There once was a man so hick,
That he thought his leg was his dick.
So he swung it this and that way,
Everywhere, every day,
Proud when people said, ‘Look at that prick!’
So I decide interrupting him is all right and a fair shot at annoying him some more. “Incoming,” I shout.
As I round the last row of trees, Bobby’s poised with his guitar on his lap, leaning back against a tree. He’s got half a smile on his face, shaking his head. “Incoming? You dropping bombs? There are easier ways to fertilize the trees, you know.”
“Maybe,” I deadpan. “Though I wanted to be sure you weren’t serenading a friend. A naked one.”
I look around pointedly, seeing that he’s definitely alone, as usual. He’s a hard worker, not much for screwing around with his life, with his music, or with girls. “Want me to sing for ya again? Give you a little inspiration? I could be your muse.” I frame my face with my hands like I’m posing for a picture, mean mugging the whole time.
“Fuck no, asshole! I had to listen to two solid hours of Hank Williams and Johnny Cash after the other day to get my balls back where they belong. I don’t think I’ve ever cringed that hard.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, choosing to take it as a compliment. More seriously, I ask, “Song still giving you a hard time?”
He picks at a couple of strings, finding the melody he’s been playing on repeat for weeks. “Yeah, it’ll get there, though. Sometimes, the hardest ones are the best ones.”
I can’t help it. He’s being all profound, but c’mon, I can’t skip a soft ball like that. “That’s what she said.”
“Dipshit,” he says, kicking at my shins but grinning. “You know what I mean.”
I nod, sitting down beside him in the shade. “You’ll get it. You always do. Just let it marinate like Shayanne’s roast.”
It’s a bit of a running joke in our family. When Shayanne has shit she wants to do that doesn’t involve cooking us fuckers dinner, she throws a roast in the crockpot and calls it a day. She used to think she was being tricky, like we’d be fooled by the aroma of cooking meat, but we all knew that a roast meant she’d been up to something, usually something sketchy. It’s become a bit of a euphemism to not work too hard on one thing and to let yourself branch out a bit.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the strums of Bobby’s playing. He gets into a loop and pauses. “What’s up?” he says, his fingers working chords on the neck of his guitar but his other hand resting on the body of the instrument.
I scoot down, laying against the tree more than leaning, and pull the brim of my cap down low so he can’t see my eyes. “Nothing.”
Drop it, I silently order.
But he does no such thing, making that annoying noise like I gave the wrong answer on a game show. “Ehnnt, try again. What’s up?”
I stay silent, stewing in my head, and he doesn’t push anymore. His patience is one of his strongest traits, and I know he’ll wait me out with ease. One of his greatest weaknesses, though, is his big mouth. Boy can’t keep a secret for a hot minute.
As I mull that over, I decide that maybe that can be an advantage this time. Brody and Shay are going to find out about Allyson being back, but I don’t want to have this conversation three separate times. If I tell Bobby, I can probably get away with one telling and then a few grunts to Brody and Shay. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.
I sigh, pretending like I’m put out by his fussing even though he’s just looking at me. “Allyson’s back. Her kid’s on the football team I’m helping coach. It’s weird.”
Boom. Mic drop. Full story and no drama on my part. I should win a damn award.
Bobby sits up, delicately putting Betty the Guitar in her case before turning to me and punching me in the bicep. “What the fuck? Lead with that next time!”
I push him over and we tussle a bit. We should’ve probably outgrown this by now, but somehow, we never did. I’ve had more bruised ribs from roughhousing with my brothers than from fighting anyone else. Well, except for being on the football field.
After a few go’s, we push off each other and settle. It felt good to get that out, and I tell him so. “Thanks. I think I needed that.”
He lifts his chin in recognition but doesn’t leave it alone. “Good. Now spill.”
“That’s it,” I admit with a single lift of a shoulder. “She was at practice. It was weird. She didn’t know I was ‘still in Great Falls’, I guess.” I do the finger quote thing around the words because I don’t believe one single second that she thought I’d magically up and moved away.
“More,” Bobby demands hungrily like a damn gossipy woman talking behind her program after church on Sunday. “What’s she look like? She married? Her kid a demon spawn from hell?”
I press my lips together but tell him anyway. “She looked . . . good. Still blonde and blue-eyed and beautiful. She had on denim shorts and a tank top, and her tits looked like fucking peaches.” I glance up at the tree above us, thinking the fruits don’t do justice to Allyson’s rack. “No wedding ring, but she did have on other jewelry. Not sure if that means she’s single or if I give a fuck. Cooper’s a good kid. Mouthy as hell, but good.”
I can tell he’s weighing all that, considering his next words. “You thinking ‘bout hitting that again?”
He doesn’t mean fucking her, or at least not just fucking her. Once upon a time, Allyson Meyers was my drug of choice. I became a willing addict and loved every second lost in her until she took it all away. I crashed . . . hard. Bobby was the one to pick up the pieces and put Humpty Dumpty back together again.
I lick my lips. “I don’t think I can. I’m not strong enough for another round with her. She’d cut me to pieces. Hell, I’d carve out my own heart and hand it to her on a silver platter.”
Bobby’s the only person I’d be this frank with because while he’ll share the basics with anyone and everyone, he keeps the emotional shit to himself. I’d do the same for him.
“And you know she’d say thank you like the well-mannered girl her momma taught her to be and then throw my heart in the trash. Or run over it with her car.”
Bobby snorts. “Roadkill. Good imagery, and pretty accurate for back then. You were gone, man. For a long while.”
He doesn’t say it aloud, but we’re both thinking it. Some people were happy about it, because it was my senior year that I really earned the nickname Brutal . . . and I sent a lot of kids home sore. A few I even sent to the hospital. I shared my pain with the world in the only way I knew how.
Right when I started to get my feet back under me, finishing high school and going to State myself to play ball, was when everything went to shit again. And that time, it was so much worse. That was when Mom died and I’d come home for good, taking to the fields of our farm and never stepping foot on a football field again.
“You still mad at her?” he says quietly.
At first, I think he’s talking about Mom. I think we were all a little mad at Mom for leaving, even though she damn sure didn’t want to. She fought tooth and nail, cussed every cancer cell to hell, but it still won and took her from us. But I realize he’s staying on topic and means Allyson.
Am I mad at her?
“Maybe a little,” I concede. “Angry, sad, hurt, and a whole host of other emotions all tied up in a messy knot.”
“What are you gonna do then? You committed to those boys,” Bobby reminds me, but I wouldn’t dream of backing out on them or Mike now. My word’s good, even if not everyone ascribes to that sentiment.
“Coach football. Avoid Allyson.” I nod, having decided as the words came out. It even sounds like somewhat of a plan, tangible goals I can check off like one of Shay’s lists in her ever-present notebook.
Bobby scans my face, looking for something but finally shaking his head. “Easier said than done, but I agree that it’s what you should do, one hundred percent. Good luck with that
. Just let me know when she gets her claws into you again so I can prepare for you to start beating shit up when it goes catawampus.” It’s a warning as much as a prediction, him begging me not to do this again.
Done with the conversation, I give him a middle-finger salute. “Do your song. Let me see if I can help.”
He blinks a few times but then picks Betty back up. Before he plays, he adds one last piece of advice. “Fuck Allyson Meyers, but not literally. You hear me, Brutal? You’re an asshole, but even you deserve better than her.”
Having said his piece, he begins to play and sing. His voice is honeyed whiskey over gravel, and he gets pussy thrown at him left and right from just speaking, much less singing. He rarely takes advantage, though, which I don’t get, but there are worse things than being picky.
Like being a fucking liar.
Chapter 5
Allyson
I am an adult. I can handle this. I can do this. Because I am a grown ass woman in charge of her own destiny, her own life, her own choices. I am doing this.
The pep talk’s better today, my inner voice mostly chanting, ‘I am woman, hear me roar.’ That’s a good thing, because as I approach the field to pick up Cooper and Liam, I know I’m going to need every bit of strength I can muster. I feel like myself, and I’m proud of that and the decision I made this weekend after seeing Bruce.
He’s going to be spending a lot of time with Cooper, which means we’re going to see each other regularly, and I do not want it to be weird. For us, for the kids, for the team. So I’m going to stand tall and have an awkward conversation about our past to make sure that it’s all put to rest and won’t affect the season.
See? Adulting 101. Communication is key.
The boys are on a knee, looking up to Coach Mike as he talks. Bruce stands off to the side, feet spread wide, arms crossed, old ball cap pulled down low. He looks like a bouncer at a country bar, like a bodyguard for the young kids at his feet. But, though I can’t see his eyes under the brim, I get the distinct impression that he’s looking at me, and my belly does a flip-flop it hasn’t done in a long time.
Fuck, I missed him. I didn’t even realize it, hadn’t thought about him in so long with my own shit to handle. But seeing him brings back so many good memories—lazy days alone in the barn, talking about everything and nothing, making love in the back of his truck under the stars up at Make-out Point, knowing that the world was ours for the taking if we just worked hard enough. He reminds me of who I once was, the light, carefree, innocent girl without a worry in her head. He makes me remember when things were easy. Before they got so hard.
I lick my lips, remembering his taste. Not the one time he tried his dad’s cigarettes and I’d yelled at him, spitting out the gross taste into the dirt, but the cinnamon-y heat of his kisses from the gum and mints he used to eat all the time. I never realized it, but I quit eating anything cinnamon flavored years ago. Not a single Red Hot has passed my lips in almost a decade.
I wonder if he still tastes like that?
Movement catches my eye, and I see the boys standing and putting a hand in for a cheer. “GO WILDCATS!” Then they all scatter this way and that, beelining for their moms.
Cooper and Liam come up to me, sweaty and bright-eyed. “Mom, did you see me? I caught the ball two times when Coach Mike threw it!” He holds his hand up and Liam smacks it.
“He did, Ms. Allyson! And I threw for thirty whole yards!” Liam boasts, not wanting to be outdone. The boys high-five again. I’m glad they celebrate and support each other and offer them each a high-five myself for good measure.
“Great job, guys!” I say with a big smile. I can see Mike and Bruce packing everything up to leave and know I need to act fast. “Hey, boys, do you mind playing for a few minutes before we go? I need to talk to Coach B for a second.” The name sounds awkward on my tongue, but it’s the most likely way to refer to Bruce and not get Cooper’s interest piqued.
Cooper and Liam look at each other in excitement. “Let’s go before she changes her mind!” They’re off for the expanse of grass, a football appearing from one of their bags.
I don’t give myself even a moment to second-guess this. I walk straight over to Mike and Bruce. “Hey, guys. Thanks for practice. Seems like the boys had fun.”
Mike looks at Cooper and Liam, who are running some sort of zig-zag pattern and tossing the ball between them. He shakes his head with a grin. “I don’t know where they get the energy. I’m beat. Did you need something, Allyson?”
My eyes meet Bruce’s and hold. “Oh, no, I just wanted to talk to Bruce for a minute.”
Mike clears his throat, but Bruce and I don’t break eye contact. I feel like there are so many words churning below the surface but neither of us speaks.
Not yet.
He used to say my eyes were blue oceans he’d drown in, but right now his are raging rivers with currents that’ll pull me under, batter me senseless, and leave me on the shore not knowing what the hell just happened.
“Sure thing, Jamie’s waiting on Evan and me for dinner. See you Thursday.” He hoists his bag onto his shoulder. “Hey, Brutal? Remember what we talked about.”
Bruce breaks our staredown to nod at Mike. “I’m good.”
Mike turns to go, whistling for Evan as he heads to the parking lot. Something about Mike’s parting words pushes my buttons. “You talked to Mike about me, about us?”
Bruce’s entire presence goes dark and cold as he huffs out a humorless laugh. “Conceited much?” He resumes his bouncer pose, defensive and walled off as he explains. “No, we didn’t talk about you at all, actually. But he did warn me that every single mom would be looking for me to be their new daddy figure and that sometimes, it’s not just the single ones. He told me to be careful.”
I blush furiously, knowing Mike’s right. It’s not that the other moms are bad or slutty at all. But Bruce is walking sex, from his hat to his boots and everywhere in between, and I wouldn’t blame any woman for taking her shot with him. Except for me. That ship has sailed and crashed to pieces.
“Well, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,” I say, trying to justify this little chat. He grunts like he doesn’t believe me, so I roll into my practiced speech. “Look, what I wanted to say is that I know we have history and this could be really weird. But I hope that we can put aside the past for the boys. Maybe even be friends?”
He lowers his arms to his sides and steps incrementally closer, and I smile, trying to hide my nerves. “History? Is that what you’re calling it?” Something flashes across his face too fast for me to decode it. His voice is a growl, low and powerful, hitting right where he aims. “I’d call it you ripping my guts out, Al.”
His eyes pin me in place like a bug, and I freeze, not finding a response amid the warning sirens going off in my head. Always able to read me like an open book, he must see the fear, scent its bitterness on my skin, because he steps back the smallest inch but keeps his voice quiet, between us.
“Bruce—” I try again.
“No. I can’t do friends with people who I know what they taste like when they come while screaming my name.”
Memories flood me. I remember doing that.
“I’m not friends with people who bail on everything they’ve ever known and disappear for new and shiny shit.”
Ouch . . . and the betrayal burns hot in his voice, searing at my heart.
“So no, we ain’t gonna be friends, Allyson.”
His venom pours over me, but I’ve withstood so much more for so much less. Even so, the verbal lashing from him strikes deep.
I’m not the girl he used to know, and for the first time, I consider that he’s not the boy I once knew, either. This Bruce is cruel and hard. Though he seems warm and friendly with the boys. Which means this treatment is special, just for me.
He hates me.
I don’t know why that hurts so much. Before last week, I hadn’t even thought of Bruce in years, not really. He was this abstra
ct warm, fuzzy feeling from my misspent youth that ended in a painful blaze of glory. No, what’s the opposite of blaze of glory? Because there were no fireworks, no angry fights, nothing like that. We just drifted and my predictions came true, and we were snuffed out like the cherry of a burnt-up cigarette.
A phantom echo stabs at my heart even now at how badly I wanted to be wrong, just that one time. It hadn’t been a sharp ending, but it’d been cruel in its quiet loss.
Standing in front of me, he’s so much more than I remember. Larger and sexier, but stonier and colder. It’s messing with me, my head and my body at odds in their responses, and I don’t know which to listen to.
The confused uncertainty breeds anger, and I don’t give a thought to the words that spout forth from my mouth. The unfiltered rain feels cleansing, even as snarled and ugly as it is.
“Seriously? It was almost ten years ago, Bruce. Something tells me you haven’t been locked away, pining for some girl you used to know.” I let my eyes drop heavily over every inch of him. “No, you’ve probably been just fine without me.” It’s an accusation that I know more than I’m letting on—not about now but about back then.
His upper lip curls. “Jealousy looks good on you. See something you like, baby?”
He poses, holding his arms wide to let me get an unobstructed view of his body in all its glory. But the sarcastic endearment stabs my heart so painfully and suddenly that I can’t stop the gasp before it passes my lips. I cross my arms over myself protectively.
“Don’t do that.”
I mean the nickname he used to call me by, but deep inside, I know I don’t want to answer his question because I do see something I like.
A lot of somethings I like.
Six feet, three inches of tanned and tattooed muscle, maybe a bit bigger than the 240 he used to be, but even harder, if possible. Dark hair curling from underneath his cap and a dusting of stubble across his cheeks and sharp jawline. Full lips that, even though they’re not smiling, look kissable and soft. Large hands that could span my waist or lift me into his arms with ease. And I know that behind that zipper is a thick cock that stretched me the very first time.
Rough Love Page 5