Big Jock : Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Vanessa Kinney

  A mixture of cigar smoke, whiskey, and the open road. I reach out and grab his right cuff. I poke a finger through a ripped hole, one that he’d gotten during my freshman year in college when we were learning to cook.

  That night he almost lost a finger and I almost peed my pants crying with laughter. Both of us learned an important lesson that day. Always pay attention in the kitchen. Especially when there’s a knife involved.

  “How long has this been going on for?” He runs a hand through my hair. I pretend that I don’t hear him. My finger pull down on the zipper in front and peel off his jacket, placing my hand on his chest.

  The rhythmic beat of his heart greets me back and I run my hands along the subtle curve of his pecs. With my head against his chest, I close my eyes and listen to his breathing.

  This is getting into dangerous territory. And fast.

  Every second that I spend in his embrace is like a scuba diver swimming deeper and deeper to the bottom of the ocean. It’s only a matter of time before I get the “bends.” Diving head first into his touch and warm embrace will only hurt me in the end. Yet I can’t seem to pull away.

  A hand comes up and his finger hooks onto the bottom of my chin. With a gentle, but hard tug he pulls me out of the water and straight into his moonlit eyes. He rubs a thumb across my cheek, just like he used to all those years ago, and opens his mouth, descending toward mine. His tongue flicks across his lips, and at the last possible second, he pulls away. His hand leaves my face and he massages his temples, clearly having an inner fight with himself.

  When I pull away from his squeeze, he opens his eyes and studies me for a moment. He lets out a sigh and props his elbow the cushions and rests his head against his palm. “You haven’t answered my question yet.”

  This time I hear his question and see his lips move, but the last thing that I want to do is talk about my stalker. Doing that would mean giving in to him. Letting King into the day to day problems that I’m having. Forcing him to be there for me in my time of need, like a queen in distress waiting for her King to rescue her.

  What the hell is going on with me?

  Just an hour ago I hated his guts. I hated everything about him. The gloating smile he gave me or the way his blue eyes reflect the sunlight. But that isn’t what I feel now.

  Instead, all I want to do is sink back into his arms with his hands strumming through my hair. Let him whisper sweet nothings into my ear and let him take care of all my problems. Just like it used to be when we were younger and didn’t have any real problems.

  I bring my knees up to my chest and hug them. I rest my chin on top and let my head sink into the crevice between my legs. “Almost a year. It started around the time when I had my first exhibit. It’s been slowly getting worse and worse,” I mumble.

  Half of me wants him to stay and listen to me. The other wishes he would leave. That he wouldn’t make this harder on me than it needs to be.

  I hold my breath for a moment. I only told the cops about last night; it didn’t even cross my mind to tell them about the last couple months. Something deep down inside of me hoped that the person who was following me the last year wasn’t the one who broke in last night.

  Even I wasn’t dumb enough to believe that lie.

  “At first, I would just find strange notes on my windshield in the morning. Something that made me do a double take, but I always dismissed it. As time passed, he got a little more curious.” I could feel my chest grow heavy. Tears on the edge of my eyes.

  Why does it hurt to talk about this? Is it because I thought no one else would believe me? Or is because only King can make me open up like this?

  I rub my face against my jeans and turn my head to the side, resting my ear on small, wet splotches. I look up at him and he half leans over, his arm stretching out to touch my back, but stops inches away from me. He pulls back and reaches out to me, hesitating and unsure if he should touch me. I wipe away the last remaining tear and grip his hand, bringing it to my knees and resting the side of my cheek on it. His hard knuckles comfort me for a moment.

  I run my hand up the side of his arm and take in every little wrinkle and speck along the way. He’s still the same King, yet different. I remind myself that a person can change a lot in four years.

  Enough to forgive him?

  I shake my head.

  No.

  I can never forgive him for what he put me through.

  I wouldn’t be here in Portland if it weren’t for him. I wouldn’t have someone stalking me if I was still in Long Island. My life wouldn’t have been put on hold for four years if it wasn’t for him.

  It’s all his fault.

  But not really.

  Inside my head, there’s a little battle raging on. The past fighting with the present. One side remembers the good times King and I had. The other only brings back the hurtful things he did to me.

  King pulls his body in a little closer, but not close enough that any other part of him is touching me. He’s keeping his distance and letting me make the next move. “Cami, you can tell me anything,” he whispers into my ear, his lips only inches away from my neck.

  I open my mouth and let out a low whimper, watching the hairs on his arm move from my breath. On either side of his forearms, there’s a vein that runs up his arm and rounds around his shoulder, getting lost underneath his shirt.

  I grab hold of his elbows and pull him in. His body hits mine and I sink into him. He brings his legs up and wraps them around me, resting his chin on top of my head. Every time he swallows, I can feel the weight of his head press down on me. In less than a minute, I’ve wrapped myself up with him.

  So much for that inner battle.

  “It’s progressed. He sent me some explicit things through emails. He’ll switch his user name every time he contacts me. Someone even broke into Jean’s gallery and destroyed two of my works. I don’t know if it’s him, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  I press my back against his chest and King’s arms wrap tighter around me. An intense heat forms all around me and for a moment, I feel safe and protected. “Unfortunately, Jean didn’t have any cameras set up at the time. And sometimes things even disappear from my van. Now, he’s broken into my apartment.”

  Everything is becoming too much. This freak is turning my life upside down. Destroying everything that I’ve built over the years. And no one will help me.

  Not the police. Not anyone.

  Except King.

  From deep inside his hold, I catch glimpses of the loft. There is nowhere else I can fully feel safe besides in his arms. If he weren’t holding me together, I would be nothing but a broken mess right now.

  Changing the locks did nothing to take away the fear of being watched. From the uneasiness of living in my own home.

  “Have you gone to the cops with all this information?” His stubble digs into my scalp. It tickles a little, but I hold myself together.

  “They won’t be able to help me. They weren’t able to do anything when he came into my house. They’d probably just think I’m being paranoid.” After how they treated me the last time they came here, I’m almost positive of that.

  His arms squeeze around me and his hands turn into fists. His chest rises and falls in rapid succession, hot air blowing out of his nose. I reach out and caress the side of his arms, trying to get him to calm down. Although I can’t see his face, there is no doubt in my mind that it is blood red with anger.

  “Those fucking pigs can’t do anything right. Never could.” With those words, I know what he means. The times he called the cops when his foster parents abused him. And how they never truly helped him.

  He begins to rock back and forth, taking me along for his little trip. I don’t say anything, just listen to the frantic beat of his heart. It takes a couple minutes before he’s able to calm himself down enough to talk.

  “I’m going to catch this fucker, Cami. I can promise you that much. I’m going to hunt him down until he can’t hurt or sc
are you anymore.” His body shakes at the last words as if he made a scared oath to himself. A promise that he’ll fulfill, even through death.

  There isn’t a bone in my body that doesn’t believe him.

  “I just want him to get what he deserves. Let him rot in a a prison somewhere.” I’m surprised at my own words. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep or uneasy feeling in my stomach.

  Whoever the person is, I hated him more than anything in my life. In the last few months, he made me live in fear. But not anymore.

  Not when King is here to protect me.

  Chapter 6

  “Do you need anything from me?” Jean walks up behind me, making me hop into the air. He notices and touches a hand to my shoulder, bringing me in for a tight squeeze. “It’s just me. You have nothing to worry about.” The keys in his hands jingle as he turns the lock to the gallery.

  Tonight’s been a bust for the most part. I didn’t manage to sell of any of my pieces. Every time I had a potential buyers all I could think about was if they were the one stalking me. For some reason weirdly eyeballing the rich people made them feel uncomfortable. Go figure.

  None of them said anything; they just closed their check books and moved on. Not that I cared that much. I’m sure Jean was hurting about it more than I was.

  The faster that I put this whole stalking business behind me, the quicker I can move on my life. It’s getting to the point where I’m jumping at things that aren’t even there. Practically jumping at my own shadow half the time. It was funny at first, but it’s getting old fast.

  Plus, if I can put all this behind me, I can figure out where King and I stand. After King made his promise the other night, he’s been making calls all over Portland. He’s only been here for a couple months, but because of his underground racing background, he’s got friends all over the country.

  Sometimes it helps to be a little bad.

  Since the police won’t help me, King certainly will. He doesn’t have to follow the same rules that they do. It also helps that King was never one to really play by the rules anyway.

  “Can you just walk me to my van?” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. A couple of guys walk past me and I can’t help but take in their faces. After the break in, I’m putting way more effort into remembering everyone that passes by. I’m learning that it’s quickly becoming too much and giving me a headache. Also, the lack of sleep since last night isn’t helping.

  “Not a problem. I can’t lose my best artist.” He winks at me and swivels his head from side to side. I bring a hand to my mouth and hold back laughter.

  I can always count on Jean going out of his way to make me feel a little better. He might be a man of small stature, but he is a man with an enormous personality.

  Jean makes his way in front of me, a hand holding me back while he looks up and down the street. He holds his hands out in front of him in a fighting position, ready to punch anyone who comes too close to me. It’s like having my own bodyguard.

  When we get to the van, he makes me wait a couple feet back while he inspects it. He even pretends to talk into an invisible mic in his wrist, kind of like the Secret Service. The whole time, I’m doing my best not to break down in laughter. Which I completely fail at.

  When he’s done with his inspection he waves me over, opens his arms, and gives me a tight squeeze.

  “I’ve got your back. Don’t you worry,” he whispers, the New Orleans accent bleeding through. He pulls away, rolls a hand into a fist, and sticks his index finger out.

  He blows on the imaginary gun barrel and slinks across the rusted van. “I’ll see you at the bar,” he looks down at his watch and back up at me, “at 2200 hours. Over.” With that, he body rolls away from the van and he’s gone.

  Only his laughter bounces off the walls of the parking lot.

  The van door screeches when I pull it open, and a little bit of rust falls to the ground. For the first time, I really wish that I had traded my car. Having an unreliable car and a stalker is like the worst possible scenario. One bad start and I could be on the eight o’ clock news with how things are progressing.

  The old blue van starts on the first key turn. I’ve been getting lucky pretty lately. But it’s only a matter of time before that runs out. I’ll have to remember to ask King to take a look at it next time he’s around.

  Every time I turn a corner, even though I’m tucked inside the van, I hold my breath. I’m expecting to see whoever it is standing there. Looking at me while I drive by. The only faces that I can trust right now are King’s and Jean’s. Everyone else has become a potential suspect in my mind.

  With each block that I pass by, the crowds of people lessen. When I get two blocks away from the bar, I let myself relax. A couple drinks and some fun with Jean and his friends is what I need.

  Jean has hooked us up with reservations at the newest gay bar in Portland. How he managed to pull that off I’ll never know, but I do know he has friends in high places.

  With sweet daydreams of me sipping on Long Island Ice Teas and laughing away the night, I let myself take a breather. A set of headlights hits the windows in the back. The light bounces off the rear view and into my eyes, killing my little daydream.

  Does he really need the high beams right now?

  I arch my head over the dashboard and see that the city streetlights are on. The car behind me honks, but I don’t move. It’s a dark sedan with tinted windows. The red light from the stoplight illuminates the front of my car.

  I don’t know what the hell he wants, but I can’t move until the light turns green.

  This time the sedan blares on the horn, holding it for a couple seconds. A couple of lights from nearby apartments flicker on, heads poking out to see what the hell’s going on. I roll down the window and wave him forward. If he wants to break the law, he’s more than welcome.

  The sedan revs its engine and gives me a little push on the bumper, making me almost hit my head on the steering wheel. His tires blow clouds of gray smoke behind as he continues to nudge my van forward, until it ends up in the middle of the intersection. The air freshener that hangs from the rear view mirror bounces around wildly, and my hands grip hard on the wheel. My heart starts to race.

  It’s him. There’s no doubt about it.

  I twist my body and turn the wheel, my hands climbing over one another trying to steer. I slam my foot hard on the gas. The van roars to life and it takes a good two seconds until the wheels start to turn, burning the old rubber into the road. The van nearly tip over its side as I do a quick u-turn, bringing it upright as I pass the sedan.

  I stare out the window, hoping to get a look at my stalker. Even with the headlights, I still can’t see anything through the tinted windows. He honks as I race past him. He turns the car at the last second, nearly clipping me at the bumper.

  Everything’s a blur. I have no idea what street I’m on as I turn left, then right, right, and another left. I try my best to loose him in the winding turns and for a second I think that I do. Until he bursts from an alley, his horn blaring into the night.

  Pedestrians look at us and point. Some pull out their phones and record, while others dial. Hopefully one of them is smart enough to call the cops. I would, if I wasn’t a little preoccupied at the moment.

  I turn a corner at the last second, and my front wheels bump off the crosswalk. I spin the wheel, but manage to hit a mailbox. It flies into the air, a shower of letters descending to the ground. It’s not long before the inside of the van starts to shudder.

  Smoke seeps out from under the hood and it won’t be long before it dies on me. This van isn’t made for wild chases around the city while I try to dodge a potential murderer. The fact that I have it going over 30 mph is a surprise to me.

  I zoom down an abandoned street, the sedan close on my trail. He gives me a couple taps on the bumper. Almost making me swerve into the neatly parked cars on the street.

  I hold my breath. It’s only a matter of time before he
hits me in the right spot and I end up flying through the air. These old hippie vans aren’t really known for their safety configurations. I doubt there’s even an airbags in it.

  That’s when the roar of an engine sounds off down the block. I turn my head, foot inching off the gas. A smile penetrates my face and my heart nearly jumps out of my throat.

  “King!” I yell. There’s no way that he can hear me, but I would recognize his car from anywhere.

  His 1967 Camaro RS with two solid red stripes along the side bursts from a nearby alley, directly between the van and my purser. The sedan slams on its brakes at the last second, nearly colliding with the side of King’s muscle car.

  I hit the brake, giving the van its much needed rest. Out of the side mirror, I see King look my way. Probably to make sure that my van’s still in one piece. He nods his head and looks in the other direction, the wrinkles on his forehead coming out as the sedan’s headlights hit him in the face.

  The engine of the Camaro booms to life. Off in the distance, I can hear the wailing of sirens. The sedan waits for a moment, probably thinking out his next move, before his reverse lights come out and he peels away. King follows in hot pursuit.

  Well, this is my cue to get the hell out of here. The last thing that I need is a criminal record after zooming through several red lights and hitting one mailbox.

  I slap the dashboard and strum my finger along it before I leave. “Thanks for getting me through this,” I whisper.

  At the end of the day this will just be another story tied to the history of this van. Not that it didn’t have enough already.

  Outside my loft I park and wait a little bit, my eyes scanning up and down the streets. I won’t be joining Jean tonight. I’m sure he’ll understand, after what I just went through.

  When the coast is clear, I slam the door shut and rush to the front door, my keys already in hand. I climb up the stairs two at a time, my black purse hitting my hip and the wall. With key in hand, I reach the end of the hallway and press on the door to my loft.