A Safe Place

by Margaret Watson

  He’d never known anyone like Frankie.

  He wanted to wrap his arms around her and never let her go.

  Whoa. He tensed, and she raised her head. “What’s wrong?”

  Her voice was low and husky, and he wanted her all over again. Ignoring his sudden unease, he held her more tightly, her breasts against his torso, his hand stroking her back. “Only that I can’t get enough of you.”

  The hint of tension disappeared, and she relaxed against him, boneless. “Me, either,” she whispered, so quietly that he wondered if she meant him to hear.

  His eyes began to flutter closed, and he opened them wide before he could fall asleep. He never stayed the night. He always charmed himself out the door after sex.

  He should do the same now. But his hands wouldn’t release her. He needed to feel her skin against his. So he turned and pressed a kiss to her neck and allowed his eyes to close completely.

  The jangling of a phone startled him, and he felt Frankie stiffen in his arms. “Do you need to get that?”

  “I don’t want to. But I should.” She buried her face in the crook of his shoulder. “It’s my brother.”

  “Your brother? Calling you at eleven at night?”

  “It must be important.” She untangled herself from Cal and reached for her pants. The long sweep of her back was pale, the tiny bumps of her spine a string of pearls in the darkness.

  “Nathan,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  As her brother spoke, the tightness came back to her body, erasing the glow from their lovemaking. “How did that happen?” She glanced over her shoulder at Cal, who propped himself on one elbow. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

  Cal heard the faint sound of a male voice. Upset. Finally, Frankie said, “All right. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  She snapped the phone closed, then flung it toward the pile of their clothes. “A pipe burst in the basement of the restaurant. They didn’t discover it right away, and there’s a foot of water down there. The plumber is working on it, but the restaurant is a mess. It’s going to take all night to clean it up. I have to help them.”

  “Why did they call you?” Why couldn’t her brothers take care of it themselves?

  “Because we’re family.” She stared at him as if he were a slow child. “When there’s a problem, we help each other.”

  Cal’s only family was his father, and it would never occur to him to call the old man in the middle of the night for anything. Maybe because the only help his father had given him had been yelling instructions from the sidelines during his childhood football games.

  His old man called him for help a lot—for tickets to a game or merchandise from one of Cal’s sponsors. Cal never dropped everything to get to it, though.

  He was both disappointed and relieved that Frankie had to leave. He wouldn’t have to worry about the awkward morning after. He wouldn’t have to break his no-sleepover rule.

  Frankie grabbed her shirt, fingered the ripped seam. Then she pulled on her pants. “You’re not going to try and change my mind?”

  “I won’t make you choose. That wouldn’t be fair.”

  She swiveled on the bed and took his hand. “Come with me.”

  To meet her family? He swallowed. “Why would I do that?” he asked cautiously.

  She slowly untangled their fingers. “I thought you might want to hang out. The more people helping, the sooner we’d be done. We could come back here afterward.”

  He reached for his jeans. “I have to get to rehab early tomorrow,” he said without meeting her eyes. “Otherwise, I’d love to meet your brothers.”

  “Okay.” She slid off the bed, took a clean shirt from a drawer and found her shoes. Finger-combing her hair, she said, “Would you mind dropping me off at my car?”

  “Of course not.” He shimmied into his jeans and shirt, watching her as he tied his laces. She still hadn’t looked directly at him.

  He didn’t want to say goodbye, he realized uneasily. But boundaries were important. He had to leave.

  He drove through the alley more slowly this time, trying to avoid the potholes. There were still people on the street, but not as many as earlier. When he pulled into the church parking lot, she turned to him, one hand on the door.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I could have walked, but this way I’ll get to the restaurant more quickly. I’ll see you tomorrow, Cal.”

  He reached for her, not sure what he would say, but she was already jumping out. He waited while she started her car and drove out of the lot, then followed her. The blue plume of smoke from her exhaust disappeared down the street in front of him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE CLANG OF WEIGHTS and the curses of the men in the gym echoed around Cal as he sweated and struggled. The pressure tugged on his rebuilt knee and he grunted in pain.

  God, he hated rehab. He hated the pain, the boring repetitions, knowing everyone in the room was watching him. Everyone was trying to figure out the same thing—was he good to go for the season?

  He would be. His aching knee was still stiff, still tentative, but he’d work harder. He’d get his leg back to where it had been before the surgery. He had three weeks until training camp, and he’d use every spare minute.

  He wanted to spend his extra time with Frankie.

  The weight dropped with a bang as he wondered how the cleanup had gone at the restaurant. How bad the mess had been. What time she got home.

  Last night had been great. Better than great. He remembered her whispering his name, touching him as if she couldn’t get enough, the sounds she’d made when she climaxed.

  The damn phone call had ruined everything.

  He wanted to know what Frankie looked like in the morning. If she liked morning sex. If she was crabby when she woke up, or one of those irritatingly happy people.

  He wanted more of her. More of what she had to give—the unconditional support, the caring, the loyalty. The understanding. She was always ready to go out of her way for people who had no one else in their corner.

  On paper, he wasn’t that guy. He had money. Connections. A job most men would kill for. But he couldn’t name one person who was a close friend. Who genuinely cared about him. His agent wanted to make money from him. So did the team. His friends were people who craved what he had—money, fame, access to beautiful women.

  Frankie didn’t want anything from him besides his help at FreeZone. That made her unique in his world. And last night, when he could have helped her, he’d run like a scared rabbit.

  He hadn’t wanted to leave her. He could have gone with her, met her brothers, pitched in on the cleanup. Gone back to her apartment afterward.

  But he hadn’t. He had to focus on his career. Get to rehab early. Work on his knee. Being with Frankie the way she deserved would compromise that.

  So she’d gone on her own. She would be tired this morning. But she’d still go to the bakery, still open FreeZone.

  He’d gone home and slept.

  “Hey, Stewart, you old hound dog.” Remington, one of the wide receivers, grinned as he waved a rolled-up newspaper in Cal’s face. Not the sports section, which was the only place Cal would be mentioned in the paper these days. He’d been conspicuously absent from the club scene since his arrest.

  “What are you talking about?” No one could have snapped his picture with the latest It girl or a bunch of drunken teammates. The gossip columns had nothing to report.

  Remington wiggled the newspaper in the air. “She’s not your usual style, buddy. You have a secret life we don’t know about?”

  The weights clattered as Cal dropped them to lunge for the newspaper. He unrolled it and saw a photo of him with Frankie at the pizza parlor. They were staring at each other, the
ir hands barely touching. Seeing that private moment in the newspaper felt like a violation.

  He hadn’t noticed anyone snapping their photo. But he wouldn’t have; he and Frankie looked completely absorbed in one another.

  He tossed the paper onto the floor. “Yeah, I have a secret life. It’s called community service.”

  “So who’s the chick? She’s pretty hot.”

  Cal wanted to reach over and rip Remington’s throat out. “She runs the teen center where I’m doing my service.”

  Remington grinned as he stooped to pick up the paper. “What kind of work are you doing there, Stewart? ’Cause I’d like to get some of that myself.”

  Before Cal could respond, Remington strolled away with the newspaper, still looking at the picture. Cal’s hands curled into fists. Before he could move, one of the coaches stepped in front of him.

  “The rehab going well, Stewart?” Marty Kelleher asked.

  Cal forced his attention away from Remington. Kelleher’s face was lined from too many hours in the sun, his red hair was mixed with gray, and he hadn’t shaved yet that day. But his eyes were sharp and observant.

  “Going great, Coach.” Cal lifted the weight as if he’d never been interrupted.

  Kelleher put his hand on Cal’s knee, stopping him from lifting again. “Got a favor to ask you,” he said.

  “What is it?” Cal snatched a towel from the floor and wiped the sweat off his face.

  “That new safety we drafted. Tommy Grover. The kid is good. He’s got the instincts and the moves, but he doesn’t have the intangibles.” Kelleher glanced at Cal’s knee. “He needs help. Will you work him out? Spend some time with him?”

  Cal smiled through clenched teeth. “Sure, Marty.” He was a team player. Even if it meant training his replacement. “Is Grover here now?”

  “He’s doing his weights. When you finish here, grab him and work with him for an hour or so.”

  “Will do.” He wiped the towel over his face again as the coach walked away. Damn it.

  Cal flung the towel across the room. Asking him to put the rookie through his paces was a not-so-subtle way of finding out how Cal’s knee was really doing. To see if he had anything left.

  If he was through, if he couldn’t pass his physical, the team would still get their money’s worth as long as he taught the kid his tricks. All the knowledge he’d accumulated in his years in the league. The team could wring the last ounce of value from Cal before they cut him.

  He stared at the ugly red scars on his knee, then pushed himself to his feet. Might as well get this over with.

  “Hey, Cal,” Marty called from across the gym. “Almost forgot. When you’re done with Grover, come find me. I got a call from some guy at DCFS.”

  DCFS? Was it Bascombe? Whatever. He had more important things to think about right now.

  Tom Grover was a nice kid, Cal thought an hour later. Eager to learn, appreciative of Cal’s help. Not full of himself like a lot of the rookies. He’d asked Cal about his community service, and Cal found himself describing FreeZone as they gulped down bottles of water.

  “Sounds like the place needs help,” Tom said.

  “Yeah.” Cal tossed an empty bottle at the recycling bin, watched it drop in. “What they really need is money.”

  Tom rubbed his face with a towel. “The Cougars should organize a fundraiser for her. They do that kind of stuff a lot, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, they do. That’s not a bad idea.”

  Grover nodded. “Thanks for the help, man.”

  “You’re welcome,” Cal murmured as he watched the kid walk away. It hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected. Tom was a quick study. He was going to do well in the league. Cal had almost enjoyed teaching him.

  FRANKIE ROLLED OVER when the sun woke her up. Still half-asleep, she frowned. The sun didn’t shine into her bedroom window.

  When she opened her eyes, she was face-to-face with a yellowing Ani DiFranco poster, which hung next to a Death Cab for Cutie poster. The heavy paper curled around the edges and the pictures were faded.

  She pushed herself up to a sitting position. She was in her room at her parents’ home. Nathan’s home now.

  Details of the previous evening came rushing back. Hauling everything from the basement of the restaurant to the first floor. Waiting for the plumber to finish, then hand washing and drying all the dishes.

  Cal. At her apartment.

  Sitting on the side of her old twin bed, Frankie rested her elbows on her knees and shoved her hands through her hair. He would have stayed, she told herself. If Nathan hadn’t called, Cal would have stayed. They would have woken up together.

  Today was her day off at the bakery. She and Cal could have slept in, made love again this morning.

  She pressed her hands into her scalp. Cal wouldn’t have stayed the night. She’d seen his panicked expression when she’d asked him to help at the restaurant. He’d started edging toward the door the moment the words were out of her mouth.

  He’d claimed he had rehab in the morning, and she knew that was true. But even if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have joined her. He didn’t want to meet her brothers. He didn’t want anything beyond sex.

  So she’d come alone. And she’d woken up in her old bed. In her old room.

  She’d hung the posters when she was twelve. The books on the shelves were the ones she’d read as a preteen—all those sad books about kids with cancer, parents dying, broken homes. God, why had she wanted to read about such heartbreaking topics?

  She’d read them because she’d felt safe. Invincible. As if nothing bad could ever happen to her.

  But it had.

  A world of heartbreak had dragged her down, nearly drowning her. Afterward, she couldn’t bear to look at the books.

  When she got home from juvie, this room had been a refuge. It made her feel as if she was safe again. Back where she belonged.

  Now it was a reminder of how far she’d come from that scared, angry girl. How dangerous it was on the streets, when even the protectors could turn out to be predators.

  She hadn’t let Bascombe win before. She damn well wasn’t going to now. She’d figure out a way to bring him down.

  Throwing on her clothes, she went down to the kitchen. Nathan sat at the old family table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. He gave her an assessing look.

  “Hey, Frankie. Coffee’s made.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  He jerked his head toward the counter. “You know where the mugs are.”

  She knew where everything was in this kitchen. The appliances had been replaced, the walls had been repainted a cheerful yellow, but the dishes were in the same cabinets. So were the glasses. The silverware, the cooking gadgets, the pot holders and towels were all in the same drawers.

  She leaned against the counter, blowing on the coffee, as Nathan swiveled in his chair. “Thanks for coming over last night, especially so late. Marco and I really appreciate it.”

  The gulp of dark liquid scalded her throat. “That’s what families do.”

  “Did you leave the football player behind when I called?”

  “What are you talking about?” Her heart began to pound, which was ridiculous. She was an adult. So was Cal. But she didn’t want to discuss last night with her brother.

  Nathan tossed the newspaper onto the table. Next to the gossip column was a picture of her and Cal at the pizza place last night. “You have something going on with him.”

  She tore her gaze away from the photo. “Cal is doing community service at FreeZone.”

  Nathan snorted. “He wasn’t working very hard in that picture, was he? Oh, wait. Maybe he was. He was sure focused on you.”

  “Don’t be crude,
Nathan. Cal is none of your business.”

  “You’re having fun. I get it. But when he hurts you, he answers to me.”

  “When he hurts me? What makes you think he will?” The image she’d tried to ignore all night leaped back into her head—of Cal, right after she’d asked him to come to Mama’s with her. He’d physically drawn back. Put distance between them. She’d seen the shock on his face before he’d masked it.

  Cal didn’t want a relationship. He wasn’t about getting involved, meeting a woman’s family, making a commitment.

  Nathan made an impatient noise. “Come on, Frankie. The last woman he dated was Prissy Howard. Sure, she’s attractive, but she has no apparent career or talent. She’s just famous for being famous. The one before that was Chloe. Again, she’s a freakin’ supermodel so she’s gorgeous, but not the sharpest tool in the shed. You’re worth a million of those two, Frankie. You deserve better than a guy that shallow.”

  She stabbed her finger into his biceps. “Nathan, I’m not a kid anymore. The protective chest-pounding is not necessary. Maybe I want a shallow guy.” She flexed her finger, which had bent the wrong way. Damn it, why had she let Nathan provoke her into losing her temper? “And Cal’s not shallow.”

  “Yeah, he’s Mr. Serious. Mr. Save the World.” Her brother rolled his eyes. “Cal Stewart is all about clubbing, hot women and football.” When she narrowed her gaze at him, Nate added hastily, “Not that you’re not hot, Frankie.” He curled his hands around the back of his head. “God! I do not want to talk about my sister’s hotness.”

  “Then drop it, before you shove your foot any farther down your throat. Not your business. Not anyone’s business but mine.”

  “Mom would have said the same—”

  “Mom would have agreed with me,” Frankie interrupted. “She’d have told me that you can’t help who you like. For God’s sake, Nate. I’m twenty-seven years old. You don’t have to threaten my boyfriends anymore.” She pushed past her brother and left the kitchen, stopping only to grab her purse before she stormed out of the house.