by Grey, S. R.
“Sure.”
“The truth is it’s been kind of lonely since I got here.” She looks over at me from across the table and there’s sadness in her gaze. “I don’t really know anyone besides Graham.”
I try to cheer her up by reminding her, “Hey, you know me now.”
“Yes, I do. And I’m definitely happy about that.”
Hmmm, she looks open for more. So I take a deep breath and go on to ask what I’ve wanted to since we first sat down. “Would you want to do something with me sometime?”
I mean go out on a date, but she misunderstands.
“Sure, that’d be fun. It’d be nice to have a friend up here in Vegas.”
I can’t hide my disappointment.
“So you just want to be…friends?”
“Is that okay?”
I think about it and decide that sure, I can be friends with her. She did just get out of a bad relationship. I can’t expect her to be up for more than friendship…at least for a while.
“Friends work for me,” I reply.
“Okay, good.”
Then she starts laughing, and I have to say, “Hey, I didn’t know friendship was so funny.”
She finally composes herself. “Oh, Dylan, I’m sorry. It’s not, not usually. But for a second there, it struck me that we sounded like we’re in sixth grade.”
She’s right, and I say, “It never really changes all that much, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t,” she agrees. Then she clears her throat and says, “Okay, new friend, you know a bunch of stuff about me. It’s time I hear a little more about you.”
“Fuck. I’m boring as hell,” I scoff.
“Ha, I doubt that. You play professional hockey.”
“That’s true, I do.”
“Well, see, that’s not boring at all.”
I raise a tentative brow. “Do you like hockey?”
“Are you kidding? I freaking love hockey.”
Could this woman be any more perfect?
“That’s good to hear,” I say, “seeing as hockey is pretty much my whole life.”
“I bet.”
“Though it can be grueling sometimes, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Smiling, she says, “I’m sure all the perks make it well worth it.”
“What do you mean by perks?” I ask, curious to hear her impressions of the hockey life.
“Well, there must be many,” she begins. “Besides all the money and fame, I’m sure you Wolves’s players have tons of adoring fans.”
“I don’t know about tons.” I laugh. “But the ones we have are amazing.”
“Plus, there’s the crazier stuff too,” she goes on.
“Like…?”
“Well, I bet you have women throwing themselves at you all the time. And you probably go to some pretty wild parties.”
I start laughing, and she says, “Hey, what’s so funny about that?”
“It’s just that my life is so different than what you’re imagining, Chloe. I mean, sure, some players live that way. But I’m not one of them.”
“So, womanizing is not for you?”
“Not at all, I’m a one-woman kind of guy.”
“And no wild parties every night?”
“Not since my rookie days.”
“Jeez, Dylan,” she teases, “what do you do for fun?”
I think it over. “Hmm, good question.”
She makes a show of placing her hand over her heart. “Oh my God, this is tragic. But I think I have a solution.”
If it involves her, I’m in. Still, I should find out what she has in mind.
I ask her as much, and she replies, “I’m inviting you over to my place for dinner, officially, as of right now. And I’m going to make it a good time. I’ll whip us up some killer margaritas and we can get crazy buzzed. Then we’ll do something really, really fun.”
I raise a brow. I can think of a lot of really fun things to do with Chloe, buzzed or not.
She must read my mind, as she’s quick to clarify, “Platonic fun, Dylan.”
“Platonic, drunken fun, okay,” I retort, chuckling. “I’m down with that.”
What I don’t add is that I’m down with that for now.
Ultimately, I want Chloe. Not just in my bed, though that’s a goal too. But what I really want is to show her what it’s like to date someone who’s not an asshole.
She deserves flowers and orgasms, not black eyes and disappointment.
Diablo Chicken and a Confession
There’s so much more to Dylan than a great body and a handsome face. He really seems like an amazing guy.
I do a little research and find out it’s not just wishful thinking. He really is a great guy. There’s a ton of stuff on the Wolves’s website about his involvement with helping victims of domestic abuse.
Wow, that makes me like him even more.
All of the players are involved in some sort of charitable work, but Dylan seems to have committed more time and more money than any of the others. I wonder then if there’s more to his advocacy.
“I need to find out,” I declare.
All of this research is conducted in my kitchen, where I’m also trying to decide what to make for our big dinner, which is tonight.
Having Dylan over is about more than just getting to know him better, though that’s a goal too. I’m also up to step three in the X Your Ex program, and it is “Find a New Recipe and Share it with a Friend.”
I have the friend, and we’re all set to share, so now I need to find a recipe that’ll knock said friend’s socks off.
“Here goes nothing,” I murmur as I close out my Dylan research and google “best tasting recipes.”
Turns out, there are many. But one called diablo chicken catches my eye. The pictures look so good, what with all the peppers and such .But it’s obviously a spicy entrée, so I should make sure Dylan likes hot stuff before I move forward.
I grab my phone, scroll to his number, and hit Call. He picks up right away, which I take as a good sign. “Hey, Chloe, what’s up?”
Even better, my name is clearly in his contacts.
“It’s not a bad time, is it?” I ask.
“No, not at all, we just finished up with practice.”
“Oh, good. I won’t keep you, though. I just had a quick question about dinner tonight.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” he says. “I promise to be good and hungry.”
“Great.”
Uh-oh, the pressure to get this right is on.
“So how do you feel about spicy foods? Do you love them or hate them?”
“I love hot stuff,” he replies.
Hmm, I bet he does. Chloe, get your mind out of the gutter. Didn’t you tell him you just want to be friends?
Yes, I did, so I quickly get back to the main conversation.
“That’s good to hear,” I say. “The entrée I have in mind is called diablo chicken, so…” I shrug even though he can’t see me. “…make of that what you will.”
“Sounds like we’re in for one hell of a night,” he jokes.
He’s such a sweetie.
We wrap up, and I head out to buy what I need.
Later, just as Dylan’s game is underway, I start prepping the ingredients for diablo chicken. There are hot peppers to chop, red onions to dice, and chicken to pound.
“At least something’s getting pounded.” I giggle as I pick up a meat mallet.
As I whack away at the chicken, I think about how I’ve never been happier than I am right now that I let Graham buy me the massive TV. I mean, wow, Dylan and his teammates are ultra big and clear, even from where I’m working over at the counter.
Once the chicken is in the oven, I start on the margaritas. I pull out the blender, grab the mix I bought at the store, and locate a bottle of tequila I purchased right after I moved in.
The original plan was to crack the bottle open some lonely evening. It’s so much better that I have someone to share it with.
>
But second thoughts arise when I discover how strong it is.
“110 proof!” I exclaim as I read the label. “We’re going to be rocked.”
Hmm, but a loosened-up Dylan may not be a bad thing. He just may open up about why he’s so committed to all those domestic abuse causes.
“So, margaritas it is,” I declare.
A short while later, there’s another reason to have drinks—to celebrate, seeing as the Wolves just won the game.
Dylan arrives in a great mood. He looks pretty great too, all dressed in dark pants, shiny shoes, and a crisp white button-down.
I stand in the doorway, staring at him for a good, solid minute before letting him in.
He chuckles as he steps into the living room, but then he gives me a thorough once-over and says appreciatively, “You look beautiful tonight, Chloe. That dress is stunning on you.”
“Oh, this old thing…” I feign nonchalance. “I threw it on without even thinking.”
Totally not true. I knew a sexy black dress would garner his attention.
The oven timer then goes off, and I hurry to the kitchen.
Dylan, following me, remarks, “It smells great in here.”
“I hope you like everything.”
“I’m sure I will.”
When I’m struggling with the roaster, he grabs a pot holder and says, “Here, let me help you.”
Between the two of us, we get dinner on the table in no time. And then, in the small dining area off the kitchen, we eat spicy chicken while sipping on margaritas.
Wow, Dylan wasn’t lying. He freaking loves the diablo chicken.
Me, I like the chicken. But I love the margaritas even more. Or rather, I love the way they make me feel—uninhibited.
I ditch the “friends” bull and start flirting. Dylan responds positively, which should make me feel great. But it doesn’t. The alcohol makes me melancholy, and I start ruminating over things Sten used to say.
And just like that, my confidence crumbles.
I am not this carefree and flirtatious.
I am not someone who’s never been put down, never been hit.
Choked up, I stand suddenly and say, “I should clean up this mess.”
Sten always hated when I left dishes on the table. But poor Dylan, he just looks confused.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
I sit back down and put my face in my hands, trying to pull myself together.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say at last. “I just need a minute.”
Don’t cry, don’t cry. Don’t ruin this night.
I look up and God, Dylan looks really worried. “Chloe, seriously, what’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” I quietly state. “I just can’t be that girl.”
“I don’t know what that even means. But for the record, I like the girl you are just fine.”
“Oh, Dylan…”
Now I really want to cry. No, I think I’d rather scream. Or better yet, maybe Dylan can hold me. No, he should leave me alone.
I’m clearly a mess, and that is exactly what I wanted to avoid. It’s what I meant when I said I can’t be that girl.
“I’m damaged,” I murmur. “It’s true. It’s just the damn truth.”
“I don’t understand why you’re saying that,” Dylan replies, sounding miffed.
“It’s just, this is my fault.” I start shaking my head. “I’m ruining our night.”
“You’re not.”
“Riiight.”
Our eyes meet then, and there’s such gentleness in his gaze that I must look away. I don’t deserve this kind of kindness and understanding. Despite his words to the contrary, I am screwing up this night, because I’m screwed up, so screwed up.
But Dylan is safety, a little voice says. He can protect you.
From anything, though? Even the past?
I need to talk to him and share with him why I’m so upset. It’s funny how I was thinking earlier that plying him with alcohol would get him to open up. Yet here I am, buzzed and wanting nothing more than to share my life.
Or at least, my secrets. I feel like I have to be honest. Friendship, or whatever our future holds, Dylan deserves the truth before we move forward in any kind of way.
So I start with the black eye, which is healed completely, though maybe not so much when it comes to my soul.
“The heavy bag didn’t swing back and hit me,” I confess.
Dylan sighs. “I figured as much.”
“Someone punched me,” I whisper.
His cheek twitches. “Who hit you, Chloe?”
“My ex. It wasn’t the first time, either. But it was the last.”
“Fuck.”
He says nothing more, so I venture a glance up to see why.
Oh, no, Dylan looks like he’s ready to kill someone.
I better fix this fast.
You Spin Me Right Round
I don’t want to scare Chloe, especially not after hearing about what her ex used to do.
I close my eyes and run my hand down my face. I need to hold it together, and I think the best way to do that would be to share with Chloe why what she just told me affects me so much.
I take a deep breath, and then I begin.
“You know I do a lot of charity work for victims of domestic abuse, right? Surely, Graham has told you.”
“He hasn’t said anything,” she replies. “But I saw a lot about your work on the Wolves’s website.”
“Okay…” I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “There’s a reason why I fight so hard for those victims. And it’s why hearing stories like yours gets to me so much. It hits too fucking close to home.”
“What do you mean?”
Hell, there’s something about Chloe Tettersaw that compels me to open up about things I never really talk about. It must be the connection we have, the one I felt in the beginning, and the one that keeps getting stronger.
Still, it doesn’t make this any easier.
“I have to stand,” I announce, releasing her hand. “I just can’t think straight sitting down.”
“I understand,” she says.
She’s so infinitely patient, never once pressing. Not even when I start pacing like a caged lion.
Finally, I head over to the fireplace in the living room and rest my arm on the mantel.
Turning to her, I say, “There’s no way for me to sugarcoat this.”
“Okay, so don’t.”
I take a deep breath and release it slowly.
And then I say, “I’m the way I am, and I do the things I do to try and help women who were abused, for one main reason, Chloe.”
“What’s the reason?”
“My mother was a victim,” I say softly, voice cracking.
She comes to me then.
“How do you mean?” she asks when she’s about a foot away. “Did someone hit her too?”
I nod and stare down to where I’m grasping the edge of the mantel. “Someone used to hit her, yes.”
“Who? Your dad?”
“No.” I shake my head. “My father passed away when I was very young. My stepfather was the one who used to hit my mom. But that bastard pays now every day for what he did to her.”
She places her hand on my arm. “What do you mean, Dylan? How does he pay?”
“He’s rotting away in prison.”
I look at her and see the color has drained from her face.
“W-what happened?” she murmurs.
“He killed my mother, Chloe. He beat her to death.”
“Jesus, Dylan…”
“And I was there and saw it all,” I go on, unable to stop now that I’ve started. “I was just a kid at the time, but I swear that some days it feels like it happened yesterday.”
She’s naturally speechless, until at last she mutters, “Dylan, God, I don’t even know what to say.”
I wrap my arms around her, holding her close. She doesn’t even know it, but I need her comfort so bad
ly.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I murmur. “This helps, just us holding each other. Besides, words won’t change the past.”
I lean my cheek against the top of her head and nothing more is said on the subject. There’s no need to. We just…are. We’re two friends, two broken people, fighting an undeniable attraction. I want more from her, especially now. Finding someone to be so open with, what a fucking gift. I never thought this could happen to me.
It’d be so easy to tip up her chin and kiss her lips. I think she’d be open to it too.
But now is not the time.
I promised Chloe I’d be her friend, and that’s what I’m going to do. Even if things do change with us, it can’t be too fast. I want to take things slowly with her, proceed with caution. I don’t need to damage her heart any further, and I don’t care to build something on a shaky foundation.
It’d only collapse.
I pull back, and she smiles up at me sadly.
“Looks like I’m the one who ruined our night,” I say.
“No.” She shakes her head adamantly. “That’s not true at all. I think this was good, this sharing. I feel closer to you, Dylan.”
I like how she’s courageous enough to lay it on the line. Damn, I really want to kiss her right now.
I almost do, but then I remember I’m moving slowly with her.
Shit, I need a distraction.
Gesturing to the kitchen, I say, “Hey, how about we whip up a fresh batch of margaritas. I think we deserve another round.”
Chloe laughs and agrees, “We sure do.”
We start out sipping our freshly made drinks at the dining room table, but then we move to the sofa where we can relax.
After the heavy talk, we stick to random, unimportant things. Music comes up at one point, and wouldn’t you know it, we both like classic rock and old eighties and nineties tunes.
Well, I’m the eighties fan—Chloe is more into the nineties.
Nestling in the crook of the sofa, at the opposite end from me, she nudges my leg with her foot.
Yeah, we lost our shoes hours ago.
“I never pegged you for an eighties fan,” she says.
“Ha, you think I’m bad? You should meet my defense partner, Noel. He can name the number one song for every year in the eighties. I’m more of an expert on the one-hit wonders.”