Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by C. M. Stunich

  I lifted my gaze away from my stepbrother's ass and came to sit next to his foot on the cushioned seat. He maintained his vigil of the neighborhood and hooked up the left half of his mouth in a grin.

  “Naked dude,” he said, and I smiled. Despite an ordinance banning nudity (don't ask about our sister city to the north and its infamous World Naked Bike Ride), it wasn't impossible to catch a glimpse of a brave soul every once in a while. “And he's got a pierced dick, would you look at that?” I scrambled to look out the window and catch a glimpse of this mystery dude while Flor roared with laughter. “Look at you, so desperate to see some guy's metallic junk. Do you know how bad that shit hurts?” I glanced back at him with a raised brow, my eyes dropping low … lower. Flor caught me looking and leaned down, whispering in my ear. “Wouldn't you like to know.” And then he stood up, took his foot off the window seat and flicked his cigarette in the sink. “Pick something to do or I'll pick it out for you,” he added, taking out another beer and chugging it.

  My mind went immediately to all of the things we couldn't do together – like rip each other's clothes off – before it spiraled back down into the realm of the everyday and I was suddenly flooded with vapid indecision.

  “Um.” This was the only word capable of escaping my suddenly parched lips. Go to dinner? No. No. That's either too lame or too much like a date. A movie? Definitely boring. A club? Did I really want to go to a club and watch a hundred other girls rub all over Flor? No. The answer was hell freaking no I did not.

  I raised my head and found those eyes of his boring into me, cutting so deep I was pretty sure I was seconds away from bleeding out all over the wood floors. My breath remained trapped in my throat, choking back the words I really wanted to say, the questions I wanted to ask. Once, several months back, I'd braved the school therapist and I'd told her all about my problem, spilled my secrets to a stranger and sat back waiting for judgment. Instead, all I got was an understanding smile and more questions. Lots of questions. How does your attraction to your brother make you feel? Have you ever talked with him about it? Have you and your brother ever acted out on your feelings? I'd wanted to snap back at her, remind her that stepbrother and brother were two entirely different things. In some ways, though, she'd been right: I should tell him. Maybe, just maybe, if we talked about it together, if I was honest with Flor, I could get past this.

  Instead I swallowed hard and blurted out the first thing that came to my mind.

  “I want a tattoo.”

  I don't think he'd have been anymore shocked if I really had confessed my undying love.

  “You what?” he asked, scratching at the side of his head with those long, strong fingers I'd always admired. I knew how good those fingers could feel, how they could skitter across my skin like bits of coal, burning a trail of pleasure that stained the spirit and the soul.

  I steepled my own hands together like a prayer and pressed them against my lips to hide my equally stunned expression.

  “A tattoo, huh?” Flor asked again, sitting next to me on the window seat. I turned slowly to look at him and nearly exploded out of my skin when he bumped me playfully with his shoulder, just like he'd done when were kids – just like he hadn't done since we'd kissed each other that night three years ago. That simple touch, the slight brush of his skin against mine, was like an electric shock, waking me up inside, making me melt, paralyzing my heart for several beats.

  “Yeah, a tattoo.”

  I glanced over at my stepbrother, Florian, the boy who'd grown up practically alongside me but was still, somehow, a virtual stranger, like a long lost childhood friend that I'd once known but would never know again. I nibbled on my lower lip in thought and turned away, focusing on the kitchen instead of on his face. He seemed surprised still, but pleased. I mean, why wouldn't he be? Tattooing was his art, his passion, and his career.

  “Only if you trust me,” he said, drawing my gaze back to him. Already I could see gears turning behind those green eyes of his. He blinked once and suddenly his entire focus was on me, on my face, my body. I could feel him looking not just at me, but into me. An involuntary shiver worked its way down my spine. “Let me decide what and where, Abi,” he continued, his voice dropping an octave, making me shift uncomfortably. I could feel things happening between my thighs that only Flor could do to me. Even my last boyfriend, the one I'd lost my virginity to, hadn't made me feel like this.

  I kept my gaze locked on his and for a split second there, I saw indecision and secrets. They fluttered behind his eyes like shadows and then were gone, buried deep down God only knows where, somewhere inside of Florian that nobody was allowed to see.

  I wished desperately that he'd let me in.

  Instead, I smiled, nodded and stood up.

  “Okay, Flor,” I told him, trying to keep my voice light. “Okay, I trust you.”

  His smile then was positively wicked.

  “Hey Abi,” he said as I raised my eyebrow and forced myself to appear nonchalant, taking another sip of my beer, “do you have any of those side-tie bikini bottoms in that conservative little closet of yours?”

  “Why?” I asked, feeling a certain amount of heat suffuse my face. Sometimes it felt like Flor's opinion of me hadn't changed in three years, like he still thought of me as that innocent little fifteen year old, sneaking off to a party. I did, in fact, have the type of bikini bottom he was talking about, the kind with the ties on either hip.

  “Because,” Flor said, standing up and getting way too close to me for comfort. I looked up at him and traced the scar on his chin with my eyes, wishing I could touch it with my fingers instead. “You're gonna need it.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Florian drove us both to his tattoo shop in downtown Springfield, an up and coming neighborhood that I'd once never even considered visiting after dark. Now, the historic buildings on either side of Main Street had more than just for sale signs in the windows. Across the street from Flor's studio, there was an old brick building painted a cheerful yellow that housed a café, and on the opposite corner, two previously empty shop fronts had been turned into a busy restaurant/brewing company. With the city of Springfield (Eugene's neighbor across the I-5) onboard, decorative posts, light fixtures and crosswalk improvements were being added block by block along the seven mile corridor. Flor's shop, On Bent Wings, was smack dab in the middle, still open and filled with people even at this hour.

  As he snagged a lucky parking space directly in front of the studio, I twisted my hands nervously in my lap and tried to hide the sheen of sweat building on my forehead. I knew my dad was not going to be happy when he found out Flor had tattooed me. He'd been terrified of it since the moment my stepbrother had gotten his first piece of ink and he'd seen how his eyes lit up. If it were up to my father neither Florian nor I would ever have a piercing anywhere other than our ears and tattoos would be out of the question. Already, I'd managed to piss him off by getting my nose pierced and Flor … well, my stepmom and my dad had always agreed to disagree on Florian. It had prevented a lot of fights between the two of them as they had drastically different parenting styles, but I could see the way my father looked at my stepbrother. He might love him like a son (might), but he wasn't exactly always ready with a smile and a hug either.

  Flor parked the car and shut off the ignition, turning to look at me with one raised brow. I focused on the three piercings there and refused to look into his eyes. Enclosed spaces like this only seemed to trap the sexual tension between us, lock it inside a bubble that threatened to drown me with its intensity. Sometimes I wondered if I was crazy, if I was the only one that felt these things when we were together.

  “You look like you're about to puke,” he said with a smirk, like he found the entire situation hilarious and was trying to hold back his laughter. I'd have been annoyed with him if the lights from the shop hadn't fallen across his brow just so, revealing the natural blue-black highlights in his hair. “If you've already changed your mind, we can go grab
some dim sum or something. Besides, your dad's going to fucking kill me when he finds out about this.” Dim sum. Exciting. I'm sure all of Flor's other dates are this entertaining.

  I dropped my gaze to his as I reached out and opened my door to release some of the pressure that was building inside the car.

  “I can do this, Flor,” I told him, squaring my shoulders and straightening my spine. “I want to do this.” Flor shrugged like he didn't care either way and climbed out of the car. I followed after him, aware of all the eyes that swung our way when we entered into the shop. I knew some of these girls by sight. They hung out here a lot, flirting with Flor and some of the other tattoo artists that worked alongside him. What I really wanted to do was tell them all to get a life and stop clinging to my brother, stop touching him, stop going home with him.

  Instead I smiled and tried to soak in the campy, eclectic atmosphere that felt even more like Flor than his own house did. With a black and white tiled floor, pale blue walls, and a black chandelier hanging over the counter, there was a surprising chicness to the place that seemed to draw people in. With the couches in the front, the beverage station stocked with tea and coffee, and a TV playing nonstop horror films, it felt less like a tattoo studio and more like somebody's living room. My dad said the whole place looked and felt unprofessional, but I liked it.

  As curious (and overtly jealous) gazes started to swing my way, I refocused my attention on Flor's back as we moved around the counter and he greeted his friends by bending over their pieces and commenting on the designs.

  “What the fuck are you doing back here today?” his best friend, Max, asked, coming out of the back and acting like seeing Flor here after-hours was the most shocking thing he'd ever witnessed in his life. When he spotted me, he raised his eyebrows and let a smile come across his full lips. Crap. I looked right back at him and pretended not to give a shit that he was here. Only I did. I really, really did. Max was the last guy I dated, and we dated behind Florian's back. I think we both were under the impression that if he found out, he'd kick Max's ass and at least verbally, he'd have kicked mine, too. Max was one of those guys that you just know is an asshole. Know it, and can't help yourself from going after him anyway.

  “Hey Abi,” he said, and I didn't like the way his voice dropped, like he was really, really excited to see me. This was exactly why I avoided stopping by the shop when I knew he was working. Flor had gotten under my skin tonight, made me forget. Damn it. “What brings you here?”

  Flor stood up, pulling his eyes away from a killer black and white rose that graced the elegant shoulder of a beautiful twenty-something. Her gaze found Florian right away and stayed there.

  “Getting her first ink today,” Flor said and then, for whatever reason, decided to add, “and the motherfucker wielding the needle is gonna be me.” He winked at Max, moving past him and leaving me there in an awkward moment of hesitation. Max was still smiling, still looking beautiful in an outfit eerily similar to Flor's – tight T-shirt, jeans, boots. I opened my mouth to say something, horribly aware that Flor would hear it, too. Our breakup had been amicable, but that didn't mean things weren't awkward. Guess that's what I got for dating a guy I'd known almost as long as I'd known Flor. Maybe childhood friend stuff never really worked out in the end?

  Max seemed to sense my hesitation, but before he could say anything to break the tension, one of the other artists called him over and I made my break. I followed Flor down a short hallway with doors on either side. I knew these rooms were reserved for people who wanted privacy and didn't want to be tattooed in the chairs that sat behind the front counter, in plain sight of all Florian's groupies.

  I shook my head to clear the negativity away. I didn't need that today. Today had to be special, momentous.

  “You ready for your first time?” Flor purred, knowing damn well the double entendre he was laying on me. I stuck my tongue out at him when he glanced over his shoulder and grinned, turning around and pressing his back to one of the blue doors. Or at least, I thought it was blue. In all reality, it was so covered in stickers that I wasn't exactly sure what color was underneath. “Seriously,” Flor said, his hand resting on the knob as I paused in front of him, once again far too aware of the narrow hallway and his nearness for my own comfort. “Are you really ready for this? I don't want you doing this just because you want to make me happy.”

  “Please, Flor,” I said, reaching out for the knob and thinking he'd move his hand out of the way. “When have I ever done anything just for you?” I kept my voice playful, hoping he wouldn't call me on my bluff. When we were really little, I used to do anything and everything in my power to get Flor to pay attention to me; this was not one of those times.

  My hand curled around his, fingers entwining together for the briefest of moments before he turned the knob and pulled away from my touch. If that brief bit of contact made my blood heat and turned my knees to jelly, I wondered what it was doing for him. From the looks of it, the answer was simply nothing. I guessed he'd touched enough girls in his day that it didn't really matter anymore.

  “Take a seat on the table while I work this sketch out, okay?” I nodded and waited for Flor to flick on the lights, bathing the small sterile room in color. His paintings lined the walls, colorful renditions of women in armor, dressed as vampires, hiding behind hooded cloaks. He was amazingly talented for his age, reminiscent of painters like Luis Royo and Victoria Francés. I took in the art with a smile, sitting down on the edge of the black cushioned chair and leaning back, letting my hair fan out around me while I glanced up at the ceiling and the swirl of stars painted across its blue and purple depths. If the exam chair and the stainless steel countertop to my left reminded me of a doctor's office, the rest of the room was awash in color.

  “This won't take long,” he promised, fishing a laptop out of a locked drawer and laying it on the table. “I've been working on something for awhile that I think you'll like.” He paused for a moment and I was certain he was going to add something, but instead he just sat down and started drawing. I let my eyes drift closed against the bright lights above me and tried to breathe. It wasn't the actual act of getting a tattoo that was freaking me out. Obviously, I was no stranger to the art. It was something else that was bothering me, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Of course, it probably had something to do with my stepbrother. Whenever I had a feeling I couldn't quite shake, butterflies in my stomach, or a perpetual shiver that clung to my spine, it always had to do with him. He's such an asshole.

  I kept my eyes closed for a while, the smell of antiseptic burning my nostrils as I waited for Florian to work his magic. A few minutes later, he told me he was sending something to the printer and left. When he came back, he had a digital painting in his hand.

  “I want you to take a look at this and let me know what you think,” he said, drawing my eyes open and focusing my attention on the art held out for my inspection. When I sat up and reached out to take it, a strange look passed over Flor's face, almost like he was unsure. I blinked and it was gone, replaced with that cocky self-assuredness that I was always so used to seeing.

  My fingers curled around the page and pulled it towards me, an image of a white stag greeting me with dark eyes and an enigmatic expression that somehow, strangely, reminded me of Florian. Its majestic form was silhouetted against a dark sky and a gray-yellow moon obscured by clouds. It was both so like and unlike my stepbrother that I wasn't sure what to say.

  “If you don't like it,” he told me, dragging a box of cigarettes out of his pocket and putting one between his lips, “you can tell me. I'm a big boy, I can take it.” He winked at me and sighed, slipping the fingers of his right hand into his pocket and leaning against the wall, centered between two of his paintings.

  I blinked up at him.

  “Oh, God, Flor. No, no, I love it. It's so … simple but so powerful.” He watched me as I spoke, eyes roving my face, like he was trying to discern if I was really telling the truth o
r not. For a second there, I actually felt like we might have a moment, but then Flor had to go and do one of his usual shrugs, standing up and moving towards the door.

  “Think about it. Make sure it's what you want, what you really, really want.” I swallowed hard and pulled the page closer to my chest. Somehow, I wasn't sure he was talking only about the tattoo. “I'm gonna go have a smoke.”

  I watched Flor walk out of the room and then dug my phone from my pocket. As I'd expected, there were already several texts from Addi. Rather than read them all, I simply called her back.

  “Hey bitch,” I said, trying to sound casual. I felt anything but. The second he graduated high school, Flor moved out of the house and I barely saw him. Then, a few months back, he started making appearances at family dinners and get-togethers again. I was finally starting to feel like we were becoming friends again. It was just … weird. I couldn't quite get a feel on his emotions and in turn, I couldn't quite get a feel on mine either.

  I knew Addison could tell the moment she heard my voice over the phone.

  “You better not be doing anything stupid,” she told me and I gawped, leaning forward and curling over the printout protectively.

  “I'm not,” I said, knowing I sounded defensive. I held the phone with my right hand and set the paper down in my lap. “I'm just maybe, sort of, kind of getting a tattoo?” It came out as a question. I'd always been a little bit of a wimp when it came to Addison. I swear, I could hear her pursing her lips at me.

  “Without me? You slut. I want to see you get inked. Where are you? I'm coming over there.”

  “You are not,” I said, glad that she hadn't quite put two and two together yet. The second she discovered that Flor was the one who was going to be tattooing me, she'd freak. “You are going to stay with your Irish soul mate and his parents and convince him to move his butt here and marry you, so I can have the apartment all to myself.”