by K. A. Tucker
“Not allowed to take your mask off while out here. I thought you were all about the rules,” Reese mocks, pulling her own mask up to show her flushed cheeks, covered in a sheen of sweat, her hair in a damp, messy ponytail. Her eyes skate over my uncovered stomach for a second before landing on my face again, a strange expression touching her mouth.
I can’t help myself. “Thinking about yesterday, aren’t you?”
She rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the tiny smile that curls her lips. “No. Are you?”
“I haven’t stopped.” I’m not embarrassed to admit it. Fooling around with Reese was fun. Especially in front of that jackass she was stupid enough to marry. What is it with chicks going for the dark, moody, tattooed types? Because I can tell that’s what he’s like, just by the look of him. And even with the Stepford wife leeched onto his side, I caught the sharp glare he was shooting my way. I’m not surprised. I don’t see how anyone can’t miss kissing a girl like Reese, especially with the dime-a-dozen girl he hitched himself to.
Reese, well . . . she’s all angry and fire-breathing bitchy until her lips find you, and then you’re sure she must have a cocaine-laced tongue because you can’t get enough of her sweet mouth.
I watch her face as she seems to ponder that for a moment, her chest rising and falling faster than it did only moments ago. I wouldn’t be opposed to getting into Reese’s pants right here, right now. “Fuck,” I mutter, shifting on my feet.
“What?”
I sigh. “Nothing. I just hate wearing cups.”
I feel the tip of her gun jab me in the groin, tapping against it. “Why’d you wear this? You afraid someone’s going to go after your prized body part?”
I’m about to tell her that I’d like her to go after my prized body part but without the weapon, when a female giggle sounds outside. Quickly pulling our masks on, I hunch down to squeeze in next to her and look out the small window.
And struggle to stifle my laugh as we watch a couple climb the hill opposite us, the female in a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a shirt that’s tied to the side. “Daisy Duke is playing paintball? What a fucking moron. Why didn’t he make her wear more clothes? That’s gonna hurt when she gets hit. ” The guy is turning this way and that, scouting the area for people.
“Yes, it is,” Reese agrees, and I hear the wicked pleasure in her voice as they disappear into a hut. “Come on.” Without waiting, she’s darting out and around the corner, her gun aimed and ready.
“They’re yellow!” I hiss, trying not to be too loud in case there are any reds nearby. She doesn’t hear me, though. Or she doesn’t want to. She keeps moving forward like a little ninja, silently leaping over bushes and avoiding branches that will crack. Picking up speed but not nearly as gracefully, I reach her seconds after she stops at the side of the hut. She holds a single finger up to her mask, to warn me.
I don’t think there’s any worry, though. From the sounds of it, they’re preoccupied.
Doing exactly what I was thinking of doing only five minutes ago with Reese.
And by the way Reese is creeping around the corner, she’s about to prove why I was smart to be worried.
Damn, I love this chick.
Leveling my own gun, I step in beside her as the soft, rhythmic thump against the wall inside picks up. It’s obvious the guy is drilling Daisy Duke, and it’s making my own discomfort all the worse. I can’t help it. It’s normal for a guy to get off hearing that kind of shit.
Reese seems to stall for a moment. I’d do anything to see the expression on her face right now, to know what’s going through her head. She snaps out of it, though, and raises a hand to silently count down from five on her fingers.
And then we both leap into the doorway.
They were smart enough to keep their masks on at least.
The chick’s shorts are on the ground, her bare legs wrapped around the guy’s hips while he’s plowing into her, his pants hanging below his ass. All in all, a lot of vulnerable flesh on display.
With a delayed battle cry, we open fire, pelting them from head to toe with paint. I focus more on the guy’s back, but Reese holds no prisoners, unloading on his ass and her thighs as howls and shrieks of pain compete with the clicking of our guns.
My gun is out long before Reese’s, but she doesn’t look ready to let up. Finally, I grab her by the arm and pull her out. We run down the hill to screams of “You assholes!” carrying through the forest. I keep pulling her along until the valley and the hut are no longer in view and I can’t run anymore because I’m laughing too damn hard.
Leaning back against a tree, I struggle to catch my breath. “I can’t believe we just did that.” We’ll get kicked out of the game and possibly banned from this place if the couple reports us. Then again, they’d have to admit to what they were doing in there and, while there’s no “no sex” rule in the handbook, I’m thinking it’s frowned upon by the referees.
“It’s their own damn fault!” she mutters, her breaths just as ragged as mine. “Did you see her? What if there were kids around? What a twat!”
Another bellow of laughter explodes out of me. “I haven’t heard that word in forever. She has clearly offended you with her sense of adventure.”
“That wasn’t a sense of adventure. That was no sense at all,” she growls between breaths. “What an idiot for coming dressed like that.”
Between the midday heat, the mask, and the running, sweat is pouring off me. I’m dying to take my mask off but I’m not about to risk losing an eye. “Come on. Let’s get going before a real opponent catches us.”
She sighs. “I’m done with playing for today.”
“What? Forget it! I’m not quitting until we find that flag or I’ve been shot.” I’m competitive by nature. I also haven’t had this much fun in a long time.
In answer, Reese points her gun at my crotch.
And fires.
With my arms folded across my chest, I watch Reese duck out of the changing room, her furtive eyes checking this way and that as she makes a beeline for my waiting car, tossing her bag of dirty clothes and gun into the trunk. Tucking a strand of freshly washed hair behind her ear, she cocks her head and looks at me somewhat sheepishly. “Will you survive?”
“Not sure. You’ll need to take it for a test run,” I smirk, pulling her into me, the smell of the soap from her shower catching my nose and proving that, yes, my dick is still able to at least stand.
She offers a small smile as she pulls away. “You should write to the manufacturers and complain.”
“And tell them what, exactly? That their soft cups don’t hold up well when a chick shoots you with a semiautomatic paintball gun at point blank range?” The sting actually went away within a few minutes but, damn, did it hurt. It probably wouldn’t have been so bad if I didn’t already have a raging hard-on and a growing case of blue balls. Still, I’ve hammed it up for Reese’s benefit, hoping I can guilt her into some hand action during the car ride back to the office.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Come up with something. You’re the lawyer. Come on, let’s go.” She ducks into the passenger seat of my car before I can answer. Honestly, I thought I’d be forcing her into my car to come to Warner. But between the gun to the privates and her friends texting to say they’ve left ahead of us, she’s not fighting me. In fact, she seems to be in a rush to get out of here.
“You okay?” I ask, climbing into the driver’s side, ready to blast the air conditioning. Even with a quick shower in the changing room, I’m already sweating again in this heat. “What’s wrong? Feeling guilty over ruining a magical moment for the happy couple?”
Her lips press together and she pauses. “No. I just thought it’d feel better than it did. It was . . .” She shakes her head. “Nothing. Let’s go before I change my mind about work.”
“Shit, we can’t have that.” I slide my key into the ignition and crank the engine. “I’m starving, though.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Good. We’ll stop and get you some small children to eat on the way, you wicked woman.” I’m about to throw the car into drive when I see a redheaded woman and a tall dark-haired guy walk across the parking lot toward us, talking slow, rigid steps. The woman’s cut-off shorts are free of paint but I can’t say the same for her legs, which are mottled with dry red paint. Welts run up the underside of her thighs.
“Wait a minute.” I squint to get a better look at their faces. “Isn’t that . . .?”
“Drive!” Reese demands, pulling on her sunglasses and hunching over slightly.
As we pass by, Reese turns away at the same time that I get a good look at the big tattoo on the guy’s shoulder that had been covered by long sleeves before. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I explode in laughter. “Did we just pull the ultimate ‘fuck you’ on your ex and his new wife?”
Reese doesn’t answer, helping herself to my radio, tuning in to an alternative station. Chris Cornell’s distinctive voice comes on over the speakers.
“Holy shit,” I mutter with a chuckle. “Remind me never to piss you off.” I let her have her moment of silence as I turn onto the highway, while the pieces start to click. It makes sense. Reese had to know they’d be here. And she had to have figured out who the idiot showing up dressed like that would be. Finally, I ask, “How’d you know?”
I don’t think I’m going to get an answer from her. But then, with a heavy sigh, she admits, “Facebook. He messaged me last night. You were right. He was jealous of you. Then she posted something about coming here and, well . . . I couldn’t help myself.” A small, sheepish smile touches her lips as she ducks her head. “Do me a favor, though, and don’t tell anyone.”
I hazard, “I guess it probably hurt, seeing them like that, didn’t it?” It must have. Here I was, thinking how much fun it was catching two people going at it, but for Reese, it wasn’t just two people. It was someone she loved. By the way her mouth is twisting now, it’s someone I’m pretty sure she’s still hung up on.
After a long moment, she admits softly, “It’s not the first time I’ve seen it, but, yeah, it still hurt.” Though I really like her normal snarky side, I have to say that the forlorn side I’m seeing right now makes me want to pull over to hug her or kiss her or, hell . . . I’m seconds away from reaching across the console to hold her hand. That’s when my Bluetooth starts ringing, cutting into the music. A giant “Mama” displays on the screen.
Shit.
Reese looks from me to the display to me. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”
“I’ll call her when we get to the office.”
As quick as a viper snatching its food, Reese’s hand snaps out and hits the green “Answer” button on my steering wheel.
I groan. “You really are a pain in my—”
“Hello?” My mom’s lax voice sounds out clearly over the speakers.
“Hey, Mama.” I shoot a look of exasperation to my passenger, whose dour mood has suddenly been replaced by a broad smile.
“Who were you just talking to?”
I take a deep breath. This is exactly why I didn’t answer. The only girl Mama has ever met was Brittany Jo, a girl I dated in sophomore year for all of two weeks and got trapped into introducing after one of my football games. And the only reason I remember the girl’s name is because Mama kept asking about her. For at least six months after I ended it by getting caught nailing her twin sister at a party.
Hell, I was drunk and they looked the exact same, except for their clothes, which I probably should have noticed. But her sister never said a damn word when I pulled her into the mudroom.
“Just a friend,” I answer with hesitation.
“Hi, Mrs. Morris!” Reese chirps like an innocent church girl, batting her eyes playfully at me. “My name’s Reese.”
There’s a pause for one, two, three seconds and then, “Why, hello dear.”
Ah, fuck. I hear that inflection. That’s my mom getting excited that some woman may have pinned her baby boy down. She’s going to be searching out china patterns after we hang up, or whatever the hell it is moms do when they think they’re getting a wedding. “Just a friend, Mama,” I reiterate. “We were out at a paintball field with a bunch of other friends and now we’re heading in to work after we grab a bite to eat.” For good measure, I throw in, “She couldn’t drive herself. Her motorcycle wasn’t working properly.” Maybe that’ll turn Mama’s little fantasy upside down.
“Oh, well you two should swing by first! I need you to take a look at the tractor anyway, Ben. It sounds funny and I don’t want to call Bert out here unless I have to. You know how much he charges.”
Swing by? I love my mama, but the grove isn’t exactly down the street. That’s part of its appeal. “Can’t it wait until next Sunday? I have a ton of work to do.”
“I suppose. Though I could have lunch ready for you when you get here . . .” Her voice is thick with disappointment.
“That’s nice, Mom, but—”
Reese cuts me off with, “We’d love to come over, Mrs. Morris. We’ll see you soon.”
“Wonderful!”
Yeah, wonderful. I’m pretty sure I just heard wedding bells in her voice.
Dead Mau5 fills the car as the phone call ends. Reese controls herself for all of five seconds and then bursts out laughing. “You call her Mama? What are you, ten?”
“You know her place is a hundred miles away. You’re now stuck in the car with me for the next two hours.”
Shifting in her seat, she closes her eyes. “Wake me up when we get there.”
Chapter 13
REESE
“Not what I expected,” I murmur as Ben’s Jetta turns past the large “Bernard Morris Grove” sign and creeps along one of the longest driveways I’ve ever seen, lined with oak trees big enough to create a tunnel-like cover. With strands of Spanish moss hanging elegantly from their limbs, it looks like something out of a movie setting. One of those dreamy places that feels magical and you’re sure has been doctored heavily by a stage crew.
“It looks like more than it is,” he denies.
“It looks like a giant house on an orange grove,” I retort as the sizeable white house with two levels of wraparound decks and stately pillars comes into view, windows flanked with black shutters staring down at us. The Confederate flag hangs limply from one corner, reminding me of a soldier, standing motionless as it awaits our approach.
“It is a big-ass house,” he agrees. “My mama’s great-grandparents, the Bernards, moved here from Louisiana and wanted to feel like they were back home, so they built a plantation house. Kind of out of place, but it was a cool house to grow up in. Needs a lot of work, though.”
As we get closer, I see what he means. The exterior is in bad need of a paint job, shingles have begun to lift, and the front porch leans just slightly to the left. Still, it’s beautiful in a historical, haunting way. And I’ll bet it’s brimming with all kinds of stories to tell—both joyful and heartrending.
Turning the ignition off, Ben half-turns in his seat to regard me with a rare serious expression.
“You’re nervous about me meeting your mother, aren’t you?” I knew the second he didn’t answer his mother’s call what was up. When he blows a mouthful of air out, I can’t help it; I laugh. “Please don’t tell me you have your mom convinced that you’re a virginal disciple of Jesus.”
“No, pretty sure that ship sailed when she caught me with the neighbor’s daughter behind the barn,” he answers with a wry smile, adding, “but please just don’t give me any grief, MacKay.” His eyes flicker over to the front door in time to see a small woman in a floral sundress and apron, identical to the photograph on Ben’s desk but older, emerge.
I follow his lead and climb out of the car as a hound dog lets out one long bay before it waddles down the porch steps and toward Ben, its belly almost dragging on the ground.
“What are you feeding this dog, Mama? Hey, Quincy!” Ben crouches down to let
the dog put its front paws up on his knee. He grabs both ears and scratches, mumbling something under his breath about a “good girl.” With that greeting out of the way, the dog turns her attention on me, a little more cautious as I bend down to offer my hand. After taking a few sniffs and accepting a friendly pat, she turns and sways back toward the house and Ben’s mother, who’s watching me intently.
I wonder what this woman is going to think of me. I wonder why I suddenly care. I certainly didn’t when I willingly walked into this trap.
I haven’t done a lot of “meet the parents” scenarios. In fact, there was only one: with Jared’s parents, just after we eloped. Considering their son hadn’t had the heart to tell them that he had broken up with Caroline—the future daughter-in-law they would have hand-picked for their only child—I’d say that meeting went exactly as expected. A catastrophic explosion.
As discreetly as possible, I reach up to finger-comb my hair, left to air dry after the speedy shower earlier. There’s not much I can do about my jeans and T-shirt right now.
“Now who’s nervous?” Ben throws over his shoulder with a smug smile as I watch him saunter toward his mother. He’s in a blue and yellow Dolphins T-shirt and worn blue jeans, so I’m not exactly underdressed. The difference is, Ben still looks good.
“It’s been weeks!” Ben’s mom scolds, though there isn’t an ounce of bitterness in her voice. He answers by scooping her tiny body up in his arms and spinning her around, much to her howls and laughter. It’s hard to believe such a slight woman created something as big as this man. She can’t be more than five feet tall. “Benjamin Morris! You put me down before I have another heart attack!”
His smile falls off at that comment, but he does as asked. She proceeds to ruffle her skirt gently before turning to regard me with eyes as blue and kind as Ben’s. “And you must be Reese.” A small hand shoots out and I take it immediately.
“You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Morris.”