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She gave me a look that said,bitch, who you kiddin’? “Okay, fine. How was the kiss, then?” My response was to curl my lips between my teeth to keep from admitting that she was right. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. So, he kissed you, and let me guess, you ran off.”
Ding, ding, ding, ding! And the prize goes to...
“What did you expect me to do? I mean, sure, it was hot, okay?” I admitted petulantly. “It wasfreaking hot. But I’ve let this guy in twice now, andtwice, he’s done a one eighty, hurting my feelings in the process.”
She held her hands up. “Hey, I get it. And I don’t blame you. Once burned, twice shy, and all that jazz. But now that he’s back in town, I’m not so sure running is going to be an option.”
“Tell me about it,” I grumbled as I brought the mug to my lips and took a drink. I really wished there was booze in it. “He stared Mike down during our date like he wanted to set him on fire or something, freaking the poor guy out. Then he followed me when I got up to use the restroom, pinned me against the wall, and told me I messed up by going on a date with another man two days after he’d had his tongue down my throat. He said I was his, that I’d been his since I gave him my virginity, that the kiss at the beach only solidified that. And that Mike couldn’t touch me the way he did.”
“Jesus,” Colbie whispered with big owl eyes. “I think I just had a mini-orgasm.”
I slapped my hands over my face and let out a pained groan. “I know,” I whined. “What’s wrong with us that we think that domineering, bossy shit is hot?”
“Not a damn thing, if you ask me. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be treated like you’re precious one moment, then have a man completelydestroyyou in the bedroom the next.”
God, now I was turned on again. This was such a freaking mess.
“So, what do I do now?” I asked, panic laced through my words. I was desperate for her to tell me what to do.
“Honestly, babe, I don’t know. All I can tell you to do is follow your gut, and I’ll support whatever you decide. But from everything you’ve told me, this guy doesn’t seem like one who backs down when he wants something, and I’m afraid, my beautiful little friend, he’s got his sights set on you.”
Chapter Eighteen
BEAU
I heftedthe box markedofficeoff the living room floor and carried it to the correct room. The process of unpacking was happening at a turtle’s pace, but I was slowly getting there. Along with the kitchen, I’d also managed to unpack my bedroom and bathroom, a guest room, and was now working on the downstairs office.
Once I finished in here, I’d start on the living room. It would be nice to finally be able to hook my television up. My assistant had taken care of having the cable turned on before I’d even moved in, but with most of the boxes I wasn’t sure what to do with piled in the living room, I hadn’t been able to set everything up. I was the kind of guy who liked to have the television playing in the background, creating white noise for me as I went about whatever I was doing, and not being able to do that lately had made things pretty boring.
I could only watchThe Officeon my phone or laptop for so long before the small screens started to hurt my eyes.
My house was slowly starting to look like a home, as opposed to the nightmare maze fromThe Shining, only with cardboard boxes instead of hedges, and now that I could see everythingcoming together, I was starting to feel more settled. Like I belonged. There had been more times than I could count where I’d come home from a long day at work and cursed myself when I saw the mess still ready and waiting for me. My finger had hovered over the number for the company that came in and set your house up for you, but now that I could actually see the results of the long, tedious hours I’d put in, there was a sense of accomplishment I’d never felt before.
As embarrassing as it was to admit, I’d never actually done anything like this before. When I left for college, my mom had taken over packing my shit up when she didn’t like how I’d been doing it, and the same thing happened when we got to my dorm room at OU. When I’d been drafted, the team had paid to move me out to Arizona and an interior decorator had come in and set my house up before I even got there. With flying back and forth for job interviews and campus visits, I hadn’t had the time to pack myself this go-round, but I was determined to do theunpacking without any help. I was a thirty-four-year-old man, for Christ’s sake. It really was the little things that pointed out the fact a person was an entitled ass, wasn’t it?
I dropped the box onto the desk and grabbed the box cutter, slicing through the tape that sealed it closed.
I removed a bunch of basic office supplies before my fingers brushed across the top of a spiral-bound notebook I hadn’t seen in a very long time. My heart shot up, lodging itself in my throat as I gently lifted it from the box. I actually thought I’d lost it years ago. I didn’t know where the packers had found it, but the relief that coursed through me now that I had it back in my hands was enough to make my shoulders sag.
Everything else was forgotten the moment I pulled my old sketchpad out of the box and flipped it open. I fell into the desk chair as soon as my eyes landed on that very first sketch of Presley, my fingers tracing over the pencil lines. It was crude andunpolished, the very start of my foray into sketching, but, like football, it was something that I had a knack for, and the more I practiced, the better I got.
And this tablet was filled with sketch after sketch of my favorite subject in the whole world. The one person who moved me beyond words with just a simple look. I flipped through the pages, watching as each one got a little better. Images I’d drawn from memory because I couldn’t have anything else.
I couldn’t possibly count the number of hours I spent trying to perfect these drawings until I was finally happy with them, until I felt like they captured the beauty that was Presley. As I reached the end of the sketchpad, I flipped to the pages that had been ripped out, frayed pieces of paper still clinging to the spiraled metal holding the book together.
I still remembered that day with perfect clarity. My father barging into my room and catching me working on another Presley sketch. The violent shade of red his face turned as he snatched the pad from my hands and began ripping the pages out, shredding them to pieces that littered my bedroom floor. Mostly I remembered the burning pain in my chest as I stared down at those tattered pieces of paper, feeling like I’d lost her all over again.
I’d hidden the sketchbook after that, never daring to draw in it again. I couldn’t risk him catching me and taking even more of her away.
My phone rang, yanking me from the painful fog of memories. I pulled it from my back pocket and smiled at the name that flashed across the screen.
“Romero,” I answered. “You missing me already?”
“Depends,” my friend replied. “You gotten fat and lazy yet?”
I let out a hearty laugh. “Not yet, man. So, tell me, how’s the slowest running back in NFL history doing?”
His rich chuckle carried through the line. Luis Romero and I had played together for five years before my retirement, hitting it off the moment he arrived, a trade all the way from Tampa, and, while I’d been friends with most everyone on the team, he was the one I’d always been closest to.
