Jace, page 32
“Hold up the phone. You might need a witness.” Krystal sighed. “Emmy Lou, I’m serious.”
Emmy held up the phone, unable to avoid the constant trembling.
The man came around the hood of the truck and stopped. His eyes widened and his mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything. Shock probably. Complete and total shock. Not just because he’d almost turned her into a smudge in the stadium parking lot, but because he was who he was and she was who she was and they were standing face-to-face…staring, at each other, in the rain…
“Brock?” Krystal sounded just as stunned. “Is that Brock? Is that you?”
No, there was no way that was possible. Emmy was not equipped for this. Not right now. Not in the least. She should be; it had been years. Years. This shouldn’t be a big deal. Seeing him, that is. Being almost run over by him—by anyone—was sort of a big deal.
“Hey.” Brock nodded, barely glancing at Emmy’s phone and Krystal. His gaze was pinned on her.
“I’m…” Her voice broke. She was what? “I…” No better. Just stop. Pull it together. This was silly. “Hi.” She forced a smile. “So…” She could do this. Talk. Breathe. In and out. Easier said than done.
His mouth opened, then closed and the muscle in his jaw clenched tight. The staring continued.
I can’t do this. She couldn’t breathe, let alone string words together into something coherent. Especially since he just stood there, rigid, wearing an odd expression on his face. A face that, all weirdness and near-death experiences aside, she knew well. All too well.
Adrenaline was kicking in now. Enough to get her moving, anyway. And that’s exactly what she was going to do. Move. Away. The sooner, the better. “Okay.” She hung up her phone, shoved it into her pocket, and started walking—do not run—toward the stadium door. No looking back. Just moving forward.
Did she almost slip? Yes. Did she go down? No. Had she managed to save a shred of dignity? Probably not. She pulled the door wide, stopping just inside to scan the signs and arrows that indicated what was where.
“Bathroom?” she whispered to herself, scanning the sign until she found what she was looking for—at the same time her phone started ringing. She didn’t have to look at it to know it was Krystal. But she did wait until she’d closed the door on the restroom and locked the door before she answered. This time, she denied FaceTime and kept it strictly audio. Her twin knew her too well to hide the maelstrom of emotions kicking her insides around and playing out on her face.
“Emmy?” Krystal asked. “Are you okay?”
“I didn’t get hit—”
“I know, I know but…it was Brock.”
Yes. Brock. She shrugged out of her raincoat and sat in the chair placed next to the diaper-changing station. “I know.” Her heart was still beating way too fast. Sitting wasn’t good. She stood, smoothing her pale blue blouse and staring down at her jeans, saturated below the line of her raincoat. She wiggled her toes in her rain boots, water squishing.
“This sucks.” Krystal cleared her throat. “I wish I was there.”
“I do too.” She stared at her reflection. “But I know what you’d do if you were here.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“You’d remind me I made a promise to myself not to let him get to me anymore. You’d remind me that I already spent too many years and too many tears on him.” Which was true. Their breakup—rather, his sudden and complete disappearance from her life—had almost broken her. She’d cried until she was sick and Krystal knew it too. Krystal was the one who rocked her into the wee hours. Krystal was the one who pushed her to get up, to keep going, every day. Krystal was the one who told her it was okay to be angry with him for deserting her without a word. And when Emmy Lou was more herself, Krystal had turned all the tears and sadness and anger into their double-platinum single, “Your Loss.” “And you’d be right.”
“True.” Krystal paused. “But, after I was done telling you all that, I’d get up in his face and chew him out for almost running you over. And that’s just to start.”
Emmy smiled, using toilet paper to dab away the smeared make-up from her eyes. “I’m sure you would.”
“Then I’d tell him to stay the hell away from you,” she snapped. “Like away away from you. And I’d tell Sawyer to punch him in the face if he didn’t. Or the gut. Maybe not the gut, if he’s still solid muscle, the big oaf. Wherever it would hurt the most. I’d leave it up to Sawyer to decide—he’d probably know.”
Brock had made a habit of staying away from her so that wouldn’t be a problem. Starting six years ago—when she’d still been sending letters to him, begging him to tell her why he was suddenly cutting her so completely out of his life. She covered her face with her hands. Humiliating pathetic letters. They should have burned, not mailed.
“Emmy Lou. Is there anything I can do?” Krystal sighed. “I mean, besides booking a flight home—which I will do as soon as we get off the phone—”
“You will not.” Emmy sighed. “You and Jace deserve some time off. Enjoy each other. Away from…everything.” As in the latest media circus revolving around her sister. “I’ll be more upset about you two cutting your vacation short than running into Brock.” Which was mostly true. “I’m not going to fall apart. Okay, he’s here. Now I know. The chances of us running into each other again—”
“Literally,” Krystal interjected.
“Are slim. And, if we do, I won’t be dripping wet and suffering from shock so I won’t do what I…just did.” She shook her head. Meaning mumble a bunch of incoherent gibberish before running away? What was that about anyway? “Promise me you won’t come home. Finish your vacation.”
Krystal sighed. “Where is Daddy anyway? Why isn’t he with you?”
“He had a meeting and I didn’t want to sit and wait on him. I had Sawyer. Well, until Travis called. I’m fine.” She tugged the band from her hair and twisted, wringing out the water. “You’re right. I do look like a drowned rat.”
“Whatever. You’re you, Emmy. All you have to do is walk into a room and the clouds part and angels sing.”
Emmy laughed. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“But you’re smiling now,” Krystal said. “And it’s true,” Krystal whispered, the words muffled. “Jace is here.” There was a smile in her voice.
“I’ll let you go, then.” Emmy put her bag on the counter. “Tell Jace I said hi, okay?”
“He says hi. And he will so kick Brock’s ass if he needs to.” There was a pause. “No, you don’t know him… Yes, the football player… That Brock.” Another pause. “He said he would totally kick his ass.”
Emmy shook her head, but she was smiling. “I’m pretty sure that won’t be necessary. But I appreciate the offer. Love you.”
“You too, sissy.” Krystal made a kiss-sound. “Talk later.”
“Okay.” Emmy dug through her bag, pulling out her brush and make-up bag. Her momma would have a fit if she saw the state of her daughter. CiCi King was all about a woman looking her best—at all times. Best might be pushing it. But that didn’t stop her from attempting damage control.
Besides, she needed to remember why she was here. Her sweet Daddy had found a way to combine her fledgling solo career with working on a cause she believed in. She was the new face and voice of every Sunday night football intro anthem—and she would serve as one of the American Football League’s Drug Free, Like Me ambassadors. The AFL’s charity program helped raise funds for drug addiction prevention, treatment, and recovery programs as well as outreach education in schools and sports camps. Between her millions of fans and followers and the several million more football devotees, this was her chance to do something that mattered.
Little things like squishy socks, limp hair, or running into the boy—man—who’d crushed her hopes and dreams and heart didn’t really matter.
* * *
“Don’t you dare get water on my wood floors, Brock Nathaniel Watson.” Aunt Mo’s voice carried all the way down the hall from the kitchen.
Brock stepped back outside the front door, kicked off his still-soaking Racer sneakers, and left them on his aunt’s covered porch. His socks were just as saturated. With a sigh, he tugged them off and rolled up the cuffs of his jeans. The damn rain continued to pour down, thick sheets hammering the roof and ground with surprising force. A crack of thunder split the air and rolled across the grey-black sky.
A flash of Emmy Lou, wide-eyed and shaking, with rain dripping off her nose and chin, rushed in on him. Again. He couldn’t shake it—shake her.
She’d been scared stiff. For damn good reason. If his brakes had locked up? His truck had skidded? The crushing pressure against his chest had him sucking in a deep breath, his eyes narrowing as he peered out into the storm. She was okay. Shaken, sure, but okay.
Hell, he was damn near in shock. She was the last person he’d expected to see. And this? Well, running her over wasn’t exactly the sort of reunion he’d imagined.
Not that he’d spent much time thinking about her. Of course not. That—she—was ancient history. Once that door shut, he’d locked it up tight and never opened it again.
Her band, The Three Kings, were probably doing some concert or something. Football wasn’t the only thing that happened at the stadium, he knew that. But, in the six years he’d been playing for the Houston Roughnecks, he’d never run into a single performer.
Of course, it would have to be Emmy.
“You coming in?” Aunt Mo’s voice jolted him back to the present.
He stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him.
“Your shoes out front?” Aunt Mo called out, the steady beat of her footsteps coming down the hall. The moment she saw him, she shook her head. “Look at you, Brock. Did you swim here? Go on, find something dry to wear before you catch pneumonia.”
“Not just worried about your floors after all?” He grinned.
She rolled her eyes and offered up her cheek. “Don’t you give me any sass, young man. You give me a kiss and get yourself changed for lunch.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek, then headed down the hall to his old room, and closed the door behind him.
“I made you some brisket to take home. And some meatloaf.” She was on the other side of his door. “I remember you said the boys liked my oatmeal cookies so I made five dozen for you to share.”
He tugged off his wet clothes, shaking his head. “Training doesn’t start for another two weeks, Aunt Mo.” She knew that. As soon as training, pre-season, and games dates were posted, she knew. Half the time, she knew about things before he did. Her large-print calendar was marked up with a rainbow of permanent marker ink. Aunt Mo never missed one of his games. She was a die-hard football fan. No, she was his fan, and it meant the world to him.
“Is that right?” she paused. “Well, I guess you’ll have to take them. You can share with Connie.”
He didn’t have the heart to tell Aunt Mo his agent was a vegan. And a health fanatic. He’d only ever seen Connie eat salad. Without dressing.
“Connie could use a cookie or two. She’s all skin and bones. You tell her to send Trish over here so I can teach her partner how to cook.”
“I’ll tell her.” He chuckled, tugging on some jeans, socks and boots, and pulling on one of the starched button-up shirts hanging in his closet. He ran a hand through his hair and pulled the door open. “Better?”
“It is.” She hooked her arm through his. “Come on and eat. I’m guessing you didn’t have much of a breakfast?”
He’d told her most of his meals were prepared for him by his trainer—something she’d clucked her tongue over. But it took a hell of a lot of effort, and about nine thousand calories a day, to stay in peak shape. Being six five and almost three hundred pounds of muscle wasn’t easy. “I ate.” At six, he’d consumed five eggs, oatmeal, wheat toast with peanut butter and honey, an apple and a banana. At eight, he’d eaten nearly as much. Six meals a day, every day. All a necessary part of his fitness regimen.
“Not enough, I’m sure.” Aunt Mo patted his forearm. “Sit yourself down and tell me what’s what.”
This was his Wednesday routine. Every Wednesday, he’d fly his Cessna 350 from Houston, or wherever else he happened to be, to Austin. At eleven thirty sharp, Aunt Mo had lunch waiting. Not just any lunch either. To her, making sure he was well fed was her way of contributing to the team. Some days, he brought some teammates along—and Aunt Mo loved that. She’d cluck over them all, remind them of their manners, make them clean their plates, and send them all off with an invitation to come back anytime they liked. That was Aunt Mo. When his mother had left them, it was Aunt Mo who had stepped in to take care of him and his father. She saw a need and she filled it, no questions asked.
“Anything new and exciting happening?” She started pulling serving dishes from the top oven rack and placing them on the hot pads placed all over her nice linen tablecloth. “I could use some excitement.”
He took his time loading up his plate, waiting for her to make hers before picking up his fork. He scooped up some roasted sweet potatoes from a cast-iron skillet. “I almost ran over Emmy Lou King in the parking lot today.”
Aunt Mo’s eyes went round and she set her fork down. “What, now?”
He swallowed and took a sip of tea. “She was there, today. At the stadium. I was heading here.”
“Brock.” She placed her hand on his. “Land sakes, boy. What happened?” Her well-lined face creased with concern.
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “It was raining hard, I wasn’t going fast—but she came out of nowhere. I slammed on the brakes and stopped close enough for her to put her hands on the hood of the truck. I…I didn’t see who it was.”
Aunt Mo pressed both hands to her chest. “Oh my. Goodness.”
“I got out and…it was Emmy.” He cleared his throat, cut a large bite off the grilled chicken breast on his plate, and started chewing. It gave him time to get the lump out of his throat and the image of Emmy, wide eyed and startled, out of his head.
“What did you do? She must have been in shock. Of course she was. What did you say?” Aunt Mo was watching him. “After you were done apologizing, I mean.”
Had he apologized? Had he said a thing? Once he’d seen it was her, he’d sort of blanked out. A damn fool, standing in the rain, staring down at her as if he’d just suffered a blow to the head.
“Brock?” Aunt Mo patted the back of his hand, the crease between her brows deepening.
“I’m not sure,” he confessed. “We both stood there, getting soaked, and then she ran off.” He shrugged, wondering why he’d decided to share this with Mo. The whole damn thing had a dreamlike quality to it. But it was no dream. If it was, he wouldn’t have her bright pink and white polka-dot umbrella on his passenger seat.
About the Author
Sasha Summers grew up surrounded by books. Her passions have always been storytelling, romance, and travel—passions she uses when writing romance novels and novellas. Now a bestselling and award-winning author, Sasha continues to fall a little in love with each hero she writes. From easy-on-the-eyes cowboys, sexy alpha-male werewolves, to heroes of truly mythic proportions, she believes that everyone should have their happy ending—in fiction and real life.
Sasha lives in the suburbs of the Texas Hill Country with her amazing and supportive family and her beloved grumpy cat, Gerard, the Feline Overlord. She looks forward to hearing from fans and hopes you’ll visit her online.
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Sasha Summers, Jace
