Nothing but Trouble (Chinooks #5) (19 page)

“Maybe I can do some catering.” As long as it had nothing to do with catering to celebrities and athletes. And as long as she didn’t know what she was going to do with her life.

For the first time that she could ever recall, she didn’t have a plan. Not even a vague one. She didn’t feel a burning desire for anything. The feeling of numbness she’d craved had settled about her and she didn’t have the energy to feel much of anything at all.

A commercial for athlete’s foot splashed across several of the flat-screen televisions, and she dunked another fry. She wasn’t going to get her breasts reduced. Something she’d always wanted, but she just really didn’t care now. Her agent called with walk-on parts in local productions, but she turned them down. She just felt…drained. Like her life had gone from a thousand vibrant colors to two shades of gray. Blah and blah-er.

Across the table from her, Bo and Jules laughed at something that was clearly an inside joke between the two of them. He whispered something in her ear, and Bo ducked her face and smiled. Chelsea was glad for Bo. Glad that her twin seemed so happy and in love, but a part of her wished that could be Chelsea too. She reached for her fork, feeling an odd mix of emptiness and envy.

Over Jules’s shoulder, a local news conference splashed across the screen. Chelsea glanced up as the television filled with the images of the Chinooks’ general manager Darby Hogue, coach Larry Nystrom, and Mark Bressler. Everything around her seemed to still, fall away as she stared up at the screen. The sound was off but the closed caption was on. Chelsea read the announcement that Mark had just signed on as the assistant coach to the Seattle Chinooks. He sat at a conference table wearing the charcoal suit and black dress shirt he’d picked out at Hugo Boss the day he’d threatened to have sex with her against the wall. The ends of his dark hair curled up around the bottom of a Chinooks’ ball cap resting on his head. His brown eyes looked out from beneath the dark blue bill, and her empty soul drank him in like cool water. His face was a bit tanner than it had been a few days ago. Probably from coaching Derek without his hat.

Bressler: “I’m honored to be given this opportunity. I’ve worked with a lot of these people for eight years, and I look forward to standing behind the bench as we make another run at the cup this season
,” the caption read as he looked out at Chelsea from a dozen or so big-screen televisions.

Her heart squeezed and she set down the fork. Love and loss tore at her, and it felt like he was ripping her heart out all over again.

“What’s wrong?” Bo asked, then turned and looked behind her. “Oh.”

“He took the job,” she said just above a whisper.

“Yeah. This morning.”

On the screen, he reached forward and adjusted a microphone sitting on the table in front of him. His stiff middle finger pointed up as if he was flipping off the world. That same big, injured hand that had slid up her thigh and heated her up all over.

He’d accused her of having sex with him for the bonus money. He’d thrown her feelings for him back in her face like she was nothing, yet still her heart reacted to the sight of him. Still her body craved the touch of his hands.

“Are you okay?” Bo asked.

“Sure.”

The one person who knew her as well as she knew herself wasn’t fooled. Bo rose from her seat and moved beside Chelsea. “It will get better.”

Tears blurred her vision, and she tore her gaze from Mark’s image and looked into her sister’s face. “He ripped my heart out, Bo. How will it ever get better?”

“You can get through this.”

“How?”

She shook her head. “You just will. I promise.”

Chelsea wasn’t so sure, but Bo was trying so hard to convince her, Chelsea nodded. “Okay.”

“What can I do?” Jules asked from across the table.

“You can go kick Mark Bressler’s ass,” Bo answered.

Chelsea glanced at Jules’s face through her tears and almost laughed. He looked like a deer caught in the cross-hairs. “She’s kidding.” She didn’t want Mark hurt. Not even now. Not even after he’d hurt
her
so badly she could hardly breathe past the pain.

He’d taken the coaching job, and if she stayed in Seattle, she’d have to see him on the news. Standing behind the bench yelling at people. How was she ever going to get over her feeling for him if there was a chance she would see him staring down at her from dozens of televisions?

Chelsea brushed her cheeks. She needed to get out of Seattle. It was the only way to get over Mark. “Could you call Georgeanne Kowalsky tomorrow?” She needed a job, maybe two. The sooner the better. The sooner she got enough money together, the sooner she could move past the pain and loss. The sooner she moved past the pain and loss, the sooner she could get her life back. A life that had nothing to do with Mark.

Mark lifted a corner of his cards and raised one finger. The blackjack dealer hit him with a queen of clubs and he folded. His luck was shit. Had been since he and the guys had arrived in Vegas Friday night. That had been two days ago, and he was already down eleven grand. Not to mention the couple of hundred he’d spent on shitty lap dances at Scores.

He sat at a table with Sam and Daniel inside the Players Cub in Mandalay Bay. His hip ached from the late hour and his head hurt from too much booze. This had been Sam’s idea, of course. One last blowout before Mark became the newest assistant coach. Before he was no longer one of the guys. Before he was officially part of the staff.

He felt good about his decision. Good about doing something other than sitting at home while life passed him by. If he couldn’t shoot goals, calling shots from behind the bench was a good alternative. A few months ago, he’d been filled with so much anger he hadn’t even wanted to consider a coaching position. Now, he looked forward to getting back into the game and making another run at the cup. Maybe getting his name on it twice.

“I’m out,” he said, and picked up his chips.

Sam looked up from his cards. “It’s early.”

It was after midnight. “See you guys in the morning.” He cashed in his chips and made his way out of the exclusive club and down the hall to the elevators. When Sam had called him Friday afternoon and mentioned that he and some of the guys were hitting Vegas, Mark had jumped at the chance to get out of town. He hadn’t left Seattle since before the accident, and a trip to Sin City had sounded like a great plan. He figured he’d hang with the boys one last time, check out the strip clubs, and gamble. Surely two of his favorite pastimes would help take his mind off his problems.

Problem, rather. He had only one. Chelsea Ross.

Even as he made his way through the casino filled with people, he felt alone. A dark anger he hadn’t felt in months filled his chest and lowered his brows. He’d fallen hard for her. Harder than he ever remembered falling for a woman. Harder than he’d even known was possible. She’d brought light and laughter into his life when there had been nothing but darkness and anger. She was like a comet streaking across the night sky, lighting it up for a few brief moments. Now all that darkness was back.

He pushed the button to the elevator and one behind him opened. He got inside and rode it up.

He’d fallen for her, and she’d been with him for money. She’d made him want her, made him believe she wanted him too. When the whole time she’d wanted money. And the really messed-up part was that he might have forgiven her for lying. Ten thousand dollars was a lot of money, and he knew why she needed it. Hell, he wanted her to have it, and he could have forgiven her just about anything just to have her light up his life for a while longer.

Anything but her last lie. She’d said she loved him, and something hot and angry and bitter had hit him hard. Right in the gut like a raging fist. He might not be the man he’d been eight months ago. He might have been a sucker for her sweet-smelling skin and soft hands, but he didn’t like being played for a fool. God, did she really think she could lie right to his face and he was so desperate that he’d believe her?

He’d thought getting away with the guys would get Chelsea out of his head. He’d been wrong. She was front and center no matter what he did or how far he ran.

Once inside his room, he stripped to his boxers and climbed into bed. He stared up at the dark ceiling, trying and failing to get Chelsea out of his head.

You made me love you even when I knew it was a really bad idea. You made me love everything about you
, she’d said as tears slid down her cheeks.
You made me love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my whole life
.

He’d wanted to believe her. He’d wanted to grab her up and press her into his chest until her lie became the truth. Until he smashed it and molded it into what he wanted. Until he believed it.

Mark reached for the remote on the nightstand and turned on the television. He flipped through the stations until it returned to the pay-per-view channel. He checked out the porn selection, but nothing sounded interesting. He arrowed across and hit the horror button. Up popped the latest movies and some “classics” like
Psycho
,
The Omen
, and
Slasher Camp
.

A brow rose up his forehead and he sat up straighter in bed. Who would have thought
Slasher Camp
was a “classic”? He pushed the select button and settled back against the pillows. The movie started off innocently enough. With counselors moving into the cabins and getting the camp ready for the season. About ten minutes into it, Chelsea stepped out of a school bus wearing cutoff shorts and a tiny tank top hacked off just above her navel. Her blond hair was pulled to the back of her head in a clip, and her blue eyes peered over the top of a pair of sunglasses. She’d been right. They’d hired her for her boobs, but it was her bottom in those shorts that drew his attention. A heavy weight settled in the pit of his stomach and his chest got tight.

“Hey, everyone,” she called out as she dropped a duffel bag onto the ground. “Angel’s here. It’s time to party.” She looked like a slut. Like a camp counselor slut. Like every teenage boy’s fantasy. Like his fantasy too.

For the next ten minutes or so, Mark watched the counselors put away groceries and sweep out cabins, his attention completely focused on the few shots of Chelsea. He listened to the sound of her voice and laughter, and he watched her bottom in those shorts. Just the sight of her in a five-year-old horror flick twisted him into knots.

An actor with shaggy brown hair like a surfer and wearing a green Abercrombie shirt found an axe stuck in a wall. He pulled it out and placed it on a shelf next to the fire extinguisher. Then he stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a bag of weed. Mark remembered Chelsea telling him the bad boy was always the first to get it in a horror flick, and Mark figured Mr. Shaggy Hair Surfer would be the first to go. The camera panned to the window and what looked like someone in a mask watching from the forest.

At dusk, the scene changed to Chelsea standing at the end of a dock. The setting sun washed her body in gold as she shucked out of her shorts and whipped her top off. She wore a pair of white panties, and Mark got instantly hard. She jumped into the lake and swam about before heading to the shore. Water ran down her breasts and dripped from her chin as she walked up the beach. A male stepped into the shot, his back to the camera. She gasped, then smiled.

“You scared me,” she said as she reached for Mr. Shaggy Hair Surfer. She kissed him long and hard and they slid to the sandy beach. The surfer touched Chelsea’s back and behind and ran his hand up her thigh. Mark had an irrational urge to punch the kid in the head. To rip him apart. He felt sick as sounds of pleasure spilled from Chelsea’s lips. Pleasure she found with someone else.

It was crazy. Chelsea didn’t belong to him, but even if she did, this was a movie, and those weren’t the sounds she made when she had sex. He knew what she sounded like and that wasn’t it. Her voice was breathier, lower during sex. She said, “Oh God” or “Oh my God” a lot. Sometimes, “Oh God, Mark!” And when she orgasmed, her moan came from some deeper, more satisfied place.

A huge, dirty hand grabbed a handful of the surfer’s shaggy hair and cut off his head. Blood splashed all over Chelsea and she screamed. A bloodcurdling scream as she sat up and scooted backward into the woods. Mark remembered her telling him and the guys about this scene. He waited for the axe to cut her throat, and when it did, he looked away.

Mark Bressler, former captain of the Seattle Chinooks, had experienced more than his share of gore. He’d witnessed bones snap and blood gush. He’d seen razor-sharp skates slice flesh, and bodies clash with such force that he could actually hear the damage. For the most part, it had been just another day at the office. But this. He couldn’t watch this. He couldn’t watch anyone hurt Chelsea. Not even when he was still so mad at her it burned a hole in his stomach. Not even when he knew it was all fake. The axe. The blood. The scream.

She was an actress. She made it look real. As real as saying, “I love you.”

He shut off the television, and the next morning he threw his clothes into a suitcase and took the first flight to Seattle. He felt more alone than when he’d arrived in Vegas. He grabbed the
In Flight
magazine and read about luxury condos on a golf course in Scottsdale. He thought of the houses he and Chelsea had looked at most recently. He needed to make a choice soon.

After the two-hour flight, he walked into his empty house, and his suitcase fell from his hand. The emptiness of the six-thousand-square-foot home pressed in on him. There was no one waiting for him. No light. No laughter. No one trying to boss him around. His life was complete crap. As bad as when he’d hit that patch of black ice and totaled everything. And just like that patch of invisible ice, his feelings for Chelsea had been surprising and painful.

The doorbell rang, and he didn’t realize he’d half expected it to be Chelsea until he opened the door and stared into the face of a middle-aged woman with short, black hair and a pear-shaped behind. Within the space of three seconds, his heart sped up and came to a sudden halt.

“I’m Patty Egan. I’m your new home health care worker.”

“Where’s Chelsea?”

“Who? I don’t know a Chelsea. The Chinooks’ aftercare program contracted me through Life Force.”

Life Force?
“I don’t need a nurse.”

“I’m more than just a nurse.” She handed him a stack of his mail.

Chelsea had been more than just an assistant. She’d been his lover. Somehow he didn’t think he’d have the same problem with Patty, but he still wasn’t about to have a nurse in his house and underfoot.

There had been a time in his life when he would have slammed the door in Patty’s face and not really thought anything of it. Chelsea had called him a selfish dickhead. He’d like to think he wasn’t selfish anymore. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he said, and grabbed his mail. “I don’t need you.” He started to shut the door and added for good measure, “You have a nice day, though.”

The doorbell rang again but he ignored it. He walked into his office and called Connie Backus. Someone must have found out about his relationship with Chelsea and fired her.

“Why is there a new home health care worker on my porch?”

“Sorry it took so long to get someone out there. But Chelsea Ross quitting on such short notice kind of left us in a bind.”

The mail in his hand hit the desk. “Chelsea quit?”

“Last week. Tuesday I believe.”

The day after she’d walked out of his life. “Did she give a reason?”

“She said something about moving back to L.A.”

Chelsea stood with an icing bag in one hand, piping hearts on three dozen cupcakes. Some of the icing kind of squirted off one side and onto the table. Her luck had been going that way lately. One thing after another. A few days ago, she’d had a flat tire, and yesterday she’d lost her cell phone. The last time she remembered seeing it had been right before she’d jumped in the shower yesterday.

She’d worked for Georgeanne Kowalsky for three days now, and she could honestly say it wasn’t bad. She’d certainly done worse. Holding the hair of a certain celebutard while she puked in an ice bucket came to mind.

She’d also applied for waitressing jobs at several different restaurants and bars. No sports pubs though. Nothing with televisions hanging on the walls.

Georgeanne stuck her head through one of the doors to the big kitchen. “Chelsea, there’s someone here to see you.”

“Who?”

“Me,” Mark answered, and walked into the kitchen.

Chelsea’s heart knocked against her ribs and she forgot to breathe.

“Are you going to be okay with him here?” Georgeanne asked.

No
. Chelsea nodded and her boss left the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

“Searching for you?”

He was as tall and handsome as she remembered. Her chest caved in at the sight of him. She took a deep breath past all the pain and said, “We don’t have anything to say to each other, Mark.”

“I have a lot to say. All you have to do is listen.”

“You can’t order me around anymore.”

He smiled a little as he moved past an industrial-sized mixer toward her. “Sweetheart, you were never good at taking orders. I’m
asking
you to listen.”

“How did you find me?”

“Jules.”

Jules knew the whole sordid story. “Jules told you?” The jerk. He had to know how much seeing Mark would hurt her. She was going to hurt
him
when she saw him tonight.

“I threatened to beat the living shit out of him if he didn’t. For some reason he found that very funny.”

Jules was kind of perverse that way. That’s probably why he loved Bo.

He moved around the table toward her. “Why did you quit your job?”

She looked away. Away from the intensity in his brown eyes. She didn’t have to ask what job. She shrugged. “I couldn’t keep it. Not after everything.”

He didn’t say a word for several long moments. “I’ve put an offer on that house in the Queen Anne district. The one you liked.”

“Oh.” Had he driven all the way here just to tell her that?

“I accepted the assistant coach position.”

“I know.” She loved him, but seeing him was so bittersweet, her shredded heart felt like it was shredding all over again. “I have to go back to work now,” she said, and turned toward the cupcakes.

“I lied to you.”

She looked over her shoulder. “You didn’t take the job with the Chinooks?”

“No. Yes.” He shook his head. “I lied before that.”

“About the house?”

“I lied when I told you that you mean nothing to me. I lied when I said I didn’t love you.”

“What?” She turned toward him. “Why?”