Sliding Home (7 page)

She drew two glasses of tap water and gathered plastic silverware. They
soon sat across from each other at the small dining room table. Her gaze fixed
on him from his first bite. “Something on your mind?” he asked.

She scooped her peas, blue-eyed and inquisitive. “Do you really settle
arguments with your women in bed?”

He swallowed his smile. “Fight with me and find out.”

“I don't like confrontation.”

“Sex eases the tension.”

Dayne didn't look convinced.

She had every right not to believe him. He'd mentioned sex earlier to
see how far he could push her. Girl on top would have lasted as long as it took
her to climb on; then he'd have flipped her.

His first time with a woman, he wanted her to forget her name and
remember his. He liked to control her orgasm.

“Do you bring your dates here?” Her curiosity made her chatty.

“Never have,” he admitted. “The mobile home's rundown. I doubt I could
talk a woman through the door.”

“You'd have to talk fast.” Her smile revealed straight white teeth and a
tiny dimple in her cheek.

“The trailer's a temporary roof over my head,” he stated. “I'll be here
a year, no longer.”

“You're transient?” She sounded sympathetic.

He'd signed a seven-year deal with the Rogues, and planned to put down
roots in Richmond. Dayne, however, saw him as unemployed and penniless. That
was fine by him. The less she knew about him, the better.

“Don't worry about me.” He blew her off. “I survive.”

“I'm not as concerned about you as I am about Cimarron.”

“Does he look like he's missed a meal?” Kason grunted.

Dayne twisted on her chair to look at the Dobie. Cim was solid and still
growing. He now gnawed his butcher's bone in utter contentment.

“Cimarron liked the mac and cheese,” she noted.

“So did I.” He swallowed his last bite.

Dusk soon shadowed the woods visible through the back window. The window
without drapes. Deep burgundy and muted orange scored the sky as night crept up
fast.

Kason caught Dayne's long looks through the glass followed by her heavy
sigh. She set down her fork and absently rubbed the
Tomorrow
tattoo on her wrist.

“Tell me about your tat,” he said, drawing her gaze from the window.

She pursed her lips, turned thoughtful. “My tattoo's connected to my
watch.” She raised the cracked face and worn band for his inspection. “The
watch belonged to my dad, the aging rocker. He played bass for Wicked Riot. It
took years before the band was recognized beyond a local neighborhood tavern.
He taught me to appreciate rock and concert T-shirts. When fame hit, my dad
split.”

Her voice slowed. “I caught him sneaking out the back door of our
apartment on Christmas Eve when I was thirteen. He winked, told me that he was
going to the convenience store for a gallon of milk. Dad insisted Santa needed
milk with his sugar cookies. Cookies my mom hadn't baked.”

“I didn't believe him for a second. Who went for milk carrying a duffel
bag and guitar case? I begged to go with him, but Dad refused. He took off his
watch, handed it to me. He told me to time him, that he'd be back in thirty
minutes. A half hour passed, then an hour. Soon it was midnight.”

Her shoulders slumped. “My dad didn't return for Christmas or for New
Year's. My mother sat in a rocking chair by the tree and cried for a week. I
fixed her peanut butter sandwiches for lunch and microwave popcorn for dinner.
I returned to school after the holidays.”

“Times were tough and money was tight. My dad never paid a dime in child
support. Somehow we kept it together. Mom got a job and bought food in bulk—it
was cheaper and lasted longer. She always told me that in a bad situation, I
should breathe in, breathe out, and move on, and that tomorrow would always be
better. Thus the tattoo.”

“Ever see your dad again?” Kason asked.

“Not a phone call, not a letter. He chose single and the spotlight over
marriage and a kid. His band opened for lead artists, but never cut an album.
Six years on the road, and drugs took his life.”

“Your mom?”

Dayne sighed. “She died shortly after my dad. Her heart grew tired of
waiting for him to return.”

“Sorry.” It might not be enough, but it was all he had.

Silence wrapped up their meal. Dayne soon rose and removed their paper
plates so they had a clear shot at dessert.

Kason's first bite of butterscotch pudding made him feel sixteen. For
instant pudding, it went down smooth and easy. He wished there had been
seconds.

He watched as Dayne rocked back in her chair and stretched her arms over
her head. She had a lean line to her body. He'd hoped to catch another glimpse
of the butterfly at her navel, but her top didn't ride beyond her hips. The
ribbed white cotton did, however, pull across her breasts, showcasing her as
ample, firm, and braless.

He liked a woman who set her tits free.

Catching his stare, Dayne lowered her arms and protectively crossed them
over her chest. “No television, no radio—what do you do in the evening?” She
wanted to know. “I keep my own company.”

She gave him a small smile. “I like being alone too.”

Kason's nights passed quickly. He often worked out, was prone to read
the newspaper or buy a book. Once a week he met with his architect to go over
the plans for his home. He was always available to the Dream Foundation when it
came to charity work for the Rogues. He was a busy man, but chose not to share
his activities with the woman who would pack her food at dawn.

He rolled his shoulder. Hours after the Rogues scrimmage, his right
rotator cuff had tightened up. He'd spent enough time at the table. He needed
to ice down.

Kason scooted back his chair and hit his feet. He jammed his hand into
the pocket of his jeans, scrounged for a five spot, passed it to Dayne. “Can I
buy a second bag of peas?”

“For your eye?” she asked.

He hesitated, hating to show weakness. “For my shoulder.”

Dayne Sheridan stared at the man towering over her. His earlier fight
had left more than one injury. She took the money. Five dollars was five
dollars. “Ace bandage?” She had one to sell. For the right price.

He shook his head. “I have a shoulder wrap.” Which he retrieved from his
bedroom. Back in the kitchen, he shrugged off his T-shirt, packed peas over his
shoulder, then fit on the elastic brace. His body heat melted the veggies
faster than a microwave.

Gathering the remaining dishes, Dayne left the table. She dumped the
garbage, leaned back against the sink, and took a moment to appreciate the big
man's chest. His body went beyond perfect, all thick, cut, and close enough to
touch.

His shoulder soon became slickened with condensation. She watched as one
fat droplet took a slow slide down his pectoral, tipping on his nipple, a
tongue lick away.

In the dim light of the kitchen, the urge to pop the droplet was strong.
She clasped her hands tightly. Breathed deeply. Fought temptation, and lost.

She tapped the glistening drop with the tip of her finger. The barest
touch and the droplet split into two. Slow motion trickled the water over his
six-pack before it pooled at the slit of his navel. Spilling over, the drops
were absorbed in the waistband of his navy boxers.

The water spots made Dayne blink. Her finger was still pressed to his
nipple, and given the depth of Kason's breathing, the man was turned on.

She pulled back, mumbled, “Sorry.”

No words from him, just a heavy-lidded stare, hot enough to set her
panties on fire.

“Touching is dangerous and complicates our living arrangements.” His
baritone made her belly shimmy.

She should never have been so impulsive. “It meant nothing, nothing at
all,” she was quick to assure him. “We're roommates for one more night. Nothing
sexual. I can picture you as a girl.”

“A definite stretch of your imagination.”

“I can and I will.. .Kassie.”

He went utterly still, and his face bled pale. The corners of his eyes
pinched, as did his mouth. A haunting hurt scarred the silence. A flash of
vulnerability and pain crossed his face. She'd struck a nerve, unsettled him.

His chest heaved, and his words were ground out. “What did you just call
me?”

“Kassie,” she slowly repeated.

He iced over. “Don't call me that again.”

His command pushed her buttons. Mick had dumped on her earlier, and now
Kason wanted to steal her freedom of speech. Pain and anger lifted her chin. “I'll
call you whatever I like.”

“I'm asking you nicely to stop.”

Nicely?
He
looked ready to kill. Dayne
would not be bullied. Fool that she was, she went for the fight. “Kassie.”

“Damn, woman, very unwise.” The words were said darkly, tightly, and
threaded with violence.

“Kassie.” She couldn't stop herself.

He was on her, so fast and furious she never saw him coming. As he
forced her back against the refrigerator, both his hands slammed on either side
of her head.

The air around them thickened, as charged with her taunt as his
reaction. A reaction stemming from anger and deep hurt.

Breast to chest, his weight crushed her.

Air caught in her lungs and her heartbeat raced.

His exhale came slow and hot on her cheek. His eyes were now glazed. “I
warned you—”

“
Kassie,”
she dared, knowing she'd lost her mind.

He shoved her words back down her throat with his tongue. He was out of
her league the moment he kissed her. His kiss burned, bruised, punished. The
intensity of the moment shook her. She couldn't fight his full-body press. The
refrigerator handle jabbed the small of her back while his erection jammed her
belly.

He kissed with a violence that should have scared her. Somehow, it
didn't. He was mad as hell, yet she sensed that his anger came from pain. She'd
triggered a memory that sought revenge.

He was taking his past out on her.

She clutched his upper arms so tightly, her nails scored his flesh. His
big body held her against the refrigerator door.

The appliance was cool against her back. The man was hot against her
front.

His gaze was hooded and distant when he released her mouth. He wasn't
fully seeing her. He was, however, moving on her body.

Curving one big hand about her neck, he set his thumb to the pulse at
the base of her throat. The wild beat sent him stroking lower, a primal slide
of his palm over her collarbone, his fingers soon touching her nipple.

His touch slowed, somewhat gentler, yet firm with purpose. Dayne closed
her eyes, pressed her face to the hard bulge of his bicep, as he captured her
breast.

Squeezing, kneading, Kason was good with his hands. Raw, racing need
rose off him, as thick and straining as the ridge of his sex. His anger now
sought physical release.

His hips rocked against hers, solid, grinding, rhythmic. In no time he
would be inside her.

She had to stop him. Sex against the refrigerator with a near stranger
stretched beyond crazy. But the thought was vague as his long fingers dipped
beneath the waistband of her sweats, then slid within the silk of her panties.
He stroked her with a skill that shut off her mind and forced her to do nothing
but feel.

She went wet for him.

Wet, but not willing. A part of Kason Rhodes sensed her hesitancy. He
mentally distanced himself from the woman he now fondled with the intimacy of a
lover. He fought to catch his breath. Tried to reclaim his sanity. She'd
provoked. He'd punished. Yet he'd only hurt himself.

He should never have allowed the tomboy to return him to his childhood.
He was a man in control of his emotions, his feelings wrapped tight. Yet the
taunt “Kassie” opened a wound and he'd bled out. He regretted it now.