by Lane, Stacy
I backtrack down the hall to the bathroom. Hopefully, Chelsea keeps some cleaning supplies under the sink, otherwise, wet towels will have to do. If Chelsea put those kids in a room alone with markers, then she had to expect something like this to happen. Maybe not in this extremity, but aren’t kids like a reverse Midas anyway? Everything they touch breaks and gets ruined.
Their moms and dads are going to find out regardless. There was way too many marker tracks to hide all of it, but the least I could do is make it appear to be less of a disaster zone and shorten their punishment sentence by a week or two.
When did I grow a soft spot for kids?
The bathroom door is closed as I approach. My steps slow, trying to think where the other downstairs bathroom is located. I’ve come over a couple times, but this has been the only bathroom I’ve used.
I turn heel right as the door opens.
“Hey there, Angel.”
Oh, perfect.
Oh! Perfect!
I don’t waste time contemplating what his pet name does to my senses. Spinning around, I grab Brooks’s hand the same way the little boy took mine in this same spot, and drag him to the playroom of death. “I need your help.”
“What’s going on?”
Two lines appear between his brows when I look over my shoulder and say, “You’ll see.”
One more turn here and then…
“Ohhhhhhh shiiiiiiit.” Brooks’s eyes pop as he takes in the mess.
“You said you weren’t going to tell!” An older boy hisses.
I stare at the kid with dark hair, and then I look at Brooks. “You have a kid?”
“Hell no,” he replies with horror.
“He’s no ones dad, right?” All the heads start shaking no. “Then I kept my word and didn’t tell a parent. And you need all the help you can get.”
“No. Nuh-uh.” Brooks copies the children, shaking his head no. “I am not getting involved. Chelsea’s going to freak the fuck out.”
“Stop cussing in front of them,” I whisper yell at him. “I’m not expecting to work a miracle here, but help me help them clean up some of it.”
“You’d be better off setting fire to the damn room and telling her it was an accident,” he whispers back.
“Yeah, because kids and a fire is much safer,” I reply with sarcasm.
Brooks grumbles as he pulls his cell phone from his pocket.
“Who are you calling?”
“My mom.”
“Seriously, Brooks,” I ground out, eyes narrowing.
“She raised three boys,” he says with explanation enough. Phone to his ear he says a short time later, “Mom, how do I get marker stains out of…everything? Washable markers?” he repeats as a question to me. When I shrug my shoulders, he licks his thumb and runs it over the closest scribble on the wall next to him. After a vigorous up and down motion, nothing happens. “I’m gonna say no.”
A minute later he ends the call.
“White vinegar mixed with dish soap, or rubbing alcohol,” he tells me.
“I was on my way to the bathroom to see what’s under the sink when I found you. I’ll be right back.”
Brooks desperately reaches for my arm, pleading under his breath. “Don’t leave me here with them.”
“You fight men your own size for the fun of it. You can handle a few little kids.”
Back to the bathroom for the third time, I grabbed towels, washcloths, the alcohol, and a non-labeled spray bottle. Chelsea’s going to need to add new towels to her list of replacements after this party.
Returning to the playroom, I hand out a few wet washcloths to the bigger kids and instruct them to start cleaning themselves and the smaller children. Brooks gathers up all of the markers while I attack the walls.
Using the spray bottle, I then wipe down the round table in front of the curtains. I don’t know if it’s the cleaner or because the surface is glass, but the streaks come right up.
Brooks is taking some alcohol to the coffee table when a giant gasp sounds from the entrance of the room.
Thirteen heads turn toward an alarmed-looking Chelsea.
My stomach drops at the stricken appearance on her face. She worked so hard decorating this entire house.
“This was all them,” Brooks points an accusing finger around the room. “The little people, just so we’re clear.”
I twist to glare at the side of his face. He feels me staring, but shrugs without apology.
“Foods ready,” Chelsea says on a soft, emotionless release.
For some asinine reason, the kids glance back at me for permission to leave.
They stampede out of here, leaving the three of us to examine the room in silence.
“Seems I have a lot to learn if I want my own kids,” she smiles, the edges falling when she spots the mark on the ceiling. “More than a lot.”
“Go back to your party. I’ll stay in here and keep cleaning.” There’s no way I’m letting her fix this on her own.
“Absolutely not. You’re my guest, Jo. This…” She peers around, scratching at her throat. “This can wait. Um, don’t tell Vic, okay? Please.”
We nod in agreement. Chelsea returns to the party, leaving Brooks and I alone.
Gathering up towels and washcloths, I say, “Thank you for helping.”
“More like being your partner in crime,” he smirks.
A short-lived laugh bubbles up.
Brooks’s smile is dangerous. Straight, white teeth contrast with the dark beard. I thought his hair was black, but being this close to him, standing in a room drenched in sunlight, I can see it’s a rich, dark brunette. The thick beard covering the lower half of his face is kept trimmed short. I probably couldn’t grip enough to tug on if I tried.
Wearing a red shirt with khaki docker shorts, every stitch hugs the hard planes of muscle around his shoulders, arms, and chest, only sagging in the slightest around his stomach. No man I’ve met has ever caused an intense reaction by sight alone the way looking upon Brooks does.
I fight the urge to gnaw at my lip. My mouth waters like a salivating harlot. All thoughts merge to one idea: I want to get him naked.
He carries an invisible quality that tremors the air and draws me in. I lose focus, restraint. The fear of this new realization is all that brings me back.
Brooks is a professional athlete, a celebrity. The vibe he radiates is fascination. The average, everyday person doesn’t have run-ins with men that look the way he does. Do you think the actors of Hollywood would be as appealing or super fit with lickable abs if they knew they could get their roles without them? No. All the Chrises would have softer, lickable Dad bod’s.
“I’m, ah, going to see if Chelsea needs a hand with the food,” I mumble, stepping around Brooks and heading for the door.
“Jo.”
I stop, turning sideways to face him.
“You’re not wearing glasses.” His eyes scan mine, bouncing side to side.
“Yeah, I had to order a new pair.” My hand raises to my face on reflex.
“Run into any tables yet?” he asks with a smile.
“Popped in my old contacts, so the tables are safe. Those fancy cars outside are another story.” I smile in return, walking out of the room and leaving him and his lickable everything behind.
SEVEN
Brooks
Twenty-five days. Such a great number, twenty-five. It’s the age I was when I first moved to Florida. It’s the number I was given at nineteen years old, signing with my first professional team. That number has followed me ever since.
Today, I’m hating that fucking number. Because today marks twenty-five days since I’ve last had sex.
Three weeks and four days.
I’m not some satyriasis who needs to get it in every single day, but I never lacked company when I wanted it either. Which is precisely the problem. I’m not lacking in company.
Amber, among others, are available. All I need to do is call.
Last wee
kend, after our game in Sunrise, I chalked up my disregard to Amber’s request to not being in the mood for her company. Plain and simple. The week went on with all games being at home, and still, I cared nothing for a random hook up.
Not until a blonde haired beauty arrived at Vic and Chelsea’s barbecue wearing tiny shorts, Converse, and a retro AC/DC shirt hanging off one shoulder. All of sudden, I felt the hunger that’s been missing. Or not missing, since my desires have remained strong and present. My appetite, however, only wants one specific person.
The need to live out the reoccurring fantasy of wrapping Jo’s blonde ponytail around my fist, exposing her long neck to my mouth while she rides me from above was a powerful SOB.
That would never be happening, unfortunately.
I respected and held loyalties to my teammates, and Chelsea’s a part of that crew as well. She asked me to stay away right at the beginning. Weeks later and Jo seems to be a permanent fixture in Chelsea’s life. I can’t screw her friend.
Didn’t mean I would stop flirting with her. And rattling her feathers. I “got under her skin” and was having a great time with it even if it wasn’t the kind of underneath position I preferred.
Jo stepped into the kitchen, empty plate in hand as she discarded the styrofoam in the trash.
The men had gathered in here from the beginning of the party, food covered the island and beer stacked on the shelves of the refrigerator, after all. A handful of us remained. The unattached men. Chelsea made it mandatory we not bring a plus one. She didn’t approve of our choice in “dates.” Most of the other guys were in the backyard with Vic, entertaining the kids. A hopeless cause. Those ornery brats could destroy something virtually indestructible.
My eyes tracked Jo’s every move. And I wasn’t the only one.
“What’s the deal with Chelsea’s new friend? She single?” Marc Laurent asked in a tone a notch above a whisper.
Their kitchen was long, the back wall consisting of tall, floor to ceiling sliding glass doors that opened onto the patio.
“She’s a little plain for you,” Claude makes the comment.
“And shy,” Eddie adds.
“The quiet ones are great in bed, eh?” Marc wags his brows up and down.
Jaw tensing, I keep silent and take a drink of my beer.
Jo is nowhere near plain. Far from the usual I go for—curvy, busty, and thick—but she’s stunning in her own way.
Are these guys looking at the same legs I’m gazing upon with greed? They just go on and on and on like a lithe dancers body. Her shorts hug slim thighs with a set of hips I would still happily grab ahold of, and cups a gorgeous ass. And that shoulder peeking out one side of the wide neckline is ripe as an apple, waiting for a bite.
Laurent leaves our pack, walking up to Jo with a cocky swagger that’s given him a perfect record with the ladies for a reason. He smiles at her, she shakes his hand, he leans forward with a flirty comment, and she smiles wide enough to bring out the dimples I’ve only witnessed once.
Like a masochist, I watch my teammate lay it on thick with the woman occupying my every dirty thought. Maybe this way I’ll rid my imagination of her and I doing anything involving me inside her, those legs-for-days wrapped tightly around me, or fisting that golden fine hair. Nothing turns me off more than a woman who’s already been with one of my teammates.
So I wait. I burn holes in the sides of their heads, waiting for Laurent to close the deal.
Jo slides her phone out of her back pocket. Teeth grinding, I assume she’s taking his number. Until she gasps, mouth falling open from whatever she reads on the screen.
“Excuse me, Marc, I have to make a call,” Jo states, not bothering to look at him as she pats his forearm and walks off.
Mine and three other heads turn to follow her out of the room.
Claude bursts into laughter.
“She just blew you off,” Eddie says with curiosity.
Turning away from the guys, the counter presses into my lower back as I lean and stare at the doorway Jo ran through.
“Her name is Jo, and she did not blow me off.” Marc goes on the defensive, hating to lose. “It’s just a phone call. I’ll get another chance to corner her before the party is over.”
“Jo,” Claude tests the name on his tongue. “A chick with a dude’s name. I like it.”
“Well, I liked it first, so back the fuck off,” Marc follows up.
The hell he did.
“Where’re you going, Labelle?” Eddie asks from behind.
“Gotta piss,” I toss back, without looking over my shoulder, and follow the same path Jo took. As soon as I exit the kitchen I nearly run into Chelsea. She’s barely on sturdy ground when I throw a question at her. “Did you see where Jo went?”
“She stepped outside,” she replies.
“Out the front?”
“Yes. Why?” Chelsea’s tone drops.
“Nothing. Gonna check on her. Seemed like something happened.”
“Are you guys hitting on her? Because I’m going to kill every one of you if she runs away scared. Jo doesn’t like socializing in crowds as it is.”
“Kinda your fault for inviting one single female with a bunch of bachelors in attendance.” Grinning, I leave Chelsea behind without another word.
Between the long double parked rows of vehicles, I find Jo near the end, sitting on the trunk of her car with her cell phone pressed to her ear. Not wanting to intrude on her phone call, I slow my pace.
Her smooth skin is flushed from the cloudless sky, under the beating sun. A breeze passes through, picking up her ponytail and whipping the strands over her bare shoulder.
Just as last weekend—except it’s missing her irritated, hot expression that turned to face me—those gorgeous golden locks kiss her skin, killing me with envy to be a part of the wind.
Approaching from behind, I’m a couple feet away when she ends her call and starts to slide off the back of her car.
“Hope everything’s all right,” I call out as Jo’s mid-air in a short jump to the ground.
“Ahhh!” Glancing behind as she’s jostled by an unexpected guest while hopping off her car, doesn’t end well. Jo loses balance. The one-foot drop turns into all five feet of her going down.
One second she’s turned partly my way, the next she’s gone from sight as she crumbles to the ground.
“Shit,” I mutter, dashing around her car and finding her palms down on the concrete drive.
Jo releases a heavy exhale, the tiniest of whimpers accompanying the sound as she peels her hands off the gravel. “Ow.”
“I’m so sorry I scared you. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me see your hands.” Reaching for her wrists as she twists to sit on her bottom, I turn the palms up toward me as I kneel over her. “No cuts here, but your knees are scraped up.”
Jo let’s go a noise that is half growl half groan as she hesitates to peer down at the blood passing through torn skin in a sluggish flow.
In the spot she fell, I retrieve the forgotten phone, finding a shattered screen. “Guess I really owe you a new phone this time.”
“It was an accident. Don’t worry about it, Brooks.”
“My accident. I’ll get you a new one.”
“I don’t need a new one. It’s just the screen.” Her wincing flees momentarily to bring back the sass.
“Then I’ll pay to have the screen fixed.”
Jo glares at me with fatigued frustration. “I know a guy who repairs them. But if you keep making a habit of sneaking up on me, I will start charging you.”
“Fine,” I smile.
“Why’d you follow me, anyway?” She asks, swiping away small pieces of rubble from her shins.
When did I wrap my hands beneath her knees?
Dropping my hands from the silky backside of her legs, I sit back on my haunches.
“Just checking on you,” I say, roughening up my voice with intention. Jo doesn’t need to know ju
st how eager I was to follow her out here. “Seemed liked something was wrong with the way you walked out.”
“Nothing wrong. Good news, actually.”
“Oh.” I nod. “Glad to hear that, then.”
“I’d show you, but someone shattered my phone.” She smiles with pure beauty and fire. The exact kind of angel I’d like to meet. As my lips turn up to match her grin, she says, “My best friend is engaged. Chelsea invited them today, but when Nick chose to go on their little getaway instead, I knew it had to be for a good reason.”
“Congratulations to them,” I reply.
“Thanks. They’ll flip when they hear Brooks Labelle sends his best.”
“Is this the same couple from the bar?”
Jo nods. “Taytum and Nick.”
What is kind and proper would be to get her cuts cleaned up.
But I’m neither of those qualities when I have my sights set on another objective.
Thankfully, my brother is not here to witness me fishing again. Cam would never let go of what I’m about to say.
Jo stretches one leg out, wincing.
“Knew it had to be pretty important for a woman to walk away from Marc,” I say with what I believe to be cleverness.
“Who?” Jo’s eyebrows crease with real confusion.
“Marc Laurent. My teammate you were talking to.” Like an eagle searching for prey, I’m watching every little twinge in her face to tell me something. Maybe a hint of a smile to indicate how into my teammate she is, or a frown because she’s disgusted by his blonde hair, blue eyes, chiseled, stupid face.
“Oh. Marc. Right.” She raises her chin, shrugging one shoulder.
Most definitely not an eagle in another life. No fucking clue what her shrug could mean.
“He can come on a little strong,” I add, hoping it will push her to say more.
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“He’s not your type either, I take it.”
“Mm. Your Dad will be happy to hear it’s not just his sons.” Her teasing, snarky comeback catches on.