Текст книги "The End Game"
Автор книги: Kate McCarthy
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 28 страниц)
Squaring my shoulders, I crouch down and peel away the small square of duct tape from the undercarriage. The spare key to the apartment is stuck to the back of it. I rip it away and make my way inside, dropping the mask of indifference. All I can bring myself to care about right now is a pounding hot shower, food, and having a really good crying jag.
But it’s not meant to be.
After squelching up the stairwell with aching legs, I emerge into the third floor hallway. Greeting me is a Greek god. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe of my apartment, and my pulse kicks up a notch as I take a moment to admire him.
His skin is golden, like warm sunshine that you could bask in and never get cold. Big, broad shoulders crowd the small hallway, and biceps thick with corded muscle peek out from beneath snug shirtsleeves. He looks strong and capable. The sort of person who could weather any storm and come out fighting.
His hair is the color of rich caramel and cropped short, but there’s a slight curl on the ends that won’t conform to any particular style. I catch a glimpse of white, even teeth as he bites down on his full bottom lip, dragging it inside his mouth while he taps away at his phone like he’s bored and waiting for someone.
I swallow a groan. The tutoring session.
He’s waiting for me.
Ignoring my out-of-control pulse, I clomp forward on syrup-coated cleats. I know the instant he notices me because he looks up and does a double take. With his coloring I’m expecting blue eyes, or a brilliant green, because they’re the eye colors of the gods, aren’t they? But his are neither. They’re brown, and they’re intense, and I watch them widen when he realizes I’m headed right for him like a badly guided missile.
He drops the hand that holds his phone and shifts sideways to let me past. It’s a hopeful move, and I almost keep going, not having the heart to disappoint him.
Instead I reach his side, coming to a complete stop with an audible sigh of exhaustion that I just can’t contain.
“Hi,” I say and try for a smile. I feel my face crack a little and flecks of dried chocolate flutter to the ground between us.
He shifts back, brows rising as he stares. “Help you?”
I nod at the door we’re both standing in front of. “I live here.”
“You do?”
His tone implores me to say no, and for the second time in as many minutes I’m going to disappoint him.
“Yes,” I reply and extend a hand, trying to be polite. “I’m Jordan Elliott. You’re here for the tute?”
“Tute?”
“Tutorial,” I clarify.
“I am,” he replies and ignores my gesture of greeting. Instead, he leans back against the doorframe and folds his arms. Muscles bunch and flex, highlighting the powerful build beneath his tee shirt. It absorbs my focus, and I force my eyes to ignore the display. “And you’re late.”
His voice is a deep rumble, one I want to listen to on repeat until I’m lulled into sleep, but I find I don’t care much for it when it comes out loaded with irritation. I drop my hand, embarrassed at his snub and disappointed in his attitude. I am late, but he’s obviously the type of person who doesn’t understand that sometimes shit just happens.
“Well, as you can see,” I bite out as I give him my back to unlock the door, “my afternoon took a small turn for the worse.”
Brody
Scooping my backpack off the floor, I sling it over my shoulder and follow Jordan inside her apartment, seething on the inside. Yeah it was rude not to shake her hand, but she looks like someone rolled her in a giant pile of shit, not to mention I don’t want to be here.
Maybe I’m barely scraping by on my own, but I don’t need anyone trying to make me better because it’s an exercise in futility. I am never going to be intelligent, or sharp, or hold a meaningful conversation that doesn’t include the subject of football. I am never going to be normal. I am who I am, and I have to accept that it’s all I’m going to be without someone trying to give me false hope. No doubt Jordan plans to do just that.
What a waste of fucking time.
After I shut the apartment door behind me, Jordan turns to face me, lifting her chin like she’s doing her best to hold her shit together. “Look,” she says in an accent I’m pegging as Australian. Is she an international student? My uncle gave me minimal information. “I know I’m late and I’m sorry, but I really need to take a shower before we get started.”
Started on what? Operation Grow Brody A Brain? Despite the shame prickling along my skin like a heat rash, I chuckle at the absurdity.
Jordan cocks her head. “What?”
I shrug and give her a quick once over. Her hair and features are mostly obscured with caked brown smears and flecks of white, but I can see she’s geared up in a soccer uniform, shin guards and cleats still in place.
“What is that all over you?” Leaning in, I give an audible sniff. Rather than the stench of manure, she smells sickly sweet, like chocolate cream pie. “Hmmm, syrup? You’re covered in chocolate sauce? What happened?” I ask, even though there’s no doubt the girl just got hazed. I’ve seen the chocolate syrup trick a time or two and the opportunity to tease is too good to ignore. “Was it a kinky sex game gone wrong?”
There’s something familiar in the clear blue eyes that narrow at my insult, but I don’t know what it is. I cock my head, bringing a smirk to my lips. I’m being an asshole, but better her anger than pity. “You know you’re supposed to take your clothes off before you let some guy lick syrup off your tits.”
Jordan studies me for a moment. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll be sure to remember that for next time.”
I want to roll my shoulders, defuse the annoyance because I haven’t managed to rile her. In fact, I just want to leave. “Look, Jordan, I don’t know what they’re paying you to tutor me, but whatever it is, I’ll double it so you don’t.”
Her eyebrows shoot up underneath the chocolate coating her face. “You’ll pay me not to tutor you?”
“That’s what I said, didn’t I?”
Jordan shakes her head. “I guess I wasn’t sure I heard you right.”
“Well you did, so what are they paying you? Twenty bucks an hour?”
After laughing outright, she says, “Seven-fifty.”
“Is that all?”
I don’t believe it. No one in their right mind would agree to that. Jordan has a secret agenda and it could only be one thing. Fury begins to build in my chest. Dumping my backpack on the floor, my eyes narrow as I stalk toward her, my steps slow and deliberate. She shifts backwards, eyes widening. I press my advantage by standing over her, the broad width of my shoulders intimidating and hostile.
“What do you want from me, Jordan Elliott? Money? The inside scoop on my life so you can sell it to the press?” I grab her chin in my hand, forcing her face upwards so she can see the contempt blazing from my eyes. “Or are you just after a fuck? You want everyone to know you had the honor of sucking my dick?”
Jordan jerks her chin free of my grip, and finally I have her anger. “You jerk!” She shoves me in the chest, and she may have strength, but it’s not enough to push me off my feet. I don’t even budge. “You may be a pretty package, Kyle Davis, but inside you’re an ugly, conceited donkey,” she hisses angrily, “and I have no time for people like you!”
A grin forces its way to my lips. “You think I’m pretty?”
Jordan jabs a finger in the direction of the apartment door. “Get out!”
It’s a hollow victory, but I’m taking it anyway. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I’m halfway out the door when I realize she called me Kyle Davis. “Wait.” I pause and turn back around. “What did you just call me?”
“A jackass!” she yells, and I duck when a soccer ball comes flying at my face. Jordan has exceptional aim, but I have better reflexes. It sails past, hitting the hallway wall behind me before bouncing back and whacking her doorframe with a loud thump. The makeshift weapon drops to the ground, and I put a foot on it, steadying it before I reach down and pick it up. I step back inside her apartment, the ball tucked under my arm. “Did you just call me Kyle Davis?”
“Sorry, Your Highness.” Jordan bows theatrically, and it looks ridiculous considering she’s a human éclair in soccer cleats. “Will I spontaneously combust if I say your name out loud? Will it jinx me? Or do you prefer something more formal, like Mr. Davis?” Jordan sneers at me. “If you ask me, I think asshat has a better ring to it.”
My lips twitch and I have to bite back the urge to laugh out loud. Jordan has no idea who I am. For some reason, she seems to think I’m my uncle’s douchebag TA. That means I must be wrong. How can Jordan have a secret agenda if she has no idea who I am?
Reaching behind me, I pull the door shut, closing us both back inside the apartment again.
Her brows pinch tight. “What are you doing?”
“You want to know what to call me?” Dropping my bag and the soccer ball on the floor, I lean against the back of the door, fold my arms, and smile lazily. “How about Lord and Master?”
Jordan makes a sound that comes out something like a high-pitched growl and reaches for a phone that’s resting on the kitchen counter beside her. “How about you leave? I’m sure Professor Draper can arrange another tutor for you.”
I shrug as if I don’t care, but I know my uncle will only assign another tutor in Jordan’s place. As much as I don’t want to be here, I’d prefer Jordan over someone else. I might not know her reason for signing up for this, but at least I know it isn’t because she’s looking at me with dollar signs in her eyes the way most other girls do.
“If you can’t handle being my tutor, then by all means, give him a call.”
Jordan huffs, her fingers pausing over the screen of her phone, and I know I’ve got her. No one would ever tell my uncle they can’t handle whatever he’s dishing out and she knows it.
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
I grin, for real this time, and walk toward the living area. “You think it’s easy being this much of an asshole?” Sinking down on the sofa, I reach for the remote and kick my legs up on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankle. “Getting soccer balls thrown at my head and being called a conceited donkey is not as fun as it looks.”
“I can’t imagine,” she mutters and slaps her phone back down on the counter.
Pointing the remote at the television, I find ESPN and settle in for whatever sport is playing. “Go have your shower, Jordan,” I command, my eyes fixed on the screen, “and when you come out, you can make me something to eat because I’m hungry, and then you can pretend to teach me something.”
“Making you something to eat is not part of my job, unless you want to end up wearing it,” she gripes as she stalks past me.
“Feisty,” I murmur, but she’s too far away to hear, already walking into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her.
The second I hear the shower start running, I toss the remote back on the tiny dark timber coffee table and stand. I want to know just who Jordan Elliot is, so I make my way toward her room.
The bathroom is sitting between two bedrooms so I take a guess and pick the one on the right. I have to blink when I walk inside because it looks like no girl’s room I ever saw, and I’ve seen more than my fair share. There are no knick-knacks lining every available surface, or mementos from past events that mean something, no pictures on the wall, just … no personality at all. I wonder if Jordan even has one underneath that jock-ish exterior of hers.
There’s a corkboard pinned to the wall so I study her schedule, grudgingly impressed. The list details an unbearable course load and subjects that only someone bright and gifted could possibly handle. It makes me feel like more of a dumb shit, if that’s even possible. Resting up beside a bookshelf sits two rolled up posters. I make the mistake of unraveling one. Cristiano Ronaldo stares back at me with smoldering eyes. I shudder because it’s almost enough to leave me feeling violated. The poster unravels further, revealing him in the buff, and I’m relieved to see him holding a soccer ball in front of his junk. I drop the poster like it’s a rattlesnake and toss it back in the corner. Well. At least I know she’s not a lesbian.
With a sigh, I spread out on my back on Jordan’s bed, tucking my hands behind my head and closing my eyes. After taking a deep breath, the sweet smell of vanilla tickles my senses and my brows draw together. I know that distinct scent, don’t I?
“Are you quite comfortable there?”
My lips curve instinctively, not caring that Jordan’s found me in her room lying on her bed. “Not quite. Perhaps if you dimmed the lighting a little and sang me a lullaby?”
A wet towel slaps me in the face.
My eyes fly open and I drag the towel away with a chuckle. It dies quickly when I sit up on one elbow and let my gaze travel upwards. Only one word springs to mind. Delicious. Jordan’s wearing black Lycra gym shorts. They’re tiny, hugging her hips and ass in a way that makes me jealous. I want to be those gym shorts. My gaze climbs higher to the fitted tank top. It’s white and thin, satisfyingly thin, and she’s not wearing a bra. The outline of her nipples is clear and my pulse begins to thump hard. They aren’t erect. Instead, they look soft and warm beneath the snug cotton. I lick my lips. I want to run the flat of my tongue over each one in turn, and suck them inside my mouth until they harden like the sweetest candy.
“What are you doing in my room?” Her arms cross quickly over her chest when she realizes I’m staring unapologetically at her tits.
“Huh?” I mumble.
My eyes finally reach her face, and I suck in a ragged breath. I’m not sure I even let it out. It’s her. The blond jock from Business Law and Ethics who got chewed out for being late to class. Fuck me. How in the everloving hell didn’t I realize?
“What are you doing in my room?” she enunciates clearly.
I shake my head to clear it and will the hot throbbing in my cock to calm down so I can take a breath. “I was looking for evidence of a personality,” I retort and wave my hand casually, taking in the barren and boring room. “Clearly I failed.”
Laughter bubbles out and she quickly presses her lips together.
“Ha!” I shout, and the sound comes out a little hoarse. “I made you laugh.”
Though suddenly I wish I didn’t. The sound is warm and throaty and resonates deep inside me, doing nothing to cool me off. I sit up and let the damp towel fall to my lap, hiding the thickening erection in my shorts.
“Congratulations.” Jordan rolls her eyes and picks up a hoodie that’s hanging off the back of the chair by her desk. She shrugs it on quickly and pushes back the hood, mussing her long, damp hair.
“Thanks.” I scan the bare walls of her bedroom again. Textbooks are the only decoration on her shelves. Their spines add color to the stark white furniture. “So what’s with the room, Jordan? It’s like a prison cell in here.”
Jordan sinks into the chair and faces me, folding her arms. “Seen the inside of one of those, have you?”
“Nope. My record is as clean as a choirboy’s. So?” I prompt.
She shrugs. “I’m here on an international sports scholarship from Australia. There was only so much I could fit in my suitcase.”
Once again, I’m impressed. Those kinds of scholarships are hard to come by. You have to pretty much be an athletic phenomenon to get one. Now I’m feeling the compulsion to go watch Jordan play. I want to know if she lives and breathes the game as hard as I do. I want to see her in action. I want to see her out of breath and sweaty.
“Mmmm.”
“What?”
I flop back down on her bed, tucking my hands back behind my head. My eyes fix on the ceiling. I want to know about the life she left behind to come here, but I save it for another time. Instead, I ask the one that’s weighing on me the most. “Why are you tutoring me?”
“Professor Draper asked me to,” is her simple reply.
“And you agreed.”
“Well … yes.”
“Why?” I open my eyes and tilt my head on the pillow, staring hard into her eyes. “Why you?”
“My brother is dyslexic. I helped tutor him through high school.”
I grind my teeth, irritated. “So what? That somehow makes you an expert?”
Jordan’s sigh is long and deep. “Not at all. I told the professor I wasn’t professionally qualified to do something like this, but all he said was that I’m to provide you with some study mechanisms to help you through your final year.”
Fuck senior year, I want to say, but I keep that to myself. I could’ve gone pro in junior year. I shouldn’t even be here. The reason why I didn’t is nobody’s business, yet it weighs on me like a concrete block. The media was told I’d chosen to gain more experience and improve my game rather than declare for the draft. It made enough sense not to question it, but now I’m stuck, and there’s every chance I’m going to fail spectacularly.
“You think you can help me?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“I don’t know.”
“At least you’re honest,” I mutter, and my eyes return to the ceiling. She isn’t filling me with empty platitudes of false hope like I’d anticipated. I respect her for that.
“Can I ask a question now?”
I turn on my side, resting my head on my elbow, and look at her. It’s hard not to. There’s something about her that makes it difficult to drag my eyes away. Not because she’s wildly beautiful, but more like she’s authentic, I guess. A deep-seated knowing that Jordan is someone I can trust. With anything. “Okay.”
“You wanted to know why me, well … I want to know, why now? Why wait to get tutored so late in the game?”
I shrug. “I’ve never been officially diagnosed. It’s not something we acknowledge in my house.” Instead, my parents have chosen to sweep the embarrassment under the carpet. “And I’ve never been tutored.” Her eyes widen, and I know she’s wondering how I got this far on my own. Sheer force of will, maybe? “What’s the point? My brain is wired all wrong. You can’t just rewire it to make it work like everyone else’s does.” I pause for a moment, my jaw tensing, and I tell her what I’ve been told for as long as I can remember. “You can’t fix stupid.”
Jordan’s brows draw together and her lips part, and I know she’s ready to protest my statement. She has to. She’s my tutor. But I don’t want to hear it. I just don’t. For a moment I hate myself. I hate the way I am. That I can’t meet someone like her and feel like an equal. My hands curl into fists. I’m the cliché dumb jock that everyone likes to joke about and it frustrates me beyond all belief.
Thankfully her phone starts blaring a song I’m unfamiliar with and diverts her attention. She lets it ring out.
“Kyle …” she starts and I wince, because I’d actually forgotten she thought I was someone else.
Her phone starts up again and she exhales with an annoyed huff.
I raise my brows. “You gonna get that?”
“Wait here,” she orders and leaves the room.
Not likely. That’s my cue to call it a night. To go home to my apartment and tuck those angry little demons into bed. God knows they need their rest. I check my watch. Our session was supposed to finish half an hour ago.
I roll out of Jordan’s bed and meet her in the kitchen where she’s arguing with someone on the phone. After slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I get her attention.
“I’m not wearing the purple dress,” she gripes into the phone and meets my eyes. “It’s too loud.”
“I have to go,” I mouth silently.
Jordan shakes her head at me, holding up a palm for me to wait. “What’s it saying?” she says into the phone. “Here I am. Fuck me. That’s what it’s saying.”
I wave and she frowns. “I have to go,” she says. “I’ll pick you up.”
That comment seems to cause a lot of loud protesting from the other end.
“Fine. Pick me up then. See you in a bit.”
I’m already at the door when she hangs up.
“Party?” I ask.
“My first frat party.”
Jordan says it with a grimace, and while she isn’t broadcasting naïve innocence, she doesn’t really have a party animal vibe about her either, meaning it’s likely she’s a bit clueless as to how wild they can get. I have to stop myself from offering to take her because that would be a lunatic move on my part. I’m on a girl hiatus. That means no dick near, on, or in, any girl’s pussy. It’s supposed to stop me from being distracted and keep me focused on football, but I’m a healthy, horny, twenty-one-year-old male. That pretty much means I’m a walking boner. So in actual fact, this break is going to kill me instead. Or blister my right hand.
Color floods Jordan’s cheeks, and I realize I’ve been standing there holding her eyes for longer than necessary. Her tongue darts out to lick along her lower lip and my gaze drops to her mouth. It’s lush and pink, like cotton candy, and my sweet tooth is craving a taste something fierce.
“Well, enjoy,” I tell her and wrench open the front door before I do something rash, like pin her to the wall and feast on her mouth like a starving man. I pause before I step outside her apartment. “Can I offer a word of advice from a guy who’s been going to frat parties since forever?”
“Sure,” she replies, and the solitary word comes out a little breathy, like she wants me feasting on her mouth too.
I bite back a groan. “Don’t accept a drink from anyone you don’t trust with your life. Okay?”
I leave then, already halfway down the hall when she sticks her head out and yells, “Wait! What about our next—”
Turning, I walk backwards for a second. “My uncle gave me your number. I’ll call you.”
After jogging down the stairwell, I open the zipper on my bag and take out my baseball cap and sunglasses, putting them both on. It’s early evening as I thread my way around the parking lot, but there’s still a tinge of light in the sky and the air is fresh. It’s just what I need to cool the lust punching through my body as if there’s an animal under my skin waiting to be unleashed.
The hand that tugs the keys from my pocket is a little shaky, and shit I need to get home and have a cold shower. Ice cold.
Students are coming and going everywhere, the area dense with partygoers in various stages of getting where they need to be. My car stands out amongst the others. A brand-new tricked-out Chevrolet Suburban in black. Pretty much everyone on campus knows it’s mine, as do most off campus.
“’Sup, Madden!” someone calls out.
I wave but move quickly to my car, pausing to take two slips of paper from beneath the windshield wiper. Wild squeals come from nearby when I pocket them. I don’t read the notes but I know they’re phone numbers with sexually suggestive words attached. A quick glance around shows a group of blushing girls staring my way. I wonder how long they’ve been standing near my car. Jordan is the sole focus on my mind right now, so all I can do is flash them an absentminded grin as I beep the locks on my SUV.
“Yo, Brody!” A couple of junior fraternity brothers jog over, and I pause. “You coming to the party tonight?”
“Can’t. Leaving for the away game tomorrow.”
They nod their heads in tandem. “Cool.”
My phone vibrates in my shorts, so I tug it out, glancing at the screen. My father. If I don’t answer, he’ll just keep ringing until I do. Self-absorbed prick. He can’t seem to understand that the world doesn’t revolve around people kissing his ass. “I gotta get this, guys. See you later, yeah?”
They jog off in the direction they came, and I slide inside my car as I answer the phone. “Dad.”
“Your mother says you haven’t been by in two weeks. Dinner at the house, Sunday at six.”
My jaw ticks. Hello, Son, how are you? I saw you kick ass at the game this weekend. I’m so fucking proud. “We have an away game. I’m not sure I’ll be home by then.”
I will be, but I’m going to be too exhausted to deal with family drama.
“Monday then. Make sure you win,” is his parting comment before hanging up. I toss it angrily in the center cup holder and start the car, backing out quickly. When I arrive back at my apartment, Jaxon is spread out on the navy leather couch, scrolling on his phone, and Eddie’s there yelling at a game of baseball playing out on ESPN. He’s one of our outside linebackers and the biggest guy on the entire team. His elbows are resting on his knees, and he’s leaning close as though they can actually hear his screaming insults.
Eddie tears his eyes from the screen to glance at me. “Where the fuck you been?”
Jaxon looks up from his phone, the same question in his eyes.
“Sorry, Mom. Is it past curfew?”
“Not yet, Son,” he replies, smirking, and returns his eyes to the television as he speaks, “because Damien bought beer and we’re all going to the house tonight for the party.”
“I’m not going,” I tell them and veer off, dumping my bag in my room. It’s a toss-up between a cold shower or jacking off, when my stomach growls. I head for the kitchen to make a sandwich instead.
Damien’s in there. He’s got a girl pressed up against the counter, his hands up her tiny skirt and his lips attached to her neck. Her head’s thrown back, one leg around his waist as he grinds himself against her.
I reach around them and grab a loaf of bread. My head is stuck in the fridge when the girl lets out a deep moan. I turn, my arms loaded with cheese, tomato, and thick slices of ham. Damien has his fingers shoved deep inside her, and it’s all on display.
I shake my head with disgust. I’m not a prude, but unless you’re participating in some kind of wild orgy, sex is best kept private, and it’s one of the reasons why I wanted this apartment off campus.
“Dude, that’s not sanitary,” I tell him, dumping everything on the counter as far from their sexual exhibition as possible. “I’m trying to make something to eat here.”
Damien’s lips detach from the girl’s neck, but he makes no effort to move. His conquest barely acknowledges my presence. Her pupils are heavily dilated and her body languid. She’s wasted and Damien looks no better off. “You want her after?”
I pause halfway through slicing a tomato to raise my brows at him. “Do I want your seconds? No thanks, I’d rather …” My mind immediately goes to Jordan and how I want to– I cut that thought off at the knees.
The girl squeals as Damien keeps up his ministrations. “You’d rather what?”
“I’d rather concede defeat to Oklahoma.”
“Dude!” Eddie yells from the living room as I slap ham and cheese on my sandwich. “I hear that from your mouth again, I’ll wash it out with soap.”
“Yes, Mom!” I shout back.
Leaving my mess on the counter, I maneuver around the sexed-up couple and make for my room, taking a giant bite as I go.
“Oh hey, I forgot tell you.” Jaxon looks up from his phone, and the smugness on his face halts me in my tracks.
“What?” I mumble around a mouthful of ham and cheese.
“I ran into that blond chick in our law class.”
My body snaps to immediate attention, each muscle tightening. Going by the gleam in Jaxon’s eyes, I know exactly who he’s referring to. Perching myself on the arm of the couch, I pretend interest in the television as I eat my sandwich. “What blond chick?”
“The one dad chewed out. She sat next to you, remember?” Jaxon’s grin is self-assured as he tosses his phone on the coffee table, prepared to give the conversation his focus. Talking about girls—who he wants to do, who he’s done, who he won’t do—is his favorite subject. I will never understand how he can party so hard, and sleep with so many girls, while managing to maintain a perfect GPA. “I think she likes me.”
Eddie snorts. “You think anything with a pulse likes you.”
Jaxon ignores Eddie’s verbal jab. “She’s going to the frat party tonight. I’m going to make my big move,” he announces, grabbing hold of his dick over his shorts and giving it a lewd squeeze.
I swallow down the last bite of sandwich like its sawdust, and with it goes the territorial growl that was rising in my throat. When I speak, my voice comes out like sandpaper. “Yeah? What’s her name?”
“Jordan. Cool, huh? We match. Jaxon and Jordan.”
The thought of my cousin’s hands all over Jordan makes me want to snap something in two. Namely him. And it’s odd, because Jordan’s nobody special. At least not to me. She’s just my tutor.
“Oh that’s so adorable,” Eddie interjects with sarcasm and an eye roll. “Next you’ll have cutesy matching his and hers outfits.”
Eddie’s in a mood, and when he puts his right leg up on the table to elevate it, I know his old football injury pains him.
Standing up, I brush crumbs from my hands and jerk my chin at his knee. “You should put a pressure band on that.”
“Yeah,” Eddie mumbles. “I worked it too hard at the gym this morning.”
“Where are you going?” Jaxon calls out when I start for the bathroom.
“To have a shower,” I say over my shoulder. A cold one. “Looks like we’ve got a party to get to tonight.”
