by Kristy Marie
I leave the barn, beaming. Bennett might be pissed and avoiding our dinner company, but he’s no coward. Accusing him of being out here sulking should snap him out of his funk.
Pushing open the wooden doors, he calls after me. “I need a shower.”
I tip my chin, a prominent smirk on my face as I keep walking, never looking back. “I’ll save you a seat.”
Like I promised, I saved Bennett a seat right next to me. He would probably rather sit next to Drew, but when Liam eyed the space, he claimed it quickly with a curt, “I’m sitting there.”
Fifteen minutes later, dinner hasn’t gotten any better.
“So, Aspen, your dad tells me you’re a big baseball fan. When you come to Boston, we should catch a game. I’ll give you a tour around the park.”
You have to admire Liam’s bravery. Honestly, if Bennett was shooting hate glares at me every other chew, I probably wouldn’t be as chatty.
“I like football better,” I clarify. “Baseball is in my blood, but football…” has my heart.
Liam nods, considering my answer. “Any particular team?”
I smile over the fork and knock my knee into Bennett’s. “Not yet.”
“I see.” Liam’s smile is quite contagious. He’s blond, tall, and looks like he came straight out of a fashion magazine. He isn’t all that awful to look at. “So no dreams of challenging your father for a spot on the payroll?”
I swallow thickly, forcing my smile to hold. “Uh, no,” I lie. Well, it’s kind of a lie. I don’t want to work for my dad or even be a baseball scout like he is. I want to take the prospects scouts find and represent them before their contracted teams can offer them shitty deals. These guys have incredible talent. Just because they don’t have the credentials or time spent playing in the pros, doesn’t mean they aren’t worth the investment to a team. I’m not saying rookies should earn more than veteran players. I’m simply saying clubs are notorious for acquiring exceptional talent by luring them in with lengthy contracts with no increase, only empty promises of later negotiations.
These rookies need someone to look out for their interests from the get-go. Most of them are just looking for an opportunity. They love the game and playing professional ball is their dream. They’ll jump at any deal offered and when they grow, and make the clubs billions, their talent is still only worth the minimum dollar the clubs offered in the beginning.
“Speaking of which,” my dad interrupts, “I called Cooper Lexington the other day. I needed to give him the number of a club who was interested in acquiring him.” Dad eyes me suspiciously. “Any idea why he referred me to you?”
This time, Bennett knocks into my knee.
Dammit. Now isn’t the time.
I sigh. “Probably because his brother and I are friends,” I offer. “I’ll talk to Lexington about it. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.”
It’s all a lie. Every word.
Truth is, I’ve been building my client list and Maverick, Cooper Lexington’s brother, has been helping me. Cooper was the one who suggested I be his agent after I agreed to get eyes on his pitching, aka my dad.
I laughed it off at first, but then Maverick shrugged and said it was possible with the right help. He suggested if I took on clients such as his brother and Bennett, I’d have more follow suit. Both Bennett and Cooper are already stars in their respective sports of football and baseball. All I would need to do is negotiate a solid deal for both of them and bam, street credibility.
Another knock to my knee sends a glare at Bennett. I know I didn’t tell him about Cooper, and he thought he was the only one. But he knew I gave out advice on campus. He also knew I helped Cooper a few months ago. The only thing he doesn’t know is that I agreed to be his agent. Clearly, I’m in over my head. I’m confused, I’m torn, and I don’t have my shit together.
“You’ll talk to him?” my dad muses, his eyes narrowing. “Alright, Aspen, when you talk to Lexington, make sure he knows New York is offering him a good deal.”
I react.
I didn’t mean to, but the words are already out of my mouth before I could stop them. “A good deal?” I scoff. “Three hundred and twenty-five thousand for three years is not a good deal. Maybe if Coop were thirty-three and on Tommy-John Surgery number two, I would consider that offer.” I suck in a breath. “But an eighteen-year-old southpaw with a side arm that yielded a 1.3 ERA last season, is worth over three-twenty-five. You and I both know that.”
The table is silent as my father grins over his beer. “Sounds like there’s a reason Cooper referred me to you,” he chuckles. “I didn’t realize he had a shark in his back pocket.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I chance a look at my mom, who is also sipping on her wine, enjoying the show with a smug look. “Sounds like you need to tell New York to pony up a better offer,” she tells my dad.
“I guess so.”
The table goes quiet once again and I distract myself with food, shoveling in as much as I can manage without choking. I don’t need anyone else asking me questions. Thanks to Liam bringing up the topic, my dad now knows too much. This conversation will inevitably lead to a much deeper talk later. Not to mention, if Bennett knocks into my leg one more time, I am going to stab him with my fork.
No, I didn’t tell him I was representing Cooper, but he didn’t tell me he was considering transferring schools. Just call us both a couple of secret-keepers.
“So, you’ve stayed in contact with Cooper?”
Bennett wants to die, I swear it.
I side-eye him over my drink, taking a minute to wash down the enormous bite I took. “Yes, he asked me about college ball and the draft.” I give Bennett a look like he better not pursue the conversation. We’ll end up discussing transfers, drafts, and Cooper. Neither of us want to have that conversation right here, both being in a shitty mood, in front of our parents and nosy Liam.
I kick Bennett’s chair and narrow my eyes. “I feel like I’m taking up most of the conversation. Fenn,” I say with an arched brow, tearing my eyes from Bennett and over to my brother, “Why don’t you tell everyone how college baseball is coming along for you?”
Like my father, Fenn is a pitcher. Except my father is a southpaw—a left-handed pitcher—and my brother is a righty. “It’s going great,” he lies, mouthing “fuck you” over his fork.
“I haven’t seen your stats lately,” my dad adds, a confused look on his face.
“That’s because he hasn’t been playing,” I offer with a smirk.
Fuck me? Fuck him and his shitty attitude. I refuse to sit here, getting the third degree, when Fenn has much bigger skeletons in his closet.
My dad straightens in his chair, his brows furrowed. “Why haven’t you been pitching?”
Fenn hesitates and I want to blurt out he was suspended, but I don’t. The little shit might get on my last damn nerve, but I won’t make his weekend worse. My brother can’t help that he’s an idiot who can’t control his temper.
“His shoulder’s been bothering him,” I sort of lie. His shoulder had hurt, but probably more so from hitting the bottom of the pool when he dove in drunk at the frat house.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” My mom stands from the table. “Come on, let me look at it.”
“It’s fine.” Fenn moans and I smother a laugh. I can only imagine the shock on Mom’s face when she sees the gigantic bruise that takes up most of his back. She’ll know it’s not from pitching. “Let me eat. I’ll let you look at it later,” he pleads.
It always sucked growing up with a doctor for a mom. There was never a day we could fake being sick and miss school.
“Alright,” she agrees, taking her seat. “When you’re finished eating.”
This time, it’s me who flashes Fenn a look, mouthing “fuck you” over my cup.
I can’t sleep.
Dinner ended hours ago when Liam handed me his card, promising the best baseball game and hotdog I’ve ever had. Bennett may have shoved away
from the table and I may have reached for him before he shrugged me off and disappeared outside.
Basically, the entire night went to hell.
Bennett’s not answering my messages or calls. Aunt B assured me he was with Cade and they went for a run to settle him down. It crushed my heart a little when he didn’t ask me to run with him instead.
Is it that awful I didn’t tell him about representing Cooper? Does it mess up his transfer to another school idea? I don’t know, but I would have liked the opportunity to talk it out with him.
Slipping out of the sheets, I sit up, my bare feet hitting the wood floor. It’s one a.m. and the house is finally quiet. Fenn is no longer outside throwing the ball into a bucket and Dad is no longer yelling out the window for him to go to the actual practice baseball field on the property.
Knowing I won’t be able to sleep without talking to Bennett, I stand and decide that if I’m caught sneaking through his window, I’ll lie. I’ve done it a million times: I heard a noise. I was looking for Fenn. I thought Mom was over here.
Same old, same old.
Did my father believe me? I doubt it. At twenty-three-years-old, you would think I wouldn’t give two shits what my father approves of, but in our house, under our parents’ rules, we honor their wishes. Well, at least Bennett does. Clearly, I disobey those rules on the regular, but I still give my father the perception that I don’t.
In nothing but one of Bennett’s old t-shirts and a pair of flip-flops, I ease open my bedroom window. The night air is sticky as I ease out onto the balcony, which extends the whole back side of our house. It’s something my mother had built a few years ago so she and my dad could look out at the pond in the morning. Chairs and round tables occupy the space. To an outsider, it looks as though this upper deck is used for entertaining, and it might be when we aren’t home, but I doubt it. I think it’s probably just something my mom decorated for the heck of it.
I throw one leg over the wood railing and then the other, wedging them in between the slats. Squatting, I inch myself lower and hang by my hands. Silently, I count to three and take a deep breath and drop. My flip-flops hit the grass with a thud.
I wait for any noise, but it never comes. Only the crickets and the frogs sing into the darkness. That’s a good sign. I sprint down the hill and across the wheat fields, tripping over sharp stalks every now and again until I reach the house at the bottom.
The house is an updated farmhouse with an American flag hanging from a pole in the front yard. When I was growing up, we called this house the spare barracks. But as time went on, and veterans came and went, it was just called The Jameson House. To me, it was always where Bennett and Drew lived. I never thought of our house as being a foundation or a place for veterans. It was normal for me to see new people in and out of our property all the time, but what was always consistent was the boy next door. The one with the emerald eyes and broad shoulders.
He was the baby I grew up rocking to sleep in Aunt Breck’s rocking chair. He was chubby back then, all eyes and a constant frown. But then he hit thirteen, growing tall and filling out all those inches with muscle. He still had those eyes though, and the frown. Some things will never change.
I round the back of the quaint, white house and stop at the window on the first floor. Curling my fingers along the edge, I lift, and the window slides up like it has for years. With a quick look around, I throw my leg over and duck under the pane.
I’m hit with the familiar smell of spice.
Bennett doesn’t move at the sound of the window rising. It’s likely he knew I would come, just like I have since he was old enough to leave it unlocked for me.
I pad across the floor to “my side” of the bed and see Bennett’s body curled onto his side, facing me. Without a word, he lifts the blankets and I kick off my flip-flops, crawling in.
“You’re up late,” I whisper, tucking my feet between his legs so he’ll warm them. His sweatpants are soft and warm as he closes them over my feet and grunts.
“I was asleep until someone woke me.”
His voice has a gravelly quality to it which makes me think he may have actually been asleep, but then, when I scoot in closer and his muscular arms go around me, I realize he’s lying his ass off.
“Liar,” I whisper into his chest. “When you sleep alone, you always take your shirt off first.”
He gets too hot and rarely sleeps in sweats and a t-shirt like he is now. Only when I’m in the bed, will he leave them on.
“I dozed off,” he argues.
“To game footage?”
He mumbles something I don’t bother asking him to repeat. I know what he was doing. He can’t lie to me.
“Take your shirt off and go to sleep.” I untangle myself and turn over, knowing he won’t remove his shirt with me in the bed. I also know he’ll wake up a dozen times hot and pissed with so many layers on. It wouldn’t be a problem if he would just get over his rules.
I sit up and pull his side of the comforter onto me. He’s stubborn and therefore will sweat to death. I’m saving us both. When I’m buried underneath a mound of covers that smell earthy and wholly Bennett, I close my eyes. Soon, his skin brushes against mine and a heavy arm drapes over me.
I burrow into his pillow, the one I use all the time, and get comfortable. We’ll discuss dinner another time. Why waste a perfectly good snuggle with an argument?
“Stop fidgeting,” he says, tightening his arm and securing my body to his, making moving a non-option.
I exhale. This is how I like to sleep: safe in stubborn ass’s arms. It’s excruciating and comforting all rolled into one.
Dammit. “I left my phone,” I whisper through the darkness.
“I set my alarm earlier.”
Because he knew I was coming.
“Oh, good.” I intertwine my fingers with the hand he has over me. He tenses for a moment, but then relaxes. “Can you set it about ten minutes earlier?”
“Sure. Why?”
“Because I need to yell at you tomorrow.”
He kisses my hair. Close, but not all the way to my head. Just a whisper of a touch, I’m sure he’ll regret. “You can yell on our run. Let’s just enjoy tonight.”
Bennett shifts and untangles himself from my arms.
I don’t speak because that’s not what we do when this happens. Our sleeping together doesn’t come without its hardships. Without its needs.
Slipping out of bed, Bennett lumbers into the bathroom. He doesn’t close the door and I pretend I’m asleep. We both know I’m not. Because we’ve done this more than we care to admit.
It’s something we don’t talk about.
It’s something we need.
It’s the only way we can be together and not break his rules.
The shower turns on and Bennett pushes down his sweats, his bare ass smooth and firm from the million squats he does every day.
His back muscles flex as he tosses the clothes in the hamper, stepping up to the mirror. He hesitates a moment, his shoulders slumping just before he takes a step inside the shower, disappearing from my view.
I slide out of the bed just like I have every time this happens and remove my shirt. The air inside the bathroom grows humid, a comforting warmth as I inhale and move deeper inside. His back is turned, a gentlemanly thing he does while I remove my panties, coming to stand in front of the glass, naked and wanting.
Pressing my palm against the frosted shower door, I take a deep breath. He turns, facing me, the outline of his big body feeling enormous in the small space. His eyes are pained as he allows himself only one look before locking onto my eyes and dragging his palm up the glass door, mirroring mine.
He’s already breathing heavy when his free hand goes to his cock and grips, stroking himself until he leans his head against the glass. It’s my turn now. This routine as practiced as tying one’s shoes.
My hand drifts down my stomach to my center, pausing briefly and catching his gaze. My body aches for his touc
h, his strength, and his honor. The rules may keep us separated but our bond has never had barriers. I may love this man and crave him inside me, but I can respect his honor and loyalty to those he loves. I’ve waited this long; I can wait longer.
Reaching my center, my fingers dip into the wetness, smearing it up to the bundle of nerves tingling under Bennett’s watchful gaze. I press harder, the pressure overwhelming. Bennett’s eyes close, his hand picking up the pace, jerking harshly as if he’s punishing himself more than enjoying the moment.
With one hand on the shower door and the other on my sensitive flesh, I match his pace. It’s fast, aggressive, and blissfully painful. But I won’t allow him to suffer alone. Whether or not I agree with the way he handles things, I will always be there for him, especially when he’s punishing himself for loving me.
This act right here is one rule we’ve never written. Sure, we straddle the line on the no nakedness rule, but the exception in this case being, the frosted glass is a barrier, and prevents me from actually seeing the hard lines of his body while he jerks off to the thought of me doing the same.
Here, we can be together, satiating the need for one another.
Bennett groans, the sound faint and tortured while his forehead presses against the glass.
He’s close.
Following suit, I rest my head against the glass, my eyes closing, taking in his harsh grunts as he works himself into a frenzy, finally moaning his release. It’s a sound I dream of; the only sound that sends me over the edge.
24 hours of no rules
Bennett
“Here’s my card.” He looks at Aspen with wistful desire. “Call me. I’ll show you around Boston.”
I can feel my heart pounding; my fists are clenched so hard, it’s likely they are turning white.
“Sure.”
Aspen’s smile is fake, but she still takes the bastard’s card and slides it into her back pocket. I knew this would happen. I’ve thought about it. I’ve prepared for it. For fuck’s sake, I’ve made rules to ensure I could handle it when the time came, but none of it is helping. All I want to do is shove Liam, flip Aspen over my shoulder, and drive us somewhere no one will find us.