Текст книги "The Game Plan"

Автор книги: Kristen Callihan

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Chapter Forty-Four

Dex

I don’t go home. I can’t.

Rolondo takes me to his apartment. I head straight to his guest room and into the shower. I hadn’t bothered washing up at the stadium, just sat on a flimsy chair in front of my spot until the guys came back in and Rolondo hustled me out of there.

Now I stand beneath cold water, letting it pummel me. Images flash through my mind: Fi’s smile. Fi crying. Norris’s ugly grin, blood running down his nose. Fi arching beneath me as I take her. Fi and me laughing in a grainy picture. Fi telling me she wants to go to London.

She asked for the money.

Black rage, thick, hot, and choking, surges up my throat. My shout shatters the air as my fist smashes into the tiles. Pain explodes in my hand, but it takes me a moment to stop.

Slumping against the stall, I stare down at my split knuckles, the blood thin and pale as it mixes with the water beating down on it. Tentatively, I make a fist. The skin stings, but nothing else.

Stupid. Fucking stupid to risk a busted hand. I ought to be horrified. I’m not. My mind’s on that picture of Fi, a once-beautiful private moment reduced to something ugly and cheap. Does she hate me for giving that chick the opportunity to steal my phone? Was that why?

It makes no sense. Nothing does. I think of Fi and everything she told me last night. She wouldn’t do this. There has to be more.

Chest tight, I run my uninjured hand over my wet face, and my fingers tangle in my beard. Again comes the rage, sticky and thick, as if it’s coated my insides like hot tar. Pushing away from the wall, I wrench off the shower.

When I emerge, Rolondo has stepped out, probably thinking I need to be alone. He’s right.

The pain in my busted knuckles keeps me focused. For so long, pain was the one real thing in my life. Taste the pain, ignore the rest.

By the time I find what I’m looking for under his bathroom sink, the room is a mess. I don’t give a ripe fuck. My chest heaves as I stand and look in the mirror. For so long, I didn’t know who the fuck I was. Only with Fi did I feel right, at ease within my flesh. The world has tainted that too.

To hell with it.

Grimly, I lift the razor and press it to my skin.

Fi

With an excess of nervous energy zinging through me, I decide to bake some biscuits. Ivy was right; I do know how to bake. I just tend to do it for emergency purposes only. Right now, baking is the only thing I can think of to calm my shaking hands and reaffirm that Ethan’s home is my home too.

It’s been a weird day between demanding my money from Bloom and setting up an interview with the press to explain why I did it. Ivy helped me with that, choosing a sympathetic sports reporter—a woman so I would feel more comfortable.

We held the interview through Skype. Ivy had joined from her home in San Francisco, acting as Dex’s agent and my moral support.

I was so nervous I feared I might throw up just seconds before we went on air. But then a strange sort of cool calm came over me as I told the reporter of my plans for the money. I didn’t speak about the pictures or how it felt to be exposed, and Ivy shut down those questions every time they were asked. The truth is, none of that mattered.

What matters is that Bloom’s dirty money will be put to good use. One million dollars to help stop childhood hunger and homelessness.

I went as far as throwing down a gauntlet to Bloom, daring them to double their money and do good for once. I don’t expect them to, but it was satisfying to make them squirm.

Ivy thought it was a most excellent fuck you to Bloom and all the haters. I’m just happy it’s over. I want to get back to my life, to focus on my furniture making, and most importantly, on Ethan.

There hadn’t been time to tell him what I was doing and why. He was at his game, and I was too anxious to wait, afraid I’d chicken out.

But it’s done now. I feel lighter, free. All that remains is to explain it to Ethan and tell him I’m staying right here where I belong.

The joy I feel in knowing he’s mine, in being with him, is so strong it scares me. I want to guard it with my entire soul. I want to tuck big, strong, capable Ethan Dexter to my side and protect him from the world.

It makes absolutely no sense; he doesn’t need my protection. But the desire is there just the same. I don’t want him to be unhappy or vulnerable to the vultures out there. I want—need—him to know how much he’s loved.

I know he feels the same about me. It’s in his every touch, every word, look, and smile he gives me. With him, here in this home he’s made, I feel that safety.

Only now I’m afraid I might have fucked up by not warning him. Highlights from the game show him being ejected for starting a brawl. I’ve watched the footage over and over, my mouth gaping. Ethan never fights, never really loses his temper at all.

God, but he looked so angry, blood and sweat running down his face as he pummeled the shit out of a player on the other team.

At first I thought maybe he was fighting because of a disparaging remark the guy made about me. But now I’m not so sure. Because the game is long over, and Ethan still isn’t home.

When I tried to call him, I found his phone sitting on his dresser, forgotten in his haste to be on time today.

Short of roaming the city for him, I can only stay here and bake and wait.

I’m pulling a tray of biscuits out of the oven when I hear him come in. “Ethan?”

The sound of his car keys falling into the bowl on the front console fills the silence. Then he speaks, his voice deep. “Yep.”

One word. I shouldn’t read anything into it, but he sounds off.

“I hope you’re hungry,” I say in a bright voice, trying to sound upbeat. “I’m making biscuits and was thinking about getting some gumbo from down the street.”

Footsteps thud across the floorboards, and Ethan appears.

A biscuit drops from my fingers to the floor as I behold the man standing at the threshold of the kitchen. He’s tall, broad, and muscular, his eyes jewel bright. The line of his jaw is a clean sweep, his smooth chin stubborn, firm, and unfamiliar to me. This man doesn’t have a beard. Or much hair. All that glorious, sun-streaked brown hair has been shorn off close to his skull.

And he stands there—hands shoved in his pockets, a gray cotton button-down shirt straining at his shoulders—looking so different I hardly recognize him. Younger, more vulnerable. Exposed.

“Why?” I warble, my heartbeat thudding in my throat.

He shrugs, his gaze sliding away. “Felt the need for a change.”

In a daze, I walk to him. He keeps his head down, the squared-off hinge of his jaw bunching as if he’s grinding his teeth.

“Ethan.” My hand touches his smooth cheek. God. His beard. His thick, lustrous beard is gone. A deep pang of mourning rips through me. “Why?”

He shakes his head. Once, as if to say, don’t ask me. Don’t make me say it.

But I know. With a cry, I fling myself on him. And he gathers me up, holds me against him as I press my face into the warm hollow of his throat. He smells the same. Exactly the same. Like birthdays, Christmas morning, and pancakes at midnight.

I’ve needed to feel his solid strength and hear his steady breath, more than I realized. Tears well hot and heavy in my eyes as my fingers find the back of his shorn head.

I must be choking him, my arms are wrapped around his neck so tightly. But I can’t stop. I want to be closer, under his skin, or maybe tuck him under mine where I can keep him as safe as I can. Sobs burst out of me, rapid fire.

Ethan’s arm wraps more snuggly around my waist, his big, warm hand on the back of my head. “You’re crying over the loss of my beard.” He doesn’t sound upset but as if he’s confirming a long-suspected belief.

And it breaks my heart. Somehow I manage to let him go enough to look up at his face. His eyes are solemn, sad, as if he hates seeing me cry but doesn’t know what to do about it.

His thumb brushes my wet cheeks, but he doesn’t say anything, just lets me look at his now-smooth face.

I cup one of his cheeks, press my palm against skin that’s warm and tight. “I’m crying because you thought this outer shell meant more to me than what’s inside of you.”

His big body jerks in surprise, but I cling, not letting him go. As if he’s too tired to keep his head up, he bends down and buries his face in the crook of my neck.

Gently, I stroke his head, his close-cropped hair bristly yet soft. “You think I kissed you that first time—that I wanted you—because of a beard? You couldn’t be more wrong. It was because you were a sexy-as-fuck, sly-as-all-hell charmer who grabbed my attention and held it.”

A muffled grunt blows into my hair.

“I mean, look at you,” I say, even though we’re still clutching each other and I can’t see anything. But my memory is just fine. I think of his solemn eyes and that mouth of his, that soft, wide, pouty mouth. “I’m in serious danger of having a young Marlon Brando Street-Car-Named-Desire moment here. I kind of want you to tear at your shirt and shout ‘Stella!’ Or I guess it should be ‘Fiona!””

Ethan snorts, but it sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. Still, tension vibrates along his strong body, and I know he remains upset.

When he finally answers, his voice is raw. “Rather hear you shout my name, Cherry.”

“So make me.”

He doesn’t move, only grows stiffer.

“Ethan, I loved your beard, but I love you more.”

He blinks down at me, then he swallows hard as if trying to clear his throat. “I love you too, Cherry.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Feels like I’ve loved you forever. I thought you knew that.”

There’s an accusation in his voice—soft but there all the same.

“I do, Ethan. You’ve been so good to me.”

His grip flexes on my hips. “Then why did you do it? Why did you take the money?”

Surprise freezes me to the spot. He stares down at me, no longer soft but completely hard, stark devastation and cold anger in his eyes.

Chapter Forty-Five

Fiona

Ethan has never looked at me in anger. It’s a horrible thing to see it now. “I can explain,” I say.

He scoffs. “Just the words a guy wants to hear after he’s been metaphorically kicked in the teeth by his woman.”

My breath pushes out in an anxious rush. “I’m not going to London.”

Not the best opener. Based on the sidelong look he gives me, Ethan clearly thinks so too.

“Okay. And that has to do with taking Bloom’s fuck-money how?”

Wincing, I try to touch his chest, but he backs away, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he goes. The fact that he no longer wants to touch me, that he’s putting physical distance between us, has my insides tumbling.

“I realized that going to London was just me running away—”

“No shit,” he cuts in, his voice flat, his gaze blazing with tamped anger. But it’s slowly starting to simmer. He looks so different without his beard, his head shaved close to his skull. His features are stern and unforgiving.

I clutch my skirt with cold fingers. “Right, so…thing is, I didn’t want to run any more. I demanded the money from Bloom because I knew that would end it.”

Another ugly snort leaves him, and he shakes his head. “Well, it certainly does end things—”

“No, Ethan,” I say, stepping forward. “Not like that. I’m giving the money to your charity. All one million. Ivy and I had a press conference. I said I was donating it on your behalf, because Bloom getting sleazy PR by exploiting your personal life should come to some good.”

He stills, his eyes narrowing. “You gave it to charity?”

“Of course. Did you really think I’d claim that disgusting prize for myself?” I swallow hard, trying not to be offended at the idea. I ought to have warned him.

Ethan’s shoulders bunch with tension. “No. But I didn’t know what to think, Fiona. I had some fucking linebacker laughing in my face, telling me my girl went for the money.”

“Baby…I’m so sorry.” I take a step forward.

But he backs away, his face closed off. Regret punches through me.

“Do you have any idea what it did to me,” he grinds out. “To hear it from someone else? Because, let me tell you, not a single fucking person on that field knew about you giving the money to charity. They looked at me like I was a massive dupe, a fucking joke.”

Shit. I didn’t consider the lag time between asking for the money and my interview, which should be airing right about now.

“I’m so sorry, Ethan. You’re right. I should have warned you. I wasn’t thinking. I just… I wanted to set us free. I needed to take the wind from their sails. Taking that money and giving it to your charity? What can anyone say about us now?”

He expels a breath. “Okay, fine. But we should have done it together.”

I give a jerky nod, misery spreading. “I’m sorry.”

Ethan laughs without humor, tilting his head back to blink up at the ceiling. “God. You cut me off at the knees out there, Fi. I walked into that blind.”

“Ethan—”

“I know,” he says with a terse snarl. “You’re sorry. You didn’t mean it.” He glances at me, and there’s no joy in the look. “Believe me, I’m trying to get over it. But you were my safe harbor, Fi. The one person I’ve never had to worry about…”

He spits out a curse and turns away, as if he can’t look at me.

“You’re my safe harbor too,” I say, holding back a sob. “I messed up. I never wanted to hurt you. I didn’t think—”

“No,” he shouts, “you didn’t.”

Emotion punches into my chest, and I snap. “Damn it, Ethan. I’ve been hurting here too! It wasn’t your naked picture spread all over the Internet. You’re not the one being called a whore or having fucking creepers comment on your body!”

“You think I don’t know that?” He takes a step toward me as a deep flush works its way up his neck. “You think it doesn’t fucking gut me that I caused it? You know it does.”

“Then don’t rip into me for finally taking control of the situation! Because your whole ‘no comment’ stance wasn’t doing the fucking job.”

He freezes and frowns at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Shit, did you do it this way because you were pissed at me?”

All the air leaves my lungs. I practically choke as I stumble back. “Did you just say that? Did you just fucking accuse me? Fuck you, Ethan!”

His face twists. “Don’t get all righteous on me. I’m allowed to question this.”

“Then don’t you go getting all righteous on me,” I snap back, stabbing my finger in the air. “I get that I fucked up. I get that you’re mad. But you have no right to—”

“I’ve no right?” His expression is feral now, teeth bared, muscles bulging. “Because I’m calm, sensible Dex? The guy who takes a beating and gets back up without complaint? Well, too fucking bad. I am mad. And I’m sorry if that offends you, but I’m not going to suck this up. Not yet. Not fucking yet, Fiona!”

I hate the sound of my name on his lips—no longer reverent but a curse. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I whisper.

His chin tilts up. “I know that. I know you didn’t mean it, but…shit.” He begins to pace, his hands going to his head to pull at his hair, which is no longer there. Agitation makes his steps jerky, his arms restless. “I know. I’m just. Fuck, it. I can’t—” He takes a deep breath and then another.

I see the moment he totally loses his shit, like a dam that can no longer hold back the flood. He cracks with a long, ragged cry. “Fuck!” He slams the side of his fist against the aged brick wall. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Every curse punctuated by a punch.

“Ethan. Calm down—”

“No!” he shouts over me, his eyes on the wall. A sheen of sweat covers his skin, glistening over his biceps. “No. I’m so fucking sick of always being the rational one! Well, guess what? I’m done.”

His voice rises with every word, going to full-on bellow. “I’m pissed. At everything. I’m just…fucking pissed, Fi!”

Noted.

I bite my lip, tears smarting. This isn’t just about today. It’s everything that’s come before. It’s Ethan never allowing himself to fully let go until now.

With a guttural cry, he turns, tearing one of his paintings from the wall. It flies through the air, spinning like a pizza box before crashing into the far wall, the frame snapping.

I can only stand silent as he shouts, his voice filled with pain and rage. He punches the edge of the heavy wooden bookcase that divides the living room and a small reading nook. “Just—motherfucking shit!”

Books soar across the room as he hurls them in rapid succession.

I’ve always wondered how it would be for Ethan to totally lose it. Now I know. And it breaks my heart. Because I know his rage right now is pain, a soul deeply hurt that has no other outlet but to burn, hot and violent.

A sob of frustration rips from his chest, and he braces himself against the bookcase. For a second, I think he’s calmed.

An ungodly roar tears from him, and his muscles bulge as he pushes against the bookcase, which is bolted to the floor. The whole structure creaks, threatening to topple.

“Ethan,” I shout. “Careful—”

But I’m too late. The massive case tips too far and smashes to the floor with such force that the house shakes. I jump back, plastering myself to the wall as broken pottery shards, knickknacks, and books fly everywhere.

It scares the shit out of me. I know he’d ever hurt me, but the base violence of the act rattles my bones.

He stands there, his muscles straining, his chest heaving. He blinks rapidly as if to clear his thoughts, but that crazed look is still there.

“Okay,” I say through a breath. “That’s it.”

I turn, grabbing my bag and coat off the hook.

“Fi!” Ethan’s shout blasts over my skin. “You walk out that door—”

I don’t hear the rest because I’ve already slammed it shut.

Dex

The red haze that clouds my vision blows away with the slam of the door. For too long, I simply stare at the empty space Fiona used to occupy, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. And then what I’ve done hits me like a blindside tackle. My breath leaves in a whoosh, and I struggle to find it again.

“Fi!” I stumble forward, tripping over the stupid bookshelf. “Shit. Shit!”

Hopping over the case and picking my way through the mess slows me down.

Shit, I’m such an asshole. I had a total mantrum, and now I’ve scared the hell out of her. The expression in her eyes was terrorized. And that’s all on me.

I wrench open the door and race down the stairs.

“Fi!” I don’t see her, but she can’t have gone far.

Outside, rain is coming down in hard sheets. I’m instantly drenched, my vision obscured as water runs into my eyes. I wipe my face, scan the gloomy courtyard. Empty.

Shouting her name, I run toward the garage. She isn’t there. Isn’t in the studio.

My heart pounds, fear and regret squeezing at my chest. I knew the moment I saw her anguished look that she hadn’t meant to hurt me, hurt us. And still I lost it. I said horrible things, made her afraid. I think of the room I wrecked in front of her and feel sick.

Bracing my hands on my wet knees, I try to breathe, to think of where she might be. It occurs to me that she might have gone out the front entrance. But the street is dark and empty, except for the lone, hunched vagrant in the distance, picking his way through garbage bins, his shape a black blob beneath the hazy streetlight.

With a sigh, I sink down to sit on my doorstep, unwilling to go back inside. Rivers of dirty water rush along the gutter. Rain comes down so hard it bounces off the pavement. I sit with my knees up, holding my head in my hands as if it can stop the ache. I sit until I’m soaked to the skin. But I’m not going to move. Not until Fi returns.

Hell, she might not return. Have I lost her?

The idea that she might think I don’t want her any more closes my throat.

“Hey there, fella.” The old homeless man stands in front of me. His tattered overcoat seems to be keeping him fairly dry, though water beads in his gray hair and runs down his ruddy face.

“Take this.” He hands me what used to be an umbrella, the spines broken and hanging higgledy-piggledy. It wouldn’t protect against a mist, much less this. But it’s his, and he’s offering.

I blink up at him, shocked and feeling like shit, but find my voice. “That’s okay, man. Can’t get much wetter.”

He lets out a raspy laugh, tucking the umbrella back into the basket-cart at his side. “Ain’t that the truth.” He nods toward the night sky. “Bad weather will blow past. Always does.”

I want to laugh until I cry, but I nod and reach into my pocket for my wallet. He sees me and holds up a hand. “No need for that. No need at all. I’m getting on home now.”

I’ve seen him around and know this is a lie. But pride is a powerful thing, and so I push my wallet back. “Have a good evening, mister.”

He leaves me to silence and the sound of the rain pattering against the pavement. And I sit back, my head thumping against my front door and close my eyes.

Pride. I thought I was so fucking humble, above it all. But my pride kept me from going after Fi when I first saw her. It’s kept me from demanding the things I want in life until it was easy. And it had me lashing out when I should have listened.

Fucking pride.

“Ethan?”

My eyes spring open. Fi stands a few feet away, holding a grocery bag in her hands. Illuminated by the gas lantern hanging over our door, her little frame is dwarfed by her big yellow raincoat. I scramble to my feet, my sneakers squeaking on the pavers.

“Fi.” I take a step forward, my chest heaving. “Cherry, I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know.”

“All that stupid shit I said, I was just—”

She takes a step too. “You don’t have to explain. Everyone deserves to howl at the moon at some point. And you’ve had a shitty day. A shitty month, really.”

We’ve both had a shitty time of it, yet she wasn’t the one who went into Hulk-Smash mode. “I shouldn’t have trashed the room. I scared you.”

She frowns, and rainwater trickles down her cheeks like tears. “What scares me more is that you believe you need to hide your emotions.”

My throat works on a noisy swallow, and I have to blink away the rain drops that blind me.

“What’s really bothering you?” she asks when I don’t speak.

“I liked it,” I confess in a tight voice, my eyes finding hers. “Allowing myself to let go.” It had relieved a pressure I’d felt building for what seems like forever.

She gives me a small smile. “It’s okay to get angry or upset, you know. If all this has taught me anything, it’s that we can’t plan life. It just happens. If you hold on too tight, you might break. And I don’t ever want to see you broken, Ethan.”

I don’t have it in me to explain the stark, gray terror I felt when I realized she was gone. If losing my temper meant losing her, I’d hold onto it as tight as I could. Because without her, I’d be broken anyway. “Being with you. Loving you—You make me feel everything.”

Another step and she’s within touching distance. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“No. I was numb before you. I want to feel. I just… I don’t want to scare you. I got angry, and you left. I thought….” My breath hitches. “You left.”

Green eyes stare up at me through clumped, wet lashes. “I needed air. You needed to cool down.”

“You didn’t let me finish back there. If you leave, I’ll follow. I’ll always follow.”

“I know that. In fact, I’m counting on it. But I’m done running. You’re stuck with me, Big Guy.” She raises her hand a little, showing me the bag she’s holding. “I just thought I’d get you some gumbo. It’s cold and raining, and you love it—”

I grab hold of her and haul her close, wrapping her up in my arms. My lips find hers, cold and wet but perfect. I slip my tongue into her warm mouth where she tastes of rain and Fi. I cup her cheeks, try to warm her skin, and kiss her until I can’t breathe.

She leans into me, her raincoat squeaking, her soft breasts plump against my chest. Somehow we’re both apologizing in the kiss, breaking apart and coming back together again and again, soft, deep, finding new angles.

With every touch of her mouth to mine, the tight knot inside my chest eases. I’ve made a habit of locking up my emotions and hiding them from the world. But this girl—the one who inspired me to sing my ass off on a stage, who brings me gumbo when I’ve shown her my worst—she makes me whole. She helped me find myself.

Fi is done running, and I am over hiding. It’s as simple as that.

Our lips drift apart. Rain turns the world into a blur, but my mind is clear. “I love you. I don’t say that enough. Just know that whatever I do, wherever I am, it is a constant refrain in my heart. You color my world, Fi.”

She smiles up at me, her skin glistening and her eyes bright. Gently she touches my cheek with her free hand. “Ethan, I might not be perfect, but no one will ever love you more than I do.”

I don’t think I knew how much I needed to hear those words until she says them. I rest my forehead against hers. I’m freezing, but my heart is finally warm again. I snuggle her closer.

“You are perfect, Cherry. You’re my kind of perfect.”

“You’re my kind of perfect too, Ethan Dexter.”

That’s all I’ve ever needed.