“Frankly, Connor, I don’t want to date a teacher. It isn’t ethical for someone in my position. I’m a principal. I should be with an accountant, doctor, or an architect. Not a teacher. Now please leave. No hard feelings of course.” She smiled her smug smile that he knew so well. The, I’m the boss. This is how it will be done. Suck it up and do what I say smile.
Connor slammed the door, remaining inside. The force knocking a picture off the wall shattering the glass. He wasn’t a violent man but provoked, he didn’t back down. Ever. Meg had gotten under his skin before and she encountered his temper on many occasions, but tonight would be the first time she saw the red-hot tempered Connor. He gripped her shoulders until she looked up at him.
“You are not dumping me because I’m a teacher. The irony, babe, is classic. You got freaked out, and now you’re cowering in your secret hole. Not gonna fly. Now what the hell is going on?”
She rolled her shoulders and winced. At his words or the grip, he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want to hurt her. Slowly he loosened his grip and bit back the flow of curse words he really wanted to utter. Meg didn’t look away. Her dark eyes bore into him, but she didn’t speak. Her face hid any emotion. She was serious; she was dumping him. All these years he had hoped to find someone to appreciate the real him, not the NFL player or brief stint of fame that followed him around, but the smart, loyal, family-orientated, hardworking Connor McKay. And the irony of it all was that it wasn’t enough. At least that’s what Meg Fulton told him.
“You had no problem sleeping with the teacher. Telling the teacher how much you loved him. Something happened. Someone made an off-base comment, and you’re jumping to conclusions.” Connor loomed over her and inwardly cringed when she sunk her head into her shoulders and backed away in fear. “I’ll back off for now, but I’m not done with you, Meg Fulton. This is a bunch of bullshit fear, but I’ll give your space. For now.”
After a minute of intense silence, the sound of his heavy breathing the only noise in the room, Connor yanked the front door open and slammed it, shutting the door on his past, present, and future.
* * * *
The frame holding the Warren Kimble print was still intact, but the glass had shattered. Just like her life. Slowly Meg slid down the wall, cradled her knees, and wept. And wept. And wept. She hurt him, which wasn’t what she wanted to do, but he wouldn’t accept her need for distance. Connor could always see right through her.
For the past few days, she ran through excuses she could use to end the relationship. Emma really needs all of my attention. I’m in love with another man. Tracy isn’t gay, and we have realized we’re destined for each other. Connor wouldn’t buy any of them, and he would have kept coming back. The only way to make him stay away was to hit his venerable spot.
Two days ago, she had changed her mind and decided to call him and tell him the truth about J.T. Surely he would ditch his best friend, his only tie to the NFL community that he longed to be a part of, and devote the rest of his life to her: the insecure single-mother whom he despised months ago but had been recently sleeping with.
Pieces of previous conversations quickly came together. Connor mentioned having ties to friends in Manchester but never mentioned any names. Probably because he was sensitive to her past, knowing she had no friends growing up. He lived two hours away from the city yet had more friends than she did after spending fifteen years of her life there. It was only natural for two small town boys from New Hampshire who made it big in the NFL to become friends. How Meg could have been blind to that for the past few months could only be blamed on love. It truly blinded her from the harsh ironies in life.
Try as she may, Meg never revved up the nerve to call Connor. Hence his impromptu visit, her bitchy break up lines, and emotionless goodbye. Her days of mourning had to end. She needed him to believe what she said. That he was beneath her and not worthy of her time. And she needed to convince herself that she made the right decision.
Chapter 16
Three weeks went by, and they had only crossed paths once. Meg had stopped attending baseball games. Connor was too busy coaching—and preparing for the state championship—to notice her anyway, so she told herself. But the final department head meeting of the year was unavoidable. Thankfully, eight other department leaders were there as well. She smiled, congratulated each department on their success with the new initiatives, and gave final preparations for the end of the year, final exam schedule, and graduation practice and ceremonies. Connor sulked. She smiled and spat out a few—prepared in advance—jokes all in an attempt to appear “normal.”
He didn’t respond. She didn’t expect him to. And now, with graduation behind her and the school quiet and empty, Meg could go to work relaxed, knowing the only people she would have to face were her secretary, assistant principal, and the superintendent. And not the man who filled her heart and soul with more love than she ever deserved. Not him because she had shoved that love back in his face, ripped his heart out, and fed it to the sharks.
* * * *
He knew he was overstepping the boundaries, crossing unchartered territory and possibly losing her trust, but Tracy had to follow his gut. And it told him Meg was making the biggest mistake of her life. Of course, it could all backfire and her worst fear could be thrown in her face: rejection. But Tracy truly believed when Connor heard the truth he’d ditch that womanizing bastard he called best friend and run straight into the arms of his true love.
Yes, Tracy was a sucker for fairy tales and Happily Ever Afters.
He’d always been a romantic. Just because Tracy’s love life was in the crapper didn’t mean Meg’s needed to be. His shoulders had housed her secrets, her fears, her tears for long enough. Man up. He rolled his shoulders and stepped out of his rental mini-coup. Yeah, it screamed I’m gay! But if he expected Meg to face her fears, he couldn’t exactly be the pot calling out the kettle. Connor McKay sounded like a good guy. He wouldn’t beat the crap out of Tracy like the jocks did in high school. He hoped.
Maybe that was why he and Meg clicked so quickly in college. They both ran away from the same thing. The same fear. She thought he was the strong one in the relationship, little did she know he had been living vicariously through her for the past ten years. It was easy to come out of the closet in the fashion industry in New York. Hell, if he wasn’t gay, he’d have faked it. No one would hire a male personal shopper who wasn’t gay. But Meg had it tough. Single mom. No parents. Loving grandparents who raised her, but they had been old with one leg into the nursing home. She gave up everything for her daughter and fought like she was after the last Valentino in an after Christmas sale at Saks.
Pulling at the collar of his Ralph Lauren polo—he figured Brooks Brothers in rural New Hampshire in the middle of July would be overdoing it—and brushing the driving wrinkles out of his Diesel jeans—You can take the boy out of the fashion capitol of the east, but you can’t take the style out of Tracy James!—Tracy marched confidently up the steps to Connor’s house. He’d never been an outdoors kind of guy, but the fresh air and reflection of the sun off the lake did make him a bit nostalgic.
Before he could fold his fingers into a knocking fist, the front door swung open and the linebacker—or whatever he was—crashed into him and knocked his high-end ass on the porch and down the steps. Fashion school didn’t offer training for rectifying an entrance like that one.
Connor pulled the buds of his iPod out of his ears. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t see you, man. I’m heading out for a run.” He offered a big, calloused hand to Tracy and helped him to his feet with little effort. As dignified as he could, Tracy stood and wiped the country dirt off his designer jeans.
Tracy lifted his head and smiled. Recognition set in and Connor scowled. “I’m in no mood for a fashion make-over.” He put the buds back in his ears and turned his iPod up. AC/DC’s Back in Black cranked so loud Tracy’s head started to vibrate. He braced himself for his next move and yanked the thin, white wires down, practica
lly taking a piece of the alpha stud’s ear with him.
“I have something I need to say and you will listen…dammit!” He didn’t come off sounding as macho as he had hoped. Tracy was pretty sure whatever he said in the presence of the wall of testosterone in front of him would come out sounding wimpy.
Connor braced his thick hands on his hips and glared down at Tracy. “Make it fast, Armani.”
Okay, Tracy would give him credit for name-dropping. “I, uh, wanted to tell you Meg had a really tough life growing up…” Connor continued to squash him with his glare so he fought hard to stand up taller. “Pregnant at fifteen, early graduation, raising a kid by herself—”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Connor swiped his iPod back.
“She’s the best friend a guy or girl could ask for. She’s completely selfless and has sacrificed a great deal in her life. Did you know she was valedictorian of her class…at Central High School? In Manchester, New Hampshire? Do you know what year she graduated? Anyone else in that class you know as well?” He prayed Connor could fill in the blanks. He had already betrayed Meg’s trust by being here, but it wasn’t like he exposed her secret—simply pointing Connor in the right direction. “I guess I’d better go. Thanks for listening.”
Tracy kept his head held high as he race-walked to his tiny car. He didn’t look back, afraid of what he might encounter. He’d be damned if Connor made the connection, damned if he didn’t. The tires spun as he peeled out of the dirt drive and headed back to the safety of New York City.
* * * *
Well, if that wasn’t the strangest conversation he’d ever had. Connor wasn’t even breaking a sweat as he jogged into his third mile. He usually turned around at the Dausey Dairy Farm, but he needed more than a six mile run today. AC/DC had segued into Nickelback’s “Rock Star.” He lived that life for five minutes and didn’t think it was all MTV cracked it up to be. Visiting J.T. every year and reuniting with the NFL/Rock Star life didn’t leave him wanting more, just wanting out. It suited his best friend, though. J.T. showed no signs of letting up his lifestyle. Easy girls, no drugs but enough alcohol in the off-season to make up for it, lots of parties, and no privacy.
Huh, he didn’t envy that life. Pitied it. When J.T. retired, he’d appreciate the small towns, home cooked meals, and nice girls. Or not. Hell, look what the nice girl did to him. Loved him and left him because he wasn’t good enough. Maybe J.T. had the right idea. Connor had roots in small town America, J.T. was from New Hampshire as well, but at least he grew up in a city. From…Connor stopped in his tracks and stared blankly at the dairy cows and miles of endless pasture.
“Holy freaking cow shit.” He spun around quickly and raced back to his house breaking every previous record he made rushing in the playoff game against San Diego.
Drenched in sweat and breathing rapidly from anger, fear, and confusion—not from his six-minute miles—he dropped in front of his computer and looked up the phone number for American Airlines. He made a quick call, pulled out his American Express card, stripped, showered, and raced out to his truck peeling his tires the same way Armani had in his toy car less than an hour ago.
Rush hour traffic did little to slow him down. Weaving between slow-moving commuters, Connor made it to the airport in record time. With no luggage or carry-ons, he printed his ticket at the kiosk and jogged toward his terminal right before boarding time.
In no mood to converse, Connor made a grumpy seat companion. He warded off the old lady’s attempt to be friendly by closing his eyes, facing the window, and feigning sleep. Window seats weren’t meant for men his size, but booking a last minute flight didn’t give him much choice in seat selection, much less a cheap fare. You would figure an $800 flight from Manchester to Austin would provide a meal. His stomach growled, it obviously knew seven o’clock was time to refuel, but that would mean he’d have to open his eyes, ask for one of the ridiculously small packages of pretzels, and risk telling off the nice grandma to his left.
Instead, he opted for silence, sans the growling stomach. Skipping lunch in lieu of a workout and missing dinner to hop on a plane probably wasn’t the smartest idea, but food was not a top priority. Solving the complicated web Tracy—he did remember his name—spun for him was more important.
Five hours later, the plane landed and the hot, sticky Texas air welcomed him. Hailing a cab, Connor spat out an address and stared out at the lights of the restless city. He didn’t have a plan, hadn’t figured out what he would say. It would come to him.
The cab pulled in front of the ritzy apartment complex and Connor tossed a wad of bills in the front seat. “Thanks,” the cab driver yelled to his back.
Connor stormed through the wide, glass doors and barked at the overpaid employee behind the reception desk. “I need to go up to Penthouse C.”
“Sir,” she smiled politely, “Are you expected company?”
“No.”
“Well, then, I’m sorry, but I’m under strict—”
“J.T. Spiller. Buzz him. Tell him Connor is here.”
She stared at him, offended with his disrespect.
“Now!” he barked.
She huffed and slowly picked up the phone. Her heavily made-up eyes looked down, and she blushed as she smiled shyly. “Now, Mr. Spiller…” J.T. was probably asking her what color panties she had on. She finally put the phone down and smiled, not so kindly, at Connor. “Mr. Spiller will see you now.”
“No shit,” he muttered. She directed Connor toward a private elevator, which opened to the Penthouse. It was only last summer that he rode the same elevator, laughing, drunk, and sweaty after a few passes with some of his old teammates. Tonight’s sweat came from a different kind of adrenaline. It flowed like a freaking river.
After an eternity, the bell chimed and the doors opened to a showy suite. J.T. was surprisingly alone. “Hey, dude! This is a surprise! What the hell brings you to Austin at ten at night? Are you and—” he was cut off with a sharp left hook to the jaw. J.T., taken by surprise, fell back to the wall.
Connor stormed past him and into the living room. “What the shit is all this about? Have you completely lost it?” J.T. strung an impressive line of curse words that would make a sailor blush and cornered Connor.
“Back off asshole.”
“Me back off? You’re crazy, Con. If I miss training this week because of a swollen eye—”
“You shouldn’t have provoked me.” His temper still raged, but he spoke quietly. Freakishly calm.
“Me? I opened the flippin’ door!”
Connor took a step toward him, and his reflexes pushed J.T. back a few feet. “Your whole life you’ve been messin’ around. Screwing up people’s lives, taking advantage of them.” He inched closer until they stood toe-to-toe. “Raping them.”
J.T.’s head jerked. “Rape? You are drunk. High, whatever. I’ve never—”
“Don’t lie to me, James.”
“Dude, seriously. And what’s with this James shit. No one has called me that since high school.”
Connor worked overtime, telling his blood to cool before it boiled over and he strangled the criminal in front of him. He gritted his teeth and skewered the asshole with his piercing stare. “This whole time…all these years…you’ve fooled me, man. But I swear, if you ever come near her, near me, near Emma, I will hunt you down and kill you.”
“Who the hell is Emma? Dude, Connor, speak English. You’re freaking me out. You come busting into my home and go ape-shit on me and accuse me of rape? Rape? Since when did I need to rape a girl?” he smirked, but Connor didn’t smile back. “Dude, you’re serious? Honestly, man. I—”
“Save it, asshole. I know about high school. You thought you could bury your dirty little secret—”
“High school?”
“Meg told me about you.”
“Meg? Your girlfriend, Meg? I didn’t know her in high school, much less do her. She’s hot, man. I would have totally remembered bang—”
C
onnor lurched forward and grabbed J.T. by his T-shirt collar and pinned him to the wall. “Don’t you dare.” They stared at each other, sweaty and irritable, and J.T.’s dumbfounded expression added fuel to the fire.
“I’ve never laid a hand on her. I swear! I only met her once, and four seconds later she was hurling her lunch in your toilet!”
“You did more than lay your hand on her. You raped her and got her pregnant!”
“Dude! If you can’t trust your girl, don’t come blaming me. You never did get over your trust issues after Amy screwed you over.”
“In high school, asshole!” Connor pinned J.T. into the wall again, forcing him to gasp for air. “You raped her in the back of your car and left her there while you continued to party.”
“I didn’t know her in high—” The realization struck, and J.T. went limp in his hands. “Four-eyes Fulton,” he whispered. “Shit.”
Connor dropped him and he slid to the floor. All this time, Connor had assumed Meg grew up in Boston where she’d been teaching before coming to Newhall. If Tracy hadn’t pointed him in the right direction, he might never have learned she had actually grown up in the same town as J.T. It was another one of those assume things. Somehow the topic of her hometown name never came up.
Holding his head in his hands, J.T. slouched and breathed heavily. “Four-eyes Fulton we called her. She tutored us in math and science and shit. A genius kid. That night…at the party…I felt bad for her and hung out with her for a bit. I was drunk. High. I probably did acid. Shit, it was so long ago I don’t really remember.” He picked up his head but remained sitting on the floor. “I don’t remember much from that night. We went to my car to fool around. I think I blacked out. I dunno. I remember waking up the next morning wondering if I was tripping or if we really did have sex in my car. She never said anything so I figured…figured I’d tripped out too much on the acid.”
False Start (The McKay-Tucker Men Series Book 1) Page 17