Kicked (29 page)

“Jerk.” I kissed her.

She ran her hands down the lapels of my blazer and turned her head to give me more access. I took it, running my tongue along hers.

I placed my hand on her knee and skimmed up the smooth skin of her thigh.

She grabbed my wrist. “This is a terrible time for that!”

I pushed farther, my fingertips grazing her panties, and leaned into her, reclaiming her mouth. It was always a good time for me to touch her, taste her. Easing farther, I twitched her panties to the side and ran my fingers along her soft skin and down to her entrance.

Her breath hitched when I slid my finger inside. I laughed into her mouth as my cock grew into a full salute in my jeans.

“Trent, we can’t.” She pulled back, panting, but she didn’t try to push my hand away. Her cheeks were highlighted with pink, and her eyes glittered in the fading twilight.

“You sure?” I slipped another finger inside her, and she bit her lip.

Pumping in and out slowly, I watched as she came undone, her lips parting and her moans growing as I stroked her. I moved faster, then pulled my fingers from her and rubbed her slick clit. Watching her like this, completely under my control, was like a shot of testosterone straight to my cock. Her chest heaved, and she worked her hips along with my increasing tempo.

When she threw her head back, I sucked her neck. She came in a crescendo of moans and writhed on my fingers as I sucked at the sweet spots on her neck and shoulder. When she relaxed into the seat, I pushed my fingers inside her once more, then drew them to my lips and licked them clean.

“That is…easily…one of the…hottest things I’ve ever seen.” She said the last part on a hard whoosh of air.

“Perv.” I climbed out of the car before she could retort. I gave her a minute to adjust her dress and powder her nose for the fourth time. Breathing in the cold air, I tried to calm my nerves. Hearing Cordy come while moaning my name went a long way, but the storm that was brewing inside the house would dampen anyone’s spirits. It also dampened my erection, which was a good thing.

Cordy stepped out, her black heels clicking on the pavement as we walked to the front door. “Don’t worry.” She hugged my bicep. “I’ll protect you.”

“I feel so much better now.” I turned the door handle and allowed Cordy to walk ahead of me.

“This is just as beautiful as the outside.” She stared up at the chandelier, the huge Christmas tree in the sitting room, and the numerous silver, gold, and green decorations that graced the foyer. Smells of ham and savory spices scented the air. The cook must have been hard at work. Everything in the house screamed “Christmas”.

Mom had kept the tradition. It was bittersweet, knowing that my father wouldn’t get to see it this year. His portrait hung in the sitting room above the fireplace. It was painted when he was in his prime. My five-year-old self sat on his knee, and we both smiled down at me.

“Is that you?” Cordy followed my gaze to the image.

“My father and me, yes.”

“I see where you get your good looks.” She walked to it and craned her head back. “He was a stud.”

“He was.” Mom’s voice echoed in the foyer, and she strode into the sitting room. Her red sweater and green skirt were festive; her pinched expression was not.

Cordy whirled. “I’m sorry. I meant no offense.”

Whereas a normal person would respond with “none taken,” Mom simply stared down her narrow nose.

I stepped between them. “How was the Bahamas?”

She took a sip from her wine glass. “Bearable. Though the servants there hadn’t aired out the house to my satisfaction when I arrived. It’s always been hard to find good help. Have you ever worked in a service profession, Ms. Baxter?”

I wanted to cut this off, to shut Mom down as surely as I had done at my apartment. Instead, I stayed silent and trusted Cordy. She’d told me on what seemed like an endless loop that she would take the lead with my mother. So I let her.

“Yes. Actually, I used to wait tables when I lived in Gray Valley.” She kept a pleasant smile on her face as she approached my mother. “I got pretty good at it, if my tips were any indication. Have you ever waited tables?”

My mother scoffed. “Me?”

“Sure. My dad has always said the quickest way to test someone’s mettle is to give them a job they don’t want to do.”

“Your father.” Mom smirked. “What does he do?”

“Nothing.” Cordy kept her composed smile. “He used to work in the coal mines, but he got laid off.”

“And he hasn’t worked since, I take it?” She took a larger drink of her wine as Cordy moved even closer, no fear in any of her movements.

It was like watching a lion tamer, though I wasn’t sure which one of them held the whip.

“No. He’s never done anything except work in the mines. He did try to work as a stocker in a local hardware, but that didn’t turn out very well.”

“So he can’t hold down steady employment?” Mom glanced at me, as if to say, “
See? She comes from horrible stock
.”

“It’s hard for him, especially since he’s a recovering alcoholic.”

Mom stilled and narrowed her eyes.
Oh, shit
.

“Something smells delicious.” I cut in despite Cordy’s numerous warnings.

Mom glanced to me. “Chana is cooking like always. Let’s go in. It should be ready any moment.” She turned on her heel and headed across the foyer, past the grand staircase, and to the hall that led to the formal dining room.

Cordy gave me a stern shake of her head, but took my offered arm. “I had it under control.” Her whisper was barely a hiss.

“I know.”
I didn’t know
. “You were doing fine. I’m hungry is all.”

She crinkled her nose and peered up at me. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Yes.” I nodded and followed my mom into the dining room. Three place settings were laid out at the far end of the table. The head seat—where my father always sat—remained open, and I fought away the memories of him sitting there, because with them came a sadness that I tried to ignore.

“Chana!” Mom’s sharp bark made Cordy jump.

Chana hurried through the side door from the kitchen. “Everything is ready.”

“Go ahead, then. Thank you.” Mom sat and motioned for us to do the same. She took the wine bottle from the table and refilled her glass. I wondered how much she’d already had.

I pulled Cordy’s chair out and helped her get settled, then sat to her right, both of us facing Mom.

“Have you thought any more about what I said? About Carlotta?” Mom lay her napkin in her lap as Chana began setting platters of ham, deviled eggs, green beans, and corn along the center of the table.

“Carlotta isn’t going to happen. I haven’t seen her since I started dating Cordy.”

“Her brother is up for re-election soon. It’s the perfect time for you to hit the campaign trail with him. Get your face out there. With Carlotta by your side, you would make a pretty picture for the press.”

“She’s pretty, but that’s about it.” My conversations with her consisted of her telling me what she bought on her last shopping trip.

“Pretty is all you need. The rest will come in time.”

I clenched my jaw, but a side glance from Cordy had me relaxing. “And to be honest, I’m certain she doesn’t miss me. She never liked me that much.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Cordy patted my thigh, then frowned, likely realizing she was playing into my mother’s hands.

“As do I.” Mom took full advantage.

Cordy doubled down. “Trent is by far the kindest, smartest, and best-looking man I’ve ever met. On top of that, he’s not snobby. He doesn’t care where I come from. We spent Thanksgiving at my dad’s house, and”—she swept her gaze around the room—“it’s nowhere near as grand as your lovely home. Trent didn’t mind. He was gracious, well-mannered, and impressed my father to the point where he calls and asks to talk to Trent instead of me.”

I laughed. “He calls to talk football. That’s the only reason he wants to talk to me.”

She gave me a withering glare. “I play football. I know football as well as you do, if not better. So that is definitely
not
the reason he wants to talk to you.”

“Better than me?” I forked a piece of lettuce and brought it to my mouth, the vinaigrette tangy on my tongue. “You must be kidding.”

“What?” Cordy set her water glass down and turned to me. “I know more about football than you do. NCAA rules, anyway.”

“Pfft.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Not a chance. You might know soccer rules better, but not football.”

She set her fork down. “Try me.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Do your worst.”

“Okay then.” I rolled some obscure rules around in my head and settled on one. “What happens if I’m running the ball and fumble at the one-yard line—not that that would ever happen of course—but let’s just say, for this hypothetical situation, the ball gets knocked loose at the one and rolls into the end zone and out the back. What happens?”

“What down is it?” She stared hard at me.

I tried to maintain my poker face, but her question told me she didn’t know the right answer. “First down.”

She tapped her finger on her chin, and I could sense my mother listening intently. When Cordy’s smile emerged, I knew she’d been teasing me with her question. “Downs don’t matter in that situation. If you fumble out of the end zone like that, it’s a touchback. You pretty much screwed the pooch, and we’ll have to kick it away to the other team.”

Shit.
“That’s right.”

My mom made a
hmph
noise and grabbed a roll from the bread basket.

“Now it’s my turn to ask you one.” Her grin widened, and she sparkled under the crystal lights.

“Please.” I knew the NCAA rulebook almost as well as the constellation of freckles on her inner thigh. “I got this. Hit me.”

“We’ll see.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Let’s say Coach decides to punt, and Hawthorne runs out onto the field with the punting team.”

I focused on her, my mother’s prickly attention fading. Competition was my caffeine. “Yeah.”

“So the center hikes the ball back, but it’s short. The ball hits the ground and bounces up. Instead of scrambling for it, Hawthorne sees an angle and runs up and kicks it. He gets some good leg behind it, and it sails through the uprights. What happens?”

My mind whirred. If the ball was punted and landed out of the back of the end zone, then it was a touch back. I went over the play in my head, imagining Hawthorne kicking just as Cordy described. She piled some ham and mashed potatoes on her plate, then licked the gravy off her spoon as she stared at me with a confident, sly look. It was hot, definitely a good look for her.

“Well, Trent? Cordy answered your question quite a bit faster.” Mom watched me. Was that a hint of amusement in her eye? And I couldn’t help but notice she’d used Cordy’s first name instead of the cold “Ms. Baxter.”

“Okay.” It had to be a touchback. Cordy was just trying to psych me out. Surely.

“Yeah, Trent. What’s the answer?” She took a big bite of ham.

“Fine. It’s a touchback.”

Cordy made an obnoxious buzzer sound, and Mom jumped and put her hand to her mouth.

“Oh.” Cordy glanced at her. “Sorry about that. But no, Mr. I-Know-Everything-About-Football. You are incorrect.”

I threw out the only other option. “It’s a field goal?”

She nodded. “Right. Because the ball hit the ground first, it’s treated like a field goal attempt. It’s called a drop kick. They used to do it all the time back in the old days. I think Doug Flutie is the only guy who’s ever done it in modern football times.” She put her water glass to her lips and leered at me over the edge.

“Are you sure?” I bit a roll with a tad more forcefulness than necessary.

“Google it if you don’t believe me.”

“You usually say that when you’re pulling my leg.” I pinched her thigh.

She smacked my hand. “This one time, I’m serious.”

“Okay then. I believe you. No Google necessary.”

“I don’t like electronics at the table.” Mom took a larger gulp of her wine.

“Seems like a good rule.” Cordy nodded. “Phones are so distracting.”

“I—” Mom stopped, then gave Cordy a glare, as if she were angry about what she was going to say. “I quite agree with you.”

I hid my amazement. But inside, I felt like I’d just watched the most thrilling Super Bowl of all time, and Cordy was doing a celebration dance in my Mom’s end zone.

Instead of gloating, I made small talk about college. I tiptoed around the NFL subject before Mom got going on a tirade against one of the teams she owned a large chunk of. After we’d finished and the hour grew late, Cordy and I stood to leave.

“Cordy, can I have a word?” My mom’s severe tone raised the hackles on the back of my neck, but Cordy accompanied her into the sitting room as I hovered around the staircase.

Playing on the steps had been one of my favorite pastimes when I was a child. Standing there as an adult, I could almost see my dad, memories of him and me racing up the stairs ingrained in my memory. When I was younger, he always beat me. By the time I was a teenager, I dusted him every time. And then he’d grown so sick that the only way he made it up the stairs at all was if I or someone else carried him.

He’d been like a frail bird in my arms toward the end. But the sparkle never left his eyes. He’d stayed true despite the pain, the fear, and the heartache he was going through. I gazed around at the Christmas lights and fir swags. They didn’t carry the same joy as in years past, but I couldn’t ignore how my mother had taken care to use the decorations Dad liked best. Our shared pain couldn’t stop the love we had for him. Nothing could.

“I miss you, Dad.” My voice was a whisper. I hoped he heard me, wherever he was.

Cordy and Mom emerged from the sitting room, and I walked to them.

“Ready to go?” I wanted to get Cordy as far away from my mother as possible. We’d done our duty and visited for Christmas.

“Sure.” Cordy draped her arm through mine. She had a friendly smile on her face—unusual for anyone who just spent one-on-one time with my mother.