The Player Next Door: A Novel

by K. A. Tucker

  Shane flashes his winning smile. “Do you want my help painting?”

  “Oh.” My cheeks burn. That’s why he’s quasi-broke into my home. To help me paint.

  The Scarlet from a few weeks ago would argue with Shane. She’d tell him she doesn’t need or want his help. But everything between us has changed. “I only have one roller.”

  “Why don’t I start doing the second coat of edging, then.” He surveys the joint between the ceiling and wall. “This is only the first coat, right?”

  “Yeah, but I did a really good job cutting so if you’re not good at it—” My words get stuck in my throat as he peels his T-shirt up and over his head. He balls it up and tosses it onto my unmade bed, on my pillow.

  And … I’ll be sleeping facedown tonight.

  He turns to give me a full-frontal view—the first one I’ve had up close and personal—and I can’t help but gape because the deep V-cut of his pelvis and abdominal muscles were not airbrushed for that calendar. They’re real, and they’re enough to make the most pious woman salivate. “New shirt. I don’t want to get paint on it. And come on, Scar. You know there’s nothing I’m not good at.”

  I open my mouth to respond but falter. I can’t come up with a suitable response to that arrogance, because it’s likely true.

  I catch the corner of his knowing smirk as he bends down to grab the brush. His shorts hang so low on his hips that I question what’s keeping them up. Well, I know what’s keeping them up, because I have those images filed away in my spank bank from the night I watched him stroll through his bedroom naked.

  My entire body flushes with want as I retrieve my paint roller. “So, how was work?”

  “A lot busier than usual.” He drags the brush along the top of the wall with a steady, smooth hand, his forearm tense with corded muscle. It seems he’s good at painting too. Of course he is. And this will save me time because I need a chair for most of that work. “There was a bad wreck that took a few hours to clear up, and a lady got trapped inside an apartment building elevator. That took a few hours too. Then we got dragged out at 4:00 a.m. for a fire.”

  “Hey, is it like it is in the movies, with the fireman pole and all that?”

  He smirks. “We move pretty fast. Ended up being a false alarm. Couldn’t go back to sleep after that.”

  I can’t imagine being dragged out of bed at four in the morning by a screaming alarm, only to race out the door for nothing. “Those must suck.”

  “I guess it depends.”

  “On?”

  “On if we find two hot women when we get there.”

  I roll my eyes. “And, for the record, I did not set fire to my kitchen just to see you.”

  “I believe you.” The tinge of humor in his voice says otherwise.

  We work in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sound in the room the slathering of paint, the soft hum of music, and—for me—the rush of blood in my ears as my heart beats fast and steady.

  I steal a glance over my shoulder to check Shane’s progress and get caught in admiring the web of impressive muscle that spans his back and wraps around to pad his sides. He must spend a lot of time working out at the fire station while waiting to rescue cats from trees. What would it feel like to fill my hands with—

  He turns suddenly and catches me gawking.

  I not so smoothly divert my attention back to my roller. “Good job.”

  His soft chuckle carries, but he doesn’t otherwise respond.

  I smile. What an arrogant ass.

  “How was school yesterday?”

  “Better, now that it’s cooled off. I’m getting into a groove. It’s going to take time to get to know the kids but they seem like a good group, for the most part.” I pause. “Has Cody said anything about school? Or me?” I often wonder what these kids have to say about my teaching ability.

  “Just that you’re really hot.”

  “He did not!” He’s eleven! I spear a glare over my shoulder and catch Shane’s dimpled smile before he shifts his focus back to edging.

  “He said you’re okay so far, which is about all you’re going to get out of him. He’s too cool already.”

  “Yeah, I’m starting to notice that.” The sly smiles, the nods of greeting and handshakes with his friends. Though gangly and prepubescent, Cody is as athletic and popular as I remember his father being. “So, you were nineteen when he was born?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s crazy.” At nineteen I was hitting keg parties and flashing my fake ID at clubs and making sure that I wasn’t making babies.

  “I checked my messages after my English exam and found out Penelope was in labor, two weeks early. So, I hopped on a plane and flew back here. Made it just in time.”

  “You were there for his birth? Like, in the room?”

  “Yup. Pen begged me to be there. And I wanted to be there anyway, even if we were over.” He shakes his head. “Craziest thing I’ve ever experienced. I’ve been at a couple emergency births since then, but none of them are like your own kid being born.”

  “I can’t imagine.” And he got to share that experience with her. I can’t conceive of having my nineteen-year-old ex-boyfriend by my side while I’m squeezing a melon out of my body. Then again, it sounds like Penelope was angling to reconcile with Shane. What better way to try to set aside past wrongs and start fresh than with the birth of your child together?

  In her case, though, it didn’t work. Was it because she hurt him too much?

  “Becca said Penelope was cheating on you and that’s why you guys broke up.”

  He nods. “The summer before we went away to college. She hooked up with a friend of her brother’s. Things were already rocky between us. She said she was trying to make me jealous. I was planning on ending things with her before I left for California anyway, so when I found out, I broke up with her. And then she called me a few weeks after school started and told me she was pregnant.” He adds in a lower voice, “And that was the day my life changed forever.”

  I hesitate. “Did you ever wonder if he was yours?” I add quickly, “I mean, I know he is. He looks like you.”

  Shane smirks. “I know everyone around here was whispering that for a long time. But Penelope swore she’d never actually screwed the guy.”

  “And you believed her?” I’m unable to mask the doubt from my voice.

  “I didn’t want to, at first.” He pauses to check his edging work before shifting to another stretch of wall. “But I knew her pretty well by then. I knew she wasn’t lying.” Shane coats his brush with fresh paint. “It would have been an easy out for me, though, to tell her to find me when it was time to do a paternity test. But, that would have been wrong, especially if the baby was mine. What kind of guy would I be?”

  I snort derisively. “You’d be my father.” According to my mother, Marcus Meyers did just that.

  I feel Shane’s steady gaze as I roll a wide stripe of paint along the wall.

  “Have you seen him again?”

  “Who, Marcus? No, not since I met him that one time.” I barely remember it. I was so young. But my mom filled in the holes for me once. We were hurting for money and about to get evicted. She had no one to lean on for help—my grandfather had died when she was young, and my grandmother had disowned her and moved to South Carolina when my mother got pregnant—so she did the only thing she could think of. She borrowed a neighbor’s car and we drove to Philadelphia, to the trucking company where Marcus Meyers had been working when they had their brief fling. A to Z Trucking was its name, easy enough to remember. It was a small operation, running out of an old, run-down warehouse. She had no idea if Marcus was still employed there.

  Not only was he employed there, but his father—my grandfather, the man I have to thank for my inheritance—owned the business. That’s how my grandfather found out about me. Up until that point, he had no idea I existed.

  Marcus Meyers knew I existed, but again he vehemently denied fathering me. W
hat I remember is standing on the loading dock while a giant—to me, back then—man yelled at my mother for showing up and spewed every abhorrent name in the book at her. I remember him telling her we could live on the street for all he cared.

  He refused to give her a dime until he saw a court order for a paternity test. She knew that would take far more time than she had. She also knew she didn’t want him in our lives, but she was desperate for money.

  In the end, it was my grandfather who handed her an envelope of cash. She figures he did it to end the scene and rid himself of the young woman and child on his loading dock as quickly as possible. Either way, it was enough to get our heads back above water.

  We never went back there again. Even Dottie Reed has pride.

  I sense Shane wanting to ask more questions—I told him that story once, lying beneath the canopy of a grand oak tree. Does he remember?—but instead he shifts back to his task.

  “So, Cody was born and then what?” I’m desperate for more information to fill the gap between then and now.

  “And then I went back to California. I hated being so far away from him, but I had a scholarship. Penelope took a year off school. I don’t think she was planning on going back, to be honest. She expected me to go pro and set her and Cody up with a big paycheck for life. And I would have. But then I got hurt.”

  What must it have been like for Shane to have such a promising future end before it really began? “Do you miss it?”

  It’s a long moment before he answers and when he does, there’s a tinge of sorrow in his voice. “Yeah. I miss the game, and the crowds. I miss the team. When it happened, I was devastated, but I made peace with it. Still, I can’t help but think about what life would’ve been like if I’d made it. I should have made it.”

  “You would have. You were good.” Me, who doesn’t care for the sport, but even I noticed how Shane outshone everyone on the field. “I’m really sorry that happened to you,” I offer softly, hoping he can hear the sincerity in my voice.

  He nods. “The silver lining is I got to be around Cody more. I lost my athletic scholarship after that year because I couldn’t play. I didn’t see much point in staying in Cali, so I transferred home to finish my degree at Penn State. I was on the fence between coaching high school football and firefighting. I wasn’t sure I was cut out for dealing with dumbass teenagers all day long, but I actually like working with Cody.”

  “Do you think he’ll play for the Panthers?”

  “He will, if I have anything to do with it.” He winks. “Coach called me the other day and asked if I’d want to come help out this season. I’m thinking of doing it. It’d be good for me to get involved and learn what I can about teaching kids. Might give me some ideas for Cody. It’s different, playing the game versus teaching it. Well … I guess you know.”

  I watch him paint for a moment, his muscular arm stretched over his head. Every choice he makes, he seems to do so with his son in mind. “You’re a good father.”

  He pauses midstroke to meet my gaze and, where his eyes are normally playful, I see nothing but seriousness now. “I try to be.”

  I finish one side of the wall, and then busy myself with dragging the sheets of newspaper over to the far side of the room and rearranging them to cover the hardwood around the tray.

  “Nice shorts,” Shane murmurs.

  “Shut up. These are my junk clothes. They’re good for painting.”

  “No, I mean it. Especially when you bend over like that.”

  Shit. I didn’t consider the view from this angle, but the pant legs are wide and I chopped them fairly short. I tug the material at the back down self-consciously. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “Don’t apologize on my account.” His voice sounds strained.

  I glance over at Shane. He has given up all pretense of painting and is simply standing there, his jaw taut, his expression serious, the hard ridge along the front of his shorts prominent.

  Yeah, I’d say I just inadvertently gave Shane a highly indecent view.

  I barely contain my laughter. He always said he liked my ass, and that was before the countless hours of yoga and Pilates turned it curvy and rock hard.

  He chuckles but his cheeks turn pink. “You didn’t mean to, huh?”

  “I didn’t. I swear!” But a thrill courses through me at his reaction.

  He shakes his head as he turns back to the wall. “It’s like I’m seventeen all over again,” he says under his breath, discreetly adjusting the front of his shorts.

  “You’d deserve it, for all those months of them calling me BB.”

  “I didn’t tell them …” He sighs with reluctance. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Really? Then what was it like?”

  He bites his bottom lip as if considering whether to respond. It’s a long moment before he does. “Dip caught me jacking off in the drive-in restroom one night and wouldn’t shut up about it after.”

  My jaw drops at his admission as a foggy recollection takes shape. “Wait, was that the night we watched Sin City?” We were curled up in the back of Dean’s truck, under blankets, and I was mercilessly teasing Shane by dragging my fingertips back and forth along his bare stomach, just above his belt. Halfway through the film, he snuck off in a sudden rush. He came back a while later with Steve on his heels, ribbing him about something.

  He rubs his forehead, a cute, shameful look on his face. “Maybe.”

  A mental flash of Shane with his fist wrapped around himself in one of those dingy little stalls hits me and I blush. “Did you do that a lot when we were together?”

  His eyes flash to mine as if he’s weighing how truthful to be. “Every day we went out,” he confesses with a wry smile. “Sometimes in my car, right after I dropped you off. Once in the Patty Shack restroom, because I was losing my mind watching you lick that vanilla ice-cream cone.”

  “Oh my God!” I burst out laughing and he follows suit, though his laughter is weaker, laced with embarrassment. “You never let on how dire things were for you.” Maybe I did earn that nickname, after all.

  “Yeah, well …” He shrugs. “I told you, I didn’t want you feeling pressured.”

  “If only you knew how bad I wanted you back then.” How many times did I leave him with my panties drenched, desperate for his touch inside them? I had my reasons, and he said he was okay with them.

  He groans and his darkened gaze trails my body.

  I let mine drop as well, to the unmistakable bulge in Shane’s shorts. “Do you need to use the restroom?”

  “Dammit, Scar. Thirteen years later and you’re still doing this to me.” He shakes his head, but laughs. “Get back to painting or you’ll never be finished.”

  With a sigh, I do as told.

  At least, I try to. But now all I can think of is enticing Shane to find his breaking point.

  My paint roller is dry and needs a reload. On impulse, I make a point of bending deep at the waist, taking much longer than necessary, betting on Shane watching.

  The sharp curse behind me says I bet right.

  Humming to myself—more to calm my own nerves than anything else—I set to finishing the last section, not daring to look back.

  I have only one spot left to finish, high above the window. I brace my free hand against the window frame and stretch onto my tiptoes, reaching as far as I can to begin coating it. Warm afternoon air from the open window tickles my exposed belly.

  A creak in the hardwood is the only warning I get before Shane is standing behind me. “Let me help you,” he whispers, encasing my hand with his own, while his other hand—large and hot—settles on my hip.

  A soft sigh escapes my lips as he guides the roller up and down. Together we cover the last patch of mint green in the entire room. It’s impossible for me not to zero in on his erection brushing up against my backside with each stroke.

  With the wall covered, he wriggles the roller free from my grasp and tosses it into the tray. But he doesn’t
move away. Instead, he shifts closer, taking my hand in his again and bringing my knuckles to his lips.

  “My fingers have wet paint on them,” I warn him, watching the sweet move intently. “You’ll end up with periwinkle blue lips if you’re not careful.” Not that I wouldn’t kiss him anyway.

  “You’re right. I don’t see any paint here, though.” He dips his face into the crook of my neck, to linger there a moment as if testing the waters before he skims my skin with a soft, tentative kiss.

  I allow it for a time, tipping my head to the side to give him better access, which he takes with greedy lips.

  “We shouldn’t,” I murmur, my breathing turning ragged.

  “Why not?”

  I shudder with pleasure as his warm tongue teases me. “Because we’re taking things slow, remember? The whole next-door neighbors and teacher thing.” There’s no small amount of reluctance in my voice.

  “You’re right,” he says, but he doesn’t stop, his splayed hands molding to my sides and working upward, his fingertips stalling at the underside of my breasts.

  This is going somewhere, and fast, if I don’t stop it.

  I turn to face him, thinking a break from his lips will help, but that was a mistake. He’s standing so damn close to me, and now I’m staring at a wall of muscle and smooth skin that my fingers ache to touch.

  I inhale deeply. He smells of citrus soap. If he doesn’t move away from me soon, I’m going to lose any resolve I have left. As it is, I can’t bring myself to be the one to put distance between us.

  His eyes drop to my mouth and then farther to where my pebbled nipples hide behind my bulky T-shirt. Surely, he can’t see them.

  A shiver skitters down my spine, all the same. “It’s cold in here,” I lie and struggle to keep a straight face at my foolish claim. It’s at least eighty degrees in this room.

  His lips curl with a slow, sexy smirk as he leans in, until my mouth is just inches from his, and his shaky breath skates over mine. He’s struggling to restrain himself, waiting for me to make the next move.

  “Shane …” My voice cracks with desperation, my eyes closed as I get lost in this heady haze that always seems to swirl around us when we’re this close.