Called Out

by Jen Doyle

  She attempted to arch her hips, pounding against his chest when he held her in place in such a way that she couldn’t get the angle she wanted most.

  “Oh, God. Oh, Jack...” She whimpered. “Please.”

  Begging him.

  One more inch and she began to writhe. Another and she started panting, gasping his name between breaths.

  She’d come alive for him the other night; she’d shown him exactly what she was capable of. Yet here she was trusting him. Letting him have total control.

  “‘Please’ what, Lola?” he asked, struggling to keep his own breathing calm. “Was there something you...” Oh, fucking, hell. He clenched his jaw. “...Needed?”

  “You goddamn know what I—”

  She keened when he thrust the rest of the way inside her, angling himself so that he rubbed right up against her clit.

  “More,” she gasped, wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling his head down so she could kiss him. “Moremoremore,” she chanted as she came. Thank God his hips started moving on their own, because between the heat of her mouth, the crush of her breasts against him, and the insane bursts of ecstasy radiating through him with every breath, he could barely remember his name.

  Bracing his hands against the lockers behind her, he groaned when she ran her hands down to his ass and pulled her to him. Her body cradled his even as another tremor ran through her. Everything she’d just handed over to him—all that strength and power and trust—was there as she stared up at him.

  And then she took it right back. Her fingers twined up through his hair. “Come for me,” she whispered as she shifted her hips. “I’ve got you, Jack. It’s your turn.”

  Then she tilted her head up and kissed him, and took him under with the tide. He shouted as his release came, the power of it crushing him. The totality of it overwhelming. Every mask he wore fell to the side, every layer he hid behind annihilated. The last of his control slipped away, and he dropped his arm down to her back as he clung to her.

  She took his weight. She folded him in her arms. She lifted up every piece of him as he shattered around her. And when it was over, he stayed there for another minute, afraid at what the feelings churning up inside of him might mean. He’d so much rather be seen as a physical wreck than an emotional one.

  She nudged him with her nose and said, “You gonna cry on me, Iceman?”

  Thank Christ a laugh came out instead of a sob, because for a second or two, he honestly hadn’t been sure. He looked down at her, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear as she stared up at him. “I think the Iceman melted the second he saw you walk onto that field.”

  He’d meant it as a joke, but it was far too close to the truth for him to say it lightly.

  “Oh,” she said, clearly understanding that very same thing. “Well.”

  Yes. Well.

  “I, uh, should probably hit the showers so Nate doesn’t send a search party.” It was frightening how much he didn’t want to pull away from her. He knew he had to.

  “Right.” She nodded as he helped pull her pants up. “I need to be at work soon.”

  He tossed the condom into a trash can nearby. When he turned back to her after pulling up his own pants, though, he realized she hadn’t moved and he immediately began to stir in a way he hadn’t realized was humanly possible.

  “Really?” she said, proving that baseball pants didn’t hide a damn thing. “After that?”

  He stared down at her. She was standing topless in tight pants still open and with shin pads up to her thighs. Her hair was a mess, her lips were swollen, and there was a dazed yet smug look in her eyes. He brought his free hand up to her breast. “Yes, after that.”

  She made a little sound in the back of her throat that, in itself, almost set him off. Her hands came up around his neck. “Well, then, maybe you’d better help me into the shower so neither one of us is too late.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “You sure this is okay?” Jack said, standing on her doorstep.

  It wasn’t okay. She should’ve left it at fucking in the locker room, not invited him to Thanksgiving dinner.

  “Please tell me you’re inviting him because you feel sorry for him,” Deke had said the other day as they’d been working. “Because Nate’s going to Boston, so Jack will be on his own?”

  Still having a hard time with the reality of that answer, Lola hadn’t managed a proper retort.

  “Oh, shit,” he muttered, concisely putting her feelings into words. And then he’d hugged her, which made things even worse.

  Locker room tryst excepted, she’d kept a little distance over the past two weeks, more so as the anniversary of Dave’s death came and went. So it had been easy to tell herself she’d gotten caught up in the whirlwind of him, and maybe she’d been mistaken. Maybe Jack was, actually, a horrible man who would be rude and disdainful to her parents and kids; or he’d self-destruct entirely under the pressure of being with Nate’s mother and sisters without Nate to pave his way.

  But seeing him standing there in his formal coat, with a bottle of wine in one hand and two bouquets of flowers in the other, she knew she was sunk.

  “Of course it’s okay.” She opened the door wider to let him in.

  Rather than step forward right away, he stared at her, no doubt reading all the tumultuous thoughts running through her head. “Okay,” he said, his eyes flicking only briefly to the den and the chaotic noise of the kids playing within before coming back to hers. He leaned in closer. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, his eyes dancing with that wicked smile.

  Suppressing her own grin, she said, “On the cheek,” and turned her head to offer it to him.

  “Oh.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I was hoping you meant the other one.”

  His eyes went down to her ass and back, so she was pretty sure he didn’t mean left vs. right. But she knew her entire family was paying as much attention as possible from the kitchen, so all she could do was glare. “Let me take your coat.”

  Grateful for the moment’s reprieve—he was literally breathtaking in the deep red sweater and the charcoal gray slacks—she hung up his coat. Praying everyone behaved themselves, she led him to the back of the house.

  She should have known he’d be fine. Whatever else his background was lacking, it certainly wasn’t manners. As she placed the wine on the counter, her father’s eyebrow arched. Their restaurant wasn’t the fanciest and their beer list was much more extensive, but any Deacon worth his or her salt knew their wines, and Jack had chosen perfectly: a label from a boutique family winery in the Napa Valley. Better quality than what was carried anywhere local but not so expensive as to be gauche.

  Flustered, Lola only barely remembered to introduce Jack to her parents. “Call me Sally,” her mother said. “And this is Hank.”

  Jack gave that devastatingly beautiful smile, all the more so because it was all warmth. Not even one crystal of ice left. “Well, then, Sally, these are for you.” He handed her the first bouquet of flowers. She was suitably charmed.

  More subdued as he turned to Mama Gin, he gave the second bouquet to her. “Mrs. Hawkins.” Whether Nate was here or not, Mama Gin clearly had some of her own forgiveness going on, and she wrapped him up in a hug, surprising him as much as the others.

  It was times like this Lola hated being the daughter of a bartender, because her father was too good at reading between the lines. He was too quiet as he looked from her to Jack and back again. But the kids came running into the kitchen right then and there was no time to dwell on it. On any of it. Instead, she went into General mode, directing everyone on the finishing touches and getting dinner out to the table.

  She tried not to pay too much attention to the way the boys gathered around him, and how he responded, playful and not put off at all. He went again with the One, Two, Th
ree thing that they truly didn’t seem to mind, although they did argue over who got to be “One.” His answer was to say, “Fine, I’ll call you all One.” He pointed to each of them. “One A, One B and One C.” Since they weren’t great with the alphabet yet, that worked, and he shepherded them all into the dining room, following behind with a huge platter of roasted vegetables.

  Ignoring everyone else’s looks just in case there was too much to be read in her eyes, Lola pushed everyone out to the dining room. Deke, the third to last to leave the kitchen, turkey platter in his hands, gave Lola a grim look before leaving her alone with her mother.

  “I didn’t expect him to be like that,” her mother said, still staring after where Jack had disappeared with the boys.

  Charming? Sweet? Warm?

  “Oh, honey.” Her mother’s hands came up to her mouth. “Are you—?”

  “I don’t know what we are,” Lola said, managing to keep herself together. “But it’s not something I can talk about right now.” She picked up the salt and pepper shakers and left the kitchen.

  She was glad they had a long-standing tradition of the kids organizing the place cards and assigning seating, so at least that part wasn’t awkward. There was no question who had made the choice as to where Jack was sitting, given that Silas was on one side of him and Matty was on the other.

  As everyone settled in, Lola’s father said to Jack, “I hope you’ll join us in saying Grace.”

  “Of course,” Jack said, taking Silas’s and Matty’s hands.

  “Maybe Jack can say Grace,” Silas said. “Just like Daddy did.”

  Lola’s heart went cold. It was as though time stopped for a moment. Everyone above the age of ten went still, and Lola could feel their eyes on her. “Oh,” she breathed, barely able even to get that out.

  As if that hadn’t been the most uncomfortable moment, Jack smiled and looked down at Silas. “Thanks, buddy, but I don’t think I could ever do it just like your dad. Maybe someone else should—”

  “I don’t want someone else to do it.” Silas’s voice went shrill as his face screwed up in a way that didn’t signal anything good. He was an amazing boy and so even-tempered that Lola sometimes wanted to prod him so he would act more like a regular kid. But despite him having handled the anniversary pretty well, the holidays were always hard for him. “I want you.”

  “It’s okay, Jack,” Lola said quickly. She appreciated his sensitivity, more so than she could ever say, but right now was about staving off the tantrum that was clearly brewing. She wasn’t thrilled Silas had asked him, or that Silas was clearly seeing him as a father figure, which was a problem in so many ways. But for Jack to understand all the ways in which it was wrong and yet still be able to answer Silas’s question with respect and deference to Dave...

  He stared at her for a minute, so intensely that it was almost as if no one else were in the room. And, with shock, she realized that for him there wasn’t. He’d brought flowers for her mother and for Mama Gin, he’d been completely cordial and friendly with everyone else, but his eyes were on her and her only, and she felt...grounded. But also utterly shaken. She nodded. “If you truly don’t mind.”

  Holding her gaze for a few more seconds, he finally broke it by turning to Silas. “Where I went to school we had Seated Dinner three times a week, so I’m actually pretty good at it. If you really want me to, I’d be happy to say Grace.”

  Bowing her head, Lola was glad she had her eyes closed when Jack not only gave thanks for the food and the company, but also for honoring him with a seat at a table so very full of love meant for those here now, as well as those whose empty seats could never be filled. When Silas said to Jack, “Does that mean my dad?” and Jack softly replied, “Yeah, Silas. It does,” Lola only managed to keep her sob inside her chest by crushing Jules’s hand.

  “Okay,” she finally said, taking a moment or two longer than usual to bring her head up and smile. “Let’s eat.”

  * * *

  He hadn’t expected to enjoy himself. He’d expected to tolerate it. To show Lola that although he wasn’t a good bet in terms of anything serious, he was, at least, fit for human company. And, yes, to put in the required time until everyone else had left so they could make out on the couch again.

  But he was enjoying himself. The whole family thing he’d always shied away from wasn’t actually that bad. Not when you liked the kids involved, which, astoundingly, he did. Even the little ones.

  Jack wasn’t even tempted to make smartass remarks when Lola’s dad started in with some admirably subtle grilling. Honestly? If this were Jack’s daughter and she was fooling around with some notorious jackass, Jack might’ve taken the guy out back and beaten him to a bloody pulp by now. Not that there were any circumstances in which Jack could conceive of having a daughter, of course.

  But it wasn’t subtle enough, apparently, because when her dad said, “So you really think you and Nate might play on the same team again?” from down the table, Lola yelled, “Dad! Please stop. He’s answered that question three times already. Do you need me to have Nate give a sworn statement?”

  Demonstrating that the glaring gene was hereditary, Mr. Deacon gave a look that had even Jack squirming in his seat.

  Leaving nothing on the table, the man said to Lola, “Dave gave you flowers when you were in first grade. I had absolutely no shot at getting my two cents in. ‘This will pass,’ your mother said when he asked you to the sixth-grade dance. Then one day you were in Ann Arbor studying for finals and the next you were calling me from the airport because you were on your way to Atlanta, and telling us we could either accept the fact that you were moving there and marrying Dave, or you would elope before we even had a chance to get on the plane to stop you.” He gestured at Jack with his fork. “I’d at least like to have a sense of what I’m dealing with before he’s worked his way in.”

  Jack probably should have been as frightened by the look on Lola’s face as her father was, because it was clearly too late. He wasn’t, though. Instead he wanted to take her in his arms and tell her that, unfortunately, he was pretty sure he felt the same way. And wasn’t that a bitch.

  But One B piped up first. “Where is Iceman in?”

  “Nowhere, honey,” Lola said, attempting to recover from her momentary lapse into deer-in-the-headlights silence.

  Silas, trying to be helpful, clarified, “Inside Mommy,” to Lola’s clear dismay.

  Man. Jack did enjoy these kids. He stifled his laugh.

  “Iceman is not inside Mommy,” Lola seethed.

  From Jack’s other side, Matty said, “That’s not fair! You all get Uncle Deke and Iceman?” He turned to Jack. “Can you be inside my mom, too?”

  Someone choked. Jack was pretty sure it was Jules.

  “No one is inside anyone!” Lola shouted, whirling her head around and shooting daggers out of her eyes as Jules started to laugh again.

  “I should freaking hope not,” Deke muttered before exclaiming, “Ouch!” and glaring down at Fitz.

  Undeterred, Jules said, “This is my favorite Thanksgiving dinner ever.” She topped off her glass of wine. “Now who’s ready for dessert?”

  The table cleared faster than a dugout in a late summer’s brawl. Three seconds later, Jack found himself sitting alone with Deke. To Jack’s relief, the other man didn’t seem confrontational. Not that Jack couldn’t take it, he was just in an unfamiliarly light frame of mind and wasn’t quite ready to kill the buzz.

  Deke looked at him thoughtfully. “You have no intention of staying here in Inspiration, do you?”

  For the first time, there was a little bit of regret when Jack answered the question. But he shook his head. “No.”

  “And she knows that,” Deke said, clearly making sure it was true.

  That churning feeling came back into Jack’s gut. Still, he said, “Y
es.” And added, “Pretty sure she’ll be happy to see me go.”

  Deke raised his eyebrows. “You keep telling yourself that, buddy.” Then Deke got up and reached for the platter that held what was left of the turkey, and went to the kitchen.

  Jack sat at the empty table for a minute, looking at the dishes on the table, wondering if he could be a part of a life like this. Carving the turkey. Talking sports scores with her father. Convincing the boys to eat their vegetables so that when they grew up they could be strong like their Army hero dad.

  Right. Their dad. The man whose wife Jack shouldn’t be fucking against a locker room wall, much less messing with his legacy. Which, whether that was Jack’s intention or not—and it most absolutely wasn’t—was clearly an issue given the way Silas had looked up at him. It would be better for everyone if he just took his leave now. From her house and her life.

  It was what he told himself, at least, when he got up, stacked some of the dishes, and carried them into the kitchen, where the party had clearly moved. And he reminded himself of it after the cleanup had been done, and through the pickup football game with Deke, Fitz and the kids that was a surprisingly good time. Through a ridiculously amazing dessert spread, with pies and pastries made by Lola and Jules.

  But as everyone began to gather their things and go, one small group at a time, Jack couldn’t bring himself to walk through the door. “Why don’t I finish cleaning up while you put the kids to bed?” He not only said it with a straight face, he truly meant it. He wasn’t just using it as a way to pass the time until she came back down and he could get into her pants.

  Well, skirt. A black velvety one that came down to mid-thigh, leaving just enough room between the tops of her knee-high boots for him to wrap his hand around the back of her knee and wrap her leg around his waist.

  Jesus. There had to be something wrong about standing here washing her dishes while she was upstairs reading her kids bedtime stories and thinking about ramming his cock into her.