Slow and Steady Rush: Sweet Home Alabama

by Trentham, Laura

  She hummed and nuzzled her cheek into his hand much like Avery did when he sought affection. He lifted the covers back. One of his thinnest, oldest white T-shirts outlined the curve of her hip, riding high on her thighs. Having her in his bed felt . . . natural and satisfying.

  His side hurt too much to move, so instead, he tugged on her arm until she woke enough to scoot closer.

  Her sleep-roughened words emerged haltingly, “Are you hurting? I have medicine.”

  He stopped her from turning away. “I’m fine.” Not exactly true—everything hurt like hell—but her soft curves alleviated the pain, or at least distracted him from focusing on it.

  Her free hand fluttered over his body and landed on his hip. He drew her leg between his, notching his pelvis into her thighs and driving the T-shirt higher. In spite of the drugs and pain, his dick twitched. The temporarily thwarted anticipation that had burned through him all day came back to roost.

  “You need to rest. You’re injured.”

  “Not that injured. I’ll let you do all the work on top. Tell me you brought the condoms,” he whispered, his hand trailing down to squeeze her ass.

  Her head popped up and smacked him in the chin. He cursed. She sat up and pushed him to his back with one hand, compressing a visceral moan from his lungs.

  “You horndog. Getting laid wasn’t even in the recesses of my thoughts tonight. What if . . .” Her voice trailed into nothingness. She’d rolled herself into a ball like a turtle protecting its soft underbelly, her arms clasped around legs, and her face pressed into her knees.

  He wanted to wrap her in his arms and offer his own protection, but the pain shooting through his body wouldn’t allow it. His words hitched with doubt. “You sound like you care.”

  “You can be such an idiot, Robert Dalton. Of course, I care. Even your mutt has grown on me.” Her sigh was gusty and exasperated.

  He swallowed hard, at a loss for words.

  “I know we’re keeping things casual, and I don’t have any expectations, don’t worry.” Her pause was expectant, and he braced himself for what was next. “But we are . . . messing around . . . and I can’t help but . . . I mean, I don’t usually just mess around, okay? You’re going to have to deal with the fact that I’m going to worry about you if you get freaking stabbed, okay?”

  If he didn’t know better, he would think his heart had been sliced open. A tingling warmth exploded in his chest, and his breaths came faster. She looked over her shoulder at him with her brows cocked as if expecting an answer.

  “Okay.” The word emerged as barely a whisper. He shifted back into the pillows even though there was no escape from the strange and overwhelming feelings she inspired. Pain from his actual wound had him grimacing.

  “What’s wrong?” She crouched over him on her knees and whipped back the covers. After flipping on the bedside lamp, she probed around the bandages on his arm and side. “No blood. I assume that’s a good sign.”

  Whatever was wrong with him went deeper than the superficial cuts. They would heal and leave faint scars he would forget while the wounds inside of him still festered.

  “It’s time for more pain meds.” She shook a white pill into her palm.

  “No. They gave me weird dreams.” He clamped his mouth shut.

  Holding a small glass of water in one hand, she waggled the pill between her thumb and forefinger close to his mouth. “Does wittle Wobbie need a kiss after being a big boy and taking his pill?”

  Unexpected laughter banished his panic and made him wince even as he smiled. He opened his mouth, and she dropped the pill on his tongue. He took a swig of the water she held out. She leaned over him to switch off the light and covered them with the blankets. He startled when she ran her hand over his forehead.

  “No fever, so that’s good.” Her hand strayed into his hair to play, turning his bones to warm liquid. Or maybe the pill was kicking in. Either way, he floated in pleasurable sensation.

  “No one’s ever taken care of me before.” He barely recognized his dreamy voice.

  “You must have gotten sick as a child.” His silence darkened her tone. “Robbie, were your parents not very nice? You change the subject whenever I’ve asked anything about your past.”

  The whirling blades of the fan cast hypnotic moonlit shadows across the ceiling. “Didn’t know them. I was in the system before I turned one.”

  “The system?”

  “Foster care.”

  Her sigh brushed along his cheek. “I’m so sorry. No wonder you were giving me hell about Ada.”

  “I came on too strong, but I would have killed to have had a Miss Ada. Someone, anyone, who wanted me.” Her hand continued to soothe him, and he closed his eyes. The pill numbed his extremities, pain a diminishing memory.

  “You have her now.” She mimicked Ada’s high Southern drawl. “Dalt mowed and Dalt weeded and Dalt fixed the door. Dalt’s such a nice boy . . . yadda, yadda . . . I expected you to be sporting a halo.”

  “I’d be last in line to receive sainthood,” he said with a huffing laugh.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure. You’ve helped a lot of people around here.”

  The quiet surety and smile in her voice injected his heart with cold reality. He didn’t reply and turned his face away, but his withdrawal didn’t faze her. She continued to caress him, soothe him, weaken his defenses.

  “What was your foster family like?”

  There were wonderful, caring foster families out there, but his wasn’t one of them. The discipline had started with spankings and progressed to slaps and kicks and eventually punches. How could he describe the building dread on the school bus home, the terror of stepping off and walking to his front door, the shame of crying and hiding under his bed? How could he confess his blistering anger even now when he saw a kid being yanked around or spanked in a store?

  Safer not to answer, but her caresses and the drugs loosened the stranglehold he kept on his tongue. “Mean as hell. They took me in for the government assistance. I learned pretty quick how to defend myself, but there’s only so much a kid can do against a grown man.”

  “What happened?”

  “My foster father broke my arm when I was thirteen. The family insisted I fell off my bike. I was too afraid to tell the doctor the truth. I wasn’t taken away, but my file got red-flagged. My freshman year in high school, my football coach noticed some bruising. He reported it, and I moved to a different family.”

  Along with the hand she threaded through his hair, her lips brushed his cheek and temple. “Did things get better?”

  “The family was nice enough. They tried, but the damage had been done. I was a pissed-off teenager. Football helped. Coach helped. I was a beast on the field. My goal was to take off the quarterback’s head every down. Coach took me hunting, had me over for dinner with his wife, showed me what a normal life looked like.”

  “He loved you.” The matter-of-fact tone of the statement made his heart stumble a little more into the light she shined. Love seemed like an unsolvable math problem to him, a solution just out of reach.

  “I don’t know about that. He was an absolute bastard on the field.” With his eyes closed, he angled his face toward her, seeking her warmth.

  She ran her fingertips lightly over his jaw. “You should invite him to a game.”

  Another blow to his heart, but less painful while he was in her arms as if she offered protection from his past. “He died when I was in college. At his funeral, I planned to get up and tell everyone what he did for me. But you know what? There were a dozen guys there with similar stories. He made me want to be a better man.”

  “He’d be so proud of you. You know that, right?”

  A lassitude invaded his body. Maybe it was the painkillers, maybe it was sheer exhaustion, but he thought it might have something to do with the bags he’d unloaded. The part of his brain that had protected him for so long screamed, but with Darcy at his side, the warnings were easy to ignore.

  �
�Will you stay with me?” His mind drifted into limbo.

  “Yes, but no sex. Only sleep.”

  He hummed and silently swore to stash another box of condoms at his place—ASAP.

  * * *

  He woke at dawn, his sleep cut short as the painkillers wore off. Horror at his confessions the night before slithered through him, making him wish for the oblivion of unconsciousness. The last thing he wanted was to face Darcy in the light of day. Face her pity.

  Thank God he hadn’t told her the worst of it. He would slip out of bed without waking her and figure things out. His involuntary grunt of pain startled her awake. He froze, not sure what to say, not sure what she expected.

  It seemed she didn’t expect anything. She crouched next to him and crooned his name. Red dotted the white bandage. She went to work, pulling the tape and gauze away. Her brow crunched, and she bit hard on her bottom lip as if to counteract his pain.

  Pillow creases marred one side of her face, and her hair hung in a tangled mess around her shoulders. In his ratty white T-shirt and without makeup, she was the prettiest, sweetest thing he’d ever seen. Without direction from his brain, his hand brushed her hair back and settled around her nape. This was bad—very, very bad.

  His earlier mortification morphed into a warmth that squeezed his heart. The same overwhelming feelings as the night before. It seemed he couldn’t simply blame the pain killers. He directed his thoughts onto something safer. Avery.

  She started to wrap gauze around the wound on his arm, but he stilled her hand with the brush of his finger. “Leave it. My sleeve will cover the stitches. I don’t want to go advertising I was jumped.”

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that secrets in Falcon don’t exist. I’m surprised your phone hasn’t blown up with calls and texts from concerned citizens. The team has to win, you know,” she said lightly, but dark sarcasm underlay the words.

  “My phone got smashed last night. Could you call Dr. Martin and get an update? Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He eased his legs over the side of the bed. The initial pain made his stomach turn, but every movement loosened his stiff muscles and became easier.

  “Sure.” She stood in a shaft of sunlight, every line of her body glowing seductively through thin cotton, clutching her phone between her breasts. “You can call in sick, you know. I think this would qualify.”

  “Nope. I have classes to teach and practice this afternoon.” He gingerly pulled on clothes.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” She caught his hand and forced him to stop.

  An uncomfortable yearning grew. Her eyes had gone soft and understanding, and the slightest of smiles curled her lips. He wanted to take her in his arms and lean on her.

  What was this consuming need he felt to protect, claim, and share everything with her? He couldn’t define it, because he had never experienced anything like what she made him feel with a simple smile. He simply shook his head and dragged himself away from her when every nerve screamed for her touch.

  “I’ll be fine.” After choking down a piece of buttered toast, Robbie eased into the cab of his truck while she hovered at his side. Sweat dotted his forehead, and his fingers trembled around the steering wheel. If he called in sick, questions would be asked. His pride refused to give the bastards any sense of victory.

  He survived his classes. Although by last period, teaching integrals had been beyond his ability. The kids high-fived when he started a video about the Hubbell telescope. He practiced deep breathing exercises at his desk.

  Tyler had been noticeably absent from school. Should Robbie have told Rick about him being there last night? No, Robbie would find Tyler and sit the boy down for a talk. Assuming, Tyler was willing to admit his truth. If it had been Robbie in that position, at that age, he would have lied his face off.

  First though, he had to deal with eighty-plus energetic, curious teenage boys while hiding his pain. With his lips curled in the facsimile of a smile, he forced a normal long-legged gait through the practice pavilion. Kids dropped their weights and nudged each other. A buzz rose.

  “You’re not X-men. The weights aren’t going to lift with the awesome power of your minds. Now get pumping,” Robbie said loud enough for the entire pavilion to hear.

  Laughter erupted. If his voice was harsh and frayed, and he couldn’t summon answering laughter, no one seemed to notice. Like a popped bubble, the tension dissipated, and the clank of metal on metal replaced the hum of whispers.

  The tough-man exterior took a toll. He needed five minutes privacy to lick his wounds and put the façade back together for practice. He banged his office door open. Darcy was leaning back in his chair with her feet up on his desk, reading a book.

  “What are you doing here? Get out.” It was inexcusably rude, but he’d make it up to her. Later. When he didn’t hurt so damn bad.

  She stood and examined him like a specimen. Sweat broke over his forehead. She stalked to the door but didn’t walk straight through and slam it in his face. Instead, she closed it and flipped the lock.

  “I’m here to change your bandages.”

  She pushed him toward the desk, and he propped himself against it. A slight groan escaped despite his best efforts. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. She deftly worked his buttons open. Cotton skimmed down his arms.

  “Poor baby.” Her lips brushed softly above and below the stitches on his arm, and although he knew it was impossible, the intensity of the burn seemed to cool.

  Fingers probed his side, and he winced away, his body tense. She caressed his chest, gentling and distracting him. Soft breasts brushed his arm. She thrummed his nipple with a thumb. His pain eased, and a theory presented itself in his muddled brain.

  Her body would heal his. It seemed imperative he prove the illogical hypothesis. He pressed into her, his eyes still closed, his face nuzzling into her hair. Sweet honeysuckle took him to another place and time. Early summer. A spot by the river where he could lay her out on a blanket and strip her naked in the sun. Love her. Spread her legs and—

  “Holy fuck!” His side throbbed in tune with his heartbeat.

  “Hush, you big baby.” She held the bloody bandage she’d ripped off with two fingers. Her face scrunched as she bent over to examine the wound. “You’ve bled a bit, but the stiches held, and I don’t see any sign of infection.”

  After he was cleaned, disinfected, and rebandaged, she pressed two pills into his hand. “They’re non-narcotic. You need something to take the edge off.”

  “I know what would take the edge off.” He swallowed the pills and pulled her between his legs.

  “You’re in no shape to participate in strenuous physical activity,” she said in a prim librarian voice, but he could hear the tease underneath.

  Darcy Wilde was anything but prim. Skinny-dipping, going down on him in the library, barely there underwear . . . She tied to deny her wild, passionate side. He wouldn’t allow it.

  “I’ve got a heartbeat. That’s all I need.” He drew her hand to his partially erect dick.

  She didn’t balk but measured his length and girth with the palm of her hand. He came to full attention in two seconds. Color flushed into her face. They stared into each other’s eyes, only inches apart.

  “Are you wet? Do you want me in your pants?” he whispered, testing her limits.

  “You shouldn’t—”

  “Admit you want me.” He kneaded her ass. Her body melted into his, signaling her surrender. Her nails left erotic trails of sensation on his back.

  “I want to rip your pants off and climb on top of you. Or rip your pants off and have you bend me over your desk. Or rip your pants off and take you in my mouth again.” She licked her lips, and his dick jumped. “Or, rip your pants off and—”

  “You want my pants off. Have I got that about right?” His laugh was shaky, and his hands trembled.

  The doorknob rattled the same time a rap sounded on the door. “Come on, lover boy. The team’
s waiting.” Logan’s voice floated under the crack, amused but impatient. “I know you’re in there, cuz.”

  The flush on her face wasn’t from arousal anymore. Her hands shook while she taped a fresh bandage over the wound. He slipped his shirt back on and buttoned it, feeling like he would at least survive practice if not enjoy it.

  “Did you talk to Tyler?” She swept the first aid supplies into a bag.

  “Nope. Have to take care of that after practice. And, get Avery.” He sighed. A long, lonely night stretched. “Maybe later?”

  “Sure.” She glanced at the clock. “Ada’s waiting.”

  They parted, each headed in a different direction. Robbie watched over his shoulder until she was out of sight.

  19

  Practice concluded on a high note. His already good team was improving with every practice. Just in case, he spent extra time with his backup center, drilling the handoffs and blocking assignments repeatedly.

  On to his next mission. Robbie drove through Tyler’s aging middle-class neighborhood. Well-manicured yards abutted lawns overrun with weeds. Many of the cookie-cutter ranch brick homes had playsets peeking out of backyards. To Robbie, it looked as unattainable as leaping into a Rockwell painting.

  A regular at The Tavern for happy hour, Tyler’s father worked at a local manufacturing plant. Black greased fingernails and a gray uniform denoted his blue-collar status. He drank beer, played darts, and enjoyed a dirty joke. A gay son was an odd-shaped puzzle piece that would have a difficult time fitting into his life.

  He pulled in behind Tyler’s truck and killed the engine. What the hell was he supposed to say? Should he encourage Tyler to come out of the closet or bury himself inside it until he left Falcon for college? If he came out now, what would recruiters think? Times were changing, but slowly. Openly gay players were still an anomaly unfortunately.

  He rapped on the door, and a middle-aged woman with skin that had seen too many years of sun greeted him. “Hey, Coach. Tyler’s sick. He hasn’t left his room all day. Not even to eat.”