Filfthy (2 page)

Clearing my throat and pulling myself together, I lift my shoulders back and rest my hands on my hips. Maybe I should be girding my loins too.

“I’m Zane,” he says, with a curious smirk that showcases a deep dimple in his right cheek. “You wanted me?”

My mind is hurried with thoughts that never find my lips, and I struggle to form a legible sentence in the company of a man who looks like . . .
this
.

His jaw goes for days, intersecting at the cleft in his chin, and his full lips are pulled up at the corners as his maple-honey eyes are locked on mine. Zane hooks a hand on his hip and rests the other casually on the edge of the kitchen island, his brows lifting as he waits for me to speak.

Forcing my own composure, I take a moment, inhale, and remind myself that sugar goes a hell of a lot further than vinegar.

“You normally stop by other people’s private parties and start cleaning up their kitchen?” He masks a laugh. “Or did you escape from somewhere? Should I be calling the authorities? Is anyone looking for you?”

Screw sugar.

He’s getting a mouthful of vinegar.

My jaw slacks, and I feel my word venom collecting and rising, burning my throat on the way up.

“Relax, gorgeous.” His hand cups my shoulder, engulfing it, really. The man has some big . . .
hands
. And he called me
gorgeous
. Though lucky for me, I’m smart enough to know he probably doesn’t mean it, and I sure as hell won’t let that weaken my resolve. “I’m teasing. But really, you don’t need to clean my kitchen. I pay people to do that.”

His messy dark hair is tugged and pulled into a work of art on top of his head, playing off his bronze skin, innately sensual gaze, and white smile. The hint of a tattoo peeks out from beneath his collar, and drawings in black cover his muscled, veiny forearms.

“I just came by to ask you to keep the noise down.” I fold my arms, taking a step back. “I’m next door trying to sleep, and it’s kind of hard with all this noise. Would you mind asking your guests to come inside?”

We both glance outside, where a group of guys are hitting a beach ball over the pool volleyball net with bikini-clad girls on their shoulders. The sound of their laughter carries into the kitchen, floating on a breeze of pumping house music.

“You Rue’s niece?” he asks.

“Great niece. Yes.”

“Ah.” His stare washes over me, head to toe, dripping slow. His shoulders rise and fall as his eyes narrow. “Delilah, right?”

My fingertips reach toward my collarbone, instinctively looking to toy with a necklace that isn’t there.

“How’d you know my name?” I ask.

“Rue told me,” he says, brows lifted, as if the answer should be obvious.

I roll my eyes, trying not to laugh at the kinds of things I can imagine coming from that seventy-five-year-old woman’s filter-free lips.

“But she didn’t tell me why you’re here.” His full lips jut as he slides his hands in his pockets. “Just told me to stay the hell away from you.”

That sounds exactly like Rue.

“She told me no niece of hers would be caught dead associating with a filthy football player,” he adds, though the twinkle in his warm eyes tell me he’s more amused than offended.

“Have to hand it to Rue, she doesn’t mince words.” My strong front is dissolving at warp speed. I need to get back on track. Injecting my voice with as much professionalism as I can muster at this ungodly hour, I add, “Anyway, if you could maybe just steer the party inside, I’d appreciate it.”

He stands, staring with this intense expression on his ridiculously handsome face, making this moment more awkward than it needs to be.

“Ok…ay.” I nod and eye the doorway. Luckily the masses have relocated, and I can see the front door from here. I take a step, and another, eyes fixed on the door knob. I can almost feel the cool metal in my palm.

“Wait.”

I turn to see Zane following me, and I stop to face him when I reach the foyer.

“I’m not going to ask them to come inside,” he says.

“Excuse me?” I tilt my head, confused.

“I’m not going to ask them to come inside,” he states with even more conviction than the first time.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re too young to be the fucking Fun Police,” he says. “And I’d be doing you a disservice if I immediately obeyed you, because then you might actually start believing you’re the center of the universe.”

I see red for a moment, gulping in air and composing my thoughts. “I do
not
think I’m the center of the universe, and I certainly don’t think it’s too much to ask for a little bit of human decency. You live in a neighborhood. With neighbors. It’s the middle of the week and people are sleeping. You can’t just turn your backyard into a brothel-slash-club and then get offended when someone politely asks you to take it down a notch.”

Zane offers an incredulous half-smirk and steps closer. The top of my head fits snugly beneath his chin, but I won’t let his size intimidate little old me.

Oh, no, no no.

I can go rounds with this meathead if I have to.

“First of all, this isn’t a brothel. This is a stoplight party,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact.

“Aren’t you a little old to be having a stoplight party?” I ask. “Or are you in some kind of grown man fraternity?”

He ignores me. “Second, a little house music does not constitute a club, and third, you didn’t politely ask me to take it down a notch. You requested that I relocate my entire party, and you pretty much demanded it.”

“That’s
your
interpretation of things,” I say. I’m well aware that each and every word leaving my mouth is not doing me any favors, but I refuse to stand here and let this Abercrombie athlete make me walk out of here with my tail tucked.

“Was there anything else you needed, Delilah? I have guests to attend to, so . . .”

My fists clench at my sides. He’s lucky I’m not a violent person, because a firm smack across his chiseled chin would feel really good about now.

“I guess we’re finished here,” I say.

It’s glaringly obvious he’s not going to cave to my request, so I suppose my business here is done.

Reaching for the door knob, I jerk the door open, gifting him a squinting glare, and slam it behind me. I didn’t think it was too much to ask for a little common courtesy. A little human decency. And if he thinks I was demanding it, he’s delusional. I was nothing but professional and dignified.

And I was right earlier.

Zane de la Cruz
is
a giant asshole.

Z
ane

C
oach Roberts
truly believed that if I moved to a gated community in a suburb of Gainesville where the average resident is sixty-seven, it might calm me down. He thought it would break me of my “wild ways.”

Instead, I’ve felt like nothing more than a tiger pacing his cage, anxious to get out, to not be tied down, bossed around, and told what to do.

My neighbors to the north are Clarice and Don Chapman. Retired transplants from Big Sky, Montana. Mid-sixties. Clarice likes to lay out by her pool in modest floral bathing suits, slathered in SPF 50 as she bitches at Don for not clipping the hedges to the Home Owner’s Association’s-approved height. Why they don’t hire it out like the rest of the neighborhood is beyond me. By the time Don finishes, he’s sunburnt and blustery, throwing his shears and waving off Clarice as he heads inside to fetch her an ice-cold lemonade.

If that’s what married life is, then count me the fuck out.

Anyway, when the Chapmans cruise down the street together in their little green golf cart, they smile and wave like we’re pals here, but I’ve heard the things they say about me.

The lots here are huge, but they’re all landscaped to death. Voices carry. Out windows. Through hedges. Down retaining walls. Over fences.

I know what they think of me – especially that sassy ol’ Rue Rosewood next door. She’s seventy-five, has a hell of a lot of opinions, and she’s not afraid to make sure everyone within a five-mile radius of Laguna Palms knows them.

She’s also the HOA president, a role she takes very seriously.

Too seriously in my opinion.

That woman watches me like a hawk, noting my comings and goings. Dropping by with “friendly” reminders in the form of written warnings taped to my door.

How was I supposed to know that the trash can had to be hidden from street view Tuesday through Sunday? That we could only use white or gray rock in our landscaping? That backing into driveways wasn’t allowed because registration stickers needed to be viewable from the sidewalk? That we had mandatory Christmas light colors that coincided with our house numbers?

I’ll never forget her standing on my doorstep my first December in Laguna Palms. She was sweet, bringing a plate of sugar cookies decorated like snowmen. And then she demanded I take down the twinkling blue lights lining my roof and promptly replace them with red.

And here I was just trying to fit in. To be neighborly. I don’t even fucking like Christmas that much.

But despite the fact that Rue Rosewood has been the biggest fucking pain in the ass since the day we met, I kind of have a soft spot for her. She reminds me of my
abuela,
Magdalena, the grandmother who raised me since I was nine. We lost her a couple years ago, but not a day goes by that I don’t miss her. Or the crazy things that came out of her mouth half the time.

I never take Rue’s insults to heart, because if she’s anything like Magdalena was, they’re all coming from a good place, and somewhere beneath that hardened exterior is a whole lot of harmless fluff.

Rising above the over-chlorinated water of the Laguna Palms community pool, I inhale a lungful of air and dive back down, my arms and legs propelling me toward the end. When I reach the wall, I rise, sliding my hand down my face to clear my vision as I steady my breath.

“Seriously?” A woman’s voice fills my water-filled ears.

I shake my head to try and recover my hearing once more, and my eyes focus on a set of pink-manicured toes resting on a lounge chair in front of me.

“Don’t you have your own pool?” she asks, folding her book and setting it aside.

I move toward the ladder, climbing out. Drenched, I’m caught off guard when she tosses me a towel from the chair beside her.

“My pool is . . . out of commission today.” I opt to leave it at that and not go into detail about the floating globs of orange vomit left by a mystery guest this morning. “I pay my association dues. I’m allowed to swim here.”

I dry off, half-attempting to comb my hair into place and hoping she doesn’t think I’m doing it for her.

I mean, sure, Delilah’s hot.

She’s
beyond
hot.

She’s like a mermaid and a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model had a baby . . . hot. And I’m not even sure she realizes it.

Bee-stung lips. Hourglass curves. Dark, sultry gaze. Long, dark hair that falls in her face.

But after the season I had last year and almost getting kicked off the team for dropping twelve too many F-bombs on live television and discovering my playboy reputation was beginning to overshadow all the hard work I put into my athletic prowess, I made an emergency re-commitment to all things career-oriented.

No girls.

Less booze.

Zero shenanigans.

Coach’s orders – or else I’ll be released from my wildly lucrative contract.

I’d forfeit millions in future earnings.

The party last night was an exception. A couple of players and I decided to throw something together for our buddy, Weston, who’s been down and out since breaking things off with his long-time girlfriend. We gave him strict instructions to show up in head-to-toe green, and the asshole had the nerve to walk into
his
stoplight party in fucking yellow.

Yellow!

“Fair enough.” Delilah shrugs, retrieving her book and burying her nose between the pages. Lowering it into her lap a moment later, she shields her eyes from the sun and looks my way. “Anyone ever tell you staring is rude?”

“I’m not staring. I was thinking. You just happened to be blocking my line of sight.”

She flicks a page. “Stare in a different direction.”

“What if I don’t want to? What if I want to stare to the north?” God damn it. I have more game than this.

I continue to gape, trying to get a read on the enigma before me. A perfect, shiny bun rests on top of her head. Not so much as a hair out of place. She adjusts her giant sunglasses, pushing them up the bridge of her straight-as-an-arrow nose and leans back in the lounger, swiping a Red Vine from a small package to her side and sticking the end in the corner of her mouth.

Oh, how I’d give anything to be that Red Vine right now, nestled between those two pillow-sized lips she has.

And then my gaze drops down to the rest of her.

Her hourglass figure is covered in a modest, black one-piece.

Lame.

“You should really try to cover up a little more.” I toss my towel over my shoulder and pretend to be disgusted.

She tugs her sunglasses off her face, jaw gone slack.

“I mean, really. This is a family establishment and you’re lying around in
that
?” I point. “I don’t think Myrtle Rickers would appreciate the kind of looks you’re going to draw from Mr. Rickers when they get here in . . .” I glance at the clock hanging on the side of the pool house. “Oh, about fifteen minutes.”

Delilah glances down at her outfit, and I repress a chuckle. I can already tell she’s going to fucking hate me by the time the summer’s over.

Or maybe she already does.

I’m sure I didn’t make the best impression last night, but she left me no choice. If she acts like a toddler, she’s going to get treated like one.

“I’m kidding,” I say. “But you do look like a schoolmarm and an Amish pastor had a baby.”

“You’re an asshole.” She hides her face with her book.

“You know, you really fit right in here,” I say. “You hate noise. And parties. And fun. You go to bed at a decent hour. And you wear funeral-appropriate swimwear. You can’t be much older than, what, twenty-four? Twenty-five? But you’re basically retired. Please tell me you had at least one rebellious year of college, otherwise I’m going to be really fucking disappointed in you.”

Delilah releases an annoyed sigh, still hiding behind a book thicker than most poolside reads should be. Upon closer inspection, it appears to be a small textbook. I move toward her, bending to read the title.

“
When Marriages Fail
?” I read the title aloud. “What the
hell
are you reading?”

She slams the book into her lap, lips tight. “I’m in grad school.”

“Studying . . . marriage?” I wrinkle my nose.

“I’m getting my MSW,” she says. “I’m going to be a licensed social worker, and I’d like to go into marriage and family counseling.”

“Okay,” I say. “But you’re on summer break, right? Shouldn’t you be reading Nora Roberts or something?”

“Impressive.” She shields her eyes. “I’m shocked you can actually name an author. Now, quick, name some more.”

I rake my teeth against my lower lip, biting back a smirk and knowing damn well I’ll get shit for this. “Danielle Steele. Jackie Collins.”

“I don’t even want to know.”

“Good.” Because I’m not exactly in the mood to explain that when I came to live with my grandmother at nine, I was illiterate. She taught me to read, and I quickly advanced to chapter books, but all she had lying around were trashy romance hardbacks. I inhaled them all over the course of one summer. No regrets. “Wasn’t going to tell you anyway.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be right now?” She straightens the beach blanket beneath her so it covers the slats in the chair. “You play football, right? Don’t you practice in the summer?”

“Camp doesn’t start until the end of July.”

“So you just . . . hang around and do whatever?”

“I work out. I stay in shape. I keep busy enough.” I yank the towel off my shoulder and drape it around my neck to block the beating sun. “Shouldn’t you be doing stuff for Rue and not lounging at the pool like some slacker who thinks she’s on summer vacation?”

She rolls her eyes. “Rue’s at a Bunco luncheon right now. We’re meeting with her real estate agent tomorrow. Trust me, I’ll be plenty busy this summer. You won’t be seeing much of me.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

Her gaze lowers, landing on the wet bulge of my board shorts. She can pretend she hates me all she wants, but that just told me everything I need to know. Beneath that uptight veneer is a whole other layer of Delilah.

Too bad for her, this is my summer of celibacy.

And fuck. Too bad for me too.

“Damn,” I say with a sarcastic gleam in my eye. “I was really looking forward to being babysat by the girl next door all summer. Now who’s going to monitor my schedule and make sure my parties aren’t too loud?”

She mumbles under her breath, swinging her legs over the chair and gathering her belongings into her arms.

“You leaving now?” My left brow lifts. “Jesus, Delilah, are you really that uptight? I thought we were playing around. Giving each other shit.”

Her arms are overflowing with towels and books and sunglasses and suntan lotion as she balances a straw hat on her head. Loose dark tendrils frame her face as our eyes lock.

“I’m not uptight.” She hoists her armful a bit higher. “I didn’t sleep last night, I’m exhausted from traveling, and I have a to-do list a mile long this week. Is it too much to ask that you refrain from calling me a schoolmarm and make fun of what I’m reading when I’m trying to relax by the pool?”

“Stay.” I point to her chair. “I’m on my way out anyway.”

She freezes, watching me, unsure of her next move.

“But just so you know, gorgeous, you probably shouldn’t dish it out if you can’t take it,” I add one last dig because I can’t help myself, and I’m dying to squeeze a hint of a smile out of her before I take off.

“Oh, I can take it.”

“Clearly you can’t. Look at you. Sulking. Stomping off with an armful of shit because I teased you about your fucking 1850s swimsuit.”

She drops her belongings on the empty lounger. “And here we go again.”

“I’m kidding.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not funny. It’s rude.”

“You’re being too sensitive, gorgeous. Just chill the fuck out.”

“Stop calling me gorgeous every time you back yourself into a corner,” she spouts. “It’s not going to work on me, and it’s rude to assume all women want to be addressed in accordance with their perceived looks.”

“Rude is pounding on someone’s door at two AM and treating them like a fucking teenager, demanding they close up shop so you can get your precious beauty rest.”

“Are we seriously going back to that?” She releases something that sounds like a groan and a growl and a moan, collecting her things all over again. “I’m sorry I didn’t say please or thank you or kiss your ass. I’m sure you’re not used to women having a conversation with you that doesn’t involve lip biting and hair twirling and winking and giggling. I’m probably the only woman on the face of the earth who can stand in front of you and not throw herself your way, and maybe you don’t know how to handle me because of that. I don’t know. . .”

Her rant continues, but I cut her off.

“You’re implying that all the women I talk to are vapid, horny bimbos.” I scratch the side of my head, watching her flit about. “See, now that’s an insult. You’re not even teasing. Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?”

“Enough.” She ends the conversation with a single palm in the air and a tone in her voice sharp enough to slice through the thick Florida humidity on this balmy afternoon.

Letting her hand fall, our eyes lock and her lips part, as if she’s seconds from saying something. But instead, she slides her feet into conservative black flip-flops and turns to leave.

I kind of feel bad.

Kind of.

She needs to loosen up a bit and not act like a ninety-year-old twenty-something. A little verbal sparring might be good for her. Might get her out of her wound-up little shell a bit.

Glancing around, I notice many of the lounge chairs have begun to fill in, and to my left, the Gossipping Gabbies of Laguna Palms are all tuned to me, lips flat and sunglasses masking disapproving glares.

I give them a nod as I walk past to retrieve my things.

“That’s not the way to a young lady’s heart, Zane,” Ethel French says with a tsk-tsk in her tone.

I stop, addressing Ethel and her crew of gossip aficionados. “Not trying to get to her heart.”

“Sure you’re not.” Her lips dance into a coy grin. “We see the way you look at her.”