Fair Game: A Football Romance (67 page)

“Okay,” I squeak helplessly. I can’t make myself tell him that I won’t be seeing him again . . . ever.

“Think of me, Holland. Think about my hands sliding over your silky skin in the water tonight and my lips on your mouth, your neck, your perfect breasts. Think of my hard cock pressing against your back . . . fuck, I might have to get back on this plane. I can’t believe I left you like that. I’m so hard for you it hurts, baby. I can’t wait to get back to you.” His deep, gravelly voice turns me inside out. I can’t breathe. My heart is pounding in my chest so loudly that he can probably hear it in Miami. I close my eyes and think of his hands, the water, the honey . . .

No one has ever spoken to me that way. I don’t even think I’ve ever heard a man say things like that in a movie. This is so much worse than I thought it would be. I have no idea how I’m going to cut this man out of my life.

“Speechless?” he says playfully.

“Uh yeah. Sorry, it’s just . . .”

“I know. Believe me, I know. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget to think of me.” The line goes dead, and part of me wishes I were dead too.

“So? What did he say? For a minute there I thought you were gonna faint.”

“He knows something’s wrong. He wants me to think of him, and he’s coming home tomorrow. Can we talk about something else? Distract me or something. This is all just too confusing to try and figure out right now.”

Savannah chews her bottom lip, and after a minute, she jumps up and takes off down the hall. When she returns carrying a violin case, she has an insanely big grin on her face.

Raising an eyebrow, I reach for the instrument.

“It’s mine from the fourth grade. It’s a piece of crap. Play. It always makes you feel better.”

I open the case and discover that she’s right. It’s a piece of crap, but right now I don’t care. She knows me so well. Music has always been my coping mechanism, and Lord knows, right now I’m not coping very well.

“What are you going to do?” I ask. I can’t imagine how Savannah thinks classical music is boring. She likes her music loud with a pounding beat.

“I’ll just lay over there and let you play me to sleep,” she teases.

“Nice, thanks.” I roll my eyes and try to tune her violin. It’s almost impossible, but I get it as close as I can and begin to play Samuel Barber’s
Adagio for Strings
. It’s one of the saddest pieces of music I know. Savannah is actually familiar with the piece. She has an electronic mixed version on one of her playlists.

I close my eyes and let the music take me away to the place that feels most comfortable, the place that is home to my soul. I slowly slide my bow across the strings, feeling every fiber of it connecting to make the sounds that will temporarily ease my pain. If I could sit on this couch and play every minute for the rest of my life, I would. My small, comfortable life has been turned upside down by a man I can never have, a love that can never be known. I feel a part of me growing up tonight as I sit and try to figure out my very grown up problems. I’ve always felt more mature than my friends—sometimes even more mature than some adults—but this is something that even the most experienced adult would have trouble dealing with.

Orange
is long past being over, and Savannah is fast asleep on the couch when I finally have to put the violin down because my arms are too weak to play another note. As soon as I do, my real world problems come rushing back. I lay in the dark, swinging back and forth between my heart and my mind. I could easily throw all caution to the wind and tell King I lied about my age and pray that he cares enough about me to overlook it. Or I could avoid him like the plague and go to New York earlier than I had planned. Maybe some distance would help me get on with the life I’ve been dreaming of for as long as I can remember.

It’s past two in the morning, and I’m exhausted when I finally lay my head down to sleep. King wanted me to think of him, and think of him I do. All night while I sleep, his face plays the leading man in all of my dreams. Some are happily ever after dreams, some are confusing and broken, and others are downright nightmares.

In the morning, I don’t feel one bit refreshed, even though I sleep until eleven o’clock. Savannah is in the kitchen making grilled cheese and tomato soup. She’s been up for a while. She’s showered and dressed with her ear buds in, listening to something so loud that I can hear it twenty feet away.

“You’re going to be deaf if you don’t turn that down, you know,” I say, fully aware that she can’t hear me, but she squints, trying to read my lips before pulling one bud out and letting it dangle from her neck.

“Huh?” she says, and I chuckle and repeat myself.

“You’re going to be deaf.”

“It’s not that loud, hush. Here, eat something.”

I take a seat at the kitchen table and see her glance at the coffee table where my phone is sitting before pouring the hot soup into mugs.

“He’s been calling. I put it on vibrate so you could sleep.” I sigh and drop my head back.

“How long does it take to fly from Miami?” I ask the ceiling.

“About two hours and thirty minutes. Why?”

“Because he’s probably already home. He said he would come straight home if I didn’t answer his calls.”

“Shit, does he know where you live? Do you think he will just show up on your doorstep?”

“Yes, absolutely. I have to call him.”

“What are you gonna say?”

“I don’t know, whatever comes out of my mouth I guess. I can’t figure this out, but I know he won’t give up. I’ll have to tell him I lied about my age and that I know what he is.”

“What if he freaks out?”

“Then he freaks out,” I say, taking the mug of soup from her.

“Okay, it’s your funeral,” she says, sitting down next to me. I kick her shin and she yelps.

“Sorry, bad choice of words. I forgot he’s a drug dealer. But seriously, why don’t you just have that Sebastián guy tell him and avoid the trouble?”

“I owe it to him to tell him the truth myself. I shouldn’t have lied to him.”

“He shouldn’t have lied to you either.”

“It’s more like we both omitted the truth. Neither of us actually lied. I mean, he assumed I was over 21 because I was in his club, and I assumed he was just a club owner because that’s all he told me.”

She shakes her head and smiles while she dips her sandwich into her soup.

“What?” I ask.

“You can rationalize anything, ya know that?”

“Hush.” We eat in silence until I realize I didn’t hear her mother come in last night.

“Your mama still out?”

She takes a bite of her sandwich and looks past me toward the front door. “Yeah. Told ya she doesn’t usually come home when she’s with that guy.” Her voice is laced with disappointment and anger. I feel bad for her. If her mama’s not working, she’s dating. There’s never any time left for Savannah.

My parents are so different from hers. Everything they do is somehow geared toward getting me to New York so I can fulfill my dreams.

“Sorry, sore subject. I didn’t mean to bring it up. I just wondered if she was home.”

“It’s cool. You’d better shower and call him back before your mama comes to get you for practice.” Practice. Shit, that’s right. I have to be there at one o’clock. I need to hurry. Should I call first and shower after, or shower and then call? Shower first, definitely. That will give me some time to think of a way to tell him that we can’t see each other anymore—as if there were any good way to tell him.

“I’m going to shower,” I say, getting up to put my dishes in the dishwasher.

“Grab something out of my closet to wear if you want.”

“Thanks,” I say, picking up my phone. I make my way down the narrow hall to the only bathroom in Savannah’s small house, glancing at her old family photos on the walls. It’s strange how they all stop when her daddy left them, kind of like a representation of the death of her family. I’m so grateful that my parents still love each other and I never had to deal with the heartache and mess of having divorced parents.

I start the shower in a thoughtful daze and quickly strip down and hop into the hot water. Savannah’s house is always cold, even during the hottest part of the summer. As soon as I’ve stepped under the spray, I hear a commotion coming from the front of the house. God, I’ll bet Savannah’s mama is home and Savannah’s pissed off at her for not calling, the poor thing. Savannah’s shouting gradually becomes louder and closer, and it sounds like she’s fighting with her mama’s boyfriend who kept her out all night. I wince when they’re just outside the bathroom door. I don’t want to be eavesdropping on her family problems, but I’m sort of stuck in here.

I lean my head back under the spray to block out the noise when the bathroom door bursts open and I hear Savannah yelling at King—not her mama or her boyfriend.

“Get the fuck out of my house. Holland, get dressed,” she shouts. I’m frozen, paralyzed with my hands still in my soapy hair.

“Stop pulling at my clothes. Move, damn it!” King yells, and I hear them slapping at each other. Savannah’s a scrapper. She can smack, scratch and pull hair with the best of them.

The shower curtain is ripped open, and I jump and lose my balance trying to cover myself, but King roughly thrusts his hand in to grab my waist, steadying me.

“I told him not to come in here, Holland. You need to leave right now. I’m gonna get my daddy’s shotgun,” Savannah screams.

“Little girl, you had better back off and let me talk to your friend here before I get really angry.” The power behind his voice causes her to stumble back just enough for him to quickly close and lock the door.

God, this is a nightmare. I squeeze my eyes closed as the shower pelts my back and shampoo runs down my forehead and over my face.

“Rinse off. We need to talk,” he says, yanking the curtain shut. I step back, trembling from the cooling water and the fury in King’s voice.

My God, what is he doing here? Shit, what am I doing? I knew I should have called him before I showered. Now he’s in Savannah’s house, where her mama could come home any minute, not to mention my own mother is right across the street in my house, getting ready to come and take me to practice.

I can’t keep my mind on what I’m supposed to be doing. My thoughts are all jumbled, and he wants me to get out. He wants to talk to me. Shit, shit, shit. I haven’t had time to wash my body or condition my hair, but King’s demanding tone isn’t one I’m willing to mess around with. I turn the faucet off with shaky hands and reach for the towel hanging on the towel rod just outside the shower. King grabs my wrist and pulls the curtain back again, completely exposing me. Thick, heavy steam billows around us as we stare at each other like two cowboys in a standoff. You’d think I would be more frightened or inhibited by this crazy drug lord bossing me around in my best friend’s bathroom, but I am neither.

His face contorts with pain and rage, which makes what I do next so insane that neither of us thinks to stop it.

I step over the side of the tub into his arms, dripping wet and shivering when the cool air hits my skin. Adrenaline blinds my common sense when I lace my arms around the back of his neck and hoist myself up, wrapping my legs around his waist. King’s hands slide easily under my ass to support me as our mouths crash together violently in a kiss filled with equal parts passion and anger.

I don’t know what he came to say. I don’t know if he found out I’m only nineteen or if he’s just pissed that I haven’t been answering my phone, but this isn’t the sweet, tender King I’ve been dealing with for two days. This King is furious and desperate and hurting.

“God damn it, Holland.” He growls between kisses, and I feel the tension and frustration rolling off of him like a cornered animal. Panic spurs me on, and I tighten my hold and push my fingers through his hair, ignorantly putting myself in harm’s way. He whirls around and sets me roughly on the edge of the vanity without breaking our kiss and works to unbutton his shirt while I fumble with his belt and unzip his suit pants.

A tiny, weak voice in the back of my mind, under a pile of sheet music, is telling me to stop. This is wrong, it’s dangerous and reckless, but when he slides inside me, that pathetic voice of reason fades into nothing.

I pull my mouth away from his and bury my face in his neck while the force of his thrusts lift me off the vanity over and over. The only sounds in the small room are King’s grunts and my gasps with every fierce penetration. There are no soft sighs or gentle moans of desire floating between us. It’s clear that this isn’t adoration or cherishing. It’s punishment—his or mine, I don’t know which, but this isn’t
I miss you
or
I need you.
This is
I’m sorry
and
I’m angry
. My apex aches with every relentless slam of his hips against mine, but I accept it willingly. If he’s trying to hurt me, the effort is soon futile when the pain turns into pure pleasure. His ferocious grunts echo off the walls of the tiny bathroom as his powerful presence drives me over the edge in seconds. I crash down around him, the rusty taste of blood spreading across my tongue as my teeth sink into his shoulder and I gasp in ecstasy.

God, What the hell am I doing?