Blaze, page 35
“Yes,” she says, tears running down her face again, but this time with joy. “Yes, you lovable idiot. Yes.”
I’m deliriously, break-out-the-champagne happy because I know this is the start of something incredible, a life I couldn’t have dreamed of a year ago when I was playing Jock King and generally pissing my life away.
That guy is gone.
It’s done.
The Damage is a taken man.
EPILOQUE II
ANOTHER THREE YEARS LATER
INDY
I sniff my shirt. Poo or chocolate? Such are the existential questions I find myself dealing with post-pregnancy.
Chocolate. Definitely chocolate, I think.
“If you need a shower,” says Cayden, cradling our baby girl in his arms, “I can put Evie down and join you.”
As tempting as shower sex sounds right now, Naomi’s in town. I’m meeting her for coffee in fifteen. Keeping in touch with her has been nice—even if she refuses to drop the mother routine.
But Cayden’s lost his train of thought, looking down at his daughter. She really is an Indy 2.0, a miniature carbon copy of me, which I guess is both good and bad in equal measure. I just want her to be happy.
I love the way Cayden holds her, like he’s cradling the world’s most precious football, one he’s never ever going to drop. You should have seen him when the midwife handed her over. He started to cry, blubbered like a damn baby—the first time he’d shed a tear since the wedding. Not even the Giants taking home the Super Bowl, Cayden’s first NFL championship, managed to eke them out.
I swoon thinking about our wedding day. There are no words to describe what a suit does to a man like Cayden. We walked down the aisle to the Ramones’s version of Baby, I Love You. Cayden even got his swing-dance game up for the event, the small group of friends we’d collected equally shocked at seeing Abbotsleigh’s biggest jock lindy-hopping it like a pro.
There was one moment of panic. I had something old — my aunt’s broach, though my Cons looked equally antique — something new — a stunning pearl necklace courtesy of my man — something borrowed — Lucy’s earrings — but I was missing something blue. Superstitious me was freaking out, but Colton came to the rescue, handing me the blue Post-It Cayden used to propose. “Where am I going to put it?” I asked him, to which he replied, “Cay said to use your imagination.”
And the wedding night. Do not even get me started… I think the whole hotel heard us.
Craziest of all, I’ve managed to drop most of my former irrational ways, even managing to befriend a local black cat.
Breaking my daydream, Evie gives a small cough-slash-fart. It’s hard to tell. “You’re worse than your Dada,” I joke.
Cayden tickles her cheek. “Better out than in, baby. You do what you need to do.”
“Feel free to clean up her little expressions of individuality then,” I call from the bathroom. “The wipes are in the drawer.”
The gasp and splutter that follows tells me all I need to know. No amount of Febreze is going to fix that.
“I don’t know whether to change her diaper or call an Exorcist,” comes Cayden’s muffled voice.
It’s been nice to be back in New York. The ‘heat,’ as the police call it, has died down —died completely after the syndicate the men I put away were working for was broken up, half its members murdered in one night. ‘A power struggle,’ said the press. The threat has long passed, not that it would have done much good killing me after the fact, so I was given a choice —stay in permanent protection or go my own way. I chose the latter and they couldn’t do a damn thing to stop me.
At first, I moved back to Abbotsleigh to continue my studies. Then the NFL came calling for Cayden. Whether it was luck or not, he was drafted to the Giants, his dream team. So, it was off to New York once more, the Big Apple calling.
We don’t live on the East Side where Cayden grew up, but we’ve got a nice two-bedroom on Manhattan Ave on a tree-lined, airy street. Funnily enough, the kids living below us have started up a punk band, but we don’t mind the noise. In fact, it helps Evie sleeps.
There’s an envelope on the desk in the study. It contains the details of Cayden’s birth parents. He still hasn’t opened it. I don’t know if he will, but it’s there. I think that’s enough for him right now.
“She’s going to be a badass,” Cayden tells me, tucking Evie in with her Mr. Elephant for the night, its cotton nose half chewed away already.
My big boy and his little girl. It’s a beautiful thing.
My career is coming along, too. I found a law clinic just past Williamsburg that’s willing to take me on after I get my degree, a clinic that specializes in family law. The moment I stepped in, I knew this was where I wanted to be. There were no floor-to-ceiling windows or marble desks, no Harvey Specter — unfortunately. It was busy, simple, and alive.
But I don’t need a fictional man. I’ve got the real thing, an honest, family-centered hunk of cock candy that is still happy to go down on me after what he was witness to in the birthing suite. I no longer feel my scars. I forget they’re there half the time, because when he touches me, when Evie and I are his world, nothing else matters — not his crazy brothers, both of which are off on their own adventures, not even football.
The broken mirror didn’t bring the bad luck I assumed. No, it brought something entirely different.
I took a chance on a jock — correction: the jock — and I won the jackpot.
Because nothing worth having comes easy.
Because the true test of someone’s character isn’t how they act on their best days, but how they act on their worse.
And while hard times will come, though life with inevitably throw a wayward turn our way, I know one thing’s for certain: he’s in this for the long game.
STRIKER
Teagan Kade
* * * * *
Published by Teagan Kade
Edited by Beverly Bernard
Copyright © 2016 by Teagan Kade
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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DEDICATION
For Kiki, you big poser you.
CHAPTER ONE
SCARLET
The moment that ball hits the back of the net, I know there’s going to be trouble.
The crowd doesn’t care who scored, only that Victory FC has another win. They erupt as one, pounding feet making the grandstands rattle. The horn goes and it’s done, the Silverbacks already skulking away from the field.
The crown jewel of Victory, Jensen Collins, does a backflip, fist-pumping the air and screaming “Fuck yes!” over and over, running to the sidelines and whipping the crowd into a frenzy. He takes hold of his jersey and tears it in two like it was a piece of paper, points to the rippling corrugations of his abs with one hand while grabbing his crotch with the other. He’s ridiculous, completely over the top, but everyone loves him—Jetstream Jensen the hero, the untouchable.
I’m laughing at the spectacle until I see Josh, my Josh. He’s at the back of the field looking on, hands on his hips. He spits to the ground but never takes his eyes off his twin brother. Yet again Jensen has stolen his thunder, swooping in for the final goal. He looks pissed. He looks like he’d stab Jensen in the back if he had a knife, nothing but hatred hanging off his frame. I know that look. I know it far too well now.
I leave Jensen to his groupies and whooping fans, searching the field for Josh, but he’s gone.
“He’s so fucking hot,” says a Hannah Montana lookalike sitting behind me, eyes locked on Jensen. She’s got to be all of fourteen. “I’d do nasty, nasty things to that body,” continues her friend. I can’t imagine either of them has seen a penis in their life, let alone what the press like to call ‘the hammer’. I smirk, standing.
It’s a fight to get to the players’ parking lot. There’s a full moon peeking through spectral clouds above, and I’m quite certain it’s turned everyone in here insane. I swing around a guy hanging like a bat from an overhead beam, shirt over his head. A bottle smashes beside me. A guy reaches to grab my butt, but he’s so drunk he connects with the wrist of a six-six super-jock in front of me. Have fun with that…
Everyone’s laughing, high on the win, but my face shows only concern. Yes, Victory won, but I’m the one who’s going to cop the brunt of Josh’s anger. I can’t believe Coach allowed that play, if he did at all. He’s got a brother. Surely he knows that’s a recipe for disaster if ever there was one, an Edward-and-Jacob-esque alpha dick-swinging contest that can only go one way.
I’m stuck at a bottleneck of congestion near the hotdog stand to get through the gates. I check my watch. Josh has had a full fifteen minutes now to simmer, but I know that’s not how it works. He’ll let it brew, wait for me.
I take out my cell and call him, but there’s no answer. All I can hope is for is that he’s taking a cold shower well away from Jensen.
I make it through the human meat grinder and dart left, actually running because I’m so concerned something is going to go down, but when I make it to the parking lot neither Jensen nor Josh is to be found. It’s not a good sign.
I lean against the wall by the exit door, watch the other Victory players fire up their toys—the Harleys and Hummers and Ferraris they go through like socks. Soon they’re all gone but for Josh’s Mustang and Jensen’s Charger—arguably the two finest examples of American muscle. How fitting, I muse.
The temperature’s largely apathetic, neither hot nor cold, but I’m shaking all the same, shaking and sweating like a damned junkie as I wait.
Please, please let him be okay. I can’t handle another one of his moods, his tantrums—not tonight.
Josh emerges in jeans and a wife-beater. For a brief second the parking-lot lights reveal him until he’s swallowed up into the darkness again, yet this one small moment of illumination tells me all I need to know. His knuckles are white holding his bag, jaw set and stiff.
I clear the cotton wool from my throat and call out to his back. “Josh.”
He snaps around at his name, dropping his bag and heading straight for me with purpose. He goes in and out of the light as he paces—in and out, in and out.
I push back against the wall harder. It’s solid, reassuring.
“Josh, don’t worry about it.” I move to reach out to him, but he takes hold of my wrist.
He reeks of bourbon, eyes reflector red. He usually saves the drinking for home. “Did you see that shit? That fucking asshole stole my goal.”
“Josh—”
He presses harder, taking a step forward and pinning me to the wall. He lifts my chin up with one finger. “Jesus, Scarlet, you’re on his side, aren’t you?”
I know nothing I can say is going to help, so I remain silent.
“It’s your fucking fault, you know.”
“My fault?” I reply, defensively, hands against the wall. “How can it be my fault?”
With a shove, Josh releases me, stepping back and shaking his head. “You distracted me.”
Unbelievable. “You asked me to come, Josh, to support you, and I did. I always do.”
“Support?” he scoffs, spinning and stumbling, words slurring. “I see you sitting up there with your tits out, letting every guy in here drool and slobber over you. It’s fucking disgusting, Scarlet. No,” he points, “it’s pathetic.”
I cross my arms over myself. I’m blonde, I have breasts, yes, but I’m wearing a blouse buttoned to the top, jeans. I’m not one of those player’s girlfriends, a glorified handbag whose whole life revolves around idolizing the players and the infamy it brings them. I don’t want to be part of that reality-show life. It’s too fake, too tacky.
But he gets to me. He knows he’s hurting me, and I can see by the glint in his eye the way he enjoys it. This too is sport for him.
He comes close, so close I can make out each individual grain of stubble, the dark shadow that never leaves his face no matter how much he shaves. For a moment I see the boy I fell for behind the mask, but it’s gone, replaced with a drunk, moody mousetrap that’s ready to snap at any moment.
“Josh, please,” I beg, reaching up and holding his face, my tears building and threatening to overflow.
He swats my hands away and pokes me, hard, in the forehead. “It’s him, isn’t it? He’s in your head.”
I know exactly who he’s talking about, but I act dumb. “Who, Josh? You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s fucking him. Tell me!” he screams.
I look around, but it’s just us.
He lowers his voice. “Holy shit. Are you fucking him, Scar? Are you fucking my brother?”
It’s a ridiculous notion. Josh knows it, but still he pushes, looming over me, beating me down with his words. “You fucking are, aren’t you? You’re sucking his cock day and night like the dirty fucking whore you’ve become.”
It’s the liquor talking, but it still hurts. The tears loose themselves, fall fat from my cheeks. “No, Josh. I’m not.”
“Maybe not,” he shrugs, brows gathering, “but you’re thinking about it. I know you are. He’s always fucking there waiting to steal everything I have, waiting with his perfect fucking smile to railroad my life, but you know what? I’m not going to let him. You’re mine, Scar. We belong together and there’s no fucking way Jetstream Jockstrap Jensen is going to take you too.”
I don’t even know why I’m pleading, why I do this to myself. I’m smarter than this. “You’re not making sense.”
He looks around for his bag, more likely the bottle inside it. He spots it on the ground but can’t be bothered to make the short walk to retrieve it. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares, stares until the lever drops and he snaps well and good.
He jumps against me and I freeze, muttering “Josh” over and over, head turned and eyes closed as he barks into my ear, lets out all the bile and hatred. I’ve heard it all before, too many times recently—‘bitch’, ‘cunt’. They’re only words, I remind myself, but I’m affected all the same. It’s Jensen he’s angry at, not you, but it sure as hell feels like me.
He finishes, spittle hot on the side of my face, the heady cocktail of bourbon and BO oozing from his pores. He steps back, smiling, pleased he’s managed to take this small win, to break me down and keep his power.
He used to be sweet and kind, a guy you’d rush to your mother, but ever since the money he’s changed. I don’t know how much more I can handle.
I take my chance. I duck under his arm and run to the players’ tunnel, press myself into an alcove and hunker down.
I hear his car start, tires turning to smoke as he peels out of the parking lot. I feel relief, if anything.
I take five, brush the tears away and compose myself. Never again, I tell myself, knowing full well I lack the internal fortitude to stand up to him. The pep coach I’ve always imagined as a cross between Oprah and Barbara Walters sits on my shoulder, a stream of hippie self-help following.
Where there is struggle, there is strength.
Turn your wounds into wisdom.
Be fearless.
Be confident.
I laugh. Mom always fell for that kind of nonsense, even kept a vial of Peter Popoff’s Miracle Spring Water in her purse. I said I’d never be so gullible, so weak, but here I am. Everything tells me I should get as far away from Josh as possible, but I can’t even take the first step.
Get a grip, Scarlet. Keep this up and you’ll find yourself in an Eames recliner yapping away to a stranger about your daddy issues and love of late-night TV.
I come out of the alcove and straight into the path of the human apartment block that is Jensen Collins.
“Scarlet?” comes his startled reply.
I’ve always been able to see the resemblance between the twins, but Jensen’s eyes are deeper set beneath strong, dark brows, lashes for days. He’s the taller of the two, a good head above me. I linger on the shape of his mouth—the way his lip is a quiet curve, lower lip full.
There is an awkward moment in which I remain semi-crouched with my hands flat against his iron abs, eyes fixed to the bulge in his shorts and my brain short-circuiting, shouting ‘Penis, penis, penis!’ as I try uselessly to form words and stand.
He lifts me up, hands lingering longer than they should on my elbows. We look at each other and not even a Bowie knife could cut the tension. This is how it’s always been, the two of us skirting cautiously around one another, the ice thin.
He looks back with hazel eyes even Channing Tatum would be jealous of, eyes so deep and striking I’m quite sure they contain the meaning of life.
Maybe they do.
I scold myself and stand straight. “You’re not wearing a shirt,” I blurt out. Read: Never say the first thing that pops into your head.
You’re lucky it wasn’t ‘penis’.
Jensen looks at me, corners of his mouth pulling down in surprise. “Quite the deduction. Gave it to some kid in the first row. Probably wind up as a cum rag.”
