by Lane, Stacy
With the hand dangling off the couch, I run the tips of my fingers along hers. The tickle of a light touch causes her to shift.
“I leehh the teev on.” Her incoherent mumble has me moving closer.
“What?”
Her tongue darts out, licking her dry lips as she closes her mouth. My eyes fall to her tongue as it glides over the bottom lip and rounding on the top. Her mouth glistens and mine begins to salivate. The juicy, red-tinted lips call to my every desire.
“The TV,” she mumbles. “I left it on.”
I peer over my shoulder at the TV, then back to her. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s get you upstairs.”
“But it’s on the roof.”
Now I’m totally confused.
“No, it’s not, Jo,” I smirk.
“My TV. It’s on the roof. I left it on.” She repeats herself, voice standing firm. “I gotta turn it off.”
When she rolls to her side, tucking both hands flat beneath her cheek, I realize she’s really knocked out. And sleep talking.
“All right, beautiful. I’ll go turn off the TV on the roof. Let’s get you to bed.” Slipping arms beneath her, I lift Jo and cradle her close to me. Her arms go without effort around my neck. Her head falls to my shoulder.
She doesn’t make another sound as I climb the steps, walk down the long hallway, and enter an empty guest room. Vic and Chelsea’s voices carry from further down the hall, coming from behind their closed bedroom door. I think they’re arguing, but it’s not my business so I go straight to the guest room, kicking the door nearly closed with my foot.
Chelsea has the blankets pulled back. I set Jo down on the mattress.
“Did you bring it inside?” She asks in her sleep.
“Bring what, Jo?” The arm beneath her head slides out.
“My TV. The green one.”
A green TV. On the roof.
“Yeah, it’s safe inside.”
“Thanks, Kason.”
I stand over her, ready to cover her up. But hearing another dude’s name stops me.
Sitting at her hip, I lean forward, an arm on either side of her waist.
“Jo, it’s Brooks. Who’s Kason?” It’s a long shot, but I’m curious and she’s more susceptible to answer me in her state of sleep. Although, the answers could come out of left field based on her story about the TV on the roof.
“Mmmmmmm,” she moans, the drawn-out sound runs along my skin like fingernails during rough sex. “Brooks.”
Fuck Kason. That was the best answer she could have ever given me.
Moving in further, I whisper inches above her lips, “Are you dreaming about me, Jo?”
“Brooks,” she repeats on a sultry purr. Right as a grin forms on my face, big greens eyes pop open.
As fast as a lightning strike, Jo snaps upward, smacking right into me. “Argh, fuck!”
“Ow. Ow. Owwwww.”
Fingers kneading the spot between my eyebrows and above the bridge of my nose, I squint my eyes shut.
“You broke my glasses!” She seethes.
“I didn’t do shit. You’re the one who snapped awake.”
“You’re the one hovering above me like some creepy weirdo.”
“Wasn’t creepy when you were moaning my name.”
“I was not. Moaning. Your. Name.”
Dropping my hand, I glare at her through the pain searing my forehead. “Mmmmm, Brooks. Oh, Brooks.”
Her jaw drops. “I did not say that.”
“Believe what you want. I heard it, and won’t be forgetting it anytime soon.”
“Whatever,” she groans, staring at the glasses in her hands. The frames broke right in half. “Great. Just great.”
“I’m sure Chelse has some tape. It’ll be very attractive.”
“Shut up. Move.” Jo shoves my arm aside and then crawls out of bed, moving around me to an unnecessary degree just to avoid my touch. She stands in the center of the room, glancing around the darkness. “Why are you in a bedroom with me? With no lights on.”
I reach out for the lamp beside the bed, pulling on the string. Jo squints from the bright light. “Because you were passed out on the couch and Chelsea said to bring you in here.”
While her eyes are elsewhere, I take in every angle of her face. Without the glasses her features are sharpened, cheekbones more pronounced. My lips purse with silent humor when I see her hair. Her ponytail is crooked, and small strings of hair poke out from the crown of her head.
“What time is it?”
“A little after one.”
“Uh.” She rubs her eyes. “We had coffee. It was supposed to keep me awake so I could drive home.”
“Long drive?”
“Kinda. I live in Westchase, and I hate driving at night.”
“Then stay,” I reply, standing. “Chelsea already said you could.”
“But now I’m awake. I don’t want to impose.”
“I’m sure she won’t see it that way.”
“I know, but I think I’ll go anyway.”
Neither of us move. She stands there fiddling with her broken frames. I’m watching her mouth but I can’t stop hearing her say my name with such enthusiasm.
“You have a red mark on your forehead,” she says softly.
I shrug one shoulder. “Not my first or my last.”
“Yeah. Learned that earlier when I saw you fighting in the game.”
“You watched my game,” I grin.
“I mean, I was with Chelsea at your brother’s bar so it’s not like I had much of a choice.”
“Our bar.”
She rolls her eyes. But I like it. I like her take no shit attitude when it comes to me. It could just be her personality, but I get the feeling it’s not. Jo doesn’t hold back with me.
“Cam’s right. You are a professional at getting under peoples skin.”
She’s on a first name basis with my brother? I don’t like it.
“I like to be under many things,” I reply, leaving nothing to be desired.
Jo’s eyes trail from my face where we’ve been battling with our wits, and leisurely down my body where I’m battling the stirring of a hard-on.
She raises her hand to her face, fingers reaching for the glasses no longer sitting there.
“You do that a lot,” I acknowledge.
“Do what?”
“Tweak your glasses.”
“I’m not wearing glasses,” she retorts, getting my meaning, nonetheless.
Lips twitching, I say, “C’mon. Let’s go find you some tape.”
We find Vic and Chelsea in the kitchen when we come down from upstairs. Jo followed close behind me the entire way. When she ran into a small table in the living room, I stopped to look back at her. She grumbled, “I can’t see.” I reached a hand out in offering, but she sidesteps, walking right past me and muttering, “I’m not that blind.”
Coming to a stop beside her, I voice out, “Jo needs tape for her glasses.”
“You’re awake,” Chelsea smiles. “You’re a heavy sleeper, by the way.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Talks in her sleep, too,” I add, glancing down at her.
“How did you break your glasses?” Chelsea asks.
“Brooks has a hard head.”
“Brooks isn’t the one who’s a spastic sleeper,” I follow up with.
“Well if you weren’t trying to kiss me while I was asleep…”
“I was not about to kiss you.”
“Tape,” Chelsea hollers, appearing in front of us with her hand out to Jo. She takes the roll of tape and moves over to the island counter. Chelsea glares at me. “No kissing my friends.”
Before I can argue my case, she spins away.
My phone chimes from inside my pocket.
Amber: Are you home?
“Problem?” Vic asks, leaning back, arms crossed.
“Nope.”
He laughs. “Amber again, isn’t it?”
I send a quick
glance Jo’s way, for reason unknown. Her head tilts, chin turning slightly toward me. Our eyes meet.
“Yeah,” I reply, cutting off our connection. “Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s at my door waiting even though I never made promises.”
Jo scoffs.
“Don’t feel like you have to leave, Jo,” Chelsea says.
“Thanks, but I’m going to go anyway. I’m supposed to meet Taytum and Nick for breakfast in the morning.”
“Okay. Well, thanks for hanging out with me.”
“Anytime. I mean it.” Jo smiles politely at her. She winds a strip of tape around the center of her glasses one final time before putting them on. “I really fit the stereotype for a nerd, huh.”
Chelsea grins. “I wasn’t going to say it, but since you mentioned it…”
“I think I’ll be canceling breakfast and going to get new glasses instead.”
She faces me, and I can’t help the laugh that slips out. They look ridiculous.
“Ass,” she mumbles as she walks past me.
Vic and Chelsea follow us to the door, waving goodbye.
The outside lights guide us down the walkway from the door to the driveway. I bend down for the bag I left by my car, popping the trunk and throwing it in the back.
“Ugh. Why didn’t anyone tell me about my hair,” Jo gripes, staring at her reflection in the driver side window. Her arms go up to fix the mess atop her head.
Still standing at the back of my car, I glimpse to the right and remember Vic parked behind her when we pulled in earlier.
“Jo,” I start.
“What,” she snaps. Spinning in a half circle, her long blonde hair whips around her, landing in a thick, beautiful mess on her shoulders.
The strands fall below her breasts, golden streaks cascading over the curves. The iridescent glow of the moon puts an angelic appearance around her face.
“Vic’s parked behind you,” I say, frowning when I barely recognize my own voice.
“Oh.”
“I’ll get him.”
“Thank you.” I make it three steps before she calls out, “Brooks.”
“Yeah.” Turning around, I watch her push the glasses up on her nose and it makes me smile.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you.”
“No problem.”
“No, it is. I don’t talk to people like that. Ever. But you…you just…”
“Get under your skin?” I help out.
“Yes,” she sighs. A small smile lifts at the edge of her mouth, enhancing dimples I never noticed before.
Coming around the car, her smile falls as I close the space to where she stands frozen. I stop right in front of her, Jo falling back on the side of her car. Gazing into her eyes I see intrigue and worry. I make her nervous in the best of ways.
Running the back of my finger down her jaw, I say in a low, deep tone, “I like the way you talk to me. It’s refreshing. Don’t ever change it.” Leaning down, I start to place a kiss on her cheek, but at the last second drop my mouth to the curve of her jaw. Slow, with coveting purpose, I press my lips to the skin I’m eager to be under. “Good night, Angel.”
Then I turn away, not looking back. For one, to leave the mystery I hopefully dumped at her feet. But more importantly, I can’t wipe the smile off my face nor the tingles consuming the lips that were touching her delicate flesh.
No one needs to witness what I’m starting to believe is my downfall.
SIX
Jo
I parked my Volvo in a long line of Audis, Porsches, Mercedes’, and Range Rovers. The when and how is still fresh in my mind, but it boggles me that my life coincides with people of a certain status are attending this party.
I walk to the front door, alone, because Nick surprised Taytum with an impromptu weekend getaway. He’s up to something, I have no doubt. Nick is a die-hard hockey fan who was invited to a party with almost all of the players in attendance and turned it down with the excuse of non-refundable deposits. Only one proposal could keep him away from an opportunity like today.
Last weekend Chelsea told me about the housewarming slash team-building slash bribery barbecue she would be hosting. When she and Vic lived in Vancouver, she threw parties all the time. Vic had been with that team since he was eighteen, and alongside the Captain’s wife, she felt like the lead WAG. She was on new ground with this set of wives and girlfriends and wanted to fit right in.
I picked up my phone roughly ten times, ready to cancel, but then reminding myself every time how sweet Chelsea is and how these women needed to recognize that too. She asked for my support. I couldn’t let her down because of my hang-ups.
Zigzagging through the luxury vehicles, I spot a shiny silver sports car.
Heat rises on my face as flashbacks of Brooks’s lips pressing to my skin appears. Remembering the weight of the tension floating in the air as he leaned into me and placed what would have looked to any witnesses like a platonic kiss on the cheek.
How a body could shiver with chills and become warm at the same time meant it was so far beyond platonic we might as well be referring to it as Katie and Jamie’s “friendship.”
The ten-foot front door opened swiftly and Chelsea pulled me through with haste. I was introduced to the women huddled in one area of the house, while the men were somewhere else, their voices carrying from the back.
Now that Chelsea’s home was finished and decorated, I admired the beauty of her interior design skills. The living room was done in whites, creams, beiges, and pops of orange accents. The space felt homey and feminine despite the burly, bearded man living under its roof.
All of the women were talking about Chelsea’s skills. But I started to lose focus when they began asking every question in the book about how and why she chose each piece of furniture or color or finish the way she had.
I’m that only-recognizes-colors-of-the-rainbow type of person. These ladies were asking if her apricot throw pillows also came in smaragdine. As I Googled what the hell smaragdine meant, I nearly choked on my own spit when Chelsea told them what she paid.
Even though I felt completely out of place with these high-class ladies, they were incredibly nice. Chelsea had nothing to worry about, she was fitting right in.
And I was learning a thing or two myself. These women were not just wives or girlfriends to professional athletes. They were exceptional, some raising kids by themselves—essentially, with the guys ridiculous schedules as they were—but they had careers as well, or ran non-profit organizations. They work just as hard as their husbands, but without as much public recognition.
They are a good group of people. But I didn’t fit in, that’s for sure.
I shopped at Target, not Nordstrom. My throw pillows came from TJ Maxx and I’m not even sure they match. The prints are so different I say they’re boho-chic and hope I can get away with it.
No one made me feel out of place, except myself.
I wandered off to the bathroom, did my business, and opened the door to a tiny face marked up like a color-wheel greeting me.
“Can you help me?” He asked in a gentle, sweet voice.
“Sure,” my voice trailed off with skepticism. It’s never a good idea to help a kid out when they have the voice of an angel, but the face—literally—of a prankster.
“I need to wash my face before my moms finds out.”
“Uhh… Okay.”
We both step inside the bathroom. Searching for a washcloth, I find one beneath the sink and soak it in warm water. The little boy, maybe four or five years old, stands still as I scrub the ink off his cheeks, forehead, and hands. It came off remarkably easy, but the rag might be ruined.
“Were you given paper to color on?” Surely someone, a parent no less, wouldn’t give him markers without paper.
“Yep.”
“How did it get all over your face then?”
“Dunno,” he shrugs.
Not my kid. Not for me to worry about.
“Okay, I think yo
u’re good to go.” Standing, I toss the cloth into a wastebasket.
“You won’t tell my mom right?” he asks with big brown eyes.
“I don’t even know which one is your mom, so no.”
“Sweet. Can you help me with one more thing?”
Do I really have to?
“I guess so.”
He grabs ahold of my hand with the tiny fingers of his, pulls me down the hall and into another downstairs room. I trip over my own feet when I witness the scene inside.
For starters, it’s filled with children. Ten kids, to be exact. Ranging between the ages of three to ten if I had to guess. More than that is the mess.
Chelsea kept with the theme of creams in this room too. And, well, let’s just say, smaragdine, apricot, and all the other fancy words for traditional rainbow colors covered every surface. The couch, tables, walls, and curtains. My head fell back, chin going up when a bright blue streak caught my eyesight.
How the hell did they get it on the ceiling?
“Oh. My. God,” I breathed out slow and easy.
“I brought help!” The little fiend next to me calls out.
Ten pairs of eyes face the entrance to the room.
“How…What did you…How?” I gasp.
“You promised not to tell our parents,” he says with boldness.
“I promised not to tell your mom. Therefore, I can tell any other person.” Pleading eyes, from every. Single. Kid. Weighs down on me with the pressure of a hydraulic press. Sighing, I say, “I don’t even know where to begin with this. I have to get a grownup.”
“You are a grownup,” a little girl points out.
“A parent. They have to have some kind of trick to getting marker stains out.” I could wipe the walls with a cloth as I did with the kid’s face, but the couch? The curtains??
Wasn’t it like some rule of thumb not to give markers to children unsupervised?
“Can you please try first?” The little guy next to me pulls on my hand. “If we can’t fix it then tell our parents.”
I don’t even know these kids, but I can already feel myself caving.
“Fine. I’m going to see if I can find something to clean with. All of you stay here,” I point a stern finger at each of them. They nod like a dashboard full of bobbleheads. “And please, for the love of God, cap your markers.”