Infraction

by Rachel Van Dyken

  “Probably something kinky. It’s Sanchez we’re talking about and there’s really only three ways to distract him—football, sex, cookies.”

  Kins shrugged and stared at the door. “Huh, not a bad way to live.”

  My phone started ringing again.

  Panic washed over me.

  I had no clue if he was pissed or just wanted to know why the hell I felt the need to put my hands on his sister’s ass and my tongue down her throat.

  “You look freaked out.” Kins grabbed the phone and hit “Ignore,” then placed it on the counter. “Give it a few minutes, we’ll shower—”

  “And when you say—”

  “Stop.” She placed her hand on my chest and shoved. “Don’t you think you’re in enough trouble right now? If Jax finds out you’re anywhere near me or the shower while I’m in it, he’s going to castrate you.”

  “It was one kiss.”

  “Are we looking at the same picture?” She tapped my code into my phone with the speed of someone who had my birthday memorized and then enlarged the picture. “It looks like we’re having sex with our clothes on.”

  Our bodies literally had no space between them and somehow she’d wrapped half of hers around mine as though she was hanging on for dear life.

  “Back up, how do you know my pass code?”

  “Your birthday’s March seventh. God, it amazes me how stupid guys are sometimes. You’re too busy with football to change your code, you’re just like Jax.”

  I gripped her by the hips and shoved her against the counter. “Say I’m just like your brother again, and I’m joining you in that shower to prove just how much I’m not like him, got me?”

  Her eyes flashed before she gulped and gave a jerky nod.

  “Good . . .” My body had other ideas, ones that didn’t involve letting her step one foot away from me. But she was worth more than that, more than sex, more than the only thing I was willing to give her. “Down the hall, first door on the right, fresh towels in the wood basket, and if you use my body wash I’ll hunt you down.”

  “Seriously?” She snorted. “Your body wash?”

  “I’m weird about my shit.”

  “Color me shocked. You gonna get your granny panties in a twist if I accidently grab your razor too?”

  “Touch it and I’ll know, Kins.”

  “What are you, some sort of neat freak?”

  “No, I just like my things to stay my things.”

  “Oh, so you never learned sharing? Remember, you sit in the circle and pass cookies around.” She stood on her tiptoes and patted me on the cheek. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal your cookie, Miller, not even if you force it down my throat.”

  I groaned.

  She slapped my ass.

  And I nearly broke the countertop with my fingers as she skipped off with a backward wave.

  Chapter Five

  JAX

  The bastard wasn’t answering his phone.

  Of fucking course.

  I looked at the picture again. I couldn’t stop looking at it—everyone in the world could see my sister attaching herself to Miller like she was under the impression she needed his lungs to aid her in her next oxygen fix.

  The call went to voice mail again.

  With a growl, I slammed my hand against the granite countertop and glanced back at the TV. There wasn’t a chance in hell I could watch last season’s tape and take notes.

  Options.

  I took a calming breath, in through my nose, out through my mouth, repeated the process five more times before I calmly took a seat on the couch and let the soothing sound of the clock in the background pass time.

  The silence buzzed.

  I clenched my fists.

  My fault.

  I’d told them to pretend to date.

  I needed to stop jumping to conclusions. Calm the hell down, and think about what could possibly possess two people who, this morning, looked ready to kill one another, to kiss—like that.

  I closed my eyes.

  Then snapped them open and grabbed my phone again, this time looking at the angle of the picture. Someone had been there.

  Another teammate would look the other way or give Miller a high five, either that or start writing his obituary.

  But Anderson.

  Asshole Anderson was devious enough to take a picture, and post it wherever he could, in order to what? Get Miller in trouble? Get me kicked off the squad after I figured out who took the photo and kicked his ass? The season hadn’t started. Management already had their hands tied up with bigger dilemmas than their star player kissing one of the cheerleaders.

  Jealousy?

  Or maybe, he was trying to call their bluff?

  Maybe he didn’t believe they were in a relationship, God knows he was aware of how I felt about Kins dating a football player.

  And if he didn’t believe it.

  He wouldn’t stay away from her.

  I fell back against the couch and groaned.

  I refused to take the chance that all of my focus would be taken away from football and Dad—and onto the slight possibility that Anderson would ruin her life again.

  My chest clenched.

  And my thoughts jumbled, focusing in on dark memories of carrying Kinsey when she was a child into the house, the blood, her screams. And years later, when she was dating Anderson, the emptiness on her face was haunting. The controlling bastard should be in prison.

  I took my sister’s life, her heart, seriously. Some might say too seriously. But those people could go to hell, because they didn’t know her like I did—they didn’t know her pain, they didn’t share it.

  Because I’d been there to pick up the pieces all those years ago.

  When she’d been abandoned.

  Lost.

  Hurt.

  When he’d verbally abused her until the girl I knew no longer existed.

  When she’d been a shell of the woman she was now. Watching everything she ate like it was out to attack her—when she stopped coming to holidays altogether because the guy was such a sadistic controlling bastard that he refused to let her see her family for fear we’d tell her the truth—he treated her like a slave, and made her thank him for it.

  I hated how much of myself I saw in him.

  And the preseason started in two weeks.

  Two. Weeks.

  I unlocked my phone and dialed Miller one more time.

  “Yo.” He sounded out of breath.

  “Yo?” I repeated. “Yo? That’s how you answer the phone after shit like that picture hits the media? Yo?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, were you expecting me to answer it with an explanation? You asked me to do this, and at the first sign of actual dating you’re barking up my ass?”

  He was too defensive.

  The arms on my hair stood on end.

  I decided not to touch it.

  Because if I knew anything about my friend it was that he was only defensive when he was hiding something.

  I just hoped to God it had nothing to do with my sister.

  “Look”—I cleared my throat, tried to sound more relaxed—“I’ve been thinking—”

  “When are you not thinking?”

  I chuckled. “For someone who just had his tongue down my sister’s throat, you’re not in such a good mood. I wonder why that is?”

  “Not because I enjoyed it. That’s for sure,” he said quickly.

  “Oh?”

  “Hell no! She’s your sister, man. Now what were you thinking?”

  “Dinner.”

  He paused and then, “You called me because you’re hungry?”

  “Yes, Miller, I called you so you’d bring me food.” I rolled my eyes. “No, I thought it would be . . . fun.” I choked on the word. When was the last time I even had fun? “Fun,” I repeated, forcing myself to sound more relaxed even though my free hand was clutching the couch cushion with such force my fingers were going numb. “For us all to go to dinner.”

&n
bsp; “Us?”

  “You, me, Sanchez, Emerson, Kins . . . You know, all of us.”

  He was hesitating. Why the hell was he hesitating? There was talking in the background.

  “Is someone there?”

  “NOPE!” he yelled. “Sorry, had to turn the TV down, so loud and annoying . . .”

  “Okay . . .”

  “So dinner . . .” He coughed and then coughed louder.

  “Dude, are you getting sick? You better not have given Kins anything!”

  “Glad you care more about her than me, that hurts, man.”

  “She’s blood.” I paused, winced, and then added, “You’re replaceable.”

  “Noted.”

  “Dinner?” Was that the third time I’d said it? I’d lost track.

  “Sounds great, but you’re bringing a date.”

  I froze. “The hell I am!”

  “You’ll be going stag, and I guarantee that Kins won’t agree to go with me unless you bring a date. You know how she’s been lately, trying to matchmake you.”

  “She’s ruining my concentration and she knows it!”

  “Fun.” Miller snorted. “You can barely say the word without scowling, may as well try having it, all-American quarterback Heisman Trophy winner.”

  My throat went dry. “You know I hate it when you bring up that shit.”

  “Real friends show friends their trophies.”

  “Repeat that slower and tell me how it sounds, Miller, I’ll wait.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Man, just bring someone!”

  Sweat started pooling on my forehead. I didn’t date. I couldn’t. Women didn’t date guys like me. They wanted to fuck them, get the starring role in the next movie they were after, suddenly get pregnant, and then laugh all the way to the bank. In all my time in football, there hadn’t been one single situation where I’d felt comfortable enough to ask a woman out without being fearful of her having the wrong intentions.

  “I don’t have time to find a date,” I mumbled. “It’s already two, and you know I like to eat early.”

  “God, you’re such a grandpa, you do realize there’s something other than the early bird menu, right?”

  Of course I knew, and I had money to do whatever the hell I wanted, I just didn’t want to get stuck in a crowd where all the women did was stare, hike up their skirts, write their numbers on napkins, or just corner me and ask for sex. I wanted something real.

  Something like my parents had.

  A pang so jarring, it sucked my breath away, hit me square in the chest. “Miller . . .”

  He must have noticed the change in my voice, because he quickly added. “Let’s at least do five thirty, send out a group text, and maybe you’ll get lucky and between now and then, someone will show up on your doorstep.”

  “Hate to break it to you, friend, but I’m not really into paying for dates, or strippers, or prostitutes.”

  “Ah, you like them for free?”

  “Bastard.”

  “Jax?”

  I stared up at the ceiling, chest tight with anxiety over the very idea of taking a girl out on a date. I hadn’t dated since college, and that had been a complete disaster. Girls hit on me so much and in such cheap and desperate ways that my focus on football sharpened, because it was the only thing that gave me peace, the only thing I could trust wouldn’t just stay because a big paycheck was coming.

  “I’ve got her.”

  I exhaled.

  And then did it again. “I know, man, I’m sorry I’m acting so crazy, I don’t know what’s wrong . . .” I knew. I just didn’t want to admit it.

  My dad’s body was dying with each dose of chemo.

  And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

  To keep the hero from fading into nothing.

  Or stop fearing that this might cause Kinsey to break down physically and emotionally like she did in the past. Knowing Miller had her back gave me a tiny bit of peace.

  “Good,” I whispered.

  Chapter Six

  KINSEY

  “For the record, I vote that this is the worst idea in the history of bad ideas,” Miller grumbled, raising his hand to knock on the door and then dropping it and shoving me into his place. “You do it.”

  “Some man you are,” I grumbled back, trying to remind my body, my heart, and my brain that this wasn’t real, that we weren’t really in a relationship, that if he was on my team, he would be the crappiest teammate ever because when I was at my most vulnerable he abandoned me.

  Mix that in with all of the hurtful things he said to Jax while he thought I was in the bathroom, and I was just done with trying to figure out whatever was between us. Ready to toss in the towel and stop with the farce. But then I’d seen the concern in Miller’s eyes, heard the concern in his voice, and knew that my brother, the guy on the other end, needed me to keep up with it.

  And while it was completely asinine. I was doing my part in keeping his mind on what he could control—by allowing it to be me.

  And even though it physically hurt to let anyone control me, it was different when it was done out of love—and not fear.

  I shivered.

  “You gonna do it or what?” Miller’s gruff whisper hit my right ear, making my right leg shake, and my entire body light on fire with awareness.

  “Yup.” I nodded then knocked again. “I just, I mean we were friends in college, I’ve seen her a handful of times over happy hour, all I know is she’s single, super pretty, smart, and oh, who am I kidding, I barely know her, but he needs a date, otherwise his entire focus is going to be on you and me, and he’s going to be able to tell that I—”

  Miller stiffened behind me. His hands ran down my arms, causing an involuntary shiver to run through my body. “He’ll notice that.”

  “Can’t fake that.” I jerked away from him. “It’s lust, it’s not like I spent my summer screwing every guy available like some people.”

  “I don’t screw guys.”

  “Whatever,” I hissed. “You know what I mean!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I was so stunned he said the words that my jaw dropped, just as the door jerked open. Harley was wearing low-cut boyfriend jeans, black combat-style boots, an off-the-shoulder white shirt, and a hat that said, “Emotionally Unavailable.”

  Miller whistled.

  She was drop-dead gorgeous with fiery red hair and electric-blue eyes, barely wore any makeup except mascara and lip gloss, and would make any insecure girl want to throw herself off a cliff.

  She was also one of the most independent people I knew.

  Which was the reason I had called her in the first place.

  And begged her to come when I hadn’t hung out with her in weeks not because I didn’t enjoy her company, but because I’d been overseas and she was an athletic-gear model who traveled the world and did yoga on sandy beaches—she really didn’t look the part. In fact, she looked more like the type of girl who’d be the lead singer of a rock band.

  “What?” She shrugged. “You guys ready to do this?”

  Miller held out his hand. “I’m Quinton—”

  “Yeah, I know who you are, I own a TV, and I also saw a really racy picture of you guys on the news.” She winked. “I think it’s safe to say even my grandma knows who you are, and she’s blind in her right eye. Let me grab my coat.”

  “Great.” Miller exhaled. “That’s not weird at all.” He turned his gaze to me. “You’re absolutely sure your brother didn’t send you any warning texts that he was going to kill me?”

  “Not one.” I frowned. “It’s all so disappointing, if you ask me, I mean what relationship doesn’t need a little spice?”

  “A little spice is a sex shop. Jax’s version of spice is a machete.” Miller shook his head. “Big difference between those spices, Waffle Girl.”

  “Waffle Girl?” Harley reappeared, coat in hand.

  “Ignore Chicken, he’s upset his cock didn’t get out of the henhouse this morning.
” I patted Miller on the shoulder. He sent me a seething glare. I winked.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Miller said aloud.

  “Chin up.” I gripped his hand. “At least his focus won’t be on killing you. And you say I’m heartless.”

  We glossed over his apology, which had only been minutes ago.

  I wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or disappointed.

  Because for one second, he actually sounded like he meant it.

  Better that I ignore any sort of apologies on his behalf—Quinton Miller as a man whore and annoying friend/pretend boyfriend was easy to handle. Quinton Miller as a man who was sorry, a man who looked at you like he meant it, like he wanted to prove it . . .

  Well, no woman would be able to deny that.

  And I was weaker than most.

  After all, I’d already slept with him twice in one night, with full knowledge that he’d most likely freak.

  I just didn’t think the freak-out would include him packing my bags for me.

  I cringed.

  “You okay?” Harley asked.

  “Never better,” I lied.

  We all walked to the car in silence.

  Miller drove even though I begged for the keys.

  And I tutored Harley in all the ways she was going to win Jax over and distract him from all the stress in his life.

  I just hoped it worked.

  My phone vibrated.

  Mom: Dad wants to see you on Monday. He should feel better by then.

  Finally. I exhaled a breath of relief.

  Me: I’m there.

  Mom: He’s excited, just . . . be prepared.

  For what? I wanted to ask. For him to look sick? I didn’t give a damn if he looked like a skeleton, he was my hero, and every hero needed a sidekick.

  I didn’t realize the car had stopped until I heard a door slam.

  When I looked up, Harley was already walking toward the restaurant.

  And Miller was staring directly at me, his blue eyes searching mine for answers I knew I wasn’t ready to give.

  Why I was sad.

  Why it hit home so much.

  Why Jax was so overprotective.

  Miller was perceptive, so I had to bank on the fact that his look was one of genuine concern and nothing more.

  “What?” I reached for my seat belt.