Rush

by Shae Ross

  “I got it, I got it.” Ben reaches in, drops the oven mitts on each end of the bird and lifts. Preston casts him a worried look and takes a hesitant step back.

  “You’re supposed to leave the bird and lift the pan.” I’m pointing my potato peeler at them and shaking my head as Ben’s torso shifts left and right, streaming turkey drippings over the floor as he searches for empty counter space.

  “It’ll cool faster this way,” he says, speed-walking to my mother’s teacart and setting the bird on a white serving tray.

  “Are you sure that’s strong enough?” Devi asks, stretching to examine the cart with a concerned look.

  “It’s fine,” he replies, wiping his forehead with an oven mitt and leaving a streak of caramel colored grease. “What’s next?”

  “Gravy,” I respond.

  “I got it,” Preston says, pulling the turkey pan from the oven with two dishtowels.

  “Flour’s in the pantry,” I say, nodding to the back wall. When he returns with the small white bag I lift my pot and move it to work beside him. My wrist twists as I smash the steaming potatoes under a handheld masher, brushing his shoulder. Milk gurgles over chunks of butter as I pour, watching him whisk teaspoons of flour into the turkey drippings.

  “Thank you for coming,” I whisper. His head dips toward me for a kiss, and I return it full-on, savoring the taste of him for as long as I possibly can without getting busted by my siblings.

  The lines of his forehead crease as his brows rise. He leans in, kissing me again. “I think I like being your boyfriend,” he says. I return his smile and steamy heat fills my face as I resume the mashing.

  Dipping my fork into the pot of creamy spuds, I taste, pursing my lips. I skim another forkful and direct it to him. “More salt?” I ask. His lips close around the tines, moving slowly.

  “I’d go with more butter. And the gravy is done. I just need something to strain the lumps.”

  Ben reaches back, grabs a colander, and sets it in the sink. “Here,” he says, lifting the pan. “I got it.” He swings it to hover over the steel basin. Preston stiffens against my arm. Bubbly brown liquid waterfalls into the colander and slides through the holes in the bottom, leaving a basket of white lumps. I gasp and reach for Ben’s wrist as the last of the gravy snakes down the drain.

  His neck telescopes toward the sink. He blows out a breath and raises a fist to his mouth. “Uh, I don’t think I did that right. My bad. Sorry, man.”

  Preston shifts, giving his shoulder a conciliatory grip. “Gravy’s overrated. Let’s carve the turkey.”

  “Table’s all set,” Chloe says, entering the kitchen. She stops and sniffs. “Something smells funny.” She sniffs again. “Kind of like shoes or something overcooked.”

  I check the oven, close it, and shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh well, I’ll pour the water,” she says, heading for the china cabinet.

  “You can carve it on the cutting board on the island,” I inform Ben as he’s approaching the turkey.

  “Ready?” He nods to Preston.

  “Bring her on,” he responds.

  Ben lets out a small hup and lifts. He raises the huge bird chest level, and the white tray it’s been sitting on along with it. He shakes once, then shakes again, trying to dislodge the plastic rectangle “What the…” he exclaims, tilting his head over the carcass.

  “Just bring the tray,” Preston instructs him, but as Ben’s setting it down, I realize what Chloe was smelling. The hot turkey melted the tray, and now it’s stuck to the polyurethane. I smack my forehead, just as the echo of my mom’s post-spa voice rings through the foyer like Glenda the Good Witch calling to her munchkins. “Hello kids, wherever you are…”

  I turn panicked eyes to Chloe. “Do not let her in here. We need fifteen minutes.” She bolts out of the kitchen as we gather around the bird and inspect the bottom.

  Ben lifts and Preston wrestles the tray, holding the edges like a steering wheel and jerking it loose. Long swirls of polyurethane stretch up, like chewing gum, refusing to release. “Shit,” Ben growls, setting the bird down. He drums his fingers on the counter and fists a hand against his waist, thinking. Preston rubs his jaw.

  “Whelp,” Ben chirps. “Guess I’ll go get the chain saw.” I gape, speechless, and Devi casts him a “you can’t be serious” look as he pivots for the side door. “Everyone up to date with their tetanus shots?” he calls, smacking the garage door opener on his way out.

  “That’s something you don’t hear every Thanksgiving,” Preston murmurs.

  Twenty minutes later, we’re seated at the dining room table. Preston is on my left and Chloe is on my right. Ben and my mom bookend the table, sitting in the upholstered wingback chairs, while Devi sits beside Ben, and my sister Cate next to her. She slid in as we were setting the table, kissed everyone’s cheeks, and apologized for being so late.

  Inhaling the scent of roasted meat, I ignore the faint bouquet of melted plastic. My turkey-shaped Pinterest cheese ball is sitting proudly among the steaming platters of white and dark meat, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and green bean casserole. Heaven. A warm feeling washes over me.

  “What a lovely idea, Priscilla,” my mother says, and my heart swells as I survey the Norman Rockwell smiles of my family. My focus settles on my boyfriend, and he squeezes my hand under the table. I smile despite the prick of tears behind my eyes.

  Ben raises a triumphant glass. “Just like real families do it, except without the gravy.”

  “Or the chainsaw,” Devi mumbles against the edge of her crystal goblet. I choke down a laughing swallow, and I’m coughing into my napkin when the doorbell rings.

  “Who could that be on Thanksgiving?” my mom asks, setting her linen napkin beside her plate.

  I jump up. “I’ll get it. I’m pretty sure it’s Cate’s date.”

  “My date?” Cate echoes, scrunching her nose.

  “Uh-huh.” The payback moment I’ve been waiting for has arrived in the form of a six foot five Hispanic man named Armando. Take a bow, Priscilla.

  “You remember Armando, Cate,” I say. “He’s the guy you gave my number instead of yours, because you didn’t have the guts to tell him you weren’t interested. When he begged me for a chance to see you, I thought Thanksgiving would be the perfect opportunity for the two of you to get to know each other better.”

  Her features take on an owlish expression as she stammers. “What? But…”

  It’s a “Snow White singing to her birdies” kind of happy I feel as I spin out of the dining room. Cate’s footsteps click fast behind me and then slow as I yank the door open.

  “Armando!” I exclaim. “I am so thrilled you could make it.”

  I pat his shoulder and he kisses my cheek. Olive skin, warm brown eyes, and wavy hair slicked back into a man-bun—he’s nowhere near Cate’s type, and yet so utterly perfect. His big hands are covered with green oven mitts, and he’s holding a casserole dish—something smothered in yellow cheese and red sauce, dotted with scallion shavings.

  “Oh my God, that smells delicious.” I untie my apron and wrap it under the dish. “Let me take that from you so you can give Cate a huge hug. Huge.” I wink at him.

  “Thanks,” he says, staring down the foyer at my mortified little sister. Her hands are folded against her waist, and the blonde curls that usually bob around her heart-shaped face have lost their will to bounce.

  I whisper as I pass her. “Paybacks are a bitch, little sister.”

  “And so are you, Sil,” she replies, putting on a doll-like smile and moving forward.

  I sashay into the dining room. “Look what Armando brought.”

  My family stands as Cate introduces her “date,” and I pull a mental fist pump. I’ve just scored the best payback in the history of Winslow sibling rivalry. Ever.

  My mom smiles and spreads her arms as we all sit down. “Let’s say grace, shall we?”

  Oh, Lord. Here we go. Anxiety swirls in my stomach, and my palms feel s
weaty as Preston’s hand covers mine. Chloe casts me an anxious look, clamping her fingers into my skin on the other side, and I say my own silent prayer Please, dear God, let her be brief…and kind. Last time we were at this table, my mom and Devi got into it and Ben stormed out, calling us all bitches, and from the tense expression on Devi’s face, I’m guessing she remembers every word. Ben’s fingers curl open on top of the table, and he gives her a reassuring look. She drops her hand in his and lowers her head.

  Ben begins the blessing, expressing thankfulness for health, family and friends, and for the Winslows’ first home cooked Thanksgiving…in a long time. He skips a beat—it’s likely undetectable to our guests, but the rest of us know, those words are code for “since dad left us.” I let out a low breath waiting for the sound of Ben’s voice to resume. I peek up and see the strain on my brother’s brow and my heart thumps.

  Another moment passes and my mother takes over, faltering on the first sentence. “I am thankful for our guests, Devi, Preston, and Ar-man-do.” She sniffs. “And for each of my children. I know I don’t tell you enough how proud I am…”

  Wow. That early morning massage must have increased the blood flow to her brain. She’s actually being kind.

  “Ben, you have a brilliant career in New York, and you’ve found yourself a beautiful, smart girlfriend. Cate, every time I see you on stage, I marvel at your talent. Chloe, your artwork takes my breath away, and Priscilla, your abilities on the soccer field amaze me—we are all coming to North Carolina to watch you win the NCAA tournament.”

  The skin at the back of my neck tingles and the sensation shifts to the back of my arms. Preston is staring at me but I can’t look at him right now. I should have told him that I haven’t told my family about my suspension. His thumb moves slowly over the top of my hand. I blink hard and try to focus on my mom’s voice.

  “It’s been too long since we’ve celebrated a holiday at this house. Despite the fact that I fell apart after your dad left, none of you did.” I raise my head in unison with my siblings. She never talks about my dad. She dabs her napkin to her nose and sniffs. My stomach pinches, as it always does when we openly acknowledge the sins of our father. Cate’s lids are squeezed shut, as if she’s trying to block the pain, and Chloe’s mouth is turned down. My mom’s skin looks like paste and her perfectly lined mauve lips tighten over each word.

  “Thank you for bringing us all back home for the holidays, Priscilla.” A tear plops from each of my eyes. Cate sniffs, and Chloe and Devi are crying, too.

  Ben rests a heavy elbow on the table and covers his mouth with a hand, looking at all of us with an exasperated expression. He turns between Preston and Armando and presses his fingertips against his chest. “Are you feeling me here, brothers? This is what I have to deal with. You guys gotta stick around. I need some help.” He smacks the table and Chloe jumps beside me. “This is Thanksgiving, women! Quit your blubbering and raise your damn glasses. To the Winslow’s.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Preston

  I’m lying in bed listening to the sounds of the Winslows mansion settling around me. All in all, the day was a disastrous success. Something seemed to fail every five minutes, and yet the clan kept rolling and laughing. I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to have a big family to share life’s ups and downs—now I know. It felt amazing—with the exception of one thing—the tortured look on Priscilla’s face when her mom started praising her soccer accomplishments.

  I watched the emotions twist over her face as she tried to reconcile her mom’s words with her current situation—and there I was, sitting next to her, the guy that backed up and knocked the soccer princess off the championship platform. The guy that’s supposed to be pretending to like her, that really does like her, but has nothing to offer her.

  Soft footsteps pad on the other side of my door, drawing my attention. The inch of light streaming under the crack is interrupted by the shadow of two small feet. I hope to hell it’s Priscilla. A thin rap cuts the silence, the hinges whine, and she steps in.

  I rise onto my elbows and watch her arms move, closing the door quietly. She’s wearing a light tank top and boxers. The moonlight illuminates the graceful outline of her body—I can see the small curve of her perfect tits, and her tight dark nipples…

  “Preston…” The sound of her saying my name jumpstarts every gear in my body. “Are you awake?” she whispers.

  “No,” I say, rolling onto my side and propping my head with a hand. “I’m sleeping, and my dream just started to get good.” She crosses her arms strategically over her chest, adding a shielding layer to the thin tank, and stares at her feet, obviously upset. I flip the covers off my legs and move to her.

  “I just wanted to tell you, I’m sorry. I should have warned you.” She pulls back an inch, looking surprised by my sudden presence then smiling softly. I thread my hands through her hair and lean close, watching the shadows dance over her skin.

  “You don’t have to apologize to me, Peep.”

  “I should have warned you that I haven’t told my family about my soccer status. I was holding my breath to see if any of them might have seen the last game on TV. When I realized they hadn’t, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell them.” She exhales in a shiver, and I slide my hands to her sides.

  “It’s just hard to disappoint them.”

  “It will be easier once we’re past the hearing.” Her eyes sink behind a thin sheen of tears, glimmering like gemstones under water. My hearts flips and my grip tightens on her waist. “What is it?”

  “I’m scared.”

  My chest squeezes. “Are you scared because you don’t believe me?”

  “No. I’m scared because I do believe you.”

  I angle my head, searching for the meaning of her words as she continues, “I didn’t believe you at first, but now I do. And I’m scared of what will happen to you—to your eligibility. If you win your game on Saturday, you’re going to the Big Ten Championship and probably a bowl game. I’ve tried to push it out of my mind and focus on myself, but I feel like that’s not fair to you. I know you didn’t involve me in that bar fight on purpose. I jumped in willingly. I drank those beers, willingly.”

  “I don’t want you to worry about me. I just need you to trust me. Even if you told me not to, I’d still show up at that hearing,” I say, opening my sweaty fingers and squeezing her waist gently. A faint smile edges into the corners of her mouth and her bottom lip slides. She’s so close I can smell her skin—clean and faintly floral, and I can feel the heat radiating between us. I inch my face closer and speak low. “I seriously don’t know how you expect me to focus on anything other than you standing in my bedroom dressed like that.”

  Her smile widens, and I can feel our thoughts synchronizing. God. I shouldn’t have gone there. She slides closer, flexing her fingers against my pecs, walking right through the door my mouth just opened. I swallow hard.

  “Priscilla, there are things you should know about me before we…” Her eyes drop to my lips, and she looks so damn innocent and sexy as hell. “Before we…” I can’t even concentrate while she’s looking at me like that.

  “Before we fuck?” She fills in my blank with a scorching whisper, and the meaning shoots straight to my cock. I clench the muscles in my legs, and return a warning look. She doesn’t back up or even blink. The distress on her face has succumbed to the sexual energy running between us. I could have her right now…but it’s a mistake to go too far before she knows everything there is to know about me. Her words, though—Before we fuck?—echo in my head.

  I raise my thumb to her bottom lip. “You should shut your sweet mouth before I lose my…” She clasps the pad between her teeth, nipping, and when she sucks it into her mouth, I’m done. I’m good, but I’m not that good. I drop my head, replacing the thumb with a starved kiss, plunging into her with deep strokes.

  I bend and hook my forearm under her knees, swinging her up to my chest. Her breath sucks in throu
gh a startled gasp. Her arm circles my neck and she lets out a small laugh. I have to have her—not all of her, not yet, but at least some small part of her.

  I brush my nose down her cheek and whisper over her ear as I’m moving us to the bed. “I’m going to make you admit the real reason you’re in here. I’ll stop when you admit it.” I tell her this knowing I’m setting up a threshold for both of us—a point at which we’ll stop. My knee sinks into the mattress. I lower my arms and set her down. I’m watching for any resistance, but all I see is a sultry grin.

  “If you want me to stop, just say it.” I kiss her, whispering the directive against her mouth, and there’s a small voice in the back of my mind that’s begging her to tell me to stop. My knee slides between her warm legs, and I lower my body, cautioning myself to go slow, reminding myself that despite her willingness, she’s still a virgin.

  She traces my lower lip with her tongue, making a low, seductive sound that heats my blood. I release more of my weight, shifting my hips and deepening our kiss.

  Her lashes flutter above the tiny lines at the corner of her eyelids, and she blinks them open, focusing through a spellbound expression. I tilt my hips, pressing my hard cock against the core of her, and watch her eyes widen.

  Her teeth tug at the side of her lip and she arches, sliding a leg and squeezing her calf against mine.

  As I press a kiss high on her cheek, my words are a taunting whisper. “Ready to admit it now? I’ll stop—all you have to do is tell me the real reason you came to my room, Peep.” A miniscule chip in my brain urges her to concede, but the jaw-clenching sweetness of her long limbs wrapped around and clinging to me short circuits every other thought.

  “Maybe I came to see if you were warm enough?” Her fingernails skim my sides, and I suck in a shiver.

  “I’m not—and you’re lying,” I say, kissing the other cheek. I spread my knees slowly, easing her legs farther open. “You feel so good, baby.” I breathe against her ear, kissing a slow line over the side of her cheek and trailing lower, down her neck. “You should really just admit it.” Her legs move higher on my thighs, and her hands stroke my back, alternating between a sensual massage and an intense grip. Everything in her touch yearns for a response. My cock strains, pulsing from the rush of blood.