He hooked his arm through mine and my heels sank into the plush carpet as we made our way toward the sounds of the party below. “You made it impossible not to.”
I quirked my eyebrow. “That was the point. If I had to suffer, then so did you.”
My confession earned me a growl as he dragged me to a stop. Now I was the one pressed up against the silk wallpaper my mother had hand-selected from Italy. He leaned close to me, his lips at my ear even though the music below was so loud no one down there could possibly hear us. “Jesus, Emerson, you think I wasn’t suffering enough already? Now on top of everything else I’ll be stiff for a week thanks to your performance.”
Tipping my head up, I let my cheek graze his freshly shaven jaw. I inhaled his scent, musk and soap, and even this far from home, the Pacific. When my hand reached up to rest on his biceps, his muscles flexed beneath his starched shirt. “I won’t apologize for making you uncomfortable.”
His breath came out in a steamy rush against my cheek and I felt him grin, the corner of his lips almost . . . so very nearly, touching mine. “I never said you should be sorry.”
I would’ve given anything to bag this whole party thing and camp out right here in the hallway for the night, just Lucas and me, with the music and his fragrance and the warmth of his breath as our backdrop. But it was impossible, and if we stood here much longer, we might never make it downstairs.
“Good.” I pushed away from him. “Because regrets are for sissies. And from what I hear, there’s no room left on your sissy card.” I meant it to come out casual, like the thick-skinned Emerson I’d always been, but my voice hitched.
If Lucas heard the tremor, he let it slide. He was laughing as he trailed after me. “In my defense, I’m pretty sure your brothers wanted me carried out on a stretcher.”
I gave him an exaggerated eye roll over my shoulder as we descended the stairs. “Pssh. If they’d wanted you to leave on a stretcher, you’d be hooked up to an IV right now instead of making me late for my own daddy’s party,” I accused. I didn’t tell him he was right. It wasn’t in my brothers’ nature to take it easy on anyone. They’d given him a beatdown out on that field, and the fact he’d walked away relatively unscathed, with only some mild bruising and muscle aches, spoke volumes about Lucas. He was tough and, no matter what they said, they’d seen it too.
That wouldn’t stop them from giving him a ration of shit every chance they got.
Downstairs, the party was everything I would have expected for a sixtieth birthday bash for Electric Earl McLean—lavish, loud, and packed to the gills with sports legends and local celebrities.
But it was my brothers who greeted us as Lucas and I finally made our appearance. They were eager to start Round Two of Lucas’s hazing into the McLean family. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that Lucas and I weren’t like that . . . no matter how badly he and I might want to jump each other’s bones.
“Shots!” Drew shouted the moment he laid eyes on us, and from out of nowhere a tray of small liquor-filled glasses appeared.
Apparently, this part of their induction involved tequila, because my idiot brothers had the notion they could drink Lucas under the table.
But unlike football, Lucas had this. I’d seen him drink. The first place Lucas had ever taken me was our favorite beachside bar, The Dunes. He might not be a heavyweight on the field, but I almost felt sorry for my brothers in this event.
Seth crowed, “Salud,” before throwing back his first shot, and then followed it with a wince, a slice of lime that he sucked between his teeth, and then a second shot.
As each of the guys took their turns, Lucas cast me a wry grin. He stopped short of giving me a we got this wink, like he and I were in on some scheme to bring the McLean brothers to their knees.
I stuck to champagne, not because I was a champagne kind of girl—I wasn’t, I preferred Fireball or Mac & Jack’s—but because champagne was safe. Or rather, safer than the game these idiots were playing.
I was still taking delicate sips of my first fizzy glass, when the boys were on their fourth round of shots. That’s when Drew flopped his arm across Lucas’s shoulders and sloppily leaned in to admit, “‘Yer not so bad. Em usually has t’rrible taste in guys.” He hadn’t gone full-slur yet, but he was definitely on the verge.
I reached for Lucas, shooting Drew a warning look. Then I scowled at all my brothers. They didn’t need to be discussing my taste, terrible or otherwise.
It was time to take matters into my own hands, to separate these guys before things got a little too chummy. “Maybe we should take a breather,” I told Lucas. “Make the rounds and say hello.”
But Lucas was grinning like the king of the idiots. “I don’t know. Maybe we should stay . . . hear what they have to say.”
Brock never did know when to mind his business, and he jumped in on Lucas’s side. “Yeah, Sis, maybe he likes hangin’ here wi’ us. Maybe he likes our comp’ny better’n . . .” He hiccupped, then made an oh shit face like he was trying to swallow back a mouthful of something no one wanted to see. I suddenly wondered how much my brothers had had to drink before we got here. After a moment, and a couple more hard swallows, my youngest brother recovered, and his eyebrows shot up to let us know he was a-okay before finishing. “ . . . yers.”
I gave him a disgusted look, because really, that was gross. “Or maybe . . . ,” I suggested, directing a meaningful look at Lucas, “you and I should find something else to talk about.”
“Uh-oh,” Tony said. “Sounds like Mommy likes to keep you on a short leash.”
Lucas’s mouth started to pull into a wide grin and I could see where his mind was headed.
I shook my head decisively, making my position clear. No leashes, I mouthed so my brothers couldn’t hear. He gave me a dejected frown and I reached for his hand so I could drag him away.
“Whipped,” Tony called after us.
“Grow up,” I yelled back.
Before we could escape to someplace quiet, we had to make an actual appearance at the party. As guest of honor, my dad took his opportunity to announce that his daughter had flown “all the way from California!” just to be there for his special day. As if I hadn’t just come home after graduation for the big bash they’d thrown for me. As if I didn’t come home every year for his birthday.
But bragging was what he did best, so I let him have his moment. He bragged about what a good daughter I was as he introduced me to those I didn’t already know, while I introduced Lucas to . . . everyone. After a while, faces started to blur together—my parents’ friends, our neighbors, my cousins, my dad’s former teammates, guys my brothers had grown up with, and people who worked at my dad’s dealerships. Even the mayor of our small Dallas suburb had shown up.
After our disastrous afternoon together, I half expected my mom to give me the cold shoulder tonight. But I should’ve known better. Parties brought out the best in her. Where my dad definitely thrived on attention, my mom lived for a good party. And this, a blowout she could take full credit for pulling together, had apparently given her a case of amnesia when it came to our squabble downtown that afternoon.
She embraced me, planting sloppy, wine-soaked kisses on my cheeks and acting like we’d just spent the perfect girls’ day together.
Typical. Sweeping everything under the rug. Pretending nothing had gone wrong. Why would I expect her to deal with my feelings any differently than anything else in her life?
I bristled, but let her introduce Lucas to the gaggle of middle-aged women surrounding her, the same women she talked about behind their backs while professing to be besties to their faces. Just like everyone else, they assumed Lucas and I were a couple and I’d given up correcting the mix-up. Especially since, at some point during the rounds, Lucas had found my hand and laced his fingers through mine.
Maybe it was the four tequila shots from my idiot brothers. Or maybe my striptease had done the trick. Either way, having him by my side made the night a million t
imes more tolerable. Not because I wanted him to be my boyfriend, although . . . sort of. But because it made me feel less alone while facing this sea of people who were ready to make a full report on how Electric Earl’s daughter was a dating disaster.
This was the part I’d never understood about my father’s love of fame—his need to feed the gossipmongers of the Dallas elite. To show off his perfect life.
This party, packed to the gills with half-strangers, all invited to celebrate the life and times of Electric Earl McLean . . . this was the ultimate ego stroke for him.
“Come on. Let me show you something.” I tugged Lucas’s hand as we wove away from the crowd, our shoes pat-pat-patting on the soft pile of carpet of the hallway. The lights had been dimmed to make it clear this was an off-limits area.
Lucas took the hint to heart. “Are you sure we’re supposed to be back here?”
I gave him a sideways look. “You know this is my house, right?”
His fingers were warm and strong, and I could feel his pulse against my palm. “Good point.”
At the end of the hall, I opened a door and held it for him, letting him go first.
His eyes widened as he took a step inside. “What is this place?”
“My dad calls it his den.” I shook my head, the trace of a smirk on my lips. “But we call it . . . The Shrine.”
And that’s exactly what it was.
Most families displayed their kids’ trophies and school photos, but not ours. We had this: an entire room, practically an entire wing of our house, dedicated to one man—Electric Earl himself.
The walls were an homage to a lifetime of achievements. If you stood here long enough, you could find the pattern, trace my dad’s career all the way back to his high school days, back to when he was still just plain old Earl, before he’d even been scouted. There were shadow boxes filled with medals, various framed magazine covers, his treasured Wheaties box, shelves crammed with trophies and awards. There was a photo of him with the President, and others of his induction into the Football Hall of Fame. And the one he prized above them all, the time he met The Champ himself: Muhammad Ali.
But no matter where you looked, you saw my dad’s face. The Shrine.
I’d nearly forgotten Lucas was still holding my hand until he let go of it, lost in thought as his eyes swept the room. He moved to examine a series of images taken the last time my dad had gone to the Pro Bowl. “My brother always wanted to play football,” he said. I made a fist, trying to fill the absence where his fingers had just been. “He did when he was younger, before kids started taking it so seriously and there was too much contact,” he explained. “Before he started getting too sick. After that, he couldn’t anymore. Our mother wouldn’t let him.”
It should feel strange, talking about his brother when we’d just been surrounded by mine, but that was the thing about Lucas, he never made me feel bad for digging into this part of his life. “What about your father? You never mention him.”
“He—” He hesitated, and I wondered if I’d hit a nerve. If this time he’d clam up and stop answering my questions. Then he went on with a shrug. “He wanted Adam to live a normal life. As normal as possible. Wanted him to play ball with the other boys, even if it meant getting hurt. He thought it was better to live a good short life than a longer, sheltered one. He and my mother . . . disagreed. On that, and a lot of things.”
I tried to imagine going against a woman as formidable as his mother. “So they’re divorced?”
“Actually, no.” I must’ve looked dumbfounded when he met my gaze. “Don’t look so surprised. I didn’t say they were together, either. My father moved out years ago. They just never made it official. Who knows, maybe they never will.” He gave me a wry look. “Knowing my mother, she probably won’t let him.”
I laughed. That sounded about right.
I reached for his hand again, even though there were no witnesses to our charade. No reason to pretend to be his girlfriend.
He didn’t stop me.
And then, I probably did the last thing he expected, I leaned over and licked him. Right on the cheek.
His eyes widened, and then he let out a gusty laugh. And after a second, an even louder one. “I know what you’re doing,” he said. “You can just ask.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, suddenly embarrassed and trying to decide if I’d already gotten my answer. “Okay. So . . . what about you?” I squeezed his fingers tightly. “I’ve read up on it, cystic fibrosis. If your brother had it, doesn’t that mean both your parents were carriers?”
“And you were doing the ‘sweat test’ to see if I have it too?”
“I read that people with CF can have abnormally salty skin. “
His expression was thoughtful and lazy, a non-answer. “So you decided to find out.” My stomach clenched. I’d tasted Lucas hundreds of times before, but would I even be able to tell? He just tasted like . . . Lucas.
I was terrified of what he might tell me.
Please don’t let him have it. Not Lucas.
Then he nudged me, slowly showing me the signature grin I’d fallen for, the one that still made my knees weak. “I don’t have it.”
I let out a shaky breath. “You’re sure? Like one hundred percent?”
He reached out to stroke my cheek and a different kind of electricity bolted through me. “Positive. Turns out, genetic testing is pretty good these days. But I prefer your way. You can lick me all you want.” His eyes fell to my lips and just like that I wanted to lick him again, but not as Dr. Emerson. “I like that you cared,” he said huskily. “Maybe you were even a little worried?”
Damn, he was hotter’n Hades. I swore the temperature had just jumped twenty degrees. His gaze was skimming back and forth between my eyes and my lips. When his thumb reached out to prod my chin up, I knew he was planning to kiss me and I stepped into it. Into him.
This was happening.
This. Us.
Now.
At first, I thought the rumbling was coming from inside my own head . . . the blood boiling behind my ears . . . my heart trying to beat a hole through my chest. But then the door busted open, and my dad and Bitsy spilled inside, a snarl of limbs and voices as they tumbleweeded together, laughing and talking and bumping and brushing, until it was hard to tell where one of them stopped and the other began.
Bitsy was the first to realize they weren’t alone in The Shrine, her eyes going wide with surprise and her drink nearly sloshing over the sides of the glass as she jerked to a halt. “Sorry.” Her expression was comical as she tried to drag herself away from my dad now, clearing her throat as she took a less home wrecker-y stance. “We didn’t realize anyone was in here.”
There was this awkward moment where none of us moved. Where we all just stood there, trying to sort out whose clusterfuck was worse. In my dad’s eyes, I’m sure I was the one who should have been busted. He’d just found his one and only daughter in what he surely considered a compromising position . . . in his sacred shrine, no less.
But to me . . . well, I’d just caught my dad sneaking away from his big night with a woman who most definitely was not his wife.
Lucas was maybe the only one who had nothing to feel conscience-stricken over.
I wanted to choke him out when he ended the standoff with, “So Muhammad Ali, huh?”
Seriously? That was the best he could come up with?
Bitsy actually responded first and with a straight-faced, “He was a lovely man. Gracious.”
Bitsy . . . my dad’s not-wife.
But she stood beside my dad, as poised and—much as I hated to admit it—put together as ever. She wasn’t over-Botoxed the way Lucas’s mother was. Or even the normal-amount-of-middle-aged-woman Botoxed, like my mom and my aunt Leigh. Bitsy wore every line on her face like armor, and managed to pull it off effortlessly. Wearing her age with grace.
She might not look like the pit bull my dad claimed she was, but this wasn’t a woman cut out for the leisure
ly life of spas and tennis courts.
Maybe I’d forgotten that about her. Or maybe I’d just had selective memory when it came to Bitsy, because it hadn’t been that long since I’d seen her. I’d gone out of my way to avoid her at my graduation party, but she’d been there.
Because that was the thing, Bitsy was always here. She wasn’t just my dad’s manager—she was part of the family. That’s how I’d been raised. Bitsy was a fixture, as much as my mom’s own sister, my aunt Leigh.
And I’d been okay with that . . . when I was a kid. But Bitsy wasn’t my aunt. She was the woman who’d destroyed my faith in relationships.
Still, even now, standing here in my father’s study, in the same house as my mother, and knowing we were all aware of their indiscretion, she looked as cool as ever.
She still looked like she . . . belonged.
Maybe that’s what made her such a good sports manager, her ability not to let anything rile her.
I didn’t have that gift. As Grann used to say, I was so contrary I’d float upstream.
This was my chance, I could finally tell Bitsy to go to hell. Tell them both how I felt about what they’ve done. “You . . . ,” I stammered.
Over Bitsy’s shoulder, I saw my dad’s jaw start to work, and the idea that he was about to intervene on her behalf was almost too much for me to stand. How could he choose her—his mistress—over me—his own daughter? My resolve crumbled. “I—” Say it. “I . . . gotta go.”
Without thinking, I bolted for the door. I forgot all about Lucas, and the fact I’d just abandoned him. I forgot all about the moment my dad and Bitsy had just spoiled, and what that might have meant to the whole “just friends” thing between Lucas and me.
Nothing. The word echoed through my head as I shoved my way through the doors outside, the only way I could avoid most of the partygoers. It probably meant nothing.
Because there was no such thing as happily ever afters.
LUCAS
What the fuck?
No, really. What the actual fuck had just happened back there?
Unbound (The Men of West Beach Book 2) Page 12