The other two men follow suit, nodding. Owen begins to walk to the front hallway. “Yeah, we’re going to crush New York. Happy to be on the same team, brother.”
He holds out a fist for Parker to shake and bump; you know that weird manly handshake guys do. We all stare at his hand, waiting for Parker to make his decision. Because if he accepts and does said manly handshake, it will mean he somewhat forgives his friends. That they’re on the road to healing. God, I hope he fist bumps him.
It takes a minute of awkward silence, but in the end, Parker extends his hand and shakes Owen’s. And then he repeats the same gesture with Miles.
And for some reason, my heart does a little flutter when I see that. Perhaps the beast isn’t so beastly after all …
8
Parker
“So, do you always completely ignore your friends at a dinner table?”
Brennan walks into my kitchen holding a stack of dirty dishes, that smart mouth announcing her presence.
“Do you always stay and eat dinner at your client’s homes?” I shoot back, elbow deep in suds.
One thing I hate? A dirty room. I’m a neat freak, something that living alone affords me, and I’m not about to go to bed with dirty dishes in the sink. I don’t even employ a cleaning service like a lot of my teammates do. Why would I spend money on that when I can do it myself?
“Do you not remember when you asked me to stay?” She sidles up next to me, and her hip accidentally bumps mine.
Instantly, a spark of electricity shoots from the hip she just collided with straight to my balls.
“Hmph,” I grumble because, yes, I did.
But she didn’t have to bring that moment of vulnerability up. I am getting too used to her in my home. And when confronted with my former friends, I needed a neutral party. An ally who could divert their attention. Brennan was my best option, and it was only a bonus that having her around seems to calm my nerves.
“What did you talk about while I was out of the room, anyway? I heard you arguing before I—”
“Before you rudely interrupted,” I cut her off, handing her a dish towel and a sopping wet plate.
“Oh, fine, but it wasn’t exactly intentional. I needed to ask you about paint samples.” She rolls her eyes at me and begins to dry.
She stuck around after Miles and Owen left. I didn’t really ask and she didn’t really assume, but here we are. Washing dishes together.
Relenting, because there are too many thoughts buzzing around in my head and for once I need to let them out, I open up to her.
“Those two, plus Clint, were my college roommates. We all lived in a house, all played baseball, stuck together from freshman to senior year. Needless to say … I had issues. Have issues. The reason you saw me at the victim’s support group? It happened in high school, and I’ve never been the same since. They know nothing about it. No one does. Only you.”
I think that’s the most I’ve spoken to someone in ten years.
“You’ve never talked to anyone else about this?” Brennan doesn’t look at me.
She knows I can’t have a heart-to-heart when someone is staring at me. She knows from personal experience. So she keeps drying the serving spoon in her hand and doesn’t make eye contact.
“I’m a guy, Brennan.” As if this explains it all. “Anyway, they never asked. Never tried to get past my thorns. When we graduated, they had their steady girlfriends who they were on track to marry and impregnate. It was probably easy to forget about me.”
“But they said they reached out.” She continues drying.
I shrug, trying to come off as the victim instead of half of the guilty party. “Yeah but did they really want to see me? I think that’s a no.”
Brennan chuckles. “You really love to be a victim.”
I’m taken aback. I’ve never been spoken to like that before, much less from someone who has also been physically abused. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Neither of us moves, and I realize she has as steel of a spine as I do. “It means that you can’t live your life like the whole world is working against you. Most likely, everyone around you doesn’t think about you much. That’s not to say they don’t like you or don’t want to hang out, but they just aren’t too concerned with the things you convince yourself they’re picking apart about you. Those guys, they took time out of their busy schedules to come out to your creepy murder mansion in the woods and have dinner. They care. They cared back then when they called for a year and you were too stubborn to pick up. Don’t waste your life sulking about one horrible thing that happened, because you’ll lose a lot of really incredible people.”
When Brennan scolds me, talks back, or doesn’t give two shits about me being a scary, six foot raw live wire of anger … fuck does it turn me on.
It was all I could do to keep my eyes off her while we sat across the table from each other at dinner. The way her eyes light up when she laughs. The way the light catches her butterscotch hair when it spills over her shoulders. How that little bow above her upper lip quirks up when she’s trying not to be sarcastic.
The plate I’m washing crashes into the soapy water of the sink, and my wet hands slide over her cheeks in a second flat. Her mouth is open on a gasp as I plunge my tongue inside, and we’re rounding the bases in no time.
Her fists ball my shirt up, pulling it halfway up my torso as I angle her mouth with my fingers to push my tongue in deeper. Nails scrape down my abs, and my cock jerks with the salacious beginnings of a steel hard-on. Our kissing is frantic, and we’re gyrating against each other as the suds from my hands flick into wet patches on her shirt.
And then something in me pulls back. Fuck, she’s a victim of domestic violence. She’s been forced to have sex against her will. I know what it’s like to suffer abuse at the hands of another, and I’ll never hurt her.
So I gentle my pace, softening my grip and pecking her mouth in soothing caresses. My mind screams at me, do I remind her of her ex-boyfriend?
Brennan pulls at my belt, unbuckling it in haste, and I can’t help the zing of electricity that rushes from deep in my balls to the head of my cock. I want so desperately for her to touch it, to stroke from root to tip …
But I hold back still. I’m barely kissing her now, more resting my lips against her. Not only is this insane, the need pounding through my blood, but she may not reciprocate it. I have to give her that chance to consent. I pull back, removing her hands from me.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I’m not sure I’ve ever asked this question before.
Brennan looks confused. “I’m unbuckling your belt and had a plan to stick my hand into your pants. Of course, I’m sure.”
I shrug. “No, I just mean … I’d never want to force you to do anything you don’t want.”
The thought of an idea dawning on her passes over those sharp, but adorable features.
“Just because you know what I’ve been through doesn’t mean you have to treat me like I’ll break. I like sex, Parker. I like rough sex. I wouldn’t be allowing this if I wasn’t sure. In the three years it’s been, I’ve found my voice. You don’t have to worry, especially since I’m wetter than I’ve ever been when you slide your tongue into my mouth.”
And folks, we have a green light.
My fist finds the ends of her hair and I pull, not harshly but not altogether gently either. Her head snaps back, and she’s gleaming a devilish smile at me.
“In that case, do you mind calling me Mr. Avery again? Because that got my cock rock solid,” I growl.
And now we’re frantic. Tearing at each other’s clothes until they’re tangled and ripped free of our bodies. When my fingers find the swollen button between Brennan’s legs, I discover she wasn’t lying. She’s dripping wet.
“Why, Mr. Avery, I believe you’re more than ready for me,” she purrs as she uses both hands to squeeze my throbbing dick.
I can’t wait any longer. Hoisting her up, I plant her on
the island in the middle of my kitchen. With not a scrap of clothing on her, a yelp escapes that saucy mouth when her bare ass hits the cold granite. Brennan is stunning, those hazel eyes drunk with an impending orgasm and all of her dark honeycomb hair spilling around her beaded nipples.
Pulling her toward me by hooking one arm under each knee, I spread her wide as the head of my cock presses against the saturated folds of her pussy. I roll my neck, the insane need unnerving me.
“Fuck me, Parker,” she moans breathily.
So, I do.
I drive in, hard and fast, her hands gripping my neck for balance and mine pumping her legs so that with each stroke, I can hit deeper inside her. The pressure builds in my balls, the telltale signs of a massive climax threatening to rupture my tip. I’m going to blow so hard, I can feel it, but I need to get her there.
Reaching between us, I press my thumb into her clit, rubbing in hard, slow circles.
Brennan throws her head back. “Oh, God … fuck, yes … don’t stop …”
Her words are thoughtless, unconscious pleadings.
“Come on my cock. I want to feel it,” I bite out.
One more slow circle, the pad of my thumb connecting harshly with her clit, and she’s shaking. Her legs start first, the uncontrollable seizure of her limbs radiating through her body as she nearly collapses onto her back.
I don’t let up, though, because the way her pussy is milking my cock has me gasping for breath. Pulling out at the very last moment, I pull her close so that my cock is wedged between us before I explode, my come soaking both of our stomachs. I whisper obscenities into her hair. Fuck, even while pulling out, it’s the greatest climax I’ve ever experienced.
After a moment, I pull back, reaching for the cloth she was just drying dishes with. I wipe my stomach up, and then hers. Brennan looks exhausted, and she’s wobbling on the elbows holding her upper half up.
I pull her up and against me. A beat passes, and I hear her intake of breath before she speaks.
“Who was it?” Brennan’s voice is a whisper, and with her head lying on my chest, she isn’t looking at me.
I stroke a hand down her back, unable to resist the creamy smooth skin between her shoulder blades.
“Who was what?”
“The person who hurt you?”
I’ve never talked about Summer before. Sure, everyone back home knows how she died, that she was troubled. But no one knows what she did to me. And most people, when they see me at support group, probably assume my dad beat the shit out of me. Or maybe it was a coach. Some older male authority figure had to have smacked me around, given me a complex.
I don’t want to answer Brennan, but at the same time, she’s the only person I want to tell.
“My ex-girlfriend. From high school. And eventually, she killed herself.”
9
Brennan
I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing here.
After Parker fucked me on his kitchen counter, he helped me hop down. I put on my clothes, and while I was toeing my feet back into the work boots I’d donned all day while finishing some of the wood paneling in his hallway, he told me he’d leave tickets to his next game at will call for me.
Not a question, just a simple sentence that implied I better be there.
So, first I was his fixer. Then, I’d taken on a huge project in his home. There was casual, mind-blowing sex on the side. And now … what? I’m his baseball groupie?
I have no idea what the hell I’m doing, or why I keep agreeing to things with this irritating giant of a man, but I do. Hell, maybe I want a chance to see a baseball game somewhere other than the top of the nosebleeds. Either way, I’m here. In the Philly ballpark, using the tickets Parker Avery gifted me as a … what? A thank you for the job I’m doing on his house and his cock?
The friends and family section of the Philly ballpark is in a prime viewing area; just behind the team’s dugout, there are fix or six rows of those ridiculously comfortable chairs you see in those movie theaters that all the companies seem to be upgrading. When I arrived and showed the usher my ticket, he asked if I wanted a drink or a plate of food, all free and my pick of the best nosh the park has to offer.
After ordering a Coke and rum, because why not, I wander around the section in search of a seat. I don’t want to sit up front, too obvious. But I don’t want to situate myself next to any of the other section dwellers since I have no clue what I’ll say if someone asks me my relationship with the designated player I’m here for.
“You’re Brennan, right?” A voice hits my back.
Turning, I notice a gorgeous brunette sitting a few seats behind where I’m standing. She’s ridiculously good looking, with the facial shape of a lynx and eyes that snap like the most vicious jungle cat. But her smile seems genuine, and I know right off who she is by the largely pregnant belly protruding from her otherwise petite body.
“I’m Minka Axel, Owen’s wife. He told me to keep an eye out for you.”
I nod, walking toward her. “Nice to meet you. Your husband was singing your praises the other night.”
“As was he about you to me. Owen says you’re really giving Parker a run for his money. Anyone who does that is a friend of mine. Come, sit.” Minka chuckles and pats the seat next to her.
As I sit down, it dawns on me that none of Parker’s college friends, presumably the people he’s let closest to him other than me, know about his past. They all just think he’s a grumpy motherfucker who rivals the likes of Eeyore, rather than the truth of what he’s really been through.
I didn’t push Parker for more information after he told me about his ex-girlfriend. I think I was just too shocked by his actual admission, the way he answered my question without protest. Not only did his easy manner of delivering the truth throw me off-balance, but the fact that his abuser was a woman made my brain go quiet. Or loud, maybe. I still can’t really tell.
Having been in more than one victim’s support group, I know that there are men who have been abused, sexually or physically, by women. It’s not uncommon, but it is one of the rarer forms of abuse you see at these meetings. It’s even rarer that the men who are abused speak up about it. Much like the stereotype that says men are stronger than women, it may seem embarrassing to them to admit that they didn’t leave a situation where they were clearly the bigger physical specimen.
As we know, though, abuse is never about who has the larger body type. It never has to do with “just leaving a bad relationship.” Domestic violence, sexual abuse, physical abuse … there is so much mental toughness involved. You have to be mentally ready to get help, to seek therapy, to leave someone you have convinced yourself you could love to the end of time.
And the fact that Parker’s ex-girlfriend committed suicide … Christ, I can’t imagine the emotions he wars with. What happened to me is terrible, but at least I found some satisfaction and justice that Jacob was prosecuted and locked up. When the person who is hurting you takes themselves out of the picture and doesn’t allow you the closure and therapy that comes with independently walking away from the toxicity … it has to be so difficult to grapple with.
“So, are y’all dating?” Minka asks, one hand over her swollen belly.
I eye it, not entirely sure a baby won’t come popping out if I speak too loud. I may have come from a large family with tons of kids running about at most holidays and barbecues, but I’ve never been certain that having my own children is in the cards.
A snort comes out, and I try to smile through my embarrassed blush. “No. Not in the slightest. I think Parker likes having me around because I don’t shut up when he gets cranky.”
Minka nods, her shiny, bouncy chocolate hair shaking like a Pantene commercial. “Not like the rest of us. Although, I haven’t seen him in a few years. But I miss his surly ways. You could always count on a good barb from him back in college.”
“Is that where you and Owen met?” I ask politely, not wanting more questions of the status of
my fling with Parker.
She shakes her head. “No, we are from the same hometown. I lusted after his golden boy ass for years until he gave me the time of day. Now, he’s just giving me back pain and the urge to pee every five seconds.”
I laugh because she’s funny in a self-deprecating way I appreciate. “And this is your second child, right?”
“Nathan is two, and a full-time job. But it’s the best kind in the world.” She gives me a dreamy smile. “Hey, Parker mentioned to Owen that you’re doing some great work on his house. Our new place could use some custom design and sprucing up, and I just don’t have the energy these days. Do you think you’d have time for a consult?”
Parker is bragging about my work? The thought warms my cheeks and my chest. Not that I don’t believe in myself, but hearing that the guy you are currently sleeping with values your work and talked about you to his friends … the high school girl inside me does a little hop skip.
“Sure, I’d love to take a look.” Any new project always gets my mind racing.
It’s moments like this, when creativity buzzes through my brain, that I know I made the right decision to not only go into a trade, but to go into business for myself.
We’re temporarily interrupted when the stadium announcer begins with his opening call to action, getting the crowd amped up and introducing the players.
The opposing team, New York, runs out first to boos and chants of obscenities. Then, the Philly side runs out, the whole place erupting for the hometown favorites.
Something else I forgot to mention about my up-in-the-air relationship definition when it comes to Parker? I’m … kind of falling for him.
As I watch him warming up, those long, muscular legs eating up the grass, I can’t help the backflip my heart does. Seeing the globes of his ass move in those white pants sent straight from heaven, or hell depending on the nature of your thoughts … well, that doesn’t hurt either. The way he handles the ball, punching his glove fiercely with those sexy as hell sunglasses perched on his nose. God, I want to hop the wall and straddle him right in the middle of that outfield.
Over the Fence Box Set Page 63