Virgin Territory

by Lia Riley

  A life where Ma spent most of the day passed out on the couch bed, stinking in her own filth, her arms riddled with bruises while her boyfriend-of-the-week sipped malt liquor from a brown paper bag and watched Springer.

  That dark, depressing world faded every Sunday under the soft light of the church. The cursing, the desperation and the drug-fueled fights felt like a bad dream as he’d kneel on the altar, losing himself in the rituals. The Penitential Rite chanted in unison. The Liturgy of the Word. The unshakeable belief that Father Kevin changed bread and wine into the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ. Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, grant us mercy. Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, grant us peace.

  Mercy.

  Peace.

  The church had been an anchor in the storm. A reminder that life didn’t have to be a hustle for shoot-up money. Or scarfing down discounted hot dogs at the corner convenience store for dinner. Or—

  “In case you’re worried about protecting my virtue—” Margot broke into his thoughts. “Let me put your mind at ease. I can vouch that I’ve seen a few shirtless men in my day.” Margot sat back on her heels. “More than that actually.”

  “Okay . . .” What was she telling him? That she’d been with men . . .

  Many men?

  “You’re blushing.” She pulled her knees up to her chest and locked her arms around her knees. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you to be shy. Don’t you and your teammates strip down together in the locker room? The way Neve talks, it’s like naked man city after games. I guess I picture the players walking around with their junk waving—”

  “This isn’t a locker room,” he blurted. And Margot Kowalski sure as shit wasn’t just one of the guys.

  “Whoa, Tiger.” She blinked, registering his stricken expression. “Are you wound tight or what. Let’s loosen you up before something snaps.”

  “I’m not big on getting touched.” His tone was clipped—the verbal equivalent to yellow caution tape. “Not big on anything touchy-feely, period.”

  “Okay. I respect that,” she said. “But I’m not asking you to hug it out. You need to relax if you want to start improving your breathing.”

  “Not big on loosening up either.” The way he grew up, if he relaxed anything he’d fall apart. Better to be stiff and solid, shore up defenses.

  She did a good job muffling her exasperated sigh . . . but not good enough. The exhale roared through his ears.

  This wasn’t going to work. It was a bad idea. He’d been a dumbass agreeing to come, even if Coach had him by the short and curlies.

  He’d convinced himself that he could drive here, suck it up and be a dancing monkey. Anything to keep his starting position. But Margot wasn’t going to be a person that he could humor. A strange fact because he dismissed most people. Not hard to do when there were so many phonies and hangers-on floating around the NHL.

  Most of the other players accepted attention as their due—the endorsement side hustles, and the blow jobs on demand, the trappings of celebrity. But Patch never bought into his own hype. And it wasn’t that he was a pious stick-in-the-mud, no matter how many think pieces were written about his stint at the seminary. It’s that he didn’t play hockey to be worshiped.

  He played because the ice was the one place on earth where he could escape, tune out his thoughts, for at least three periods and the occasional overtime.

  “Earth to Patrick, come in please.” Margot was so close that he could see a fallen eyelash on her cheek. “How about filling me in on what you are into then? What do you enjoy?”

  “Hockey.”

  “Guess I walked into that.” She gave a short laugh. “But shouldn’t that be a motivating factor if you want to start as goalie next week, or any week after that? If you want to play, it seems that you need to make a good-faith effort to work through your issues.”

  “What issues?”

  “Uh-huh.” Her gaze swung to the ceiling. “De Nile isn’t just a river in Egypt.”

  “So what, taking off my shirt and letting you rub your hands over me will fix everything?” An invisible band tightened around his temples. The first sign of a rising temper.

  “I’m saying it’s a start,” she said, not backing down.

  Goddamn it. If he wanted a pig’s chance in frozen hell to do the one thing in life he loved, he was going to have to let this maddening woman have her way. “Fine.” He reached back and fisted the grey cotton of his T-shirt, yanking it over his head with one fluid gesture. He balled the fabric up and tossed it over her pretty floral pillow. The grey cotton served as a sullen rain cloud against an otherwise bright and serene palette. “Happy?”

  “Ecstatic,” she deadpanned.

  Sully would like her smart mouth.

  “Go on.” He followed her gaze to the Saint Anthony’s medal, resting in the center of his chest. “Do your worst.”

  “Does that medal mean something important?”

  He shrugged.

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “Nope.”

  “All right, Big Talker, have it your way. You might not know to look at me, but I happen to have magic hands. And I’m about to use them to change your life.”

  “Bold promise, Magical Margot.”

  She giggled and grabbed a dark glass bottle off the coffee table, pouring a dollop of oil into her hands as he lay stomach-side down on her rug. The air filled with a lavender scent. Before he could form another thought, she swung her leg over his hips and sat on his ass.

  “What the hell are you doing now?”

  She huffed an annoyed sigh. “What I just spent the better part of five minutes explaining.” She kneaded a tender spot beneath his right shoulder blade. “Quite an impressive knot you’ve got.” She slid her hand down his ribs and paused. “Ouch, that’s a mean-looking scar.” She leaned in for a closer inspection. “Wait. Is that—”

  “Nothing.” What the hell? No one had ever looked at him this close.

  “Are those cigarette burns?”

  He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste the faint copper flavor of blood. “Newports.”

  “Who did that?” Her voice was hushed.

  “A hustler named Marco.” Ma’s pimp and a small-fry felon. Just one of the many men that circled through their home like it was a revolving door. So many men. Some smacked him around. All used his mom—sometimes in plain sight depending on how stoned they were—before leaving a wad of bills on the table.

  None ever looked back.

  Patch had made a pledge never to be the same, never be a man who used a woman. When he hit puberty, he’d become too uncomfortable to look at the girls his own age, let alone ask one out. They were so pretty, bright and alive. And he’d seen too damn much horror. The idea of touching one felt like pressing dirty fingers against a clean piece of glass.

  He’d never gotten a chance to be a kid. And he knew on some psychobabble level that he self-sabotaged relationships. That he pushed away everyone who ever tried to get close.

  Ma was dead. The horror over. But still she haunted him.

  He was so fucking sick of ghosts.

  “It was a long time ago. Doesn’t matter anymore,” he muttered, almost to himself.

  “I think it does.” Margot’s hands barely touched him and yet the sensation burned.

  “Could have been worse.” Shame gnawed through his gut. He hated that she saw this crack in him, the weakness. “What’s done is done. End of story.”

  She pressed another part of his back and he grunted in barely contained annoyance.

  “You are going to want to drink a lot of water tonight,” she said softly. “The massage might make you sore.”

  “I can tough it out.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that you do that too much?”

  Too much was this strange intimacy. Too much was this gorgeous woman on him, her nimble hands roaming over his body as she unearthed uncomfortable truth after uncomfortable truth. All that he
had thought was safely buried was being exposed, the roots bared. Even though he was lying down, he felt ready to topple over.

  Too much was the fact that she’d been right about her magic hands; the problem now was what would happen if she discovered that his erection was drilling a hole through her bamboo floor.

  He had to get out.

  Now.

  His sanity depended on it.

  “That’s enough.” He rolled out from beneath her, scrambled for his hat and threw his jacket in front of his hard on. “I forgot I have to do something.”

  Before she could answer, he stepped toward the door, tripping over one of her floor pillows. His jacket flew one direction. He flew another, landing on his back.

  Legs splayed.

  And there was no way in hell that Margot Kowalski was going to miss his full salute.

  Chapter Seven

  “Oh my God. Are you okay?” Margot stifled a peal of horrified laughter. The struggle was real: half of her felt terrible that Patch Donnelly clearly wished the earth would crack open and swallow him whole, but the other half was curious about the rather large elephant in the room. That is, the elephant-sized hard-on straining the crotch of his pants like it was about to stampede through the African savannah.

  These things happened. Erections were natural. She had professional masseuse friends who admitted men often got hard on the massage table. Some clients were perverts about it, but most were mortified.

  Patch fell into the second category. He sucked in a great gulp of air, his broad chest rising and falling, a fine dusting of tawny hair spreading over his pecs, darkening as it etched the hard slabs of his abs.

  “Let me give you a hand.” She stepped forward, scanning his face for a clue of what to do next, trying her best not to glance back at that prominent ridge beneath his denim.

  “Don’t touch me!” He stood in one quick movement, unfolding to his full height, a good eight inches above her. His cheeks were hot, the red stain spreading down his neck. “I’m not a joke.”

  The air left her chest in a sharp gasp as reality took hold. “I don’t think that.” He was hurt. And she’d done that.

  His lips twisted. “You just laughed at me.”

  “No! Not at you. I mean, I did laugh, but it’s just what I do when I get nervous. I wasn’t doing it to be mean or make you feel—”

  “Coming here was a mistake.” He walked to the door, his gait stiff, his posture as rigid as his features. “Like I said . . . I’ve got to go.”

  She wanted to tell him that what just happened was fine, to provide reassurances. But the fact was that her knees trembled, and her own body flushed. If she looked in a mirror, no doubt her cheeks would reflect a similar hue.

  “Patrick. Please. Stay and have a cup of tea and—”

  “Don’t drink tea. Or eat acai. Or do yoga. Or get massages.” He addressed a point past her left shoulder before slinging on his shirt. “Look. You seem like a nice enough person. I’m sure you meant no harm. It’s just . . . this isn’t for me.”

  And without further ado, he slammed out of her apartment.

  Her trembling migrated from her knees to her thighs. She slid to the rug before noticing that his Red Sox hat was still on the floor. She picked up the worn brim and ran her finger over the logo as a furtive movement caught the corner of her eye.

  Nibbles stared from his fish bowl. His meditative, albeit bug-eyed expression, appeared all-knowing, as if he were a miniature aquatic sensei.

  “I didn’t mean to laugh,” she snapped.

  Nibbles glared.

  “Come on, I’m not an asshole.” Her voice raised a pitch. “You see me. You know me better than anyone.”

  Sadly, this might be true. With her two best friends in loving, stable, supportive relationships, Margot spent more and more time alone.

  “Whatever.” She wrinkled her nose and plopped Patch’s hat on her head. Maybe it was her imagination, but she swore she could feel residual body heat in the cap’s cotton.

  She willed her heart to quit pounding. What an idiot she was being. It was good he bolted. Great even. She didn’t need to invite more drama into her life.

  There was a knock at the door, soft, but definite. And her answering stomach flip proved her last thoughts to be a big fat lie.

  Because she was glad that he had returned. For here was a chance for redemption, to put this right. She’d be honest. Physical responses happen. It wasn’t personal. She wouldn’t make fun of him. She needed this gig to work.

  She walked to the door, turning the baseball cap backward for good measure. Maybe a little comedy would diffuse what would be a tense situation.

  “Hey.” She flung open the door.

  “Hey yourself, Hot Pants.”

  The smile slid off her face as she regarded Stefan. Her ex leaned in the doorway, his left dimple putting in an appearance. He knew it was a selling point and made sure to use it to maximum effect.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He raked his fingers through his tight, black curls. “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “You live in Littleton.” Not exactly her hood.

  “I had a special delivery to make.” He pulled a bouquet of roses from behind his back. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  “Pretty.” She bit the corner of her lip, fighting the urge to recoil in disgust. “But I can’t accept them.”

  “Can’t? Or won’t?” A hard edge crept into his smile. “You never hit me back last night. What’s up, you had plans?”

  “As a matter of fact, I had a date.” She’d just leave out the part where it was with herself.

  “Not cool.” Stefan dropped the roses to his side. “This hot-and-cold shit sucks. I’m getting sick of your games.”

  “Games?” Her laugh was genuine. “Give me a break! You and I aren’t a thing. It’s over. Dead and buried. Never going to happen.” She swallowed back the last part of the phrase, the automatic “I’m sorry” part that she normally tacked onto rejections.

  She wasn’t going to apologize for not being interested anymore.

  “Red Sox.” His caramel-colored eyes flew to the top of her head, his gaze shuttering. “Whose hat is that?”

  “None of your business.” She didn’t like the way he was watching her. Or the fact he could switch on a dime from fun and flirty to cold and calculating. He was bigger than her, and meaner. Plus he knew how to hurt people for a living.

  She had a gut feeling about this guy. Something was off and she didn’t want to find out what. All she knew was that she didn’t feel safe. His muscle and masculine intensity wasn’t sexy anymore.

  It was scary.

  A chill snaked down her spine. She’d experienced this sudden fear a few times lately, while walking alone, the sense of danger, an unsettling sensation of being watched. But she had never had that feeling in her own cozy home. Not once.

  Not until right now.

  “I asked you a question.” He took a step forward, just one, but it was enough.

  “It’s mine, asshole.”

  Patch loomed behind Stefan. Her ex was almost six feet, but Patch looked down on him.

  Stefan turned, and she could see where she’d gone wrong. When they’d first met, she’d thought he had a boyishly cute charm, like a Slater from the Saved by the Bell reruns. Conceited but cute.

  The cute part turned out to be an act, while the conceited bit was genuine. Stefan thought he was God’s gift, especially in the bedroom. His ego was the size of West Texas. But that cockiness hid some serious flaws. He once stopped sex mid-doggy-style to mention that she’d missed a spot shaving on the back of her thigh. Then there was the whole thing where he treated her vagina like a chew toy. Oh and don’t forget how he had a habit of high-fiving himself in the bathroom mirror postsex.

  Plus he hated—hated—the idea she’d ever been with anyone else.

  He tried to make her feel dirty for it. Acted like it was something to be forgiven for.

  Then h
e started talking about getting the baby in her and . . .

  Yeah. No.

  And yet here he was, puffing himself up like a rooster in a cockfight.

  Patch didn’t do anything. He didn’t even look at him.

  Instead, his gaze locked on her face.

  “This fool bothering you?”

  “Yes.” Margot folded her arms. “He is.”

  “Come on, pal.” Patch stepped to one side. “Exit’s this way.” His voice was quiet, almost mild, but the intensity held the real power. A controlled fury. A subdued thunder.

  “Do I know you?” Stefan seemed to shrink, even though he didn’t move. A rat caught ferreting around the kitchen when a light came on.

  “No.” Patch’s voice was a husky rasp, flint grinding down a steel bar. “Now get the hell out.”

  Stefan opened his mouth to say something, but quickly thought the better of it. He scuttled out of the apartment without a backward glance.

  “Good riddance,” Margot said with a lightness she didn’t feel.

  “That guy try and fuck with you?”

  “Try is the right word. But he didn’t get very far. You were pretty tough back there.”

  “Yeah, that’s me. Wicked tough.” Patch kicked at the doorjamb, hesitating. “So . . . mind if I come back in?”

  Margot smothered a smile at his deferential tone. Thirty seconds ago this guy had been primed and ready to crack skulls. Now he waited on her word.

  “You don’t have to ask,” she said lightly.

  “Yes I do.” His tone was grave. “This is your home, and I respect that. You don’t have to let me in, especially after the way I went out.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “Forgot my hat.”

  The expectation that had been slowly expanding in the pit of her belly released with a slow woosh.