by Tracey Ward
I follow obediently after him. I let him take my hand as we thread our way through the crowd, something that’s surprisingly easy to do with a man Shane’s size. They move aside for him. People stare as he walks by, and I’m not sure if it’s because they recognize him from the team or because of how large he is. Or how handsome. He looks shockingly beautiful in the sunshine with those stupid glasses on and a swagger to his walk that says he knows exactly where he’s going. I’m holding his hand so we don’t get separated in the crowd – that’s what I tell myself. It’s not because I like the warm feel of him pressed against my cold fingers or the way my shoulder brushes against the solid stone of his bicep. It has nothing to do with the possessive pull I feel in my stomach when other women turn to look at him.
“What’s your stance on rollercoasters?” he asks me.
I look up at him, trying to figure out if he’s serious or not. He is. “Um, I don’t know. They exist?”
“Are we riding one today?”
“No,” I laugh, shaking my head hard. “I’m not riding a rollercoaster.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not ten.”
“You couldn’t ride one if you were ten. You’d be too small.” He looks down at me with a smug smile. “You might be too small now.”
“Eat shit.”
“Eat meat,” he fires back.
I laugh at how lame and yet accurate that insult is for me. “Well played, Lowry.”
“I’m just getting started, Boss,” he promises.
His mood was recovering the second we decided to blow off rehearsal, but he’s absolutely buoyant now that we’re at the pier. The shift in him is amazing and I silently chastise myself for working him so hard. Yes, I want to win, but maybe I can find a way to do it without destroying him.
He takes me to a food cart that’s selling hotdogs. Hotdogs. I almost punch him in the stomach for even suggesting it, but he’s quick to point out that they have a vegetarian option and I can get it without the bun. No meat. No carbs. He’s following all of my rules while still managing to make himself happy with two massive hotdogs for himself, both piled high with relish, ketchup, and more mustard than any human being should consume in one sitting.
We grab a tall bistro style table because he has trouble fitting in a picnic table. I’m starting to notice that he struggles with the world the same way I do, but in the opposite direction. While everything feels like it was built too big for me, it all feels too small for him.
We eat in silence. Shane seems content with his massive meat tubes and I’m happy with the smell of the ocean and the mist in the air as waves break against the pilons underneath us. It feels good. Peaceful. The silence between us is comfortable in a familiar way, like we’re used to being like this. Like a pair of friends with nothing to prove or an old married couple who already knows each others’ everything.
“Can I ask you something?” Shane asks suddenly.
I shrug. “It’s a free country.”
“You and Jace Ryker,” he begins tentatively, “there wasn’t anything there, was there? It was all for show.”
I lick my lips slowly. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I can’t see you hooking up with him.”
“You’ve been picturing it?”
“Maybe. Or I’ve been trying to. But it doesn’t make sense. He’s into his girlfriend and you’re just not the type.”
“The homewrecker type?”
He flinches, a look of guilt clouding his eyes. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not my business. Sorry.”
I chew slowly. My eyes are on the ocean but my mind is on the past. On the sins I’ve committed and the ones I haven’t. I didn’t wreck Jace’s home, but that doesn’t make me innocent because there’s still Eric. There’s always Eric.
I clear my throat roughly. “I didn’t sleep with Jace,” I confess because it feels good to be able to deny it. “You’re right. It was all for show. I didn’t want to sleep with him. He wasn’t my type. Not by a long shot.”
“Too pretty, right?” Shane jokes. He grins playfully. “I’ve always thought he’s too pretty for his own good.”
I snicker. “You like your men rugged, huh?”
“I like anyone that’s a little rough around the edges. And you, Boss, are all edges. You’re jagged as a steak knife.”
“Are you saying you like me?”
“Yeah, I am,” he answers without embarrassment. “Do you like me?”
“I don’t dislike you,” I hold out, feeling like a coward.
Shane laughs because he knows I’m lying. “We’ll get there,” he promises.
I roll my eyes like he’s being annoying, but he’s not. He’s right. We’re already there. I already like him, but to tell him that would be to give up ground and I never give up anything without a fight. I wouldn’t know how if I tried.
“So if Jace isn’t your type,” Shane presses, “what is?”
“Trouble,” I answer immediately and honestly. “My type is definitely trouble.”
“You mean badasses, like me.”
I grin. “I thought you were a nice guy, Shane.”
“You told me no one is a nice guy.”
“I think you might be.”
“Dammit,” he laments dramatically. “I guess I’m out then, huh?”
“I guess so. What about you? What’s your type?”
He looks at me for a long time. Long enough to draw my eyes to his. Long enough to make my stomach churn and my heart stutter painfully in my chest.
“I’m still figuring that out,” he answers softly.
I take an unsteady breath. I try to hold onto it, try to count it out the way I did in the Jeep, but I can’t. I can’t hold onto it with him looking at me like that; like I mean something.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SHANE
May 30th
KBC Studios
Los Angeles, CA
“Again!” Sutton cries.
I give her a meager head start before launching after her. She’s short but she’s fast. She sprints across the fake grass that’s too green for reality with fierce determination that nearly leaves me lagging behind her. Nearly. I use the length of my legs and the strength coiled inside them to overtake her, passing her at the last second before we turn and run back to the starting point. We’ve been at this for the last hour. My lungs are screaming. My legs are on fire.
It feels so good I can hardly stand it.
Sutton is true to her word. Since we slacked off yesterday, we’re working twice as hard today. I feel like I’m being punished, but I like it. I like running with her. She’s a competitor, like me. She wants to be the best at everything she does and she will not rest until she’s beat me back to the line at least once. I could let her win and end this whenever I want, but I’m no sucker. I don’t let people win and she wouldn’t be happy if I did. No, this ends when she wins for real or we both die trying.
“Again!”
I chase her across the faux field with a smile turning into a grimace. We’re in the same park where we filmed the opening scene for DNA. It’s on the KBC lot. It’s been in a hundred TV shows and movies, shot from different angles and dressed up to look new every time. It’s deserted now, becoming our own personal playground. And when Sutton kills me with these sprints, they can bury me here.
“I give!” I shout. I limp to a stop, my right foot hovering above the ground. “I give! Fuck! I give!”
Sutton slows, jogging back to me. “What’s wrong?”
“Cramp,” I growl through gritted teeth. “Hamstring.”
“Get on the ground. Put your foot in the air.”
I do as she says. She straddles my leg still on the ground and pushes against my foot held in the air.
I growl as it painfully stretches the muscles along the back of my leg. “Shit.”
“Just breathe. Keep breathing,” she pants.
Her face is flushed red from running. Her long, blond hai
r is pulling free from her ponytail that hangs over her shoulder, tickling my calf. She adjusts her hold on me, pushing harder. Making me bark in pain. She doesn’t let up, though. She knows I need to stretch it out or it will only get worse. She uses her whole body to hold my leg straight and I’m still worried I’m going to accidentally kick her over. Her chest is pressed against my calf, her stomach flat against the back of my knee. I can feel her breathing. It’s erratic and exciting.
“I think I’m good,” I tell her roughly.
She shakes her head. “Shut up and breathe.”
“I’m trying.”
I really am. It’s just hard to focus on breathing when I’m getting a boner, but I can’t tell her that. If I don’t get it under control soon, she’s going to see for herself. Why do her breasts have to heave like that every time she breathes, glistening with sweat and—Oh shit.
“Do you watch baseball?” I ask her, staring up at the sky. Anything but the swell of her tits in that yellow sports bra. Kodiak yellow.
“No,” she chuckles.
“I do. I watch the Mariners. There’s a game on today.”
“Wow. Great.”
“It’s a big one. They’re playing the Dodgers.”
“Shane, seriously, why are you telling me this?”
I shake my head, my eyes fixed on a cloud that looks like a teacup. It reminds me of my grandma. That helps. “I’m just making conversation.”
“Okay,” she mutters, unimpressed.
Her body is slick with sweat. Mine is too. It’s mingling together where we’re touching, turning hot. Moist.
“Damnit.”
“Just a minute more,” she consoles me gently.
That, her voice being tender with me, is more than I can take. It’s worse than her skin against mine or her breasts bulging with every breath she takes.
I meet her eyes for a second, shaking my head. “It’s fine. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
She lowers my leg slowly, letting me drop it to the ground. I’m relieved that my shorts aren’t bulging noticeably as Sutton drops to the ground next to me. She starts stretching her own body, bending it in half with impossible ease.
Working out with her is the best and worst idea I’ve ever had.
“Hey,” I grunt, sitting up quickly. Too quickly. My head swims a little from the blood rush. “Do the thing again. The Milan thing.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “No.”
“Come on!” I plead, scooting closer to her. “I’m injured. You owe me.”
“I didn’t injure you. Your pride did. You could have quit at any time.”
“Just once.”
She looks at me hard. Finally, she sits up with a sigh and I know I’ve won.
Sutton straightens her face like she’s slipping into character before she affects a perfect British accent. “Darlings, I loved it. I adored it, but it didn’t resonate. I didn’t feel the love. Make love on the stage so I can see it, otherwise I simply won’t believe it, lovelies.”
“Jesus, that sounds just like her,” I laugh. “That’s creepy good.”
“I swear, she says ‘love’ in some form at least five times per sentence,” Sutton promises me in her normal voice. “You’ll never be able to unhear it. You’re going to notice it every time she talks.”
“Worth it. Do Desmond now. The New York accent should be easy for you.”
“It’s fake!” she cries, crossing her arm over her chest to stretch it out. “He’s not from New York. He’s from Florida.”
“No fucking way.”
“Yes, fucking way. He’s from Tallahassee.”
“Okay, then do his fake accent.”
She shakes her head stubbornly. “I will not.”
“Come on!”
“No,” she chuckles. “I won’t offend my state like that. Pass.”
“Okay, fine. Do an impersonation of McKay. Unless you’re afraid of offending robots too.”
“No, I can’t. I love McKay. I can’t make fun of him.”
I fall forward dramatically. My fingers brush her leg; soft and warm in the sunshine. “Holy shit.”
“What?”
“You love McKay?”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be weird about it. I don’t mean I’m in love with him.”
“No, I know. That would be too much to handle. This is enough. You love someone. You care about someone.”
“I love Clara too. It’s not a big deal.”
“Sutton has feelings,” I sing in an elementary school tone.
“Shut up, Shane,” she growls, but it’s weak. She’s smiling. She can’t stop smiling and I can’t look away from her.
“Alright, fine, if you won’t make fun of the people you love, make fun of someone you hate. Who do you hate on the show?”
“You?”
“Bullshit. I’m on the love list.”
She laughs at me. “Just yesterday you were trying to get me to like you. Now you’re convinced I love you.”
“I’m an easy sell.”
“Okay. Whatever.”
She’s trying to be flippant but she knows I’m right. She likes me. She liked having lunch with me yesterday. She liked walking on the beach with me afterward. She liked showing off her impersonation skills and making fun of the judges with me. She liked riding the Ferris wheel for the first time in her life with me as the sun went down over the ocean. She liked waking up knowing she would see me again today. I know all of that because I feel it too. I like Sutton Roe. More than I thought I could. More than I probably should.
“Are we doing lunch again today?” I ask her as I lean back on my hands.
She snorts. “No. Absolutely not.”
“You didn’t like your veggie dog?”
“I liked it fine, but that was a one-time deal. I told you that.”
“Girls say that to me all the time but they always come back for more.”
Sutton laughs in my face. “Not this girl.”
“You’re different, huh?”
“You can’t handle how different I am,” she promises.
I smile at her softly. “Doesn’t mean I won’t give it a try.”
She meets my eyes for a fleeting second before looking away. Her smile has dropped. Her face has that scared look she gets when things get too close to her, like a deer in the woods. She’s on alert and I need to back off if I don’t want her to run. But I’m looking at her beautiful face as she licks those pouty lips, and I’m thinking of a million things I’d like to do with her. Things she doesn’t want to hear me say but they’re in my head and rising in my throat, and I don’t know how long I can contain them. She’s hard as stone but I’d love to know what it feels like when she goes soft inside. I want to know what her eyes look like when they’re half-closed with ecstasy and she whispers my name like she needs it instead of being annoyed with it.
I want to be on her list. The Love List. I want her to love me or love being with me. Some sick part of me wants her to be in love with me even if I’m not in love with her just because she’s so damn hard, it’d be a thrill to break through all that stone to the tender part of her underneath. Has Sutton ever been in love with someone? Has she ever let anyone in that far? I doubt it, but the competitor in me wants to be the first. I don’t know what I’d do with the victory once I had it, but I can’t help wanting it. I can’t help how deeply and irrationally I want her.
I want to get as close as I can to the fire in her eyes without getting burned.
“What’s your family like?” I ask conversationally, switching gears for both our sake. “Are they here in California?”
She shakes her head sharply. “No. I don’t know where they are.”
“You don’t know where your parents are?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care to know.”
“So you guys aren’t close then.”
“No,” she scoffs. She casts me a hard smile. “They�
�re worse than me, if you can imagine that.”
“How is even possible?”
Sutton licks her lips, her face going pale. “It’s my mom, actually. I don’t know much about my dad. But my mom is… she’s more controlling.”
“That’s impossible,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood I’ve sunk us into.
“I promise you, it’s not. She’s also a diva. She burned through most of my dad’s money before they finally split and he stopped coming around, not that he was around much to start with.”
“Where was he?”
“Working. He traveled a lot. Mom did too, but she always took me with her. She was a stage actress when she was younger. That’s why she pushed me into it. Once I started working, she quit and followed me instead. She also started spending my money the way she spent my dad’s. She burned through almost everything by the time I was fifteen.”
“What’d she spend it on?”
“Jewelry. Clothes. Vacations.” Sutton shrugs. The move looks jerky, like a shudder. “A race horse in Argentina.”
“Damn. Did she leave with you anything?”
“Barely. After my first Tony, I was earning about eight thousand a week. I had over a million dollars in the bank at one point, but by the time I managed to get custody of my money, it was closer to half that. That’s when I quit Broadway and moved out here. Alone.”
I sit forward with a serious frown. “How old were you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You divorced your parents, didn’t you?”
“I became emancipated, yes,” She answers stiffly. She hates talking about this. So why do I keep asking? And why are her fingers trembling? “When the judge saw what she was doing with my finances, he let me separate from her. I haven’t spoken to either of my parents since the gavel fell.”
“Sutton, I’m sorry. I—”
She stands suddenly. Her steps are wobbly, nearly toppling her back to the ground.
I jump up to reach for her, steadying her. “Whoa, slow down.”
“I’m fine,” she lies. Her face is sweating but I don’t think all of it is from our workout. Her skin feels clammy against mine. “I got dizzy. That’s all.”
“That’s not all. You look sick.”