Page 14 of The Groupie

Rylee

What do I do?

I hold my smirk a few beats longer than is natural, my mind immediately spinning for something to say. Not that it matters, does it? This was a one-and-done. All I need to do is walk out this door, and I’ll never see him again. Cue the disappointment surging from my pussy.

“I don’t do anything. I’m independently wealthy.”

He laughs like he thinks I’m kidding. “No, really, what’s your job?”

“I don’t have one. Really.” Inward cringe. I open the door and step into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind me as I watch his gorgeous face puzzle up.

The latch clicks, and it’s over.

Fuck. I turn away from his door as if the ornate, raised hardwood panels are frowning in accusation. I hate lying. That’s why I feel so bad right now. No job? It’s technically true. Being an Olympic snowboarder isn’t really a job. I am independently wealthy—using the word wealthy very loosely. I have enough money from sponsors to live independently. Barely.

Letting him know the truth, that I’m on the Olympic snowboarding team, would have only complicated things because he knows about my ankle injury. Besides, we’re not a thing. I don’t owe him anything. I don’t want to owe anyone anything. Especially not him. He could be dangerous.

Dangerous? Him? WTF.

Zak is history, and I’m counting on it. Though, according to my crying lady parts, it’s a damn shame. He has a knockout face and killer body, and he knows how to use it. A combination I’m experienced enough to know doesn’t come around very often. And he’s truly a nice human being—the biggest rarity of all.

Limping to the elevator, with each step, I’m literally and painfully reminded about why I’m here in Boston. Not for fun and games and not for a vacation. Partly to see a doctor about the ankle, under the radar of the Olympic team, and especially without my coach finding out. And partly to see Mamma Cass, to find out in person how bad she’s gotten. Now that I know, getting her to see a doctor is even more important.

Inside the elevator, I hit the down arrow and lean against the back wall. When my plane got in last night, I thought it a grand idea to get some release and spend one night stress-free from Olympic and family pressures. But one night will have to do, and I’ll have to finesse the fact that I didn’t come straight home last night to Mamma and Suzie.

* * *

The sun is shining, and it’s still early as I pull to the curb in front of the house with my rental car. I manage to wrangle my overnight bag out of the trunk and drag it up the crumbling walk of my old foster home in a neighborhood on the border between legit Southie and respectable—somewhere in no man’s land.

The past year since I’ve been back hasn’t improved the place any. The usual flaking paint is now peeling away in layers. The steps were crumbled at the edges, but now, half the second step is missing, and I need to be extra careful I don’t make a wrong move and end up making my sore ankle worse. It’s down to a manageable throbbing now, but I wish to hell I let Zak give me that ice pack.

Zak. I sigh as I reach the door. The guy gave me enough last night in the form of multiple orgasms and a trip to the light fantastic well past the last planet and beyond. He’s a very generous and attentive man; I’ll say that for him. But I doubt very much he’s a banker. In my experience, bankers don’t have thighs like that, bulging with muscle and covered in bruises.

Shaking my head—as if that’ll dispel the memory of him any time soon—I push open the front door and call out. “Suzie? Mamma Cass, I’m home. Where’s the Olympic welcoming committee? I don’t hear any marching bands.” Instead, I hear a hoot in response as I walk through the living room to the kitchen, where I smell freshly brewed coffee, and the sudden craving makes my ankle pain disappear. Something about coming home warms a person, even when said home is turning into a shithole, when you remember it as a comfortable haven from the harsh world out there.

“There you are.” Suzie meets me on the threshold with a hug and takes my bag from me, thank God. “For some reason, I thought you were arriving last night.”

I shake my head, return her hug, then head straight for Mamma. She’s sitting in her rocking chair overlooking the window where the sunshine streams in every morning. The sparkle in her eyes hits me first, followed closely by the sparkle of the oversized rhinestone-studded glasses she always wears. She puts down her coffee and gives me a big hug as she stands. I hug her formidable form and notice it’s shrunk since last time. Or is she shorter?

I can’t stay away this long again. But I’ve said this to myself every year since I left when I was eighteen and she promised to keep my room waiting untouched for as long as I wanted it, even if I had gray hair like hers.

“Your hair is longer and wilder,” Suzie says as she hands me a cup of coffee. “I like it. Matches your personality.” She’s as gorgeous and model-thin as ever. Her classic face reminds me of old-fashioned movie star’s and even with her bushy blond hair up in a ponytail, she’s a stunner.

“The hair is courtesy of an all-nighter,” I say, though I don’t specify that said night was spent in a bed with a man who could win the Olympics in the sex-stud event. He’d get my vote anyway. Or maybe it would be a pairs event, and I could volunteer to be his partner…

“Sight for sore eyes,” Mamma says. “Have a seat and tell us the behind-the-scenes details about the Olympic snowboarding team. How’s Chuck treating you?”

The mention of Chuck, aka Charles Banner, the Olympic snowboard team coach and a former fling, makes me groan inwardly, but I maintain a smile and sip my coffee. I take the seat, grateful to be sitting and wish I could put my foot up, but I don’t want to draw attention or let them know about the ankle injury. With any luck, it’ll fade away quietly and quickly, and I won’t ever need to mention it.

“This coffee is so good. I’ve missed your coffee, Mamma.”

“So, what’s going on?” Mamma asks.

“The usual. I was shooting a promotion not far from The USANA Center for Excellence in Park City, Utah, where the team trains, and I had a chance to take a break, so I took it. The promotion pays good money. Better than usual.”

“Answer my question, Rylee. Why visit now? You should be training like the rest of your team. The Olympic games start in less than two months.”

Shit, but she’s a wary old lady. Then again, she has every reason to be since I’m hiding the truth from her, for her own good.