Rush (7 page)

I clutch his arm. “Are you being serious right now? I just announced the program last week and I already have twenty-eight kids signed up. I’m starting to panic because I’ve only collected three hoodies and a pair of shoes that smell like a rat died in them.”

He nods his head. “Yeah. Two women from the golf team called earlier. They have a bag of stuff they’re dropping off tomorrow, and another girl who runs cross-country will have a box ready, but she needs a pick up from Townsend Hall, two p.m.”

“That’s fantastic.” I beam at him, then I remember. “I can’t do a two p.m. pick up. I have class until two forty. Did you get her number?”

“I was planning on snagging it on my way to practice.”

I pause, considering his statement. “Are you sure?” I ask, and it’s impossible to keep the surprise out of my voice.

“It’s on my way. Are you taking donations from other schools and professional teams, too?”

“Anything that has a sports logo on it. Thanks for your help,” I say, inspecting him a moment longer. He smiles over another sip of coffee.

“What about the fourth call?” I ask

“Oh,” he says, setting his cup down. “It was from Gus Hatch.”

“Really.” I sink back on the couch. “What’d he say?”

“He said he wanted to ask you out.”

“And what’d you say.”

“Well, I gave him some advice,” he says, looking cocky as hell.

“Ha, I hardly think you know me well enough to give guys advice on dating me,” I say smugly.

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Peep.” His platinum stare bores into me with an intensity that almost makes me believe he knows what he’s talking about. I cross my arms over my chest, smirking at his arrogance.

“All right, let’s hear it, Rush. What was your advice?”

He cocks a brow and shoots me a knowing look. “Same thing I told the last guy—he’d have a lot better chance of getting a date if he coughed up some donations from the hockey team.”

I purse my lips. Damn. He’s right. “Maybe you know me a tiny little bit,” I say, holding up pinched fingers and squinting. “This much.” He brightens at my compliment, and a blast of laughter echoes up from both of us. The rich sound bursts the relaxed air between us.

I sit up, straightening my spine and reminding myself of the business at hand.

“I appreciate you offering to help with an appeal, but no. No, thanks.”

“No?” he says, cocking his head. “Are you joking?”

“I’ll file the appeal, but I don’t need a partner to track down witnesses. I can do that on my own. I can go back to the bar and talk to the workers…”

Alarm seizes his features. “Hell, yes, you need a partner. What if you run into some of the guys involved in the fight? You can’t go confronting those guys without me. They’re dangerous.” His tone is firm, and he’s staring at me as if I’m a lunatic. I raise a brow at him and tilt my head.

“Oh really. Last time I confronted them I don’t remember you being much help.”

“That will never happen again,” he responds, letting out a remorseful breath. “I know you don’t want to admit this, but you need me. Around here, people know who I am. The cops, the faculty, the coaches, the students—these are the people you’re going to be talking to. They’ll talk to me without even realizing I’m fishing for information. Has Robert Raider ever given you his personal cell phone number and told you to call him if you needed anything?”

Robert Raider is SEU’s athletic director, and I doubt he would know me if I kicked a soccer ball in his face. He’s right. Men’s sports are more important to the world, and the quarterback approaching an undefeated season, a bowl game, and an NFL contract is so much more important than me.

“Priscilla, let me help you. What do you have to lose?” When I don’t answer, his voice softens. “Look, unlike the guys that called today wanting a date under the pretense of being interested in your charity, I don’t want anything other than to undo the damage that’s been done. Then you can get back to the soccer field, and I can get back to concentrating on football. I’m the perfect partner for you,” he says, holding the pen out.

I stare at the concern in his eyes. He’s drawn me in. It’s as if those door chimes hypnotized me, opening my brain cells so he could fill them with hope. If I trust what he’s told me—that he didn’t get my letter and he would have been there if he knew—I can get past my anger. And then there’s the cold hard truth—I don’t see any other witnesses lining up to help. He may be my only hope. My insides feel like oatmeal.

I snatch the pen and scratch my signature on the appeal document. He picks up the stack of papers and taps the ends on the table, casting me mischievous grin. “I think we’re going to make a good team, partner.”

I pin him with an examining look, and he flashes his eyebrows suggestively. I raise a finger and point to his forehead. “Don’t do that.”

He laughs and I hold the pen out to him. “So, what’s next?”

“I’m going to go back to the Rathskeller to see if any of the staff witnessed the fight. I’m sure some of their regulars were at that Devil’s Night party.”

“Sounds good. What day were you thinking?”

His expression freezes.

I widen my eyes with understanding and point my finger at his nose. “Don’t even think you’re going without me. You said partners. I’m going, too.”

He presses his thumb to his lips and thinks about it.

“You don’t get to call the plays and decide who you’re going to throw the ball to. I’m it.” I swat his hand away from his face. “End of discussion.”

His lips twitch. “End of discussion? Seriously? I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before.”

“Do you need me to say it again?” I lean forward, but he puts up a conciliatory hand.

“All right, all right. But I’ll bring more back-up in case we run into any problems. And it needs to be tomorrow. I’m on the road this weekend.”

“Agreed. I’ll bring more back up, too.” I nod and stand up. “I’ve got to get to class.” He stands, too, beating me to my coat and holding the collar open.

“Arms,” he says. I turn my back and reach. He slides it up, resting his hands on my shoulders for a brief second before I step away.

“Thanks,” I say, pulling my hair out from my collar and feeling a burst of heat on my cheeks.

He smiles and hangs his fingers in his front pockets. “I’m going to stay and do some studying, but I’ll walk you to your car.”

“You don’t have to.” I point to the window. “I’m right there—the Jetta.”

He peers over the sill and nods. “I’ll watch you from here, then. Text me your address and I’ll pick you up tomorrow night around eight. You’ve got my number?”

I strap my book bag over my shoulder and exaggerate the shake of my head. “Oh, I’ve got your number.” His laughter rings in my head as I walk to my car.

Well, good job, Priscilla. The plan was to never see him again, and now you’re his partner. That takes real skill. I console myself with the doubts I have that the partner thing will work. But if he helps move my appeal forward by even one millimeter, it will have been worth it. I owe it to myself, and to my team, to do everything I can to get back on the field.

Taillights burst a red shadow over my thighs as I unlock my car, conscious of the fact that he could be watching.
Don’t look up, Priscilla
. It would be totally cheesy, but I really want to know if he’s there—as if it’s some kind of a test of his sincerity.
That’s just stupid. Don’t look.

I pull the door open and raise a quick glance. His frame is backlit, and he’s leaning a forearm over his head, staring down—gorgeous, of course. He drums his fingers over the windowpane. I draw in a breath, flash a quick smile, and duck into my car. Totally. Cheesy. Gripping the steering wheel hard, I drop my head against it. My life is completely off track. It has been since I met him. And now I’ve just handed over the reins of my sanity…
to him
. The worst thing about it is I’m already bracing for the crash.

Chapter Eight

Preston

I’m flipping pancakes, making my little cousin breakfast for dinner and thinking about Peep. Tonight we head back to the scene of the crime. I like her more than I should. I’m breaking my own self-imposed rules—spending time with a girl I could
really
get close to. But I have a valid excuse. I have to test my suspicions and crack the code on the real reason those pirates attacked me. Once I know that, I’ll be able to determine the best way to help Priscilla.

Carson’s my back-up, as always, and he should be here any minute. We share a dorm room that the college provides to us through our scholarships. I try to be on campus often, to cut down on my mom’s bills, but I go back and forth between the duplex we share with my aunt’s family—mostly, so that I can help out.

I glance at my little cousin. She’s abandoned her math homework and is kneeling on her chair, peering out the window.

“Need some help there, Kaja?”

“No,” she says, lowering the pencil she’s poking into the white eyelet curtains to hold them back. “I thought I saw Mamma.” She sighs, flopping into her seat.

“She’ll be home soon, Kaj.”

“Are you leaving, Przem?” She asks, using my family name.

“Not till your mom’s home.”

We moved in to the east side of my aunt and uncle’s duplex in Hamtramck after our house went into foreclosure three years ago.

Once I started playing college ball, I couldn’t work the way I used to. My mom’s medical expenses kept rising, and we couldn’t keep up with the mortgage payment. Thank God for my Aunt Julia. She helps care for my mom, and it was her idea to cut a door through the interior wall so we can go back and forth between the units like one big happy family. And we almost are, except for one problem. My uncle’s a stinking drunk.

Turning off the burner, I flip the last of the pancakes onto a platter. Kaja lets loose a sharp gasp, and I jerk to see her back at the window. She sinks into her seat, staring at me with a stricken look. “It’s Daddy,” she whispers.

I force a smile. “It’s all right Kaj. Finish up your homework there so we can eat.” Her head hangs low over her paper as the front door opens.

My uncle’s brother owns one of the local Polish restaurants, and he keeps my uncle employed because he’s family. Fortunately, he works the evening shift, which significantly reduces the amount of time he’s home. He sleeps until noon and leaves for work at three. When his shift ends he heads to the bars—rarely does he make it home before midnight…or sober. He must have forgotten something.

His boots thump the living room floor like a dead man walking. He enters the kitchen, passing a worthless glance over me.

“Well, aren’t you just the picture of domestic bliss,” he mumbles, continuing to the hallway. I ignore his jab and sit next to Kaja, helping her with a subtraction problem. Three minutes later, he returns with a folder under his arm. His gaze shifts between Kaja and the plate of bacon on the table, and he stops.

“What are you doing home, Uncle Eryk?” I ask.

“I live here, remember?” He drops his stubby fingers to snatch a piece of bacon and lifts a slice to his mouth.

“Oh, I remember,” I respond.

“You being a good girl?” he asks Kaja in a gruff voice.

“Uh-huh,” she says, casting him a wary glance.

“That’s good you’re doin’ your homework. You don’t want to end up like your cousin here, spongin’ off your ’n-laws.”

“Nope, you sure don’t,” I say, staring at his watery blue eyes with a “fuck you” smile. He reaches for another piece of bacon, but I grab the plate and move it out of his reach. He grunts and walks out. One day soon, I am going to knock his scrawny ass to the other side of fucked-up. Resisting the urge gets harder every day. I’ve just got to hold off for a few more months.

I hear the door close, and Kaja’s brown eyes stare up at me from under wisps of blonde hair. She leans toward me, smiles, and whispers, “He’s gone, Przem.”

I drop my forehead on hers and whisper back, “I feel like I could tickle someone.” She bolts up and lets out a cackling laugh—as if my words just ran a feather between her toes. Swirling a long finger over her head, I proceed to torture her with the threat until she darts out of the room, laughing hysterically.

I stand up and load three plates with pancakes and bacon. “Ma, It’s ready,” I call. The whizzing sound of her scooter closes in on the kitchen as I set the table. A crack pops the air, and I turn to see her hung up on the doorframe.

“Son of a broad-assed bitch,” she curses, staring at the splintered floor trim she clipped. “I hate this thing,” she says, reversing.

I fold a piece of bacon and consume it in one bite.

“I’ll fix it this weekend, Ma. Come eat.”

She wheels in and leans her weakest arm on the table, moving her legs with her good arm as Kaja skips in and pulls out a chair. I resist the urge to help, pretending I don’t notice the effort it takes to twist and reposition under the table. She’s told us not to help her unless she asks, which is almost never. It’s hard—so hard that sometimes I have to leave the room for a minute.

“Honest to God, you’d think I could maneuver that thing a little better—it’s the size of a Tonka truck,” she grumbles. The side door slams, and my Aunt Julia appears in the kitchen.

“Momma!” Kaja bounces up from her seat, swinging a loaded fork and dripping syrup. “Did you get me fruit snacks?” she asks, popping a soaked triangle of pancake into her pink mouth and kicking a foot toward the plastic bags dangling from my aunt’s wrists.

I wipe the grease from my hands and head out the door for the rest of the groceries. “Dinner’s on the stove, Aunt Julia.”

Carson is rolling up to the curb as I trot down the driveway. I raise a hand and wait for him at the trunk of my aunt’s Subaru.

“You ready to bounce?” he asks, grabbing the last two bags.

“Almost—just have to unload and say my good-byes.”

“Well, hello there, boys.” The thickly accented voices of our neighbors, Zuzanna and Helena Barnowski, call to us from the porch of their duplex, which is roughly a car length away from ours. Carson stops and busts out a wide grin. He’s all about the neighborly schmooze. Where he grew up, you can’t see anything over the security gates—he once admitted to me he’d never met his neighbors.

“Our niece comes this week, Przem. We were hoping you could introduce her to some of your friends,” Zuzanna says, nodding to Carson. “She’ll be working at the hospital. She’s a nice Polish girl—a very good girl.”

“Nice girls aren’t really my thing,” Carson mutters, “but God, I love the housecoats.” Zuzanna continues to describe her niece, and I feign interest, trying to come up with some way to end the conversation. I feel Carson shifting restlessly beside me, and note his uncomfortable expression as he raises a slow hand to his mouth.

After dinner, the women in our community sit on their front porches, gossiping with the neighbors. Anyone on the street is eye level with their knees, and half the time you can see right up those housecoats to their underwear. It’s distracting as hell carrying on a conversation with someone when you know you can see up her dress, and you really, really don’t want to.

“It would be nice to meet her. I’m happy to help anyway I can.”

“We’ll be rooting for ya’ this weekend, Przem,” Helena says. “Go, Sparkplugs.”

“Yep,” I say. Actually it’s Sparks, not Sparkplugs, but I let it go, seizing the opportunity to wish them a good night and step away.

Carson soaks up the love from my mom, aunt, and Kaja as I put the groceries away. We say our good-byes, hop in my truck, and thirty minutes later we’re rolling into the parking lot of the Brentwood apartment complex. I scroll the text thread up with my thumb, checking Peep’s address as we wind up the outdoor stairway. The door opens, and a tall African American guy nods to us.

“Uh, maybe we have the wrong address. We’re looking for Priscilla.”

“Yeah, you got it. Come on in,” he says.

“You play ball?” Carson asks, as we step into the living room.

“Yeah, basketball. Just transferred. I’m Marcus Smith.” We shake his hand, and I’m rolling through the possible reasons he would be answering her door. Boyfriend? Roommate? Then I remember our agreement to bring back-up. He must be hers—but he could still be a boyfriend. I watch him cross the living room, pick up the remote, and turn down the TV. He seems pretty at home.

“Sil!” he yells over his shoulder. “Your guy’s here.”

Peep steps into the shadows at the end of the hallway, knocks twice on a door, and heads our way.

“Hey,” she says, running a finger along the side of her ball cap, tucking in her long, honey-colored hair. Since I’ve hardly seen her without one, I’m guessing she wears a hat more often than not. It makes it hard as shit to see her eyes, and they’re the most awesome shade of pale green.

She flashes a polite smile my way and then turns it on Carson and introduces herself. “I’m all set,” she says, pulling the strap of a small purse over her head.

“Should we head out, then?” I ask, and both Carson and I turn to Marcus, who has a blank expression on his face.

“Oh, Marcus is our roommate, but he’s not my back-up,” Peep says. A door has opened in the background, and a shadow is emerging from the hallway.

“I am,” the voice punches into the air, and a girl steps around Marcus.

She’s carrying some sort of lizard in a football hold, and wearing cowboy boots, a denim miniskirt, and an oversize black sweater. I recognize her from the gladiator games as one of the soccer girls. Carson takes an enthusiastic step forward, mesmerized by the lizard. “That is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, extending a finger. “What the heck is it?”

“She’s a Blue-Tongued Skink. Her name’s Rasputin.”

“Ah, Russian.” He smiles. “What does she eat?”

“Your fingers, if you don’t put them back in your pockets, pretty boy.”

He straightens, not sure how to read that comment.

This
is her back-up? Not what I agreed to when I told her she could come along. My eyes flip to Peep, who quickly looks away, then to Marcus.

I’d be much more comfortable with my initial assumption. I’ll take door number one, please. Not only is her back-up completely inadequate, I think she may be her own sort of trouble.

“What are you doing tonight, man? Want to join us?” I ask. His lips slant as he considers my offer. “We’re heading to a bar off-campus. Might be a little rough.”

“Suppose I could,” he says.

“Come if you want, but you don’t have to,” Peep counters, giving me a hard look.

He casts a sideways glance at their roommate who’s lowering Rasputin into an oversize terrarium and cooing to her like an owl. “Maybe I better. I’ll grab my shoes,”

Carson introduces himself to lizard girl as she’s passing him, making another effort to warm her up.

“Ya, ya, ya.” She waves a hand, “I know who you are. I met you at the gladiator games.” She stops suddenly and dips her head backward, skimming the top of his shoulder with her messy bun of reddish-blond hair. “You wouldn’t remember me because I’m just a soccer girl, football play-yaaa,” she says, dragging a sarcastic tone over the word.

“We got a pocketful of crazy going on right here,” he responds, looking down at her. Pocket? I’m thinking more like a bucket. Her head snaps up, and she walks away, unfazed by his teasing comment, and when she passes Priscilla she raises a hand and swipes the baseball hat off her head.

“Jace.” Priscilla scowls, clenching her fists.

“Um, no. Newsflash, you’re a girl, Slow.”

She sure as shit is a girl. I stuff my urge to laugh when I see her hot look, but it works for me. All of it. Now I can see her eyes. Lizard girl might not be so bad after all. “Why ‘Slow’?” I ask, looking between the two of them.

Jace nods toward Priscilla. “She’s the fastest player on the field. Well, she was until you showed up…then didn’t show up.”

Ouch. “Yeah, I’m working on that.”

“Wake me up when it’s time to be impressed,” she says, heading for the door.

“Tough crowd,” Carson mumbles as we follow them out.

“We’re not exactly the hometown favorite,” I reply, watching Priscilla pretend to be occupied with something on her phone. Damn. I thought we had gotten past the anger last night, but maybe not. Every time I see her I have to thaw the ice again.

We load into my truck, and I ask about the nephew, Ian. Jace casually explains that he worked at the Rathskeller over the summer and that he knew all of the employees who were in the bar the night of the fight. She’s able to describe the six people we need to talk to and team Slow-Rush has an official game plan. We’re off to a good start.

Headlights beam into the alley, highlighting the exact location of the brawl as we ease into a parking space. We unload and cross the parking lot.

“I’ll cover the two cocktail waitresses,” Carson calls, heading in.

“I’ll take the bartenders,” Jace responds. Marcus nods in her direction and follows.

The remaining people on the list are managers, and they could be anywhere in the bar. “I’ll start in the game room,” Peep says, dipping under my arm as I hold the door open.

“No way. You’re staying with me.” I clamp my hand around hers and pull her along before she can object. “We can pretend we’re on a date.”

“How romantic,” she mumbles. I shoulder my way in, scanning the boisterous room, looking for the manager Jace named Patrice. According to Ian, she’s a full-figured brunette in her mid-thirties who serves as right hand to his uncle.

Halfway through the room, Priscilla jerks my hand, nodding right. A dark haired waitress is swinging two amber bottles in one hand, laughing with a seated couple. We walk close enough to see “Patrice” on her nametag and slide into a table a few feet away.

Minutes later, our target turns around and introduces herself. “What can I get you?” she asks, passing a quick glance over Priscilla then focusing on me. We order Cokes, and when I strike up a conversation with Patrice, Priscilla excuses herself for the bathroom.

We chat for a few minutes, and then I casually mention the last time I was at the bar. “There was a Halloween party going on. It was packed, and we couldn’t even get a seat,” I explain.