Butt Ending: A Big Stick Novel 2 (Standalone)

by R. C. Stephens

  “I do remember seeing you in our apartment some mornings. Man, the way you shoveled bacon in your mouth,” I groan and laugh. She swats my arm.

  “You’re a pig,” she says, and turns to the couch to take a seat. I pass her the blanket and she takes it and covers her legs. Damn, I just obstructed my own view. I sit beside her and pick up my beer from the coffee table.

  My voice is now serious, since I see she doesn’t want to play the sexual innuendo game right now. “What were you watching?”

  With my gaze, I ask her for permission to share the blanket. She takes it and covers me too, which is good, because I’m not wearing a shirt and I came downstairs half-mast. My boxers don’t do much to hide the fact, even in the dark.

  “Breaking Bad. You wanna watch?” She offers me one of her earphones.

  “Never heard of it. I don’t really watch any shows. Probably won’t know what’s going on.”

  She tucks her earphones beside her on the couch. “We can talk if you want.”

  Her suggestion is foreign to me. Talk? About what? I don’t just chat with women. I use talk for one purpose, and that’s to get in their pants. With Sloane, I’m guessing she really does just want to shoot the shit.

  “Yeah, okay.” I nod, liking this idea. I can do this. I can be friends with a woman. I try not to let my eyes drop to her chest since her pert nipples are still exposed through the light fabric of her tank. Just the thought of closing my mouth over her nipple and watching her squirm is turning my semi into a full hard-on. Good I have this blanket to hide it. I don’t want to freak her out or move out of the friend zone like we did last night.

  “So, what kind of hobbies do you have?” I ask, figuring that’s easy talk with no sexual innuendo.

  “I do yoga in my free time. Read romance novels,” she replies.

  And yeah, my attempt to stay away from anything sexual fails, because if she does yoga it means she’s flexible, and if she reads romance I bet she’s got some hot ideas in her head about sex. Now I need to go jerk off. Fuck!

  “Nice,” I answer curtly because telling her that Yoga has really paid off puts me right back into the sexual innuendo game I’m trying to avoid.

  “What about you? Any hobbies?”

  “Hockey is my hobby and job, which I’m grateful for. I take up golf in the off-season,” I respond, trying to picture something completely unsexy to pull my thoughts away from her because everything about her is hot, even the way she fucking eats. Geez! Why did I just think that? “So, um, did you call your father? I mean, tomorrow is Easter. Does he have someone to hang with?” I ask, figuring speaking of her father the pastor is definitely not sexual.

  “I called him earlier, yeah. He’s good. He has people from his parish who invite him for meals, and he has my aunts and uncles too. He’s used to me not being around,” she explains.

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that? Do you not head home often?”

  She bites her bottom lip, and all I can think is that I want to be biting that bottom lip, just a little taste, nothing more. “No, haven’t been home since I left for college in New York.” She grins, but there’s a heavy sadness that’s settled into it.

  “I want to ask you why that is, but then I think of all the reasons that kept me away from here. If someone doesn’t make it home for that long then there must be a reason, one that isn’t easy to talk about.”

  She gives me a knowing look. It sheds some light on the talk we had in the car earlier and the sad look on her face. She’s been through something hard. A fierce need to protect her from all the sadness in the world washes over me.

  “It’s hard for you to be here, huh?” she asks, giving me a look that just about guts me because there is understanding in the depths of her green eyes. An understanding and pain that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

  I rake a hand through my hair. Sitting in the dark with the moonlight pouring into the room, having this intimate conversation with her, has me a little undone. I let out a heavy breath. “It isn’t easy. I’m just happy we could help out today, and that Myles’s dad is going to be okay. If something happened to the guy and Myles wasn’t here, I would hate to think how that would’ve affected him.”

  Her lips seem to be in a tug-of-war. Like she wants to smile but can’t hide her frown. “It’s hard not to get a chance to say goodbye,” she replies, and it sounds almost cryptic. I don’t know what she’s referring to, but I don’t feel right to press.

  I nod in agreement. “In a way, it feels good to be back here though. I feel like my parents would be proud of Flynn and me, and having her here with Myles and the babies . . . well, I know it sounds weird, but I picture them smiling down on us from Heaven right now.”

  A lone tear escapes and runs down her cheek.

  I place my beer on the coffee table. I catch it with my finger. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you cry,” I say softly as my gaze locks on hers. I want nothing more than to kiss her, but I won’t. I can’t. Instead, I cup her head against my chest and hug her. Holding her close, feeling her pain, feels right.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Here you are, confronting your past, and I’m the one crying.” She pulls out of my embrace and forces a smile.

  “You don’t need to explain, Sloane, unless you want to. Then I’m all ears.”

  She shakes her head. “Nah, I’m good. I’m glad you feel content being here. I think Flynn is too. She seems to be holding up better than I expected. And you should be proud. A lot of Flynn’s success is because of you, the way you supported and took care of her back in New York, and even the way you helped her and Myles get together . . .” Sloane takes a big gulp. “Well, Flynn is lucky she has you in her corner.”

  Her words kind of have me undone. Sloane hung out a lot in our apartment and went to school with Flynn back in New York, but we didn’t spend time together. I was busy working hard, establishing myself, and partying when I wasn’t working. Of course I was there for my sister. She was all I had.

  My gaze falls back on Sloane, and I feel confused, about her and what’s going on in her head. Did she lose someone? Did she not have the support of her family? Back in New York, I got the impression that she was this tough girl. She looked out for Flynn, which I was thankful for. I hadn’t realized she had her own baggage to carry. but then again, I guess we all do in different ways.

  “Yeah, I’m proud of Flynny. She’s done good, although I don’t think I deserve much credit for her success. My sister’s strong. She paved her own road, and she was there for me too. If it wasn’t for Flynn and Myles, I don’t know how I would have gotten through those first few years.” I sigh and turn to stare out the back window, gazing at the pond that holds thousands of good memories from my childhood. Sloane’s words play on repeat in my mind.

  She leans her head on my shoulder. I extend my arm and wrap it around her without giving it a second thought.

  The two of us sit quietly in the dark. I take some gulps of beer while her head remains pressed on my chest, and a calm contentment I can’t explain washes over me. I don’t want to overthink it right now. Her slow, warm breaths hit the bare skin of my chest.

  I’m not sure how much time passes when my mind turns on again. My need for her builds, I can’t deny it, but even more than my physical need for her is an emotional one. I want Sloane Carmichael in my life. I need her as a friend. It makes perfect sense. I won’t be able to fuck things up, and I’ll get to spend time with her. It’s a win-win. Fucking brilliant.

  Fifteen

  Sloane

  I’ve only been back in the city for a few days, and I can’t get Oli out of my head. I’m so screwed. Everything from his scent and his wry smile to the way his skin felt beneath my touch resurfaces in my mind, torturing me. The thing about working nights means I have my days free with lots of time to think. Thinking too much has made me realize my life sucks. I work at a job I don’t exactly want. I’m a single virgin at age twenty-seven, which is really bothering me even more n
ow that the memory of my hand wrapped around Oli’s thick girth torments me and makes me want more. Agh! Just the thought turns my blood hot.

  It’s a grey April afternoon as I head outside for a run after sending out some resumes to apply for a new job. I haven’t done one of my long jogs since before we left for Canada, and my body and mind crave the exercise. I can always count on a run to get my positive endorphins pumping and put me in a good mood. Besides, I need to be all smiling faces and peppy for the broadcast tonight since Gavin Stewart, the head news anchor for KPLG, decided we should run a story on the singles scene in Chicago because a local newspaper nominated him Chicago’s Bachelor of the Month. Blah! I can’t imagine why. He’s so fake and slimy. He spends hours on his hair to make it look like he just rolled out of bed. When you have to work the hair that much, you don’t have a real sexy bedhead.

  With earphones in my ears and my waistband pouch for my phone, money, and water, I head outside, wishing the sun were shining so I could warm up a bit.

  I allow my mind to free itself of all thoughts as the words of Kiiara and the song “Gold” plays on my earbuds. My feet hit the pavement hard as I turn a corner and head down a side street. The song ends and “Get Lucky” by Daft Punk starts up. I forgot I had this song in the mix. Now I feel like the song is mocking me because hell, I tried to get lucky—it just didn’t work. The words of the song hit me hard. Oli is sure set in his ways as a womanizing jock, and me? Well, my issues are buried so deep I don’t think I could confront them, even after digging for a millennia.

  As sweat trickles down the back of my neck, I’m suddenly jostled backward as someone yanks me by the pouch around my waist. I fall back onto the pavement, my head hitting concrete, followed by a burst of pain that causes my eyes to shut and knocks the breath out of me. Shit! What the fuck? I slowly squint and realize a man is standing in front of me. I blink a few times, trying to clear my vision as adrenaline spikes through my blood.

  The man looks fucking crazy with wild red hair. He’s waving a knife in my face. My heart stops beating for a moment.

  The knife shakes in his hands. “Give me your pouch and phone,” he orders.

  I’m barely breathing when I answer, “Yes, take it.”

  I reach to my side to unclasp the pouch from my waist and pass it to him while my own hands tremble. I want to look from side to side to see if there is anyone around to help me, save me, but I’m scared to take my eyes off this guy just in case he lunges toward me.

  As my heart races a mile a minute, I think I may faint on the spot, but I remain still and force myself to remember to breathe.

  Without another word, he turns away and takes off down the street. I slowly sit up and my hand goes up to touch the warm, wet spot on my scalp. When I look at my fingers, they are tainted red. Trying to get past the piercing pain in my head and the overwhelming feeling that I thought I would die, I slowly try to get up off the ground.

  I’m usually so aware of my surroundings, always paying attention if someone is following me, but today I was clearly distracted. I take a few slow breaths. Within a few seconds, pedestrians from the street surround me. I wonder if they saw the attack. No one came to help. I’m unsteady and can’t control the shakes wracking through my body. I hear a female voice calling for an ambulance. I try to convince a man in a suit that I’m okay, but I’m not sure I am. I don’t even have my cell phone to call Flynn. Shit.

  Within minutes, an ambulance arrives and takes me over to Northwestern Memorial Hospital. From there, I’m fast-tracked through emergency.

  “Hello, Ms.” The doctor pauses as he glances at my chart. “Ms. Carmichael. I understand you were attacked. Would you like to tell me what happened?” the young doctor asks as his blue eyes crease in the corners with concern. He takes a seat on the chair by my hospital bed and his lips, although pursed together, form a warm smile.

  I explain how the attack happened.

  “Relax, Ms. Carmichael. Take some slow breaths,” he urges, probably sensing the shallowness of my breaths. I try to follow the sound of his soothing voice because I’m getting dizzy. He conducts what he says is a basic neurological test and tells me from a concussion standpoint I’m lucky. “I do recommend a stitch or two to close up the wound, just to prevent infection,” he explains.

  My eyes turn wide. He tilts his head down toward me and smiles in a way a man does when he thinks a girl is pretty. I’m not sure if I should be flattered. What’s the point? As handsome as this guy is and probably nice too, I’ll break things off before they can get started. It’s what I do. I date all kinds of men and find something wrong with each and every one of them. Well, except for Oli, but there is a problem with him too because he’s not the settling-down type and I’m not up for a one-night stand. Which means I only want him because I can’t have him, which puts him in the same category as the other men I’ve dated.

  “It’s no big deal. I’ve done stitches so many times I could do it with my eyes closed.” He grins. Two deep dimples pop from his cheeks. “I’ll freeze the area with a gel. You won’t feel a thing,” he says with a deep reassuring voice. Upon closer inspection of the doctor, I notice he has good hair, like the real kind of good hair. He actually reminds me of Dr. Shephard from Grey’s Anatomy. I was definitely attracted to him. Why don’t I like the real version? As I ask the question, I wonder if maybe I do have a concussion and the good doctor doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Gah! I’m losing it. I pinch my eyes closed for a moment.

  “To clarify . . .” I mumble. “You want to put stitches on my head?”

  The doctor chuckles like he thinks I’m cute. “It really isn’t a big deal. Trust me.” He smiles, popping his dimples again. I’m pretty sure that many an ovary has burst over those dimples—just not mine.

  My mouth turns dry. “Does the freezing require a needle?”

  “No, it’s just a liquid that I apply to the area. We wait ten minutes until the area is frozen . . . then one, two.” He snaps his fingers together. “I’ll only need to shave a small section at the back of your head like the size of a quarter. And your hair will cover it up. You won’t see a scar.”

  “And this is absolutely necessary?” I ask again, my voice trembling with fear.

  “If you want to minimize your chances of infection? Yes,” he confirms.

  “Okay,” I concede, and the doctor leaves the room for a moment and returns with the gel he mentioned.

  He applies a small amount to my wound area. “Try to relax. I’ll be back in about ten minutes,” he says and turns to leave the exam room.

  “Actually, can I make a phone call? The person who attacked me took my phone,” I call out.

  He grins widely. “Of course, Ms. Carmichael, this isn’t a jail. Just head over to the nurse’s station.”

  I relax somewhat because he seems to be an experienced doctor.

  A quick gaze at the clock on the wall tells me it’s one thirty in the afternoon. I step out of the exam room and head for the nurse’s station. I need to speak to Flynn. I need her to talk me down from my impending panic attack over the stitches. Just as I’m about to ask the nurse to use her phone, I spot a very tall, very handsome giant making his way toward me. He seems out of breath, and his face drenched in worry. He looks lost as he comes down the hall until he spots me clad in my skintight runner’s leggings and a thin, tight runner’s shirt. He takes me in from head to toe.

  “Shit! Sloane, are you okay?” he asks, placing each of his hands on my shoulders. He lets out a heavy breath.

  “Um, how did you know I was here?” I ask.

  “The hospital called Flynn. Said you were attacked and brought in by ambulance. She was too far away and alone with the babies. She called me,” he explains, as if he was the obvious runner-up.

  “Right, I had Flynn down as my next of kin. Only I’m not dead. I’m surprised they made the call,” I mumble. For some reason, seeing Oli makes me forget my predicament.

  “Are you okay, Shorty?” He si
ghs. His eyes crease at the corners.

  My brain feels muffled as I let out my own sigh. “Yeah, I mean I guess . . . I was lucky.”

  “What happened?” he asks with concern.

  “I went for an afternoon run when this asshole yanked me backwards by my waist pouch. I hit the ground and split my head at the back. I’m just waiting for the doctor to give me a couple stitches.” I cringe and shiver.

  “Hey,” Oli drapes his thick arm around me and draws me in for a hug. I cringe because I’m sweaty from my run. “Stitches are no big deal- trust me. I’ve had quite a few stitches in my life, and head injuries, for that matter,” he smiles but his face scrunches.

  My lips twist. “This, coming from the strong hockey player. I’m a wimp.” I pause. From down the hall, I see the doctor heading my way.

  “I better get back to the room. The doc is supposed to stitch me up.” I head back to the room, and Oli places a soft hand on my shoulder as he follows me. Something about his touch and him being here helps me relax.

  The doctor returns.

  He gives Oli a second glance and his head tilts to the side. “Aren’t you . . .?”

  “Oliver Russell,” Oli says, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  The doctor grins. “I’m a big fan. I have front-center seats for tomorrow night’s game.”

  “Awesome. I’ll be sure to find you then.” Oli says.

  “That would be great. I’m taking my nephew. He would love that.” The doctor continues to smile widely. I begin to wonder if he’s forgotten about me, but then he turns his attention to me, the blue hue of his eyes warming. He gets to work prepping my head for stitches. As he works on my head, Oli stands beside me, holding my hand. And our hands linked together soothes me.

  “Okay, all done.”