Five-Star

by J Santiago

  Where was the damn motorcycle when she needed it?

  She vaguely recalled Franco’s parting actions this morning—his kiss on possibly the most sensitive spot on her body, which had taken him only moments to discover—and his words. He’d promised to see her later. She knew that he hadn’t been referring to work. And the part of her that had capitulated last night would be waiting for him to be inside her again. But the woman here, now, still attempting to stand up after their confrontation, knew that she wouldn’t see that Franco tonight, maybe not again. And she wanted to cry for her loss.

  Thirty-Five

  Molly was wrong.

  She pulled into her driveway to find Franco’s truck sitting there, and he was waiting on her front stoop with his arms draped over his legs so that his hands lay motionless over his knees. The pose struck her. He looked like a lazy sort of predator biding its time.

  Taking a deep breath, Molly checked her emotions, mostly because she couldn’t focus on one in particular, and got out of her car. Stopping in front of him, she looked down. “Hey.”

  Franco lifted his head slightly and merely nodded.

  His lack of greeting set her on edge, more so than when she’d pulled up. Fighting the desire to scream at him for his rudeness and boldness and arrogance, she strode around him and unlocked her door. Stepping over the threshold and dropping her bag, she opened the door wider to admit him. But he remained where he was, still facing the street.

  Neither one of them moved for a minute, striking a weird display with her standing in the doorway and him sitting on the step, both looking in the same direction but seeing different things—a twisted tableau for where they were. She might have laughed at the disjointed picture, but she couldn’t find anything funny.

  Impatience finally winning, Molly struck out at him. “Are you coming in or not?”

  “I can’t decide.” He paused.

  His stillness disturbed her.

  “Oh-kay,” she said, sounding like a petulant child waiting for her parents to give her what she wanted. “Why? Or why not?”

  “Part of me wants to throttle you, and part of me wants to be inside you. I can’t decide which part of me is going to win out. And, even if I don’t throttle you, I don’t know if any part of me is feeling gentle right now. Even as pissed off as I am with you, I don’t want to hurt you.”

  And how am I supposed to respond to that? she thought.

  Her body got all hot and needy, but her head wanted to tell him to fuck off. Feeling sullen, pissy, and horny all at once, Molly made a humph noise that she knew he would hear and backed away from the door with every intention to shut it and him out. But for no reason she could come up with, she lost her composure.

  “What has you so pissed off? You’re acting like what happened today was personal. The events of today had nothing to do with the events of last night.” She sounded whiny instead of forceful, and she hated herself for it.

  Mad that Franco was right in front of her and refused to talk to her or look at her, she lost it and yelled, “Grow the hell up!”

  She stepped back and started to slam the door, hoping for an exclamation point to her directive, so when the door stopped before the resounding slam, she was surprised. Then, Franco was in front of her, easing her back into her house, gently shutting the door before moving into her space and pinning her to the wall. He didn’t say anything. He just looked down at her, his eyes searching hers. He looked tired and mad and sexy all at the same time, and Molly knew she was in trouble because, against all of her best judgment, she wanted him badly.

  He still didn’t say anything, and everything in her ratcheted up—her want, her mad, her confusion. She could feel it all show on her face, and she watched him ingest it. His desire to throttle her and be with her played out in his eyes, and she felt every emotion flowing between them. When his hand reached out to cup her nape and his thumb slid across her bottom lip, she thought she was going to implode. As he leaned forward, his forehead met hers, and a ragged breath escaped from him. No longer able to meet his eyes, she closed hers.

  When he started to speak slowly and carefully, she tensed. “My mother is famous for saying that there is a time for everything. This isn’t the time for us, but I can’t seem to grasp that.”

  She knew this. It plagued her. Knowing that, she couldn’t seem to stop herself. That he was feeling the same thing, the same pressure, should have reassured her—maybe. But it didn’t. It made the space between them seem like an hour and a millisecond. He hadn’t moved, except to slowly lead his thumb back and forth over her mouth, like he was trying to get his fill with this subtle yet completely sexual motion. She waited for it to break the plane, to give her a reason to draw him into her mouth, but he continued to fight it, much like she knew she should.

  “Franco,” she sighed.

  Her body tight with tension, she pulled her hands away from the wall, brought them to his chest, and gently pushed him, trying to give herself space. She hadn’t made any decisions or come to any profound conclusions, but being so close to him sort of robbed her of any ability to reason. But that motion seemed to propel Franco out of his stupor. Suddenly, his mouth was on hers, and his body pressed her into the wall, stealing her space. The kiss wasn’t gentle; it wasn’t full of regret. It was carnal and rough and electrifying. She felt their teeth knock as the grace of their sex the night before gave way to the knowledge of the forbidden, their desire for each other winning out. Last night, she had felt satisfied, a little bit guilty, and relieved. Now, with their bodies coming together in all the right places and their confusing attraction taking over, with the practiced lovemaking giving way to their base desires, she felt scared as hell by her sense of complete fulfillment.

  Somehow, Molly and Franco found their way to her bed. It was the first conscious thought Franco could hold on to since the moment he’d entered her house.

  We made it to the bed.

  Then, he rolled out from between her thighs, pulled her into the crook of his neck and shoulder, and gently rubbed his hands up and down her back, calming their breathing and racing hearts. Their clothes were strewn around the room, the sheets tangled around them. Franco rubbed his jaw against her hair, letting the silence descend and take up space. It wasn’t his normal MO, but he’d pretty much broken all his rules, and out of his normal comfort zone, he didn’t know how to move forward. Knowing all of that, he was surprised to find that he wasn’t uncomfortable in the quiet of the room. When he considered it though, he wasn’t surprised. It was Molly after all.

  “Grow the hell up, huh?” he said, his voice laced with humor.

  He felt her head duck into his body and vaguely wondered if she was embarrassed.

  “Yeah,” she finally replied with none of the supposed embarrassment in her tone.

  “You think I’m taking this personally?”

  She groaned against him.

  “Seriously, Franco? We are going to do this right now?”

  He managed to grab her by her biceps and pull her up so that she was looking at him in the face. “Do what?”

  “Have this conversation about what happened today, right now?”

  “When else would we have it?”

  “I don’t want to do this when I am still lying on top of you, and I can smell you all around me.”

  He saw the faint blush creep up her neck. He flashed her a smile before teasing her, “You were surrounding me not ten minutes ago, and yes, we are still naked. It doesn’t matter. We need to have this conversation, Molly.”

  “Fine!” she said indignantly before jumping off of the bed and flinging herself into the bathroom, seemingly to wash up. She returned minutes later, her body wrapped up in a robe, most of the sexy parts of her covered.

  He couldn’t hide his smile as she sat as far away from him as the bed would allow her. He almost reached for her, but because she was glaring at him, he figured it was best if they had some physical separation.

  “What was discover
ed that suddenly has everyone on edge?”

  The surprised look on her face soothed him in ways words wouldn’t have been able to. “There isn’t any bloody glove at this point, Franco.”

  “Why do you have to travel with us? And let me go back and say that I’ve never had a problem with having you on the road with us, not that you have ever asked. But I don’t really like being told that you have to come.”

  “Yeah, I figured that would go over really well,” she replied sarcastically.

  “Do you blame me?”

  “No, of course not,” she said, waving away his question. “It’s a good plan for right now though. If I’m on the road and monitoring the player-guest gate, it looks like we are taking this seriously. It’s a concession to the NCAA—a preemptive strike, if you will.”

  He nodded, understanding and appreciating the strategy. It made him feel better that they didn’t think that his program was doing anything illegal. “What other concessions am I going to have to make?” he asked, dreading her answer. He saw her take a deep breath and garner her strength. Shit, he thought, I am not going to like this answer.

  “Look, Franco,” she began, pulling her legs underneath her, getting comfortable with the space in between them, “I can predict how some of this will play out, and you are going to hate it.”

  She didn’t say anything else.

  “Okay,” he said, hoping to prod her to continue.

  She looked away from him, and in that moment, he knew that she was wishing there were a conference table and business clothes between them. A very small part of him felt like an asshole for putting both of them in this position. But most of him just couldn’t be sorry that he was still in her bed.

  “At some point—and I’m not sure when that is—we will have to declare Tank ineligible.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he raged. Forgetting that he was naked, he jumped up from the bed and walked toward her, his bellow reverberating in the room.

  She merely raised both eyebrows and looked at him like a teacher patiently waiting for her student to realize he’d just stepped over the line. As her glower festered between them, Franco sat back where he’d been sitting.

  “Franco, don’t act like you don’t know the rules. Any arrangement with an agent and a member of the family is a violation. Even if Tank hasn’t talked to Richard in however many years, he still has to suffer the consequences. But since he hasn’t talked to Richard, he should be reinstated fairly quickly.”

  “Let me see if I understand this. We are going to declare him ineligible. Then, he’ll be reinstated. Just like that?” At her nod, he got all pissed off again. “Doesn’t that seem pointless? If he’s just going to be reinstated, why do we have to go through this anyway? Why do we have to say he’s guilty of something merely to have the guilty plea waved aside? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  She sighed heavily. And he wished he could go back to the moments before this conversation had started, when he’d been wrapped up in her, and wringing better sighs from her.

  “Come on, Franco. Don’t be an ass. This is just the way it has to be. You need to get on board with it because Tank will take it a lot better coming from you than from anyone else.”

  Franco leaned back against the headboard, overcome by the futility of the situation—Tank’s and his being with Molly. He shouldn’t be here with Molly right now—or ever—while they worked together. They’d both been stupid and irresponsible.

  He slowly got up and retrieved his clothes without looking at Molly, afraid of what she’d see in his face. When he was dressed, he walked over to her. He reached down and rubbed his thumb against her bottom lip.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  They both knew he meant good-bye.

  Thirty-Six

  Since their fight two weeks ago, Amber and Tank had managed to spend all of their free time together. Granted, it wasn’t much, but they’d made it count. Tank had surprised her with his desire to experience all of the traditional dating rituals—like taking her to dinner and a movie, strolling through town square while holding hands, having her meet him at the stadium when her shifts had ended. Watching him put himself through extra workouts topped her list of favorite dates. And even though she loved her time at the stadium with him, she still hadn’t gone to a game. She should have been prepared for his question, but she wasn’t.

  “Come to my game this weekend?”

  Amber’s startled gaze met his. “Huh?”

  Tank seemed to take a deep breath, almost like he was girding his strength. “Come to the game. It’s not that far of a drive. I can sneak you into my hotel room,” he suggested, a look of obvious mischief sliding into place.

  Laughing, Amber said, “That’s definitely not happening. Do you know what Franco would do to both of us if he caught me in your hotel room the night before a game?” She shivered, as if in fear.

  Tank answered with a laugh, “Yeah, that’d be bad. I’d like to survive to play in the game.”

  Suddenly, Amber’s smile disappeared. “Did you ever talk to him?”

  Tank nodded, but when he didn’t say anything, Amber felt the need to fill the silence, perhaps letting him know that whatever transpired between the boy and his coach would be okay with her.

  “Me, too,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Huh?”

  “You and Franco talked? And you didn’t go all self-destructive after?” he said in a teasing way.

  But she knew he was serious. It made her want to tell him, to share the conversation she’d had with Franco with him. The realization made her shudder with hesitation. She so didn’t want to go where they were going—or where she was going. She didn’t want to feel so much for him. But there was something compelling in his face, and again, she found herself telling him about her conversation with Franco when he’d explained his motivation for telling Tank about Rowdy. He didn’t say much during her retelling, but he listened.

  She finished with, “Look, I don’t want my relationship with Franco to come between you and him. I know…I know that you are pretty tight.”

  “It wouldn’t,” he answered a little too quickly. “When I met you, you weren’t Franco’s daughter, and most times, I’m not even thinking about it.” He laughed again as he maneuvered her so that she was lying on top of him. “Except when you’re pissed. Then, you kinda really look like him, and it’s sorta freaky.”

  “Just don’t piss me off.”

  At her playful glare, he flipped her over, so she was on her back, and he was lying on top of her, between her legs, his mouth on her scar.

  “Come to my game,” he said this time instead of asking a question.

  He kissed up her neck, along the spiderweb, clearly trying to entice her. She giggled and immediately started at the unfamiliar, ludicrous sounds bubbling from her mouth. She tensed, and because of where he was, so intimately connected to her, he felt it.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said. She hoped to redirect him with her own question. “So, your game?”

  Seeming to know her strategy, he shrugged and got back to attempting to tempt her. “Yes, my game. Saturday”—kiss, suck—“three thirty”—kiss, tongue in mouth—“quarterback”—kiss back down her neck—“undefeated.”

  Then, he stopped talking, so he could concentrate all of his effort on kissing her mouth, delving into the warm depths, stealing her breath while he surrendered his. Amber lost all thoughts of the conversation, everything instead focused on him, his mouth, his tongue, his body. She always seemed to want him, even when he was attempting to push her into something she wasn’t sure she was prepared for. She pretty much wanted him all the time.

  “Okay,” she breathed as his mouth left hers to blaze a path down her neck.

  Tank stopped, looking up at her. “Okay what?”

  “Okay, I’ll come to the game.”

  He smiled then, and she felt like she’d been punched in the gut. It lit him up
from the inside.

  “I’ll drive up on Saturday for the day.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, “Saturday.”

  He continued to stare at her, catching her in some sort of happiness haze. She could feel his delight from her decision to go to the game. For the first time in a very long time, Amber took some pleasure in making someone else happy.

  He ducked his head, kissing her stomach, turning his attention to commandeering her body, reading and penetrating her defenses, delivering the perfect play. As her mind relinquished all of its worries and hesitations about Tank, her body took him in, sheltering him in her depths, providing both the escape he needed and the home he craved.

  When he was buried deep, he paused, focusing on her with his gaze. Bracing himself with one arm, he placed his left hand on her jaw, spanning almost the length of her scar. “Thank you,” he said before he resumed movement.

  She wasn’t sure what the thank-you was for—the sex, agreeing to go to the game. But something in the way he looked at her told her all of the things she needed to know.

  It was that moment, that exact moment, she gave up the fight and fell in love with him.

  “I’m worried,” Tank admitted, looking down at Amber, as she raised her eyes to meet his.

  “That they’ll find something to implicate you?” she asked, her face a mask of confusion.

  He could tell she wasn’t questioning him, but his worry somehow gave her a reason to doubt.

  “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. He really didn’t know. He knew that he hadn’t done anything wrong, but he felt disoriented, like there was something that he couldn’t quite see, and it made him nervous.

  Amber shifted away from him and sat up, dragging the sheet with her so that it covered her breasts. She noted his wandering eyes with a smile and said, “No way a serious discussion is happening if you keep looking at me like that.” Adjusting the sheet, she leaned against the cinder-block wall, not even grimacing as her back hit the unforgiving cold stone.