Team Player

by Adriana Locke

  The corner of my mouth.

  In an instant, he knows.

  He just doesn’t know that he knows.

  And he’s confused.

  “Come on.” He bends now, talking loud. “We need to talk. Let’s go grab another beer.”

  “Where?” I shout back.

  Those mammoth shoulders shrug. “What about the bar? At the back of the room? We’ll be able to hear each other better.”

  “Okay. Sure.” I think I’d follow him anywhere.

  Dash takes my hand without hesitating, without asking for permission, weaving us through the crowd, and I follow, fingers wrapped around his tightly.

  My lifeline.

  He gives them a squeeze, lacing them together, glancing back at me over his broad shoulders. It’s then that I realize: I’m not paying attention to where I’m walking; I’m just watching him.

  The muscles in his strong back contract as he works his way through the crush. His thick neck corded, sexy. I’ve always liked that part of a guy’s body, always found it attractive.

  Masculine.

  My hungry eyes rake down his backside, down his tapered waist, over his firm ass, and I allow myself the luxury of every part of him, pretending the large hands and imposing form tugging me along belong to me.

  Pretending he’s mine for the taking.

  We reach the bar, where the crowd has thinned out considerably since the music started, the sound of Scotty’s band blasting through the subwoofers and speakers drowning out any laughter and loud chatter.

  Dash orders us beer, ice water.

  Faces me while we wait, one arm resting on the bar top.

  I wonder how long it’s going to take for him to bring up the fact that I speak Spanish.

  For now, he seems content to stand here surrounded by the concertgoers, the loud music, and my quiet company. If he thinks it’s strange that I, as Lucy, finally have nothing to say, he would be right. My sister is always chattering away, and she’d be talking non-stop right now, too.

  The only things I can think of to ask Dash are personal; I want to know more about him, want to know things that are none of my business.

  Does he have brothers or sisters?

  Where is he from?

  What’s his major? What does he want to be if he doesn’t play baseball after he graduates?

  Are these things he and my sister have already talked about?

  We stand at the bar, regarding each other, his cool black gaze caressing my exposed shoulders. I respond to it by coolly lifting the beer bottle to my lips and taking another drink of liquid courage, hoping to avoid his disconcerting scrutiny.

  I don’t know what it is, but Dash is someone I want to get to know more, someone I’d want to know if the circumstances were different.

  I sigh.

  The fact is that tonight, I am not supposed to be myself.

  And I’m doing a really crappy job being my sister.

  “So, you wanna tell me what’s going on with you?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  4

  Dante

  Lucy speaks Spanish.

  And not just the I was required to take two years of it in high school version. She actually knows how to fucking speak it, fluently.

  I don’t know what to do with this strange new information. It’s certainly a game changer; I’ve never dated anyone who could have a conversation with me in any language other than English, and it’s really fucking sexy.

  We’re sidled up to the bar, my arm draped on the lacquered wooden top, elbow propping me up as I study her.

  Study her in a new light, riveted.

  This Lucy isn’t just a pretty face.

  This Lucy isn’t just a grasping jock chaser.

  This Lucy has layers.

  This version fascinates me more than the two versions that came before her.

  Her striped baby blue shirt is understated but sexy, hair still falling in loose waves despite the growing humidity from all the warm bodies inside this packed concert hall.

  Wavering unsteadily on high heels, she leans against the counter, mimicking my stance, mimicking the way I let my gaze trail over her, returning the favor.

  She peruses me up and down, expression unreadable.

  It’s so fucking unsettling.

  Lo amo. I love it.

  “So, you wanna tell me what’s going on with you?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I think you know what I’m talking about. I’ve never met a single person on this campus who speaks Spanish as well as you seem to, besides other Latinos.”

  “I spent a semester in Mexico teaching English at an immersion school.”

  That makes no fucking sense. Lucy is a fashion major—why would she be teaching classes in Mexico?

  “Why do you keep staring at me like that?”

  The beer bottle hits my bottom lip and I tip it. Chug. “I’m trying to figure you out.”

  “I know,” she returns unhappily. “Please don’t.”

  “Are you intentionally trying to be evasive?”

  “I’m not playing games with you, I promise, but it’s complicated.”

  The bartender finally gets to us, setting two new bottles on the counter. Lucy reaches for one, taking a dainty sip, delicate fingers wrapped around the long neck of the bottle. Nails painted baby blue, the second to last one a glittery silver.

  “You know Luce, I’m really fucking busy with school and baseball, so I don’t date a lot, and this right here is why: I can’t stand drama.”

  “Neither can I,” she volleys back. “Maybe I’m just not good at this, did you ever think of that?”

  “Not good at what?”

  “Relationships. I’ve never dated a single guy for more than two weeks.”

  “Well that’s good to know.”

  Her eyes roll toward the ceiling dramatically. “This is only your third date—I can’t even believe we’re discussing this.”

  This is only your third date? That’s an odd way to put it.

  “Besides,” she continues, “aren’t you ballplayers all just looking for a little fun between seasons?”

  “I’m not a stereotype, but thanks.”

  Her expression falls. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just…I’m not comfortable having this conversation with you right now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I…it’s…” She’s reluctant to finish her sentence. “It’s personal.”

  “You know, Lucy, relationships don’t usually work when one person is hiding something.” Jesus, why am I trying so damn hard with this girl? I couldn’t stand her the last time we went out, and I’m only here with her tonight so I didn’t have to come alone.

  “Hiding something?” Her eyes are wide. “What would make you say that?”

  “You’re either really good at faking who you are, or you have no fucking clue what you want.” I can’t describe the look on her face right now, couldn’t if I tried, not for a million fucking bucks. It’s a cross between crestfallen and oddly captivated…stricken but expectant?

  Like she wants to cry and laugh all at the same time.

  So bizarre. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  Lucy swallows a lump in her throat, eyes shining. “I literally just asked you that same thing, so how am I staring at you?”

  “Like you’re dying to say something.”

  Her chin tips up, that little dimple by her bottom lip drawing attention to itself, imprinted in her skin.

  My eyes fixate on it, narrowing. “I’m not fucking stupid. Something weird is going on with you, and I want to know what it is.”

  “Nothing weird is going on.” Her nostrils flare, eyes get bright. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “So it’s going to be like that, huh?”

  Her arms cross. “What do you think is weird?”

  “To avoid the risk of feeling like a fucking dumbass, I’d rather not bring it up,
okay?”

  She’s in my space now, fingers splayed on my forearm. “Tell me.”

  “Your hair is different,” I blurt out.

  “How?”

  Jesus Christ, this is going to sound so stupid. “It’s longer…and darker.” I go for broke. “And I swear you didn’t have this the last time I saw you.”

  I extend my arm, placing my finger on that perfect spot by her mouth. Her dark lips part.

  Lucy’s breath catches. Something in her eyes…

  “What else?” she whispers.

  “Your—” My eyes drop to her breasts then rise again. I’m such a fucking hornball. “Never mind.”

  Behind us, Scotty’s band interrupts, striking another chord, his adolescent voice croaking into the microphone. “This is going to be it for us tonight, Bettys and gents. One last lullaby before the big show. Enjoy, and have a great fucking night.”

  The slow rifts of guitars still the crowd.

  Still Lucy.

  Her lips are curved smugly. “Were you going to say my boobs look bigger?”

  There’s no getting out of this one; she totally caught me checking out her tits, which I can barely see beneath her blousy top. “Maybe.”

  “What if you were right?” The words fall out of her mouth before her lips clamp shut. “Please forget I said that.”

  Yeah…not happening.

  Lucy clears her throat. “So should we—”

  “Dance? Sure.” Why the hell not? Everyone else is.

  Neither of us smile, but she lets me take her beer bottle and set it on the bar, lead her to the edge of the ballroom floor where the concert crowd is gathered, couples dancing to little Scotty’s kickass garage band.

  My hands catch skin when they slide around Lucy’s waist, accidentally skimming above the waistband of her jeans. I let my fingers stroke the skin of her ribcage before they behave, dragging back down to the swell of her denim-clad hips.

  Tentatively, her hands run up the front of my black t-shirt; it’s the second time she’s touched me tonight, and her warm palms, with their pretty blue nails, are doing some seriously fucked up shit to my libido as they settle on my chest.

  Her chin tips up so she can look in my eyes. “You realize you finished my sentence before, and I finished yours?”

  “We did?”

  “Yes. No one ever does that with me except my sister.”

  I have nothing to add to that.

  “Scott is great.” She breaks the silence, fingers toying with the cotton of my shirt. “Does he come around your house often?”

  “Yeah, just about every week. He plays ball, and he’s mildly obsessed with our pitcher, Rowdy Wade.”

  “Rowdy, Dash—do you all have nicknames?”

  “We call some guys by their last names.”

  “And you get yours because you’re fast?” Affirmative. “But you’re a catcher…how does that work?”

  Does she not know anything about baseball?

  “Everyone on the team has a turn at bat, and when my bat connects with the ball, I run like hell.”

  The song Scotty’s band plays is actually really fucking haunting. Beautiful.

  Just like Lucy.

  My arms move from her hips to her waist, pulling her in so we’re flush, her palms sliding down from my pecs, smoothing themselves across my shoulders, brushing imaginary lint away. I want to kiss her and we both fucking know it; I’ve been dying to put my mouth on that dimple of hers.

  I home in on it.

  “Where did this suddenly come from?” I tease, bringing my hand up to float my thumb over the tiny indent, back and forth, unintentionally brushing the satiny flesh of her bottom lip. “I swear this wasn’t here last time.”

  “I-I don’t think we should do this,” she protests against my finger, lids fluttering shut when my thumb caresses her cheek. “Maybe we should go back to the bar and finish our beer.”

  “Hey, it’s all right.” My brows rise. “We’re just dancing.”

  My fingers trace her jaw, slipping to the back of her neck, raking through her soft hair. Her eyes meet mine, a thousand words I know she wants to say shining up at me, but it’s nothing I’ll hear out loud. This girl has secrets she doesn’t want me finding out, and I want to know what they are.

  I lower my head, intending to—

  “I don’t think you should kiss me.”

  I pull back, eyebrows drawn together, perplexed. “Why?”

  “Because I want you to,” the whisper slides out, a confession.

  “That makes no sense.”

  “I know,” she moans miserably.

  “You want to kiss me, but you don’t—got it.” I’m tenderly stroking her skin with the palm of my hand, the calloused pads learning the contours of her face. “You don’t care if I do this in the meantime, do you? Until you change your mind?”

  “I’m not going to change my mind.”

  Lowering my face to the crook of her neck, I trail my nose up the pillar of sweet skin, letting my mouth tag along for the ride. My wet tongue meets her flesh and I want to gently suck, but don’t. I nip instead. “Is this okay? No kissing on the lips,” I whisper into her ear. “Just like in Pretty Woman.”

  “F-F…” she stutters. “Fine. Sure, whatever. Just not on the lips.”

  What a little weirdo.

  My laughing mouth finds the pulse in the slim column of her neck, and I’m satisfied when she tilts her head to one side, hair falling like a waterfall over her shoulder, giving me all the access I want and need.

  Grasping her hand, my fingers flutter lightly along the length of her arm before I raise it, kiss the inside of her wrist, the pale skin a stark contrast to my own.

  Dragging my mouth along the smooth flesh of her forearm, up and down the inside of her elbow. Lucy holds perfectly still.

  “¿Todavía no quieres que te bese en los labios?” Still don’t want me to kiss your lips?

  One jerky shake of her head.

  “No?”

  Another shake. No.

  “Jesus, Luce, you’re killing me here,” I murmur against her mouth, our lips an inch apart, so close our breaths mingle. I wish our tongues were, too.

  “It’s killing me too. I’m sorry.”

  That’s the second time she’s apologized, so I kiss the tip of her nose, leaning in to whisper, “Don’t be.”

  “God Dash, don’t do that,” she whispers back, stroking the back of my head, wrapping my black hair around her finger.

  Chest heaving, her hands unhurriedly flutter up and down the bulk of my biceps, breasts pressed against my chest as she moves closer.

  This non-kissing, sexual tension-filled bullshit is better than any fucking kiss I’ve ever had on the mouth, that’s for damn sure. It’s giving me a raging boner, body hard as a rock when she arches her back.

  “Don’t do what?” My murmured question makes her shiver. Goose bumps form across her skin.

  “Don’t be so…” Lucy deliberates, choosing her words.

  “Irresistible?”

  “Sure, we’ll go with that.”

  We take the moment to stare at each other, and I swear to fucking God, it’s like we’re seeing each other for the first damn time. My hands embrace her jawline as her fingers clench my wrists.

  “Lucy.”

  The air between is pulled taut, intensely so.

  Buzzing.

  Sizzling.

  “Dash, please don’t.” I can’t hear her words, but I can see them, and it’s enough to stop myself from doing something really fucking dumb, like kissing her senseless, which is taking some superhero-level self-restraint on my part.

  She moves first, burying her head in my chest as the music comes to an end, the crowd around us going wild, chanting and cheering for the band, for Scotty, the kid who practices in his parents’ garage and tries to hang out with guys too old for him.

  “We should go,” comes her muffled mumble. “I need to go.”

  Need to go.

  We
pull apart, reluctantly. I could eat her up—and out—all fucking night long.

  Instead, I release her.

  “All right. Let’s get you home.”

  5

  Amelia

  Dzzt. Dzzt.

  Dzzt.

  It’s barely six thirty in the morning when my phone begins buzzing, vibrating against my bedside table, an entire hour before I have to be up to get to my study group.

  I reach for it, finger blindly searching for the end button but accidentally hitting accept. Dammit all, what’s my sister doing calling so freaking early?

  The last time she woke me at this hour was two Christmases ago when she and our brother, Dexter, were up at the butt-crack of dawn—like children—so they could open their presents.

  My siblings, bless their hearts, are early risers.

  I, however, am not.

  “Luce?” My voice is raspy, sounding eerily similar to someone gasping for a last breath. “Is everything okay?”

  “No, everything is not okay. Are you still in bed?” It’s an accusing tone, one I simply don’t have the patience for at this hour of the damn day.

  I blink into the sunlight just beginning to pour through my bedroom window, rising to sit, propped against my headboard. Worried, I squint toward the clock. “What’s wrong? Why are you calling so ungodly early? Did something happen to Mom or Dad?”

  “Oh jeez, don’t be so dramatic.” I hear the sound of the wind hitting the mouthpiece of her phone, an indication that she’s outside, probably getting ready for a run or something equally horrifying.

  Mollified that there’s no emergency, I flop back onto my side, hunkering down. Grumble, “What do you want?”

  “How did it go last night?”

  “Fine?”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. It went fine.”

  “My dates don’t ever go ‘fine’. They’re either fantastic or awful. So which was it?”

  “I can’t even function right now. How are you this chipper?”

  “Why aren’t you answering the question?” I swear I can hear her stop dead in her tracks. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  My body goes still. “Why would you ask me that?”