Coming Apart at the Seams (13 page)

“Priest, you are a fucking
god
,” Quinn proclaimed, slapping Nick on the back and giving him a one-armed hug.

“Agreed,” Cal said and duplicated Quinn's actions when his brother stepped away.

Nick laughed at their exuberance. He'd invited Quinn and Cal to Miami to attend the Super Bowl and, depending on the outcome of the game, help him celebrate a win or mourn a loss.

He hadn't seen the brothers since he'd moved to Boston, and he was excited to hang out with them. The three of them planned to have a few drinks in the hotel bar before stopping by a couple of parties. Tomorrow morning, they'd probably wake up with pain in their heads and strange women in their beds.

The bar was closed to the public for exclusive team use, and the three of them settled into one of the circular booths in the corner. The server came by a minute later to take their order, and once she'd left, Nick slouched against the booth.

He was still hyped up from the game, but he also was exhausted. The season was over. His team had won it all, and he'd caught the winning touchdown. He couldn't believe it. It was something every pro football player dreamed of . . . the pinnacle of success.

For a heartbeat, when the ball had bounced off his fingers,
he'd been sure it was over. He still didn't know how he had caught it as it had plummeted toward the turf. It had been a once-in-a-lifetime kind of catch.

The server delivered their beers, and he took a swallow of his Blue Moon. He'd had a few beers in his suite, and he already had a nice buzz going on.

He usually avoided over-imbibing because a few of his Denver teammates had told him he talked a lot when he was drunk. No one mentioned his stutter, and he figured that was because they expected a drunk to trip over his words. But tonight he was with friends, and he didn't have to be so careful.

A group of women walked by, all hotter than hell. They wore short dresses and stilettos, and he enjoyed the view along with Quinn and Cal.

“The women in Miami are so . . .” Cal hesitated, clearly trying to find the right word. “Fuckable,” he concluded.

Nick laughed. They were indeed.

“Did you see that tall redhead?” Cal asked, nudging Quinn's arm.

“I'm not a fan of redheads,” Quinn responded, his lip curling with distaste. “They're pale and freckly.”

“You don't know what you're missing,” Cal said, waggling his eyebrows. “They've got freckles in some very interesting places.”

“I'll take your word for it,” Quinn replied dryly before turning to Nick and holding up his beer bottle. “To an incredible catch.”

Cal raised his bottle. “To an incredible catch,” he repeated.

The three of them tapped their bottles. Nick laughed and shook his head.

“I still can't believe I caught that goddamn ball.”

“Neither can I,” Quinn stated emphatically. “It's going to go down in the history books as the most amazing catch ever made in a Super Bowl game. I guarantee it.”

“How do you feel now that you've won your first Super Bowl?” Cal asked, sounding remarkably like a sports reporter.

“Might be the only one.”

“Bullshit,” Quinn countered. “You're at the top of your game.”

Nick smiled. He felt pretty amazing. The only thing that would make him happier was if Teagan were there to celebrate with him.

The smile slid from his face.
Teagan.

He was supposed to be over her by now. He hadn't seen her in months, but apparently the phrase “out of sight, out of mind” didn't apply to her.

Today, the thought of Teagan had prevented his humiliation in front of the whole world. He had tried to make his way off the field as soon as the game ended, knowing he'd be swarmed with people, but a cute little blond reporter from ESPN had caught him right before he'd reached the tunnel.

Shoving a mic in his face, she'd asked: “How do you feel about winning the Super Bowl your first season with the Colonials?”

As he had stared into the unblinking black eye of the camera, he'd thought about Teagan. He'd imagined they were eating takeout in her condo, and she'd asked him how his day had been. He pretended that he was talking to her, and by some miracle, he managed to squeeze out “Good” without stuttering.

After that, he'd practically sprinted back to the locker room. He had skipped the post-game press conference, and he knew everyone would have plenty to say about that. The media would probably blast him, and fans would think he was an asshole.

He had already been fined by the NFL commissioner for not attending the pre-Super Bowl media events. All team members were required to attend at least one pregame press conference or pay a hefty fine. But Nick was more than happy to pay it as long as he didn't have to open his mouth in public.

“Did your dad come to the game?” Quinn asked.

“He said he w-w-w-was going to. Haven't seen him, though.”

Nick shrugged, trying not to show how much it hurt that his only living parent couldn't bother to show up for the single most important game of his pro career. He hadn't received a text or a phone call from his dad to congratulate him on the win, either.

He'd called Simon after the Colonials had won the division playoffs. The conversation had been awkward even though he used all of his speech techniques to avoid stuttering as much as possible.

He had offered to send his dad a ticket to the Super Bowl, and Simon had agreed to attend. But he'd warned Nick that he couldn't stay in Miami to visit, since he had to catch a plane to
Abu Dhabi for an economic summit. Apparently, he'd decided to bypass the game and go directly to the conference.

Nick didn't want to talk about his dad anymore, so he directed his attention back to Quinn and Cal. He was eager to catch up on their lives.

“Anything new?” he asked.

“I bought a house,” Quinn replied. “It's a big Victorian in Laurel Heights.”

“W-w-w-with your trust fund?” Nick queried, smirking a little.

He loved to rag the O'Brien boys about their cushy, trust-fund lifestyle. But it
was
a joke because they were two of the hardest-working men he knew.

“Priest, you don't have any room to talk. Your bank account has more zeroes than mine,” Quinn said. “But my dick is still bigger.”

Nick chuckled, ignoring the slur. He didn't have any insecurities about the size of his penis or what he could do with it.

“I w-w-w-work for my money,” he reminded them.

“You call strutting around with no shirt for a deodorant commercial ‘work'?” Quinn sneered. Cal laughed and fist-bumped his brother.

“Are you living in the house?” Nick asked Cal. The brothers had lived together in a condo in San Francisco's Cow Hollow neighborhood for the past several years.

“
Hell, no.
You know Quinn is a slob. I couldn't handle his mess anymore.”

They had finished their beers and ordered another round. Nick spotted several of his teammates in the bar, and all of them were just as buzzed as he was. Some were already plastered.

“What are you going to do now that you've won the big game?” Quinn asked.

“Relax.”

“So you're going to have sex,” Cal quipped. “That's how I relax.”

Cal's comment made him think about Teagan and her claim that she was too tense. He ground his teeth, wondering if she had gone ahead with her plans to have sex with Marshall, the nice guy from Texas who loved football.

When she had told him she'd been dating Marshall, a wave
of jealously unlike any he'd ever felt had crashed over him, and he had acted like a caveman. It was irrational, but he hated to think of her with another man.

He hated to think of someone else finding pleasure inside her luscious body. He knew he couldn't touch her, but he didn't want anyone else to, either.

“What's the matter, Priest?” Cal asked. “You have a weird look on your face.”

Nick stared at him, wondering what Cal would do if Nick admitted he wanted to have sex with Teagan. He imagined Cal would smash his beer bottle over Nick's head before trying to gut him with the broken glass.

And when Cal was done with him, Quinn would step in. Nick winced at the thought because the older O'Brien brother had an upper cut to rival Mike Tyson.

“He's probably thinking about a woman he'd like to have sex with,” Quinn said. “Am I right?”

Nick jerked toward Quinn, who had a speculative glint in his blue eyes. They looked so much like Teagan's he had a hard time tearing his gaze from them.

“No,” he answered, lying straight to their faces.

There was a woman: their little sister. Their beautiful, brainy, fuckable little sister.

“There's always a woman, Priest,” Cal scoffed. “You're a dog.”

Yeah, he was a dog. But he had managed to keep his hands off Teagan, even when she'd sat right on top of his dick. True, he hadn't been able to resist a tiny bump and grind, but ultimately he had held on to his self-control.

Obviously, he'd lied when he had told her that his erection wasn't for her. But he couldn't risk losing her friendship and the friendship of the rest of her family.

Nick had considered the situation from every angle, and he'd had a breakthrough while eating a piece of Letty's chocolate cake. She had told him that she'd had to make two cakes because she had messed up the icing for the first one. Apparently, the bad icing had soaked the cake, making the entire dessert inedible.

As he'd sat there enjoying devil's food cake with cherry vanilla icing, he had realized the situation with Teagan was just
like Letty's ruined dessert. The cake was his friendship with Teagan and her family, and the icing was sex with Teagan.

Cake was better with icing, but there was always a chance the icing would turn rancid, ruining the cake, too. And Nick would rather eat cake with no icing than not have any dessert at all.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fished it out to read the text. It was from Teagan.
I'm so proud of you!! Come see me when you get home.

He closed the screen and placed his phone facedown on the table. He wanted nothing more than to see her. He'd been tempted to send her a ticket so she could be there with him, but ultimately decided not to because she was too much of a distraction. And he didn't want to explain to her brothers why he wanted her there.

He didn't understand it himself. He didn't
want
to want Teagan, and he knew they couldn't be together, yet he couldn't stay away from her. And it drove him crazy that she saw him as a surrogate big brother.

“One of your women?” Cal asked, arching an eyebrow toward Nick's phone.

Nick shook his head. “Your sister.”

Who definitely is
not
one of my “women.”

Quinn took a long pull on his beer before placing it between his palms. Rolling it back and forth, he stared at Nick.

“Do you see Teagan very often?” Quinn asked.

“No.”

It wasn't a lie, not exactly. The word “very
”
was subjective.

Nick didn't want Quinn and Cal to know just how much time he spent with their sister, although he had no reason to feel guilty. Not really.

But they were smart guys, and they would find it strange that Nick chose to hang out with Teagan when he could be with other women—women he could fuck and forget.

“Have you met this guy Marshall?” Cal asked.

Nick shook his head. He was afraid of what he'd do if he ever came face-to-face with the man Teagan was dating.

“Maybe you should check him out,” Quinn suggested. “That's what we'd do if we lived in Boston.”

Somehow Nick resisted the urge to bang his head against the
table. Apparently, Teagan wasn't the only person in the O'Brien family who thought he should play the role of big brother.

“She's
not
my sister,” he growled.

Cal's eyes narrowed. “That's true. But you can watch out for her . . . make sure he's a decent guy. Although I personally think she's way too smart to get involved with an asshole.”

Nick's phone buzzed again, and he grabbed it before Quinn or Cal could. They were nosy bastards.

It was another text from Teagan.
You're going to have to sign my jersey when you get back. It will be a collector's item!

He laughed quietly. It was nice to think he'd be remembered in history books even if it was just for catching a football.

Another text popped up, also from Teagan.
It will be so valuable I won't be able to sleep in it anymore!

She sleeps in my jersey?

He groaned under his breath. He knew what he was going to dream about tonight.

Nick checked his phone again, wondering why Teagan hadn't texted him back. He'd sent her messages for a couple of days with no reply. He didn't think he'd done anything to make her angry, so why was she ignoring him? He didn't know if he should be pissed or worried.

He pulled open the door to Teagan's building, relieved to escape the bitter cold. Boston was in the throes of a winter storm, which wasn't unusual for mid-February. It was so frigid ice crystals had formed in the corners of his eyes as he'd made the short walk from his Escalade to her building.

Joe, the part-time concierge, came around his reception desk to greet Nick. A huge smile covered his face, and his bald head gleamed under the overhead lights.

“Mr. Priest,” he exclaimed, grabbing Nick's right hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “Congratulations on winning the Super Bowl. You've made us proud!”

He smiled, returning the man's handshake. Joe had always been very accommodating, letting him come in and out of the building without checking in even though visitors were supposed to be monitored.

“I haven't seen Miss O'Brien for a couple of days,” Joe said. “I'm not sure she's home.”

Nick frowned, wondering where Teagan could be. It was the middle of the semester, and she had classes to attend.

Nodding his thanks to Joe, he headed toward the elevators. He'd returned from Miami a little more than a week ago. The city of Boston had thrown a big parade to celebrate the Colonials' win, and since then, he'd tried to lie low.

It was always awkward when fans approached him. He was happy to sign autographs and pose for pictures, but all too often they wanted to talk with him. He knew they thought he was rude when he didn't respond to their questions, and it was better to avoid those situations altogether.

He had wanted to see Teagan as soon as he had arrived in Boston, and he'd been patient as long as he could. He had waited and waited for her to respond to his texts, and finally he'd decided to just drop in on her. He'd made up his mind to wait if she wasn't home because it had been way too damn long since he had seen her.

Once he reached the sixth floor, he made his way to her condo and knocked loudly on the door. He pressed his ear to it, trying to determine if anyone moved around inside the unit.

He heard nothing but silence, so he banged on the door with the end of his fist instead of his knuckles. He kept at it for a minute or so, but dropped his hand when the door stayed stubbornly closed. Resting his hands on his hips, he looked up at the ceiling, trying to control the desire to pound on the door with both fists.

Where the hell is Teagan?

Grabbing his phone from the pocket of his jeans, he opened the text screen. He furiously typed a message to Quinn. Maybe her older brother knew where she was.

Just as he finished the message and hit the Send button, Teagan's door swung open. Looking up, he saw her leaning against the door frame. Her fuzzy green robe hung open over a pair of cream-colored flannel pajamas printed with tiny pink flowers, and thick gray socks covered her feet.

Her hair was pulled back haphazardly, and it was dull instead of shiny like usual. Her face was flushed, her eyes were red-rimmed and watery, and her nose was pink and raw-looking.

She clutched a box of tissues in the crook of her arm, and except for a cough syrup commercial on TV, he'd never seen
anyone look so sick and pathetic. He stepped forward, and she held out her hand like a traffic cop.

“Nick,” she croaked. “You need to stay away. I don't want to make you sick.”

“Flu?”

“I think so. Everyone at school seems to have it.”

Raising her arm, she coughed into her elbow, a hoarse, hacking noise that made him wince. She sounded horrible.

“You should go. I'm a human petri dish.” She pulled a tissue from the box and wiped her nose. “I'll text you when I'm better, and we can go to a hockey game or something.”

He studied her as she swayed a little on her feet. He didn't want to leave her like this. What if she needed something? She was too sick to go out in this kind of weather.

“Do you have medicine? Food?”

She pressed her lips together, and he noticed they were chapped. She was a mess.

“I'm okay,” she replied, which didn't answer his question.

He suspected she was lying just so he'd leave. She clearly didn't want company.

She sneezed into her tissue before letting out a tired sigh. “See you later,” she said and then closed the door in his face.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the door, before sending a text to Quinn to let him know he'd located Teagan. Next he scrolled through his contacts, found Letty's name, and fired off a text to her asking what kind of supplies he should buy for Teagan.

Ten minutes later, he stood in the cold and flu aisle of the closest grocery store. Apparently the whole damn city was sick, because it was almost cleaned out.

He checked Letty's list and grabbed some ibuprofen and acetaminophen from the shelf, along with some cough syrup and a decongestant she had recommended. He added some Vicks VapoRub, cough drops, lip balm, and a heating pad before heading to the grocery section.

He didn't know what Teagan had stocked in the condo, so he filled the cart with all kinds of food, including ready-made soup, crackers, and juice. He grabbed a six-pack of beer for himself and headed to the checkout.

On the way there, he passed by the floral department and
saw a sign that read “Don't forget Valentine's Day” and a countdown board that showed there was only one day left. He stopped and looked around, surprised he hadn't noticed all the roses and balloons when he'd walked in.

He wondered if Teagan had made plans with Marshall to celebrate the most romantic day of the year, and he was ashamed when he realized he was glad she was too sick to go out with the other man.

I'm a selfish bastard.

Pushing his cart closer to one of the displays, he picked up a fluffy white teddy bear. The stuffed animal held a red velvet heart with “Adore Me” embroidered on it, and its fur was really soft.

He tossed the bear into his cart and evaluated the roses. He reached for a bouquet of red roses before jerking his hand back. Even he knew red roses meant passion. He looked around, trying to find a bouquet of yellow roses for friendship but didn't see any. Guess no one bought yellow roses for Valentine's Day.

Standing with his hands on his hips, he considered his other color choices: pink or lavender. The pink roses were pretty. They reminded him of Teagan's lips. But he really liked the lavender roses better.

He picked up a bouquet and read the label, which told him that lavender roses meant enchantment. He laughed softly, shaking his head.

Who comes up with this bullshit?

*   *   *

Teagan rolled over, moaning as pain shot through her head. She could barely think it hurt so badly. And she was cold, so cold her bones ached. She felt so awful she wanted to cry, but she didn't have the energy. She coughed and was startled by how awful it sounded.

She heard a rustle and froze.
Is someone in my bedroom?
The lamp on the bedside table flared to life, and she gasped when she saw Nick standing next to her bed.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice so hoarse it was barely audible.

She struggled to sit up, and he bent down to help her, holding her up with one hand while he arranged her pillows behind
her with the other. As he removed his hand, she fell back against the pillows.

Reaching out, he pressed four tablets of varying colors and sizes into her hand. She stared at the drugs, her mind foggy.

“Take them, T,” he directed, plucking a glass of water from the nightstand.

She tossed the pills into her mouth, and he held the glass to her lips, tipping it to give her the water she needed to wash them down. Her throat was so sore she had a hard time swallowing.

Returning the glass to the nightstand, he picked up a bottle of cough syrup and a spoon she hadn't even noticed. He poured some of the dark liquid into the spoon, bringing it to her lips. Like a child, she opened her mouth wide, and he poured in the medicine.

She shuddered at the taste, smacking her lips, and his mouth quirked. He deposited the bottle and spoon on the table and sat down on the edge of the bed. He stared at her, his green eyes roaming over her face, and she was so miserable she didn't even care he was seeing her at her absolute worst. She cleared her throat, wincing at how scratchy it was.

His eyes narrowed, and he pulled a cough drop from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. She unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth, letting it soothe the dry achiness.

“How did you get in?” she asked when her throat could handle words.

“Joe.”

Joe could have lost his job for letting Nick into her condo. She imagined he must have been pretty persuasive to get the concierge to break the rules.

“What did you bribe him with?”

Nick smiled. “Season tickets. Fifty-yard line.”

She shivered, feeling like she might throw up at any moment. He frowned and stood up.

“Blankets?”

She pointed to her closet before scooting down against the pillows. She had never been so sick, not even when she was a little girl. She didn't know why Nick had decided to come back, but she was grateful because she really needed someone to take care of her. Closing her eyes, she drifted away.

The room was dark when she woke up, the red numbers of her alarm clock reading 4:23 a.m. She was lying on her side with blankets piled over her. A heating pad was on top of them, taking the chill away. She desperately needed to go to the bathroom, but she didn't want to get out of bed. Finally, she pushed back the covers and sat up.

“Oh,” she exclaimed as the cold air seeped through her pajamas.

“Okay?” Nick asked, his voice coming out of the dark.

She jumped, startled because she had thought he'd left hours ago. She reached over and turned on the lamp.

Nick slouched in the overstuffed chair situated in the far corner of her bedroom. A blue blanket draped across his muscular torso and long legs, and his blond hair stuck up. His eyes were sleepy, and gold stubble shadowed his lower jaw.

She sighed, feeling more pathetic than ever. She'd fantasized about Nick being in her bedroom, and he was actually there . . . when she had the flu.

“T,” he said, a question in his voice.

“Bathroom,” she croaked.

He sat up, pushing aside the blanket, and started to rise. He obviously intended to help her to the bathroom.

“No!” she exclaimed as loudly as her broken voice would allow. “I don't need help.”

He eyed her before standing and leaving the room. She exhaled in relief, grateful he'd realized she needed some privacy. She trudged to the bathroom, which was attached to her bedroom. By the time she'd finished her business, she was so exhausted and dizzy she could barely move.

She stumbled into her bedroom to find Nick standing by the bed. He propped the pillows against the headboard and pulled the covers back so she could climb in. Once she was settled, he handed her a steaming mug.

“What is this?”

“Tea. Lemon. Honey.”

Bending down, he stuck a thermometer in her mouth and placed his hand against her forehead before moving his arm until the inside of his wrist rested against it. When the thermometer beeped, he snatched it from her mouth, and she caught a glimpse of the digital display: 103.9.

He stared at the thermometer, his eyes widening with alarm. “
Shit
,” he swore fiercely, grabbing a bottle from the nightstand and shaking a couple of pills into his hand.

He held them out to her, and she took them with the tea, hoping the hot liquid would not only soothe her throat but also stay in her stomach. The heat hurt her lips, which were cracked from fever and dehydration, and she ran her tongue over them.

He sat down next to her, pushing her hair away from her face before cupping his palm around her cheek. She turned into it, relishing the feel of his cool fingers against her hot skin.

“You are
really
sick. Should w-w-w-we go t-t-t-to the ER?”

She cocked her head. Why was he talking like that? He sounded weird. He looked weird, too, like a wavy image in a fun house.

Her head felt funny, and she pushed the mug toward him, splashing tea over his fingers and hers. Closing her eyes, she let the darkness claim her.

When she finally rejoined the land of the living, her pajamas were soaked with sweat, which told her that her fever was finally gone. The pain in her head was barely noticeable, and her body wasn't aching like it had been for the past four days.

Grayish-white light flooded her bedroom, and the clock on her nightstand read 11:07 a.m. She'd slept almost sixteen hours. No wonder she felt better.

She sat up, swung her legs to the side of the bed, and stood. So far, so good. She made her way to the bathroom with no trouble, and once she was inside the small space, she gathered her courage and looked in the mirror above the sink.