Cash slaps me on the back. “You all right, darlin’? I can’t have my woman choking on me.”
“Shut up,” I wheeze.
Donny’s gaze pings between the two of us. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I shout.
Cash throws his big arm around my shoulders. “Now, dumplin’, the whole town’s talkin’ about us, so we should tell our good friend Donny.”
It takes all my strength not to bury my nose in his neck and OD on the musky scent of his skin. “You’re not letting this go, are you?”
“No way. I’ve been waiting twelve years to be dating Tiger Lyons.”
“Someone tell me what’s going on,” Donny yells.
By sheer force of will, I step away from Cash. “Brad came over this morning to try to get back together, and—”
“What?” Donny hates Brad, so the red tint to his face isn’t surprising.
“Tell ya later. Anyway, Cash spent the night at the house last night, so when Brad saw him here, he made the assumption that we were together, then proceeded to tell everyone at Trudi’s.” I elbow the quarterback in the ribs. “And this troublemaker insists on playing the whole thing up.”
Cash doubles over laughing. “You can’t deny it was satisfying for both of us.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“When we pretended to be together in Brad’s office.”
He’s right, I can’t deny it, and that kiss still lingers on my lips. “Okay, I’ll give you that.”
Donny rolls the plans into a tight tube. “Clearly, I’ve missed quite a bit while I’ve been out of town.”
I bend over and lean my arms on the island. “Don’t worry, one lap through town and you’ll be all caught up on the local gossip.” I cut my gaze to Cash. “You know how the good people of Ryder love a juicy rumor.”
Donny cups his hand over his mouth. “Ooooh, burn.”
“You went for the throat with that one.” Cash grabs his neck and glances at my boss. “Am I bleeding?”
The two men laugh.
“Ha-ha. You two are a riot.”
Randy, one of the crew, comes into the room. “Tiger, I’ve got a question.” He stops dead in his tracks, and his face goes slack. “Holy shit. Cash King.” He reaches for my fake boyfriend’s hand and pumps it several times. “Damn good to meet you.”
Cash chuckles. “Thank ya, man.” I have no idea how he remains so affable with people coming up to him all the time.
Randy’s snaggled teeth flash at the interaction. “I’m the biggest Thunder fan there is.”
“It’s always good to meet a fan.”
“How’s the shoulder? You’re gonna be back for the playoffs, aren’t you? Well, if that half-wit McKay doesn’t ruin everything.”
“I’m gonna do my best.” It’s like someone shoves a steel rod into Cash’s spine, and the muscles in his jaw pulse with tension. I’ve noticed it happens every time someone asks about his shoulder or the playoffs.
“What can I do for you, Randy?” I cut in to save Cash from more questioning.
“Oh.” He shakes his head like he’s coming out of a trance. “Did we get the master bathroom fixtures?”
“Yes—”
“Randy, you slacker, get your ass back to work.” Another member of the crew storms into the room. “Shit. You’re Cash King. How’s the shoulder? Better I hope, we need you for the playoffs.”
Cash’s Adam’s apple bobs, and if anything, he becomes more rigid. “Shoulder’s good.”
“Thank God, because McKay can’t hit the side of a barn with both hands, and his footwork is for shit.”
“Guys, you can find the bathroom fixtures in the pool house next to the front door.” I put just enough steel in my voice to get them moving.
“Oh, okay. Thanks.”
They exit, and Donny holds his hand out to Cash. “Since you’re going to be around, you should get your girlfriend to bring you over to the house for Sunday lunch.”
I wad up a piece of paper and throw it at Donny’s head.
Cash relaxes slightly and grins at me. “Thanks, man, I’d like that, but it’ll have to wait until next week. The Thunder has a home game this weekend, and I have to be there. In fact, I’m leaving after I shower.”
“You are?” There’s the slightest tinge of disappointment in my voice, and I hope nobody notices it. “I thought you were hurt.”
“I am, dumplin’. It’s called injured reserve. I don’t travel with the team, but I have to be at the home games. But don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.”
I arrange my face into a mask of marble. “Don’t you need a shower?”
“Yeah, I do.” His laughter causes a little tickle low in my belly. “See ya later, Donny.” He stops when he gets to the hallway where the bathroom’s located and glances back at me. “I’ll leave the door unlocked.”
“I will kill you.”
He winks and laughs, then disappears down the hall. But I can’t shake the way he looked when the crew asked him about his shoulder. It happened yesterday too. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about his injury.
“I can’t wait to tell Maggie about your budding relationship with the Bullet.”
I roll my eyes at Donny. “Oh, she knows.”
He gathers the plans up and heads for the door. “Thanks again for handling the new crew.”
The water in the shower cuts on while my thoughts are whirling. “So, I have carte blanche to do what I want?”
“Yeah, sure. I trust you.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Once Donny’s gone, I start to formulate a plan and don’t stop to examine my motives.
Twenty-One
Cash
“Interception, Carolina,” the announcer says over the sound system at Thunder Stadium. “That’s McKay’s sixth of the day.”
“Fuckin’ hell, McKay,” Coach Rosser jerks off his headset and screams.
The offense runs off the turf murmuring similar expletives about the backup quarterback, while the defense groans and takes the field. Those poor guys have barely had a rest with all the turnovers that have occurred in this game.
The crash of helmets and pads hitting each other rings through the air. That, combined with the smell of Icy Hot and body odor, lets me know I’m home. This is exactly where I’m supposed to be on a Sunday afternoon. Well, not exactly. I should be out on the field making things happen for the team, instead of standing on the sideline nursing a bad shoulder.
“Bullet, when are you coming back?” Guthrie, the Thunder’s center, sidles up to me.
“You miss my hands between your legs that much, Guthrie?” I try to make a joke because I don’t want to be that asshole who’s sitting on the sideline hoping his replacement fails.
To be clear, I don’t want to be that asshole on the outside, but I’m pretty much that asshole on the inside. Every interception and missed route McKay’s thrown today only solidifies my position on this team.
My team.
“Always, buttercup.” Guthrie grins down at me. “But I’m also shit tired of losing. We’re never going to make the playoffs if this continues.”
I have mixed feelings about the Thunder making the playoffs. On the one hand, if they do, then I could jump back into the quarterback slot and save the day. But on the other, it ratchets up the pressure to get my shoulder back to playing condition.
“He’ll pull it together. He’s only a rookie; it’s a lot to carry.” See how magnanimous I can be?
“I hope you’re right. Hey, are you coming to the party at Warren’s after the game?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
Guthrie’s meaty hand clamps down on my good shoulder. “Awesome. I’m gonna kick your ass at Ping-Pong.”
My easy smile and the relaxed, settled feeling in my chest are as familiar as breathing. These guys are my brothers, my ride or dies. “Bring it, big guy.”
A flapping arm clothed in pink catches my eye. It’s Amy Shirley, the sideline repor
ter for the Pro Sports Network, PSN. She’s calling me over for an interview. That’s the last thing I want to do, but I plaster a smile on my face. This one is familiar too, but far less pleasant. I hate having to talk to press under the best of circumstances, and now is not a “best of” sort of situation for me.
Too bad, King. This is part of the deal.
I make my way to the journalist. “Good to see you, Amy.”
“You too, Cash. Do you have a minute for a short interview?”
“Sure.”
“Awesome.” She turns to the camera guy. “Ready, Jim?”
“Ready in five, four …” He raises the camera and counts us in, while Amy pulls her hair over her shoulders and licks her teeth. “Three, two …” He points to indicate we’re on the air.
“I’m here with the Thunder’s quarterback, Cash King, who was placed on injured reserve after the Atlanta game.” Amy angles her body toward mine. “Cash, how is the shoulder?”
“Great. I’m working hard, doing my PT, and I’m confident I’ll make a full recovery.” My tone is untroubled, like I don’t have a fuckin’ care in the world.
Amy beams. “That’s fantastic. I know the Thunder nation will be glad to hear you’re recovering.”
The crowd moans, and I see the offense leaving the field again. I glance at the jumbotron and watch the replay of McKay fumbling the ball on the handoff to Kelso.
“The Thunder has struggled to find their rhythm with Hartly McKay as quarterback. How do you feel when you see your team slipping farther behind in the division?”
I HATE THESE KINDS OF QUESTIONS. What does she want me to say?
I feel like I’m letting my team down.
I feel like I’m letting the fans down.
I feel like a loser.
This is a terrible question, Amy, and shows you have the imagination of a wash cloth. Maybe you should look for other work.
I don’t say any of that. Instead, I arrange my face like a big brother talking about his younger, troubled brother. “This is a hard game, Amy, and it moves much faster than college football. Hart’s just getting his footing. I’m confident he’s going to be fine. He’s made some damn decent plays today, and I’m confident that he’ll continue to do so. Let’s not forget that Hartly McKay was a first-round draft pick. He’s more than capable of doing this job.” I give the camera a quick grin, pretty proud that I successfully deflected the question and painted my back up in the best light possible.
The signal sounds for the end of the game. Amy ends the interview so she can grab Coach Rosser and Hartly as they leave the field.
I check the jumbotron again for the final score. Carolina 35, Thunder 3. Ouch.
I make my way to the dressing room and try to keep the skip out of my step. I feel bad for McKay, but he’s got a lot of years left in this league to make a name for himself. I don’t know how many more I have, and this is my damn team.
“Booya, motherfucker!” Guthrie bellows as he slams the ping-pong ball past me to win the game.
I lower my head. “I bow down to your ping-pong superiority.”
He throws his arm around one of the girls flanking him. “Damn right.” He points his paddle at me. “And don’t you forget it, Bullet.”
My hands go into the air in surrender. “Never.”
He laughs and spins the paddle in his hand, and winks at the girls. “Now, what else can I do with this paddle?”
They squeal and run, with him chasing them. I chuckle and shake my head.
“Some boys never grow up.” The smooth, slightly gravelly voice whispers into my ear. She’s behind me, but I know without looking who it is. “Hello, Sylvia.” I turn to see her beautiful upturned face.
“Hey, Cash.”
She’s a tiny thing, with long dark hair that cascades down her back and innocent big baby-doll eyes that can make a man forget his name. And yeah, I’ve forgotten my name a time or two with Sylvia. I like her—she’s uncomplicated, not argumentative, and knows the score. “It’s been a while.”
Her white teeth sink into her pillowy-soft lips. “I was hanging with some of the Rangers players for a while.”
“I didn’t know you were a baseball fan too.” Evidently, Sylvia is an equal opportunity sports honey.
She sighs loudly. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for the tight pants.”
I laugh. “I guess you are.”
She walks her fingers up the front of my shirt. “But now I’m back where I belong.”
“Yeah?” My arm goes around her waist.
A brilliant, happy look breaks over her face. “Yeah.”
Our bodies are pressed together, her fingers are toying with my buttons, our gazes are locked onto each other, and … nothing. Something’s off. I like Sylvia, always have, but the feel of her exposed midriff on my arm feels wrong. Her petite body is smokin’ hot, but all I can see when I look into her dark irises are a pair of cobalt blue eyes that are far less fond of me. Damn it. Why does the memory of me holding Tiger’s naked body take my brain hostage at that very moment?
“You look good, Cash.” Her soft, willing and sexy-as-hell body presses closer to mine. Warm hands reach around my neck and play with the hair at the base of my neck. “Mmm, you feel good too.” She rises up on her tiptoes, bringing her lips only millimeters from mine, and whispers, “Wanna party?”
Do I?
I should want her.
I want to want her.
I tighten my grip and think dirty thoughts, willing my body to do what it’s supposed to do when a half-naked woman presses herself to me, but it doesn’t happen.
Her lips move along the open V of my collar, wet kisses that would normally set all my senses afire, and I feel nothing but mild irritation.
I gently push her away and take a step back. “Not tonight, sweetheart.”
One shoulder rises and falls. “Mm-kay,” she says, totally unaffected by my rejection.
My gaze follows her as she saunters across the patio, giving my libido one last chance to get with the program.
Still nothing.
And it annoys me more than I can say.
It appears the only woman I want is the one who compared my dick to her pinkie finger.
Great. Just great.
Twenty-Two
Tiger
“Bless it. The worst part of this whole experience is this blasted ski mask.” Sweat pours into my eyes as I haul the bucket of black paint and supplies up the ladder. I slip my thumb under the material at my chin and push up the fabric covering my face. I pause on the way to my target and let the brisk autumn air fill my lungs and cool my damp skin.
I’m still in shadows, so I take another scan to make sure no cars are coming. That’s the good thing about living in a small town—not a lot of traffic in the middle of the night. Also, it’s easy enough to find out the break schedule for the two deputies on patrol.
Coast is clear, so I step out onto the front platform of the billboard that’s a big FU from my ex-husband. I glance up, and all I can see are teeth. Good Lord, did they have to make my teeth so big?
Focus, Tiger.
I quickly unload my supplies and unhook the retractable telescope ladder from the pack on my back. This thing has been a lifesaver.
The first night I tried to do this was a spectacular disaster. I’d come completely unprepared for how large the billboard was and how difficult it would be to get to the places I wanted to paint. It was exhausting. I got so tired, I barely made it down the ladder attached to the side pole. And all I managed were a few swipes with the brush, giving my image a pitiful goatee. In fact, it was so ineffective that nobody even noticed.
I ordered the ladder, and some industrial paint supplies, the next day. Good thing my job is in construction, and I’ve got connections.
I quickly get to work. I think a pair of Harry Potter glasses and devil horns are in order tonight. Lord, I hope this does it and the town finally rises up and demands the billboard be taken down. Or that Bra
d will ultimately get tired of spending his own money to have it fixed, because I know that’s what he’s doing.
Maggie thinks I should let it be, but I can’t. I’m doing everything I can to move away from the person portrayed in this enormous photo.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of the work I did with single moms as Miss Texas. I raised a lot of money and helped write some statewide legislation helping single moms cover the cost of childcare, but … the weight of that crown nearly broke me. A lot of sadness hid behind my plastic smiles, and a ton of insecurities and self-doubt were zipped up in those rhinestone dresses. In the end, I guess it doesn’t really matter, as long as the good things got done. At least that’s what I tell myself.
If I’m honest, I’m still searching for the acceptance I’ve been searching for most of my life. The kind that doesn’t have to do with anything I can give or what I look like, but just because I’m me, Tiger Lyons, flaws and all.
I extend the ladder and lock it into place, and begin to climb. Good thing I’m not afraid of heights because it’s a long way to the ground. One wrong move and this billboard will be the least of my worries.
When the last horn is painted, I head down the ladder and black out my two front teeth for good measure. I quickly repack my contraband supplies, then take one last look at my handiwork. Not bad, if I do say so myself.
I make my way down the rungs on the billboard’s pole, but when I’m about twelve rungs from the bottom, I see a pair of headlights in the distance coming at me fast.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Scrambling to the ground like my life depends on it, I drop my supplies and run toward the safety of the trees and scraggly shrubs about fifty feet from the side of the road and out of the ring of light supplied by the beams from the billboard. I dive out of sight just as the headlights swipe past me. I hold my breath, but the roar of a finely tuned engine continues down the road. That finely tuned engine belongs to the finely tuned body of the man currently sleeping about a hundred yards from me.
Homecoming King Page 13