Nothing but Trouble

by Rachel Gibson

  He pushed the button to the elevator and one behind him opened. He got in-side and rode it up.

  He’d fallen for her, and she’d been with him for money. She’d made him want her, made him believe she wanted him too. When the whole time she’d wanted money. And the really messed-up part was that he might have forgiven her for lying. Ten thousand dollars was a lot of money, and he knew why she needed it. Hell, he wanted her to have it, and he could have forgiven her just about anything just to have her light up his life for a while longer.

  Anything but her last lie. She’d said she loved him, and something hot and angry and bitter had hit him hard. Right in the gut like a raging fist. He might not be the man he’d been eight months ago. He might have been a sucker for her sweet-smelling skin and soft hands, but he didn’t like being played for a fool. God, did she really think she could lie right to his face and he was so desperate that he’d believe her?

  He’d thought getting away with the guys would get Chelsea out of his head. He’d been wrong. She was front and center no matter what he did or how far he ran.

  Once inside his room, he stripped to his boxers and climbed into bed. He stared up at the dark ceiling, trying and failing to get Chelsea out of his head.

  You made me love you even when I knew it was a really bad idea. You made me love everything about you, she’d said as tears slid down her cheeks. You made me love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my whole life.

  He’d wanted to believe her. He’d wanted to grab her up and press her into his chest until her lie became the truth. Until he smashed it and molded it into what he wanted. Until he believed it.

  Mark reached for the remote on the nightstand and turned on the television. He flipped through the stations until it returned to the pay-per-view channel. He checked out the porn selection, but nothing sounded interesting. He arrowed across and hit the horror button. Up popped the latest movies and some “classics” like Psycho, The Omen, and Slasher Camp.

  A brow rose up his forehead and he sat up straighter in bed. Who would have thought Slasher Camp was a “classic”? He pushed the select button and settled back against the pillows. The movie started off innocently enough. With counselors moving into the cabins and getting the camp ready for the season. About ten minutes into it, Chelsea stepped out of a school bus wearing cutoff shorts and a tiny tank top hacked off just above her navel. Her blond hair was pulled to the back of her head in a clip, and her blue eyes peered over the top of a pair of sunglasses. She’d been right. They’d hired her for her boobs, but it was her bottom in those shorts that drew his attention. A heavy weight settled in the pit of his stomach and his chest got tight.

  “Hey, everyone,” she called out as she dropped a duffel bag onto the ground. “Angel’s here. It’s time to party.” She looked like a slut. Like a camp counselor slut. Like every teenage boy’s fantasy. Like his fantasy too.

  For the next ten minutes or so, Mark watched the counselors put away gro-ceries and sweep out cabins, his attention completely focused on the few shots of Chelsea. He listened to the sound of her voice and laughter, and he watched her bottom in those shorts. Just the sight of her in a five-year-old horror flick twisted him into knots.

  An actor with shaggy brown hair like a surfer and wearing a green Aber-crombie shirt found an axe stuck in a wall. He pulled it out and placed it on a shelf next to the fire extinguisher. Then he stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a bag of weed. Mark remembered Chelsea telling him the bad boy was always the first to get it in a horror flick, and Mark figured Mr. Shaggy Hair Surfer would be the first to go. The camera panned to the window and what looked like someone in a mask watching from the forest.

  At dusk, the scene changed to Chelsea standing at the end of a dock. The setting sun washed her body in gold as she shucked out of her shorts and whipped her top off. She wore a pair of white panties, and Mark got instantly hard. She jumped into the lake and swam about before heading to the shore. Water ran down her breasts and dripped from her chin as she walked up the beach. A male stepped into the shot, his back to the camera. She gasped, then smiled.

  “You scared me,” she said as she reached for Mr. Shaggy Hair Surfer. She kissed him long and hard and they slid to the sandy beach. The surfer touched Chelsea’s back and behind and ran his hand up her thigh. Mark had an irrational urge to punch the kid in the head. To rip him apart. He felt sick as sounds of pleasure spilled from Chelsea’s lips. Pleasure she found with someone else.

  It was crazy. Chelsea didn’t belong to him, but even if she did, this was a movie, and those weren’t the sounds she made when she had sex. He knew what she sounded like and that wasn’t it. Her voice was breathier, lower during sex. She said, “Oh God” or “Oh my God” a lot. Sometimes, “Oh God, Mark!” And when she orgasmed, her moan came from some deeper, more satisfied place.

  A huge, dirty hand grabbed a handful of the surfer’s shaggy hair and cut off his head. Blood splashed all over Chelsea and she screamed. A bloodcurdling scream as she sat up and scooted backward into the woods. Mark remembered her telling him and the guys about this scene. He waited for the axe to cut her throat, and when it did, he looked away.

  Mark Bressler, former captain of the Seattle Chinooks, had experienced more than his share of gore. He’d witnessed bones snap and blood gush. He’d seen razor-sharp skates slice flesh, and bodies clash with such force that he could actually hear the damage. For the most part, it had been just another day at the office. But this. He couldn’t watch this. He couldn’t watch anyone hurt Chelsea. Not even when he was still so mad at her it burned a hole in his stom-ach. Not even when he knew it was all fake. The axe. The blood. The scream.

  She was an actress. She made it look real. As real as saying, “I love you.”

  He shut off the television, and the next morning he threw his clothes into a suitcase and took the first flight to Seattle. He felt more alone than when he’d arrived in Vegas. He grabbed the In Flight magazine and read about luxury condos on a golf course in Scottsdale. He thought of the houses he and Chelsea had looked at most recently. He needed to make a choice soon.

  After the two-hour flight, he walked into his empty house, and his suitcase fell from his hand. The emptiness of the six-thousand-square-foot home pressed in on him. There was no one waiting for him. No light. No laughter. No one trying to boss him around. His life was complete crap. As bad as when he’d hit that patch of black ice and totaled everything. And just like that patch of invisible ice, his feelings for Chelsea had been surprising and painful.

  The doorbell rang, and he didn’t realize he’d half expected it to be Chelsea until he opened the door and stared into the face of a middle-aged woman with short, black hair and a pear-shaped behind. Within the space of three seconds, his heart sped up and came to a sudden halt.

  “I’m Patty Egan. I’m your new home health care worker.”

  “Where’s Chelsea?”

  “Who? I don’t know a Chelsea. The Chinooks’ aftercare program contracted me through Life Force.”

  Life Force? “I don’t need a nurse.”

  “I’m more than just a nurse.” She handed him a stack of his mail.

  Chelsea had been more than just an assistant. She’d been his lover. Some-how he didn’t think he’d have the same problem with Patty, but he still wasn’t about to have a nurse in his house and underfoot.

  There had been a time in his life when he would have slammed the door in Patty’s face and not really thought anything of it. Chelsea had called him a selfish dickhead. He’d like to think he wasn’t selfish anymore. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he said, and grabbed his mail. “I don’t need you.” He started to shut the door and added for good measure, “You have a nice day, though.”

  The doorbell rang again but he ignored it. He walked into his office and called Connie Backus. Someone must have found out about his relationship with Chelsea and fired her.

  “Why is there a new home health care worker on my porch?”

&nb
sp; “Sorry it took so long to get someone out there. But Chelsea Ross quitting on such short notice kind of left us in a bind.”

  The mail in his hand hit the desk. “Chelsea quit?”

  “Last week. Tuesday I believe.”

  The day after she’d walked out of his life. “Did she give a reason?”

  “She said something about moving back to L.A.”

  Chelsea stood with an icing bag in one hand, piping hearts on three dozen cupcakes. Some of the icing kind of squirted off one side and onto the table. Her luck had been going that way lately. One thing after another. A few days ago, she’d had a flat tire, and yesterday she’d lost her cell phone. The last time she remembered seeing it had been right before she’d jumped in the shower yesterday.

  She’d worked for Georgeanne Kowalsky for three days now, and she could honestly say it wasn’t bad. She’d certainly done worse. Holding the hair of a certain celebutard while she puked in an ice bucket came to mind.

  She’d also applied for waitressing jobs at several different restaurants and bars. No sports pubs though. Nothing with televisions hanging on the walls.

  Georgeanne stuck her head through one of the doors to the big kitchen. “Chelsea, there’s someone here to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “Me,” Mark answered, and walked into the kitchen.

  Chelsea’s heart knocked against her ribs and she forgot to breathe.

  “Are you going to be okay with him here?” Georgeanne asked.

  No. Chelsea nodded and her boss left the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

  “Searching for you?”

  He was as tall and handsome as she remembered. Her chest caved in at the sight of him. She took a deep breath past all the pain and said, “We don’t have anything to say to each other, Mark.”

  “I have a lot to say. All you have to do is listen.”

  “You can’t order me around anymore.”

  He smiled a little as he moved past an industrial-sized mixer toward her. “Sweetheart, you were never good at taking orders. I’m asking you to listen.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Jules.”

  Jules knew the whole sordid story. “Jules told you?” The jerk. He had to know how much seeing Mark would hurt her. She was going to hurt him when she saw him tonight.

  “I threatened to beat the living shit out of him if he didn’t. For some reason he found that very funny.”

  Jules was kind of perverse that way. That’s probably why he loved Bo.

  He moved around the table toward her. “Why did you quit your job?”

  She looked away. Away from the intensity in his brown eyes. She didn’t have to ask what job. She shrugged. “I couldn’t keep it. Not after everything.”

  He didn’t say a word for several long moments. “I’ve put an offer on that house in the Queen Anne district. The one you liked.”

  “Oh.” Had he driven all the way here just to tell her that?

  “I accepted the assistant coach position.”

  “I know.” She loved him, but seeing him was so bittersweet, her shredded heart felt like it was shredding all over again. “I have to go back to work now,” she said, and turned toward the cupcakes.

  “I lied to you.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “You didn’t take the job with the Chinooks?”

  “No. Yes.” He shook his head. “I lied before that.”

  “About the house?”

  “I lied when I told you that you mean nothing to me. I lied when I said I didn’t love you.”

  “What?” She turned toward him. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Because I was stupid. Because I loved you and I was afraid you were just acting. Playing me for a fool, and I was mad because I didn’t want to go back to my life before you showed up on my porch with your two-toned hair and orange jacket. I lied because I didn’t think you could love me.”

  Of course she could love him. She couldn’t help herself.

  He took the icing bag from her hand and set it on the table. “The Chinooks sent another health care worker to my door this morning.”

  “Did you call her retarded?”

  “No. I was very nice to her because of you.” Somehow Chelsea doubted he’d been very nice. “I’m a better person since you came into my life,” he continued. “I want to be better for you.”

  Just like Jerry Maguire, only Mark was hotter than Tom Cruise. Taller too.

  “I love you and I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you said you love me.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out her missing cell phone.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Jules stole it for me.” He handed it to her, then pulled out his own cell and dialed. “I heard this song on the oldies radio station the other day and I can’t get it out of my head.” His cheeks turned a little pink as if he was embarrassed. “It’s cheesy, but every time I call, you’ll know how I feel about you.” The face on her BlackBerry lit, then Glen Campbell sang about needing and wanting for all time.

  She looked up as her heart swelled and tears blurred her vision. “Jules downloaded this for you?”

  “I did it. I had to buy the CD and record it on your phone. It took me a while.”

  She smiled at the thought of him trying to get all the lyrics just right. “I didn’t know you could do this.”

  “I can do a lot of things, Chelsea.” He slipped his phone into his pocket. “I can love you and make you happy, if you’ll let me.” He pulled out a ring. A big diamond ring.

  She gasped. “Is that real?”

  “Do you think I’d buy you a fake ring?”

  She didn’t know what to think. He was here. He loved her. He was shoving a four-carat diamond ring on her finger. This was all so unreal.

  “You once said that it would be hard to say no to a big ring.” He put the tips of his fingers beneath her chin and gently lifted her face. “Chelsea, I knew when you showed up on my porch that you were going to be trouble. You were bossy and annoying and you brought sunshine into a very dark time in my life. You saved me when I didn’t even know I needed saving. I love you for that. I will always love you for that.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the backs of her knuckles. “Please say you’ll stay in my life and make trouble with me forever.”

  She nodded, and her big smile matched his equally big grin. “Yes. Mark, I love you. These past few days without you have been horrible.”

  He pulled her against his chest, as if he never meant to let her go, and he lowered his mouth to her. The gentle kiss touched her soul, and when it ended, she slid her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his hard chest. Beneath her ear she listened to the sound of his heart. Her eyes filled with tears and he kissed the part in her hair. “I know that you want to move back to L.A. and pursue your acting. I understand it’s important to you. I have an alternative. You might call it plan B.”

  She smiled into the front of his white T-shirt. “What’s plan B?”

  “When you’re not in a movie or acting in a commercial, you come to Seattle and be with me. During the off season I’ll come and live with you in L.A.”

  “I don’t think so.” She shook her head and glanced up. The look in his eyes nearly broke her heart. “If I’m not here, who will make sure you don’t back-slide into your old cranky ways? Who will keep you in line and on your toes? Who will answer all your fan e-mails and play three-man hockey? Who will give Derek the stink eye?” He smiled, and she continued, “I have a plan C.”

  “What?”

  “You once told me that you were only good at two things. Hockey and sex. You sold yourself short.” She rose on her toes and kissed his chin. “You’re good at a lot of things, Mark. You’re good at making me love you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here.”

  Mark ran his hands up her shoulders and neck and held her face in his hands. “With me.”

  She smiled. “Lucky you.”

  Forme
r hockey star and all-around NHL badass Mark Bressler looked into Chelsea’s blue eyes and chuckled. She was bossy and pushy and she made him damn happy to be alive. “Yeah,” he said. “Lucky me.”

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  Rachel Gibson's next sexy title Coming Spring 2011

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  Sam Leclaire was a good-looking son of a bitch. Everyone thought so. Everyone from sportswriters to soccer moms.

  The girl wrapped up in his sheets thought so, too. Although she wasn't really a girl. She was a woman.

  "I don't see why I can't go."

  Sam glanced up from the knot in his tie and looked through the mirror at the supermodel in his bed. Her name was Veronica Del Toro, but she was known by just her first name. Like Tyra and Heidi and Giselle.

  "Because I didn't know you were going to be in town," he explained for the tenth time.

  "Bringing a guest at this late date would be rude." Which wasn't the real reason.

  "But I'm Veronica."

  Now there. There was the real reason. She was rude and narcissistic. Not that he held that against anyone. He could be rude and narcissistic himself, but unlike the stories written about him, he really did know when to behave.

  "I won't eat much."

  Try not at all. That's one of the things that irritated him about Veronica. She never ate.

  She ordered food like she was starving, but she pushed it around her plate. Sam slid up the knot and tilted his chin to one side as he buttoned down the collar. "I already called you a cab." Through the mirror he watched Veronica rise from his bed and walk toward him. She moved across his carpet as if she were on the catwalk. All long legs and arms and hardly a jiggle.

  "When are you going to be back?" she asked as she wrapped her arms around his waist.

  She rested her chin on_ his shoulder and looked at him through dark brown eyes. Sam tilted his head to one side and, as he buttoned the last collar point, he glanced at the clock on his nightstand. It was already half past six and the wedding started at seven. He really hadn't had time to meet Veronica. But she wasn't in town that often and she'd promised a quickie. He should have known better. "Late. When do you fly out?" "In the morning." She sighed and slid her long hands up his dress shirt to his hard pecs. "I could wait."