Play It Again (10 page)

And then, the kiss changes.

Piper bends into me, pressing hard against
me, her lips turning insistent. Her lips part under mine and she
darts her tongue into my mouth, and I find myself fighting the urge
to tangle my hands in her hair, not wanting to hurt her. Her hands
curl into the collar of my shirt, and my pulse kicks up and so does
my cock.

Jesus, she feels so good pressed against me,
tastes so good, mint mixed with a sweetness that’s entirely hers.
So right.
Like this is where she’s supposed to be.

Shit. I’m supposed to be here to look after
her, supposed to make sure she rests, and here she is getting me so
worked up that if I don’t stop now, she won’t be getting any
rest.

With another swipe of my tongue along hers,
savoring her taste, I force myself to pull back.

I don’t want to.

Fuck, I really don’t want to, but I do.

She’s panting, her eyes glassy from lust or
pain, I’m not entirely sure. It almost looks like both. They flick
up to mine for a tick, before falling back to my mouth and I nearly
groan as her pretty little pink tongue darts out, licking along the
seam of her lips.

“Wow,” she says. “We should have done that
years ago.”

A startled laugh slips from my lips. “Yeah,
we should have.”

I stare at her and she stares right back at
me.

In that moment, I can’t remember what I’d
been waiting for all these years, why I hadn’t made a move for her.
All my reasoning, all my hesitations seem stupid, a waste.

Five, ten, fifteen seconds pass.

Her cheeks flush. The soft pink is so damn
pretty on her skin.

“I should …” she starts, and then stalls,
taking a step back. “… Um, let you have that shower.”

She stares at me again, this time almost …
expectantly. She wants to stay. I can see it burning brightly in
her forest green eyes.

“Yeah,” I say, surprising myself with my
agreement and I force myself to turn away, with the fresh towel in
hand. I’m halfway in the bathroom when she places a hand on my arm,
drawing me to a stop. It’s a barely there touch, but I feel it
through my entire body. Her hand is soft, manicured, and smooth;
nothing like my rough and calloused ones. I breathe out a long sigh
and turn to look at her, leaning back slightly because she’s
staring up at me with sad forest green eyes, her expression
suddenly … broken.

My gut clenches. I’m going to strangle
whoever it is that’s responsible for putting that look there.

“Vance …” she trails off, and all I want to
do is scoop her up, take her to bed, climb in there with her, and
make her feel better. Make her feel good.

My cock jerks at the thought, completely
onboard with the idea.

Shit. Totally inappropriate.

She’s hurt.

She’s scared.

She’s been through hell tonight.

The last thing she needs right now is me
mauling her.

“Go get some sleep,” I say, my voice coming
out harsher than I intend it to. “I’ll wake you up in a couple
hours.”

She opens her mouth to argue, or perhaps it’s
to say thank you, but she doesn’t get the chance to do either,
because I slip out of her hold, shut the door and turn on the
shower, letting out a breath I hadn’t even been aware I was
holding.

I take a long second to collect myself,
reminding myself of all the reasons why it’s a bad idea to follow
her to her bedroom right now, before stripping down and unwrapping
the tensor bandage from my wrist.

I jump under the water; the burn from the too
hot temperature is a welcome distraction. For good measure, I flex
my fingers, groaning at the stab of pain that shoots through my
wrist, but it does little to help.

My mind stays fixed on Piper.

My hand remembering the feel of her hip in my
grasp, my lips dying for another taste.

The woman is perfection.

Shit.
She always was.

I groan again, snagging up the shampoo and
squirting out a blob of coconut scented soap. I take my time,
washing out the remaining dirt and slivers of glass from my hair,
forcing myself not to think about how she’s just a couple of doors
down, curled up in bed.

When I finish, I dry off, put on my boxers,
and rewrap my wrist, before heading straight for the couch,
purposefully not glancing toward her room.

I lay there in the dark for a long moment, my
pulse still thrumming hard, and before I close my eyes, I set the
alarm clock on my phone to wake Piper in two hours.

Piper

Something startles me awake.

I sit straight up in bed, disoriented, my
head pounding and my heart hammering in my chest. The room is semi
dark, the lights off and blinds drawn with only thin strips of
light coming into the room from around them.

A glance around tells me that I’m alone and a
glance at the clock tells me that it’s two o’clock, and judging by
the light streaming in from the window, that would be two o’clock
in the afternoon.

Sighing and rubbing my eyes, not sure what
woke me up, I stand, stumbling out of bed. As my feet hit the
ground, my head spins, my mouth waters, and my stomach
flip-flops.

Oh crap.

Oh crap.

Oh crap.

Not again.

Hand flying up to my mouth, I half run, half
stagger to the bathroom, my stomach heaving and bile rising,
burning up my throat. I drop to my knees, hovering over the toilet,
and retch for the sixth time since the accident.

With nothing left in my stomach, the
dry-heaves feel as though they last for hours, twisting my gut,
making my eyes water and my head throb painfully.

But then they end.

Thank God they end.

Leaning back on my haunches, I flush the
toilet, and then sit there for a long moment, trying to catch my
breath, before finally rolling up to my feet and moving over to the
sink to brush my teeth, groaning when I catch sight of myself in
the mirror.

I look like death.

My eyes are bloodshot and watery, my cheeks
puffy, and there’s the beginnings of a purplish bruise forming
along my hairline and seeping in to my right cheek. My hair is a
tangled mess, knotted and dented from falling asleep with it still
wet, and my tee, dampened with sweat around the neckline.

Ugh. How many times did Vance see me like
this last night?
He woke me up … four times? Five?

Great. Too many.

Grimacing, I try to fix myself up, running my
fingers through my hair, not quite brave enough to use the
hairbrush. The skin around the stitches feels as though it’s
burning, my scalp feeling too tight from the pull of them.

My efforts do little to help, and giving up,
I grab an elastic and tie my hair back loosely at the nape of my
neck, before splashing some water on my face.

As I’m brushing my teeth, I hear the door to
my room open and the light sound of footsteps on the floor.

Vance.

I guess another two hours has gone by
already. I just hope he hasn’t brought another plate of food with
him this time. I don’t think my stomach can handle it.

Rinsing my mouth and toothbrush, I turn off
the faucet and step back into my bedroom, blinking my eyes against
the bright light that’s now streaming in through the open
blinds.

When my eyes focus, they land on Vance
leaning against the window frame, arms folded over his thickly
muscled chest. My footsteps falter, and I pause, only a few steps
out of the bathroom. He meets my eyes, his brown ones dark, stormy
with concern.

Instinctively, I fold my arms over my chest
in a futile attempt to shield the state of my sweat dampened shirt,
and my overall gross appearance.

The action makes him frown, but he doesn’t
say anything. He only stares, his eyes carefully blank, as they
scan me over.

I’m not sure what I should say, or what to
do, or how I should even feel. I nearly puked on him last night,
snapped at him, kissed him, and then had him hold my hair while I
puked some more.

My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I want to
apologize. I want to thank him. I want to run back into the
bathroom and lock the door.

This is so awkward.

I just stare back at him, fighting the urge
to fidget.

After a moment, his frown lines soften ever
so slightly. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah, just barely.”

Ugh.
My voice sounds rough, scratchy
and hoarse, and my throat feels like sandpaper.

“You get sick again?” he asks.

A lie springs to the tip of my tongue, but I
quickly swallow it back, knowing he’ll probably want me to eat if I
say no. “Yeah.”

He nods, eyeing me critically. He looks well
rested and wide awake, and I’m not sure how he’s pulling it off.
Even if he hadn’t crashed on my couch, which couldn’t have been all
that comfortable, he was up every two hours with me, waking me up
and holding my hair while I puked my guts out.

“How’s the head?” He raises his eyes
questioningly. “Headache still there?”

“Better.” A lot better than when he saw me
last. “The headache’s almost gone, nowhere near as bad as the last
time you woke me.”

Vance’s expression shifts, and he stares at
me, his eyes narrowing. He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t need
to. I can tell he doesn’t believe me.

“Really, it’s fine,” I say quickly. “The skin
is sore and tight and throbbing a little around the stitches, but
the headache isn’t as all-consuming as it was.”

He considers me for a moment, looking nowhere
near as impressed by this as I am. He sighs. “I gotta run out for a
bit. Kim’s coming over to stay with you.”

My stomach sinks. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah. I just talked to Sam and he agreed to
let me review the security tapes from last night. He’s meeting me
at the pub in forty-five minutes. The detective I told you about
last night is gonna be there, too.”

I frown, hugging myself tighter, my gaze
holding his. “I want to go with you.”

He shakes his head, pushing off the window
frame to stroll through my room, back toward the door. “Not this
time. Not until you can hold down some food for more than ten
minutes.”

“It’s just a hangover,” I say, darting in
front of him and blocking the doorway, before he can leave. “It’ll
pass.”

“I hope you’re right, freckles,” he says.
“But you’re still not coming with me.”

He stares at me, his eyebrow cocked, as
though he’s waiting for me to protest, and once again, I find
myself at a loss for something to say. I know he’s right. I should
stay home, get some more sleep, eat, but I feel like I’m losing a
battle here. My control over my life, over my stalker situation, is
slipping from my grasp, and it terrifies me.

I need to be involved.

I need to be doing something.

I need to be in control.

Reaching out a hand, he runs his knuckles
along my cheekbones. “But if your stomach doesn’t settle soon,” he
says, “then I’m taking you back to the hospital. Repeated vomiting
isn’t normal after a concussion.”

My chest squeezes, and I lean into his touch.
The sudden urge to let him soothe and take care of me is nearly
overwhelming. I know that he will if I just fully let go of
everything and hand it over to him, but I can’t just sit back and
wait for the next attack.

It’s just not me.

“I’m fine,” I say softly. “Thank you for
trying to take care of me, Vance.”

He shoots me a sardonic smile and drops his
hand from my cheek. “Trying. So far my success rate seems to be
fifty/fifty though.”

I stall at those words. “How do you figure
that?”

He lifts his bulky shoulders in a shrug.
“Managed to get the security system in, but you still ended up in
the hospital under my watch.”

“It’s because you were there, because you
held me in my seat, that all I got was a few stitches and a
headache. In my books, that’s a complete success.”

He regards me peculiarly for a moment, and it
looks as though he’s about to say something, just as the alarm
starts to beep, and we both shift our gazes to the monitor, perched
on top of my dresser, reading the warning flashing there.
Front
door motion detected.

Kim, most likely.

Sighing, I pad over to the monitor, tapping
the screen and quickly pulling up the front door feed, just as the
doorbell rings.

Wincing at the sharp bursts of sound, I
squint at the screen, and sure enough, it’s Kim and Jimmy.

Vance caught my wince. I know it the moment I
turn back to him. His eyes darken, his frown tightens, and his
eyebrows dip low. “You need to go back to the doctor.”

“I’m fine,” I say, waving a dismissive hand.
“Noise sensitivity directly correlates with hangovers and
headaches.”

His frown deepens further. “You said your
headache was better.”

I roll my eyes. “I said it was almost gone
and not as bad as the last time you woke me.”

He merely shakes his head disapprovingly.

I look away from him then, moving over to the
closet, searching out a clean shirt. “You mind getting that?” I
ask, pulling a light blue tank off its hanger. “I need to change
real quickly.”

Vance says nothing as he walks away, and I
watch him as he closes my bedroom door behind him.

Once he’s gone, I head over to my dresser,
opening the drawer and retrieving a clean bra, before shrugging out
of the dirty tee and putting it on. With no time for a shower, I
pull on the clean tank as I pad back over to the bathroom and
quickly swipe on some deodorant.

With a sigh, I scan my pasty reflection over
once more in the mirror, and knowing that there really isn’t much I
can do about the sickly look to my skin right now, I leave my room
to find Kim and Jimmy.

Following the sounds of their voices, I walk
into the kitchen and Kim’s super blonde hair glints from the glare
of the sun streaming through the French doors. She has on a tight
pink tank and a pair of snug black denim capri pants, and by the
look on her face, she’s obviously still feeling the effects from
last night’s bender.