When he looks at me, it’s with a slow burn of heat. “You think my body is gorgeous, Chess?”
My heart thumps against my ribs. I could lie to him, throw snark his way, but it would ruin this moment. I won’t see Finn Mannus after this job is done. We will never be friends. And despite my superficial attraction to him, we will never be lovers. But right now, in this space, there is something pure between us. He’s letting me see him as he really is, no pretense. I cannot hide in the face of that honesty. I lower my camera.
“Yes, Finn,” I tell him. “I do.”
For a second, I think he might reach for me. But he simply draws in a breath, his nostrils flaring slightly. His eyes never leave mine. “I’m all yours, Ms. Copper. What do you want me to do?”
So many ways to answer. But I’m calmer now. He’s in my hands, and I will not fail him.
“Will you get on the floor?” I ask.
His brow quirks.
“People will expect a nice chest shot,” I explain. “Maybe you holding a football over your—”
“Junk,” he puts in with a slanting smile.
I expressly do not look at said “junk” but nod. “I get that this is supposed to be a nude calendar. But I don’t want to objectify you.” Let’s ignore the fact that you mentally ogled him like a perve. “Your body is your instrument. If you’re in an unexpected pose, it makes people look at you in a different way.”
“All right, then.” With the grace of a world-class athlete, he lowers himself to the floor.
I raise my camera and peer through the lens. “Can you roll onto your stomach and brace yourself on your elbows? I want a look at that tat.”
Finn’s lips twitch on a smile as he turns, planting his elbows and forearms on the floor. His biceps bunch as he easily lifts his torso up. Gorgeous. Utterly gorgeous. And his ass? It clenches as if he’s….
I push the thought away.
The tattoo running along his ribs is a black outline of the state of California with the Golden Gate Bridge inside of it.
“Hold on a sec.” Setting down my camera, I run over, adjust the lighting, and take a reading. Usually James would do this, but I don’t want to break the spell by calling him in. Finn doesn’t move, but watches me out of the corner of his eye. Unable to help myself, I crouch down and gently tuck back a lock of his hair that’s creating a bad shadow.
The second I touch him, I know it’s a mistake. The air between us changes, drawing tight. A hum pulses in my bones, and his expression goes intent, his focus never wavering from mine. In that instant, I know him. I know him. I feel like I’ve known him my whole existence, like I’ve been waiting for him to return from wherever he’s been.
My muscles seize with the urge lean in, feel his skin, rest my cheek next to his, do... something. I see that knowledge reflected in his blue gaze, as if he wants the same. Blood rushes in my ears, my heart thudding like a warning drum.
But then he blinks, sucks in a light breath—just enough to get some air. And a wall comes down between us. I need that wall.
My head clears and finally I can breathe too, as if I’ve been let out of a trap. With a smile that is forced and fake, I rise up. “Perfect.”
I hate the gravel in my voice. But neither of us acknowledges it. He merely gives me a tight nod. The weight of his attention presses on my back as I retrieve my camera.
Behind the lens, Finn is both smaller, yet more detailed. I take my time focusing, setting up the shot, giving myself and him a chance to settle. I don’t know what the hell just happened, but I don’t like it.
“Tell me about the tat,” I say, snapping a picture.
His gaze goes to my arm. “Tell me about yours.”
“I thought it would look pretty.”
“That the truth?”
“Yes.” I shake my head a little. “Boring, but true.”
He huffs out a laugh. “I like true.”
“It was the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done.” I feel compelled to admit in the name of truth. Most people assume wildly colored hair and tattoos mean you’re a wild child or frivolous, when sometimes it’s just a simple act of self-expression. The tattoo had happened on a day I’d been too shocked to plan out exactly what I wanted in advance.
Finn’s expression turns thoughtful, as if he’s reading my face like a book. Silence rises between us and, for a moment, I wonder if he’ll refuse to tell me about his tattoo. But then he speaks. “Went to Stanford for college. Before my first game, I drove into San Francisco and took a walk over it the Golden Gate Bridge. Thought about all I wanted to accomplish, all I wanted to be. Got the tattoo that weekend.”
I snap another shot. “And have you accomplished everything?”
A secretive light comes into his eyes. “Almost.”
“Hmmm. What about the roses?” He has two vibrant red roses inked on the top and bottom of the state.
The corners of his eyes crinkle. “When I won my first and second Rose Bowl.”
Such pride in his look. I capture it.
“And the diamond?” I nod toward the stylized diamond at the bottom of California.
“Freshman year, Coach told me I was a diamond in the rough. And if I ever made it to the pros, he’d consider me polished.” His lips quirk. “Got that added the day after I was drafted.”
“You love your job.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a cheeky look.
“What goes through your mind just before a play?” I ask, snapping away.
“You want me to walk you through it?” He seems more than willing tell me, but also curious, as if he can’t figure out if I really want to know or am just humoring him.
“No. I want you to picture the process.”
Silently, Finn drops his head and his eyes close.
And my breath catches. Because he is stunning.
Stretched out on the floor, his intensity should be diminished, but it isn’t. His body remains tight, his muscles almost quivering, as if ready to spring into action. But his expression is a different story. A look of peace falls over him, his lips soft, almost parting, the clean line of his jaw relaxed, and his brow smooth.
He is utterly at home within his skin, within his mind. It’s as if I’m witnessing a man at prayer. A true believer.
And I feel transformed right along with him. Pure and revitalized instead of simply going through the motions. Again that feeling of knowing hits me. Only this time it isn’t terrifying, but a warm balm that makes me aware of my own skin, of each breath I draw in and let out.
I almost forget to take the shot. But when I do, I know that this will be the cover. A part of me resents that. That covetous part of me feels as though this moment is private, something Finn Mannus has allowed only me to see.
But then I remember myself. It’s just a job. And the job is now officially done.
Chapter Three
Finn
* * *
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Jake says, after taking a long pull on his beer. “Baby oil is great for my skin. I should have slathered myself in it long before today.”
I have to laugh. “I was going to mention the way your face resembles a baby’s ass.”
“This face,” he says, “is going to get me laid after I finish my beer.”
I just shake my head and relax into the booth were sitting at. “Good thing you rubbed baby oil on it, then.” Personally, I hate the lingering feeling of the damn oil. I’d just as soon forget the whole day.
But even as I have the thought, I know it’s a lie. Once the photoshoot got going, when it had been just me and Chess, it had been… I don’t even know how to explain it. Different.
For a small while, I’d stopped thinking about my job, about the various aches and pains plaguing my body, about the press, the team’s record, winning, losing. I’d stopped thinking about anything, really. Somehow, Chess had done what I’ve only been able to accomplish on the field; she got me to focus solely on the moment.
No
w it’s over. My time with the combative Ms. Chester Copper is done. I’m used to people drifting in and out of my world. I meet new faces almost on a daily basis. So I shouldn’t feel any sense of loss.
I do, though. But why do I?
I’d blame it on attraction. But I’m attracted to women on a daily basis too. Truth is, I’ve felt off and alone since the thing with Britt. Which is something I really don’t want to think about. Ever.
I’m frowning when the waitress sets a heaping platter of smoked oysters on the table. “Here you boys go.” She adds a basket of hush puppies and another basket of fried shrimp to the mix. “Can I get y’all anything else?”
Her smile is wide and accommodating, and it pisses me off that I instantly wonder if she’s flirting, that I’ve trained myself to immediately second-guess everyone’s motives.
“We’re good,” I tell the woman.
Her smile fades a bit then comes back brighter. “Well, holler if you need me. For anything at all.”
Jake tucks into the food as she walks away.
“Was she flirting?” I ask him, as soon as she’s out of hearing range.
“Why?” He sucks down an oyster. “Did you want her to be?”
“No.” I run a hand over my hair. “I just can’t tell anymore.”
Hunched over his food, Jake looks up at me. “Messes with your head, doesn’t it?”
Relief that I don’t sound like a pompous asshole floods me. “Yeah, it does.”
“Well, for the record…” Jake points his beer in the waitress’s direction. “She was flirting.”
“Maybe you’re imagining things too.” I pop a shrimp into my mouth.
“Finn,” he says with exaggerated patience. “You’re a starting pro quarterback in a town that loves its team. You can safely assume that even the dogs on the street are flirting with you.”
“The landscape of your mind is a scary place, Ryder.”
He grins, his mouth full of shrimp. “But a lot of fucking fun.”
I’m laughing in agreement when it hits me; Chess didn’t flirt. Not in the usual, please do me and then sign my chest kind of way I’m used to. She didn’t try to get anything from me other than a good picture, which is her job. She’d been utterly herself. And, for a few brief moments, so had I.
“What’s that sour face all about?” Jake asks, cutting into my thoughts. “Got a bad oyster?”
I slouch back in my seat and toy with the soggy label on my beer bottle. Jake and I were drafted in the same year to the same team. We suffered through having to do stupid singing skits during training camp, rookie hazing, fucked up buzz cuts with bullseyes on our heads, and the mental mind-fuck of transitioning from being top dogs in college to holding on by our fingertips as we made our way in the NFL.
He is my closest friend. And if either one of us gets transferred, I might actually break down and cry manly tears of sorrow. He’s also my sounding board, as weird as his advice usually is.
“I was thinking about the photographer.”
“Chester Copperpot?” He chuckles. “I don’t think she liked you.”
“She liked me fine.” While she hadn’t batted her eyelashes at me, there had definitely been moments of…something. I’ve never had something occur with a woman before, so I’m not sure what the hell it is or what it means.
Jake lifts up a hand. “Okay, I need to amend my earlier statement. You can rest assured that everyone in New Orleans, including the dogs, is flirting with you. Except for Chess Copper.”
I resist the urge to chuck a hushpuppy at his head. “That’s the thing; I know she didn’t flirt. I kind of liked that.”
He rests his forearms on the table. “Dude, be reasonable. The One-Eyed Willie comment killed it for you. Move on and knock on more welcoming doors.”
“Hell, I’m not trying to get into her pants—”
“Bullshit,” Jake coughs loudly.
“I just want to…” I trail off, not really knowing what the fuck I want. Being with Chess was one of the most real moments of my life, and yet it also feels like a strange dream.
“Have a meaningful and deep conversation with the woman who took pictures of your junk all day?” he supplies. Not at all helpfully.
A hushpuppy pings his forehead dead center. My aim is a thing of beauty, I will say that. Laughing, he flips me off and wipes the grease spot from his head. In turn, I give him a salute with my beer bottle. “Look at it this way,” I say. “At least she won’t be trying to picture me naked.”
“Worse, she’s already seen you naked. So if she’s not trying to get you there again, you know she found you lacking.”
“Why do I tell you anything?”
“I don’t know. I’m just going to sell it to the tabloids later.”
It might be wrapped up in a joke, but he’s giving me a good reminder; our lives aren’t like normal people’s. Finding someone to hook up with is easy. Having an actual relationship is a minefield. You never know whether the person likes you or your fame. And there’s the hassle of easing someone into a life where they’re under a public microscope, and you’re either on the road for most of the season, or training, making appearances, and basically having no personal time. That’s why most smart guys either marry their college sweethearts or connect with someone famous who knows what to expect. And that’s why I’ve never had a relationship, but rely on hookups for my sexual release. One and done is as easy as it can get in our world. Usually.
Since I really don’t like the direction my thoughts are taking, I move on to simpler topics, such as college football and who will likely be a real pro contender once drafted. Jake and I eat our food and drink our beers. Every so often, fans come up and ask us for an autograph or thank us for a good game. This is my life. It’s fucking fantastic.
I tell myself this as we leave the restaurant and walk down Iberville Street. I could have bought a house somewhere Uptown. But it’s just me, and who the hell wants to rattle around in a big mansion on their own? So I bought a condo just at the edge of the Quarter.
“Man.” Jake nudges me on the side. “Never say I don’t support you. Look over there.” He points to a restaurant across the street. Sitting at the bar, her long purple hair glinting in low light, is Chess Copper. She’s traded her black tank for a silky gold top that clings to a firm pair of tits I could easily engulf with my hands. The thought flickers to life and my fingers curl in response.
She isn’t the sweetly pretty or stunningly beautiful kind of woman I usually spend time with. She’s severe, elegant. It would be easy for me to say she isn’t my type. But I’m fairly certain that goes both ways. And I’m beginning to think my “type” has just changed.
“I think fate is tapping on your shoulder,” Jake says in a stage voice.
A weird surge goes through me, but I ignore it. “More like telling me to piss off. She’s on a date.”
Hard to miss the guy sitting with her, his body turned her way. He’s just the kind of guy I’d have guessed she’d go for: beard, multiple tatts and piercings. Hell, he looks like a skinny version of Dex.
“Maybe he’s trying to pick her up,” Jake points out.
“It’s a date. They’re settled in. Her bag is on the back of his chair, and he’s completely at ease.”
Reading body language is second nature to us now. And Jake nods. “Good point.”
I shift my weight, ready to move on. “Let’s go before she spots us gawking like a couple of—”
Chess turns her head away from her date and hides a yawn in her hand. It could be that she’s simply tired. But I see the boredom in her expression, and that strained, “when the hell is this going to be over” look in her eyes. I know that look because I’ve worn it too.
“You know,” I say, still watching. “It would be rude if we didn’t go in and say hello.”
A slow grin spreads over Jake’s mouth. “After we’ve spotted her and all.”
I match that grin. “And we’re nothing if not polite.�
�
“Perfect gentlemen.” Jake tugs the brim of his cap down further over his brow. “I’ll take care of the date.”
I clasp his shoulder. “Good man.”
* * *
Chess
* * *
There has got to be a better way to find love. I take an anemic sip of my watery vodka tonic and try to search for something to say to Evan, my date for the night. As dates go, this isn’t the worst one I’ve had. Not at all. It’s just off.
Which is disappointing. I had high hopes for this one. Physically, Evan is exactly what I look for; soulful brown eyes, full tattoo sleeves, thick but trimmed beard. He had caught my eye last week when we both stopped to listen to a zydeco band playing on Royal Street. He’d been engaging then, witty enough to have me agreeing to this date.
Now?
I give him a smile that feels strained. “So, you’re a tattoo artist.” Great, you’ve only mentioned his job twice before now. “How is that going?”
Oh, holly hell, maybe I’m the boring one here.
His pinched expression says pretty much the same. “Can’t complain. I live for skin.”
That probably sounded better in his head.
I nod, take a sip of my drink. I don’t miss the way the bartender shakes his head as he puts away a glass. Yes, we’re that pathetic. This date is going down like a week-old balloon. And it hurts. Not the loss of this particular guy, but the loss of a possible connection. Simple, basic connection. Someone to touch me, make me feel good. It’s been so long since I’ve had good sex, I’m beginning to forget how it feels to be touched in reverence. And that fucking hurts.
Evan lets out a sigh, and I’m hit with a waft of garlic and stale cigarette smoke. That’s the other thing; he has terrible breath. Why didn’t I notice this before? Maybe it’s just tonight? Should it matter? Everyone has bad breath now and then.
“Chess?”
I blink out of my fog, ready to answer Evan when I realize the voice that had spoken was deeper, laced in an innate sense of confidence and command. That voice grabs hold of my spine like a hot hand, sending prickles over my skin. No, God no, not him. He cannot be here to witness this fiasco.
The Hot Shot Page 4