of the ice rink today. But if I’ve learned anything from Bree, it’s that I should be prepared to go at any given moment.
“I think we should probably go home and clean up, don’t you?” she answers.
“Your place or mine?” I ask.
Bree wiggles into a seated position. “Yours. Mine is a”—she casts her eyes downward—“it’s a mess.”
“Do you need my services? I have a French maid’s outfit somewhere in storage,” I tease her. Her embarrassment over her apartment is ridiculous. I hope she doesn’t think I expect it to be anything like mine. I don’t know many people as OCD as I am about keeping my place tidy.
She laughs out loud. “I don’t even want to know why.”
“Rookie prank. One of the nicer ones.”
“I bet. I’ve heard about some of the mean ones.” Her gaze darts to my dick and I laugh, because I know it’s not because she’s ready for another go. She must’ve heard about “the shave,” where some of the boys hold a guy down and shave his pubes.
I wave a hand at her dismissively. “That’s barely even a thing anymore. Most guys these days manscape.”
“I guess you’re right. I honestly never thought about it.”
“Well, I hope not. I’d be worr
ied if you put a lot of thought into the shave.”
“It’s just funny when Dad tells stories about things like that. I always forget that it was different in his time.”
“So he played in the, what, the eighties?”
“Yeah.”
“Ugh, dudes were nasty in the eighties. But not as bad as the seventies.”
“Right? I would have been a lesbian in the seventies.”
“You don’t choose to be a lesbian,” I say cautiously, unsure of how she may take it. We’ve never really talked about where we fall on politics or social issues. I just assumed we were in a similar place because we’re similar in other aspects of how we think. From what I’ve seen, Bree’s a pretty open-minded person.
“Oh, I know,” she says quickly. “I just meant, I would make the conscious choice to be with a girl if my options were those gross dudes from the seventies.”
“You say that now,” I say, grabbing her by the back of her knees and pulling her down so she’s sprawled across the seat again. “But if I came at you with all that glorious chest hair and back hair, you’d be all over me.”
She laughs as I lower myself onto her. She trails a finger from my chin, down my neck, to my upper chest, then starts tickling me. “Oh my god, yes. Especially if your beard and chest hair all grew together.”
My stomach contracts when her fingers dance over my skin and I laugh out loud. “That’s fucked.”
“I’d like to be fucked. By you. Now.”
“Then we need to get to my place, stat.” I say. “The first time fucking in a parking lot in the middle of the day is exciting. The second is just asking to be caught.”
Chapter 22
Bree
After work, I hit up a yoga class at the gym near the hospital. When I get home, I’m so exhausted that all I want to do is lie down and get lost in a book. Something easy and fun that I don’t have to put too much thought into.
Yesterday with Luke, realizing the similarities in our lives, the stress and burdens that the weight of our families put on us, was eye-opening—and oddly reassuring. It’s as if the stars aligned and brought both of us to Charlotte to meet each other. Maybe we’re soulmates.
I’m not a religious person. If anything, I believe in karma and fate and things falling into place as they should when they should. I truly believe that everyone comes into our lives for a purpose and that we were meant to meet them on a deeper level than coincidence. How else can I explain meeting Luke? If we hadn’t met at the pub crawl, it would have been at the hospital.
The thoughts swirling in my mind come to an abrupt halt when I walk into my apartment and I’m reminded of why I haven’t been able to relax over the last few days.
Mason is sprawled out on the couch with one hand behind his head. The other rests on his stomach, clutching the remote. There’s a bulging black trash bag sitting next to the door, exactly where I left it this morning after asking him to take it to the trash chute—which is located ten steps down the hallway.
“Hey,” I greet him, tossing my keys on the counter.
“S’up?”
“It’s beautiful outside. What did you get into today?” I ask. My feet are killing me. I reach down and pull off one shoe at a time, letting out a sigh of relief. I should’ve brought flip-flops to change into after class, but I completely forgot as I was running out the door this morning.
“A whole lot of this.”
“Did you even move?”
“Yep. To eat and take a piss.” He scratches the back of his head as he yawns.
Bending over, I pick up my shoes to take them to my room. Before I enter, I notice the duffel bag that exploded in the corner of my living room. Clothing and shoes are strewn all over. My blood boils at the mess. I’m not a borderline OCD neat freak like Luke, but I don’t like crap laying all over. Mason knows that.
“What happened over there?” I ask.
“I don’t have a place to put my stuff.”
“That’s because you’re not supposed to be here,” I snap. The room he’s sleeping in is considered an office, according to the apartment’s floor plan. It doesn’t fit much more than the daybed and a nightstand I’ve set up in there, but I’m sure his duffel bag would fit on the floor.
Mason takes his eyes off the TV screen for a second to glance at me. “What’s your problem, Bree?”
“You, Mason. You are my problem.”
I wish I had invited Luke over after our date yesterday. He’d be the perfect person for Mason to talk to, since he got his shit together after his injury. But I don’t want to add more to his plate or stress him out. Luke’s wounds over having to stop playing hockey are still fresh.
He rolls his eyes.
“You’ve been here four days and you’ve done nothing except throw your clothes all over my clean apartment and lie on the couch. The garbage is in the same spot I left it this morning, even though you said you would take it out.” My fists clench at my sides and I take a breath. But it doesn’t help. I’m still seconds from blowing up at him. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Watching TV.”
“No. I mean with your life. What the fuck are you doing?”
Instead of letting him answer, I continue spilling my feelings before I lose my nerve. “It’s been seven years since you did anything, Mason. You haven’t gotten off your ass since you stopped playing hockey.”
He sighs, thick and heavy. “What are you smoking, Bree? I work.”
I want to punch his stupid face, but I never would.
“No, you don’t. You socialize at Swirly Girl once a week. I know you call pouring a few pints work, but it isn’t.”
“You sound like Mom.” Though I can’t see it, the eye roll practically drips from his voice.
I cringe inwardly, like any daughter does when someone says they’re like their mother. But honestly, Mom is a smart, strong, successful businesswoman, so I can’t be too offended. “You can walk. You can talk. You can get on with your life, but you chose to be lazy and bitter.”
“I’m not bitter, Bree,” he snaps, throwing me a quick glance. When he speaks again, his voice is low. “I’m still trying to figure out what to do with my life.”
“You’re closing in on ten years! Get the fuck over it!”
“Excuse me?” He must realize how serious I am, because he sits up, rigid, as if ready to brawl.
“You’ve been using hockey as an excuse for years. Everyone in this family has been pussyfooting around you. I spent over a year of my life researching concussions to figure out if there’s something we hadn’t tried. I talked to doctors on your behalf. I spent years with Mom and Dad breathing down my neck about finding a way to help you, just so they can brag about their golden child again.”
I’m trying not to sound like a jealous shrew, but I can’t help it. Mason was always the “favorite” because of his athleticism and promising hockey career. I know my parents are proud of me, but being a nurse wasn’t the glamorous life they’d expected of me.
Mason being drafted to the WHL was an accomplishment. Mason getting scouted by multiple NHL teams was something to brag about. They don’t talk about the kids I’ve helped through chemo and radiation—the kids I’ve literally nursed back to life.
“I didn’t ask you to do any of that,” he says.
“Bullshit! Bull fucking shit!” I slam my hand on the counter. “You used to show up at work and demand that I let you talk to the doctors there.”
“I did that one time.”
“More like once a month, Mason. Every time you thought someone forgot about you or something else had taken Mom and Dad’s attention off poor you.”
“Here we go. Saint Bree is talking. Can you please fix me, Saint Bree? You’re so fucking perfect and selfless.” He slams against the couch again.
“At least I do something. I try to fix things. I try to make people better. I tried to help you. I wanted to be the hero for you and for Mom and Dad.”
“So blow them off,
Bree! That’s what I do.”
“I tried, Mason! I moved to Charlotte. And what did they do? They sent you here. And you went along with it. You’re a fucking adult. You could have said no, but you got on a plane and took a vacation.”
Mason gets up and joins me at the kitchen counter. “Do you want me to leave?”
“Yep,” I say, looking my brother straight in the eye. There’s no reason to lie. He’ll know anyway.
“You’re serious?” he asks, as if I’m bluffing.
“Yes! I want you to leave. Go back to California and get a job with a paycheck from a company our parents don’t own. Go back to school. Get your own apartment. Stop mooching off Mom and Dad.”
Mason looks like I’ve slapped him across the face, but this conversation should have happened years ago and I refuse to apologize. We haven’t had a row like this since we were teenagers. And anything that was worth a knock-down, drag-out battle back then wasn’t anywhere near as intense.
But I don’t want to fight with him anymore. Especially not here, in this new drama-free life I’ve created in Charlotte.
“Look,” I continue in a softer voice. “Mom and Dad aren’t going to cut you off. Why don’t you go to school and get a business or marketing degree or something? You could set yourself up to take over both Healthy Girl and Swirly Girl. Doesn’t that sound better than what you’ve got going on right now?”
“Yeah, right. I’m sure you’re the one who’ll get willed the businesses,” he says.
“I don’t want the businesses. That’s not my life.” I pause, taking a moment to calm down. This is the perfect time to tell him about the news I received from the temporary agency I work through. Maybe then he’ll understand just how serious I am about staying away from everything in California. “I found out today that the hospital here wants to extend my contract for at least another six months.”
Mason’s tense shoulders relax slightly and his scowl changes to an expression of surprise. By his reaction, I can tell I caught him off guard. “You’re not really thinking about staying, are you?”