by Amelia Stone
He pulled out a sketchpad and pencil, then got to work. Meanwhile, Silva ran down the street and got me some French fries and a gigantic bottle of water, which I inhaled like my life depended on speed eating. A few minutes later Paul held the drawing up, showing it to me.
“Looks great,” I told him, feeling almost sober by this point. In a thoroughly sauced kind of way.
“Where we putting this bad boy?”
That part was easy, at least. I lifted my shirt, pointing to the spot just above my heart.
Silva winced. “That’s gonna stung like a motherfucker, Holt. All those veins and nerves there.”
But I merely shrugged, because pain in my heart was something I was used to by now.
“That’s where it goes,” I insisted.
Paul smirked again. “You’re the boss, man.”
I snorted. More like Silva’s hush money was the boss. But if it got me what I wanted, then I wasn’t going to complain.
Paul the tattoo artist led me back to his station, and I stood and watched as he took out gloves, new needles, and ink.
He looked up when he was done. “Have a seat, boss.”
But I couldn’t move. One of my favorite songs had just started playing from a set of speakers in the ceiling, and I was lost in memories.
One of the prettiest songs about the nuclear apocalypse ever, Krista had once said, while we were sitting in her room, doing our biology homework. I’d snorted at that. I remembered telling her I was going to sneak some pickle jars into my underground bunker instead of pictures of her. She’d popped me on the shoulder at that, telling me that was fine as long as she could join me in the bunker.
Her suggestion had made me blush, even though I knew she hadn’t meant it like that. To cover the awkward moment, I’d started listing all the canned foods I would stash in there. She’d told me she would make the lists, because she was a Capricorn and therefore more organized than I was by nature. The argument had continued from there, and we laughed for hours as we planned our fake bomb shelters.
God, I missed her.
Scratch that. I didn’t miss her. I didn’t need her. She broke my heart and discarded me like old garbage. She took thirteen years of friendship and loyalty and – okay, love, and she threw it away.
No, I didn’t need her anymore. I just needed her luck.
The tattoo man frowned at me. “Everything okay?”
I took a deep breath, wondering for a second – just a second – whether this harebrained scheme was a good idea after all. But my team was twelve and thirty-two, with only a handful of games left in the season. Something had to give.
So I nodded at him, deciding I wouldn’t give myself any refunds for regrets, either.
“Yeah, but I have a change. An addition, I guess.”
The idea had come to me while I was lost in my memories, and I thought it would make my first-ever tattoo perfect.
Paul raised an eyebrow, signaling for me to continue.
“I want specific stars in there.”
He frowned. “Like, a constellation or something?”
“Yes.” I nodded enthusiastically, and I was pleased to note that I could finally do it without shaking my head right off my neck. “Exactly like a constellation.”
He listened as I explained, nodding and adjusting the tattoo. When I was finally settled in the chair with my shirt balled in my lap, Silva shook his head, giving me a look like he thought I was nuts.
“I hope your girl appreciates this shit,” he muttered.
I frowned. “She’s not my girl,” I repeated.
Paul frowned as he placed the template over my left pectoral. “You’re getting a tattoo for a girl who’s not your girl?”
“No,” I replied. “It’s not for her. It’s for me.”
Silva and Paul both gave me doubtful looks. But I knew what I was doing, as well as I could while still technically drunk, anyway.
And when I staggered onto the practice field too few hours later, reeking of alcohol, exhausted after a long night with no sleep, and with my brand-new tattoo smarting like a motherfucker, I felt better than I had in a year and a day.
Because my former best friend was with me again, even if she didn’t know it. And with her came my luck. It was time to get my game back on track.
A loud, insistent knocking startled me out of a Pitch marathon. I paused the episode and shook my head, trying to clear the binge-watch-and-junk-food fuzz from it. Then I heaved myself to my feet and wound my way through the construction mess to the front door. A glance at the microwave clock told me it was well after eleven, and I wondered who the hell would be coming around this late.
The mystery was solved when I opened the door to find Krista on my front porch.
“Hey.” She gave me a shy smile. “Sorry if I woke you up.”
I tried not to grin like a fool as I stood in my doorway, staring at her. Her hair glowed crimson in the porch light, and the breeze was blowing her coconut scent to me, mingling with the jasmine that climbed up the side of my garage.
Krista had come to my house at booty call o’clock.
Yes please.
“You didn’t wake me,” I assured her. “I was just watching some TV.”
“Oh.” She took half a step back, and I saw that her arms were full. She was carrying a couple of beach towels, with a tote bag hanging from her forearm. “I can come back, if you’re busy.”
I stepped forward, taking the towels from her arms. “I’m not busy. Come on in.”
She hesitated, eyes darting down the street toward her parents’ house, like she wasn’t sure whether to run away or not. So I decided to make the decision for her. Without waiting for permission, I cradled the towels against my chest, turned, and walked into the house, praying she would follow me.
“What are these for?” I asked.
After a moment, I heard the front door close, then her voice behind me.
“Well, I had this idea.”
I grinned. Ideas were great. Ideas in the middle of the night, when the world was only good for sleep or sex, were even better.
“Oh?” I set the towels on the counter, which had just been installed yesterday. The house was still a minefield of lumber, power tools, and stacks of tile, but the kitchen was nearly done.
Typical me. Thinking with my stomach first.
I watched as she set the bag down. Then she stood on the other side of the island, her eyes travelling all over the newly-open floor plan.
“This is nice,” she said.
I raised a brow. “I think you’re probably dehydrated,” I quipped, gesturing to the mess.
“Maybe.” Her lips tilted in amusement. “But it’ll be nice when it’s done, right?”
“It definitely will,” I agreed. “This disaster zone is nothing, though. You should have seen it when I bought it.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I remember the old couple who used to live here. They were stuck in the eighties, shoulder pads and all.”
“Sounds about right.” I chuckled. “The kitchen cabinets were all particle board and laminate, and there was a lovely abstract wallpaper in all the bathrooms. I think it was supposed to be starfish.” I shrugged. “Or maybe mermaids. Hard to tell.”
Her freckled nose wrinkled. “Who’s doing the work?”
“Gabe Bloom,” I replied.
I ran a hand over the recycled glass counters, and I realized the little flecks of blue were the exact shade of a certain redhead’s eyes. It had only taken one look at the sample for me to fall in love with the material, now that I thought about it.
I cleared my throat. “He’s doing a great job.”
She blushed. “Yeah, he’s fine. Um. I mean, he’s good. Or so my dad says.” She turned away, probably because she didn’t want me to see her flaming cheeks. “He recommends Bloom Builders to clients all the time.”
“I know.” I grinned, because I was secure enough in myself to find it hilarious that my contractor turned the ladies’ heads where
ver he went. “That’s how I heard of him.”
She looked at me then, her cheeks still stained red, and my grin morphed into something else, a slow, sly smile. A carnal smile. She might think Gabe Bloom was hot, but she wasn’t at his house at nearly midnight on a Saturday.
I looked her up and down, taking a moment to appreciate the effortlessly sexy look she had going on. Her hair was piled on top of her head again in that messy bun, and she was wearing… wait, was that a dress? Or a nightgown? Hard to tell. Whatever it might be, the cotton fabric flowed loosely to her knees, and it was a deep teal color, like the color of the surf at sunrise.
I noted the deep blue straps tied around her neck, and I wondered what she had on underneath her dress thingy. It would be so easy to lift the hem and take a peek, and I had to shake off the thought before she figured out where my mind was heading. My loose pajama pants left me with zero room to hide an ill-timed boner.
“So what’s this idea of yours?” I asked.
Please let it involve those freckled tits, I prayed, because apparently my mind wasn’t totally on board with keeping my body’s reaction to her in check. But it hardly mattered, as my hopes were dashed when she began to explain herself a moment later.
“Well, I was thinking about our run this morning, and your, um, struggles.” She hesitated, her sapphire eyes bouncing between mine. “And then I started looking up MCL injuries, and most of the experts recommended low-impact exercises not only for rehab purposes, but for long-term care. Because you want to stay in shape, but you don’t want to stress your knee, or even re-injure it.”
I frowned. None of this was exactly news to me. My physical therapist in California had given me all the same advice, over and over, until she was blue in the face. It was one of the reasons I’d moved away: I didn’t want to be harangued any more. The injury was already permanent in my mind, though. It had taken baseball from me.
Plus, my gimp status really wasn’t something I wanted to think about right now, with Krista standing in my kitchen all casual and sexy at fuck-me-thirty. Talk about a mood killer.
“Right.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “So you came over at almost midnight to talk to me about workout routines?”
Her cheeks flamed again, and she bit that damn lip. “Well, like I said, I had an idea. And I think it would be really good for you.”
“Okay,” I said, because even though I was annoyed, I was also a little curious. “Spit it out.”
She peeked up at me through those oddly dark lashes. “Well, if I remember this place correctly from when we were kids, there’s a pool, right?”
I glanced at the beach towels, suddenly understanding. “You want to swim.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Well, no, technically I want to do some aerobic exercises, all low impact. Some of them you can do on your own, but some are two man movements. Well, one man and one woman, in this case.” She frowned. “It’s called hydrotherapy. And I think it will work.”
I nodded, because I’d heard of hydrotherapy before. One of my coaches in San Francisco had talked my ear off about it, telling me it had salvaged his mobility after a hip replacement.
“But why now?” I asked. “It’s late. We could have done this tomorrow.”
“Sorry. I know.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “But I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the look on your face every time you took a step with your right leg this morning, and it bothered me that you were in so much pain.” She shook her head, pre-empting the protest she knew was about to come out of my opened mouth. “I’m not trying to throw you a pity party. I just want to help.” She took a step closer, laying a hand on my arm. “Please.”
Aww, Christ. I could never resist when she busted out the P word. I let out a heavy sigh, just to make my reluctance really fucking clear. But then I nodded.
“Okay.”
Her whole face lit up, and suddenly I didn’t mind if she wanted to play amateur physical therapist, as long as she kept smiling at me like that.
“Great!” She picked up the bag and started toward the back door, but she stopped short after a few steps. “Oh, wait, though.” She looked around the room again, taking in the general unfinished-ness. “Is the backyard under construction, too?”
I chuckled. “No, I’m leaving that until the end. I need to be able to escape if things get too crazy inside.” I opened the door and flipped the exterior lights on, then gestured for her to go first. “I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve got quite the set up out here.”
She stopped short just outside the doorway, and I hurried to follow her out.
She made no answer, and I watched as she took in my barely functional backyard. Her eyes bounced from the inground pool that badly needed resurfacing – or possibly just replacing altogether – to the hammock that had fallen off the frame, to the mini fridge covered in barbecue sauce stains, and finally to the sad charcoal grill with wobbly, rusted legs. When she was done with her inspection, she turned to me.
“You’re just missing the beloved family pet buried under a suspiciously robust rosebush,” she deadpanned.
“Okay,” I admitted. “So maybe it needs a little love.”
“It doesn’t need love,” she retorted, raising a reddish-brown eyebrow. “It needs divine intervention.”
I grinned. “Who’s the god of barbecues again?”
She snorted. “Probably Dionysus, patron of orgies and frat parties everywhere.”
“Then tomorrow I’ll sacrifice a fap and a brewski in tribute to good old Dionysus, and maybe he’ll come down from Olympus and fix this sorry shit.”
Her cheeks reddened again, and I definitely didn’t miss the way her eyes darted to my crotch when I said the word ‘fap.’
Friends. Riiiiiight.
“Or you could just talk to Jess,” she replied, after she cleared her throat. “She flew in this morning. I know she’d love to help.”
I shrugged. “Eh. She’s busy this week.”
“Yeah. Busy being a pain in my ass,” she muttered, and I grinned. Krista had always loved her little sister fiercely, but she’d also always wanted to wring her neck almost as fiercely.
“It’s fine,” I assured her. “I’ll just ask my contractor if he knows any good landscape designers.”
Her eyes widened. “My sister will eat your liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti if you hire someone local without at least consulting her.”
I shrugged like I wasn’t worried, because I was secretly enjoying how concerned she seemed for me.
“I’ve faced worse,” I told her. “If I can survive a collision at home plate with all six feet seven inches and two hundred eighty pounds of Mats Gunnarsson, I can take your sister on.”
She shook her head sadly. “It’s your funeral,” she sighed.
I laughed, and I felt strangely buoyant as I did. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed this: the effortless back-and-forth with her, how easy it was to just be when I was in her presence. It was strange to think that only a few days ago, I was sure I’d never speak to her again. The tables had turned fast enough to make my head spin, but I felt surprisingly even-keeled about it all. Krista had always been the other half of me, in one way or the other.
“So anyway.” I stepped over to her, taking the bag from her hands and peeking in it. It looked like she had a couple of resistance bands, as well as what looked like either a weight or float belt, in the straw bag. “What do you need from me for this hydrotherapy session, Doctor Summers?”
She gave me a once-over, taking in my ratty tee and flannel pants. “Well, your Freddy Krueger jammies aren’t gonna cut it.”
I frowned. I supposed she was right that I couldn’t wear my pajamas in the pool. But I was really comfy, damn it.
“Okay,” I conceded, trying not to sigh too dramatically. “I’ll just go change into my swim trunks.”
She nodded. “I’ll get set up here while you’re doing that.” She raised a brow again. “Assuming the pool is s
afe to swim in.”
I chuckled. “I think the concrete is just green-tinted.”
She glanced back at the pool, then at me. “Better make it two faps,” she said.
I was still chuckling as I walked into the house. When I reached my room, I grabbed the first swimsuit I could find and changed in record time. I didn’t want to leave her alone in my ungated backyard for too long. Crime in my idyllic hometown tended to be of the petty larceny variety, but you never knew what could happen.
Plus, I just wanted to be near her.
I tried not to examine that thought in too much detail as I made my way back outside. I still had no idea where her mind was regarding the whole friends thing. I had a feeling she was just saying that because she thought I wasn’t interested in anything more. It was classic self-defeating Krista, disappointing herself before someone could beat her to it.
But maybe she genuinely wasn’t interested. Obviously I wasn’t the best at reading her feelings, if I’d never picked up on her childhood crush. And she still hadn’t taken me up on my offer to practice dating with her. It felt like a win all around, but she’d seemed so hesitant this morning, and she hadn’t even mentioned it this evening.
So who knew what was going on in that beautiful head of hers? I sure didn’t. But I could be patient. I’d figure it out, or she’d eventually tell me. Either way, I’d enjoy spending time with her in the meantime.
“Okay, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for a midnight workout,” I called as I stepped out onto the patio again.
But I stopped short when I got a good look at her standing a few feet away, bathed in the soft glow of the patio lights. She’d removed the dress/coverup/whatever, finally revealing what was hidden beneath.
Krista was wearing a bikini.
A sexy bikini.
That should go without saying, since bikinis were inherently sexy. But I could honestly say I’d never seen a woman wearing something quite this hot, not in this decade, at least. Longer, probably. None of the women who’d ever worn a bikini, in the whole history of bikinis, looked as spectacular as Krista did tonight.
I wasn’t a fashion-savvy guy, but I could tell the cut of the suit was retro, with high-waisted bottoms and a full-coverage top. It actually hid more than it revealed, but that was pretty much the entire appeal. The swim suit left everything to the imagination. And mine was working overtime, wondering what she’d look like out of it. Picturing myself peeling it from her soaking wet body to expose all the perfect, freckled flesh beneath. Taking my time to count all those freckles. With my tongue.