Lip Service - GOOGLE
Page 13
But most of all, I’ve learned that people don’t always leave. Hunter has taught me so much, just by sticking around and not bolting when things got rough. And because of him, I’ve learned to stay too.
“How did I get so lucky?” I pat him on the chest once I’ve fixed his tie.
“I’m the lucky one.” He gently caresses my cheek, his eyes twinkling with love and lust, then drops his hand to entwine the fingers of my left hand with his right. He lifts my hand and kisses the ring that is a symbol of our commitment to one another.
Everything can change in a year. Everything has changed in a year.
“We should go,” I whisper. He nods and leads me out of the office. We make our way down a familiar hall leading to the first of two black curtains. We rush through the open space with three workspaces on either side of us. The tattoo shop is basically the same as it’s always been—for now.
Hunter and I are preparing to work on renovations.
That’s right, I’m the owner now. I’m keeping all of the current tattoo artists and personnel while scouting for up and coming artists who are more than great artists—I want to bring in people who know how to tell stories with ink. I want to mentor them, help shape their artistic style in the same way kind men and women had done for me.
“Can you grab the sign?”
Hunter steps behind the counter to grab the plastic sign to hang on the door.
After he’s hung the sign and we’re outside on the bustling city sidewalk, I turn the key and take a step back to look at the tattoo shop—my tattoo shop. The sign reads: Closed For Renovations. Will Re-Open on May 25th Under New Name, Watercolor Dreams.
Hunter massages my shoulder with a firm hand and kisses me softly against the back of my neck. “Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?” I place my palm on his, holding him in place as I lean gently back against him. “To run this place, or for Chad to become a national star?”
“Both.” He throws his other hand around my stomach to hold me in place. Every time he touches me there, I can’t help worrying he’s sacrificed far too much to be with me. It’s always been a fear of mine, not being able to keep a man for multiple reasons, not the least of which is my inability to have children.
I’ve managed to voice my fears. Hunter assuaged those fears, literally tore them away from the aching pit in my gut that always seemed to scream the loudest that I wasn’t worthy.
We’ve talked about our options extensively when it comes to having children, and we’re not sure what path we’re going to pursue but I know whatever the path, we’ll walk it together.
“It’s a nice sign,” Hunter murmurs. “But we should really get going. Won’t look very good if Chad’s agent and sister are a no-show.”
I laugh, turning around and throwing an arm over each of his shoulders. “Yeah, well who’s fault is that?”
“Seriously?” He arches one brow, a cocky grin hitching across his lips. “If I recall correctly, you’re the one who pulled me into the office under the guise of needing an opinion on something.”
“An opinion on which dress I should wear.”
“And after you tried on the first two, I picked this one,” he points out, grabbing a fistful of the white fabric of the dress that flows just beneath my knees.
“And then you said my panty lines were too noticeable so perhaps I should go commando.” I laugh and shake my head. “After which, you stepped toward me with that familiar look in your eye and somehow…”
He shrugs with a cocky grin. “I am irresistible.”
I break away from the hold he has on me and slap him playfully in the chest. “Seriously, we need to go.”
“Should we take my car…” He cocks his head to me. “Or should we take your bike?”
I stop dead in my tracks. “Really?” To this day, he still hasn’t agreed to ride my bike with me. For being a big, strong man, he certainly has a lot of phobias—needles, heights, bikes, spiders, and snakes—and I love that he doesn’t hide behind machismo but rather tells me every single one.
“No.” He laughs and shakes his head defiantly. “I was kidding. There’s no way I’m getting on that deathtrap in this traffic.”
I purse my lips, feigning a sad pout.
He continues to shake his head, but with a little less conviction. So I turn my lips into a full frown, and that does the trick.
“I hate you so much,” he groans.
“That’s a lie.” I poke him in the chest then practically skip to my bike parked at the curb. It takes a little more maneuvering than normal to hop on thanks to my dress, but I manage. He knows we’re in a hurry, so he glides on behind me. And it’s so damn cute how tight he holds me as I turn the key in the ignition.
When we speed out of the parking lot, his grip gets even tighter, almost to the point where I can’t breathe. I immediately begin to have second thoughts that perhaps we should have just taken his car, but the fact that he’s okay riding shotgun behind his woman says a lot about him. People in this world might think they know who Hunter Kiss is—I certainly used to believe he was somebody else entirely—but they’re wrong.
They have no fucking idea.
Once we begin to merge onto the interstate, his grip on me loosens. It’s a freeing experience being on the back of a bike with the wind in your hair, and I do believe it’s an experience he’s going to become addicted to. He lets out a wild yell, hollering against the wind as we accelerate faster and faster down the highway, weaving in and out of traffic. It’s like he’s a young boy experiencing something for the first time, one of many first experiences for us both over the last year.
A year ago I was terrified Chad wouldn’t graduate, that he’d end up signing his life away without a backup plan. Chad and Hunter both knew of my concerns, and together they worked out an agreement that would allow him to graduate first. Chad said it was always what he’d wanted, but I know better. I know that he did it for me, and I’m so thankful for that.
Today’s a big day for all of us, Chad most of all. He’s a first round pick in the draft. It’s the realization of a dream.
And our father will be cheering him on from the audience, and that’s just about the best possible gift he could have ever given my brother. I’m still wary. I’m not ready to forgive or forget completely. But I’m willing to give my father a chance, and so far, he’s worked hard to prove he’s changed, and that’s been the greatest gift to me.
Well, second greatest gift.
The man hugging me from behind, his strong arms cradling my stomach, he’s the greatest gift I’ve ever known. He loves me completely. Loves every part of me. My stubbornness, my attitude, and my curves.
He loves me for me, and I’m confident he’s going to be the one to stick around.
Life’s a game, and scoring him was the ultimate touchdown.
Thank you for reading Lip Service.
If you enjoyed spending time with these characters, be sure to check out
the books about Kiss Talent clients, Lip Action and Locking Lips.
Also, be sure to check out my sports romance series, Going Deep.
Here’s a sneak peek of Book 1, Down Deep:
DOWN DEEP Excerpt:
Prologue
Football players possess the ideal combination of strength and endurance.
And the best asses of any other athletes.
At least, that’s what Sheila, Camille Pollert’s best friend, once said. Sheila’s cousin Mindy had thought Sheila was crazy. She’d claimed no one could beat soccer players for sheer sexiness.
But with her gaze focused squarely on #24’s ass, Camille was definitely calling the play in Sheila’s favor.
Of course, since Camille had been in love with the boy currently wearing the #24 jersey since freshman year, she supposed she was a bit biased.
Football players grunted and tackled each other, and the shrill sound of a whistle filled the air. She quickly took a few photos before wandering around the outskirts
of the field. Always looking for the perfect shot, she hardly even noticed the screams and shouts of the students in the bleachers or the off-key blaring of the marching band.
A senior in high school, she had been part of the yearbook staff since ninth grade, but this was her first big assignment. But she wasn’t just taking photos for the yearbook. Some of the photos she was taking for herself, to hide away in her box of photos documenting her crush on the most popular boy in school: Heath Dawson, player #24.
Camille heard one of the coaches yell something at the ref, and the ref warned him to back off. He didn’t. She walked over to the long bench where some of the home team was sitting, all of them watching the ref and coach argue. She took a photo, liking how the shot radiated the edginess that she could feel coming off the team in waves.
Finally, the ref made an offside call against the visiting team and instituted a five-yard penalty. The players on the bench cheered while those on the field began to huddle up for the next play. Camille stayed at the bench, snapping photos.
At one point, Heath jumped into the air to catch the ball. Turning upfield and toward the end zone, he weaved agilely around the cornerback. Out of nowhere, the free safety came in, lowered his shoulder pads, and hit Heath square in the chest, causing the ball to fall.
The defensive cornerback scrambled and fell on the ball, recovering it for the defense.
The angry screech of the whistle sounded.
Camille held her breath as Heath lay on the ground, unmoving, but then finally, he shook himself off and stood. Looking both angry and crestfallen, he jogged back to the sidelines.
She blushed, her heart picking up speed when she realized he was headed right toward her where she stood by the water table. He was still several feet away when he took off his helmet. He shook his head, his sweaty dark locks brushing across his forehead, and he smiled gamely when a teammate slapped him on the shoulder. But his expression grew cloudier when he glanced up into the stands at an older man—Camille had seen them together enough to know it was his father—glowering, yelling something that she couldn’t catch.
Heath walked right by her without even noticing her, which unfortunately wasn’t anything new.
Even though Camille’s father had coached Heath when he was just starting to play football, she’d never actually met him until ninth grade. That day, however, was forever burned into her memory. Their lockers had been next to each other, and when she’d been trying to reach up and place her books on the top shelf, Heath had stepped in and helped her. “Having trouble there?” he’d asked with a grin. His hand had brushed hers, and she had jumped away with a bright blush. He had looked her up and down, as if trying to place her, but when she was too tongue-tied to say anything, he had shrugged and turned back to his conversation with one of his buddies.
Heath smiling at her and helping her had made her heart beat so fast she was surprised she hadn’t passed out. Not many girls got to be so close to him, and her appreciation for his help quickly blossomed into a fully-fledged crush. She snapped photos of him around school, she dreamed of him asking her out and telling her he loved her, and she blushed every time she heard his loud laugh in the hallways. As locker buddies, she had the opportunity to see him almost every day, although she never had the courage to talk to him. Just being close to him had been enough for her.
Sadly, the next year they were no longer locker buddies, but she’d always looked for him. She’d wanted to see his smile and hear his laugh, even if he didn’t know she existed.
She was so preoccupied thinking about her history with Heath that she hadn’t realized he was standing right next to her until he shoved a water cup into her hand. “Dude, refill this for me?” he asked, his gaze on the field.
Camille stared at the cup, nonplussed, before stammering, “I’m not the waterboy.” She thrust the cup back in Heath’s direction.
His gaze jerked to her face, and for a moment, he looked embarrassed before he grinned. “My bad. You’re definitely not a waterboy.”
Amused more than insulted, Camille glanced down at herself—jeans and an oversized football jersey with stained tennis shoes—and she shrugged. “I can see how you’d think that.” She refused to apologize for being a tomboy or for how she dressed.
Heath squinted at her. “No, it’s not the clothes. It’s the hair. It’s too short. You should think about growing it out.” He returned his glance to the field, waving at a teammate before glancing back at her. “Have we met? What’s your name?”
Not surprised he hadn’t recognized her as his silent locker buddy from ninth grade, she fingered her hair. She had always worn it short—at the moment it was about chin-length— because she didn’t know a lot about hair or make-up. Her mother had died when she was five, and her single father wasn’t exactly into fashion. Plus Camille’s naturally wavy hair could be so temperamental. But maybe Heath was right. Maybe she looked too much like a boy with short hair like this. Then she bristled, annoyed with herself for even considering his suggestion. What right did he have to give her style advice? When he looked at her again, though, an eyebrow raised, she blushed and stuttered, “I’m Camille.”
“Well, Camille, you should eat something, girl.” Looking her up and down, Heath added, “You’re too skinny. You’d look great with some curves.” His gaze landed on her breasts—or lack thereof—and Camille crossed her arms over her chest. She knew she was flat-chested and scrawny and didn’t look like the kinds of girls Heath dated—curvaceous and blond and tan—but she couldn’t believe he was being such an ass.
He had no right to talk to her like that. He didn’t even know her! What kind of guy told a girl she needed to eat more because she was too skinny? Camille ate as much as any person.
Heath was still watching her, and a frown had overcome his expression.
Camille wasn’t quick to anger, but when she was truly pissed, her friends and family knew there’d be hell to pay. She opened her mouth to tell him to go to hell when a harsh voice barked something from behind her, making them both jump.
“Would you stop talking to the waterboy and concentrate for once?” a man yelled.
Camille spun around, and saw Heath’s dad stalking toward them. He looked so incensed she immediately took a step back, bumping into Heath.
He put a hand on her shoulder and gently moved her behind him, as if he was actually trying to protect her from his father.
“What the hell was that out there?” Heath’s dad ranted. “When are you going to get it into your thick skull that without a scholarship, you aren’t going anywhere?”
Heath glanced back at her, concern and something darker overtaking the frown on his face. While part of Camille wanted to rush to his defense and tell his hateful father that Heath was the best wide-receiver in the state, she was too humiliated given Heath’s father, just like his son, had mistaken her for a boy.
She clutched her camera close to her body, like a shield. Heath said something she didn’t catch, and his dad replied, “You’re a girl?”
It was too much. She skittered off the field and even though she thought she heard someone call her name, she didn’t stop. She hid out under the bleachers for the remainder of the quarter, glad that no one bothered her as tears poured down her face. She felt silly for being so hurt by what Heath and his dad had said, but sometimes the barbs about her appearance became too much.
After the tears had dried up, anger took the place of her humiliation. Hatred for Heath completely eclipsed any kinder feelings she’d had toward him, and her crush on him disintegrated almost as quickly as it had started. So what if he’d helped her that one time and smiled at her? So what if he was the cutest boy in school and made her heart pound? She had no interest in being in love with a guy who was such a jerk, and if she’d known he was that awful, she’d never have fallen for him in the first place. He’d been the star football player, unattainable and handsome and popular, and she had idolized him from the moment she’d first seen him.
“Hey, what’re you doing down here?” Camille turned to see her best friend Sheila climbing in next to her, her bright red hair unmistakable. “I thought you had to take pictures tonight?”
Camille wiped her face of any tearstains, hoping Sheila wouldn’t see she’d been crying. “I was. I did. I’m taking a break.”
“Underneath the bleachers, below the marching band?” Sheila glanced up as one of the drummers dropped a stick and swore.
“It’s as good a place as any.”
“Uh huh. I’m supposed to believe you’re taking a break in the final quarter when you’d been wanting this assignment since you joined yearbook?”
Camille glared at Sheila, but her friend just smiled. Sighing, Camille rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’m hiding out. Happy?”
“Not until you spill the details of who, what, when, where, why, and to what extent.”
“Heath Dawson is a jackass.”
Sheila’s eyebrows rose until they disappeared below her bangs. “Did he say something to you?”
Camille really didn’t want to have this conversation, but she also knew Sheila wouldn’t leave well enough alone otherwise. Caving, she recounted what Heath and his dad said about her, feeling the hot press of anger in her chest once again when thinking about it. “Who says stuff like that?” she asked in a huff.
“Jackasses like Heath Dawson, for one. And quadruple jackasses like his father. The guy’s so hard on his son, I almost feel sorry for him. But I always told you Heath wasn’t worth your time. Would you listen to me? Noooooooo.” Sheila gestured toward Camille. “And now look at you. Heartbroken, discarded, a shell of your former self.”