That Girl (12 page)

Chapter 10

Standing at 1,014 Miles

“I can’t do this, Lincoln.”

“Yes, you can.”

We pull into a structure that resembles a hotel and is overpopulated with lots of college students. Groups of them flock around the pool talking, sunning, and some are even already in the water.

I try to talk myself into believing the more people, the less I get noticed. The easier it will be for me to blend into the crowd.

Lincoln reaches for me. “Stop overthinking this, Oakley. I’m here, I have you, and I’m fucking jacked to show you off to all my teammates.”

His hand pulls me up into his lap, I wrap my arms around his neck, and we meet nose to nose.

“Pizza.”

“It’s just pizza, Oakley.”

I think about the swimsuit – or swimsuits – stashed in the truck. “I’m not sure about swimming.”

“That’s fine, just no running.”

“No running,” I promise.

A loud slamming noise jolts our attention toward the window. A swarm of massive men are huddled around the passenger door. And when I say massive, I mean gigantic, tall, wide, and very big.

“What are those?” I yelp.

Lincoln lets out a loud laugh and replies, “Those are my boys. The ones who try to fuck up the QB, so I can catch an interception.”

“So, they’re safe?” I’m skeptical.

“Very, baby. C’mon let’s go.”

I watch as Lincoln opens the door, and I want to puke, shit, and then run. Three feelings I’ve never had at the same time. So many strange faces, and they are all staring right at me. I’m nearing fight-or-flight mode when Lincoln whirls me around and places me on the ground right in front of him. I’m a dwarf compared to the crowd standing before me. Man hugs all around, fist bumping, and head nods everywhere. You’d think royalty just pulled in the way the men react to Lincoln.

In a sudden swoop, I’m wrapped up in the arms of one of the biggest men.

“This must be her. Any girl good enough to steal away our boy every night deserves a big ol’ hug.”

“Put her down, dammit,” I hear Lincoln order.

Stepping back from the giant, all I can see is huge grin through his mountain of a beard.

“Hi,” I manage to squeak out, and wave.

“Guys, this is Oakley,” Lincoln announces cheerfully, then adds, “Touch her and die.”

“She is as hot as you’ve gone on and on about. We’ve had to hear lover boy gush over you for days, so it’s nice to finally put a face to the name. I’m Jerrod. Everyone calls me Tank.” The other men all introduce themselves, and my head spins.

I recognize Tank’s, Grant’s, and Aidan’s names from Lincoln’s stories. The three are his very best friends on and off the field, along with Tiny, but I don’t think I’ve met him yet. I always ask Lincoln to talk football to me. I want to learn it all from the ground up, because when Lincoln speaks of the game he’s truly an overcharged, elated being, and I want to know every part of it. He breathes, eats, and lives football, and specifically defense and picking off the ball.

“Let’s go get a drink,” Lincoln whispers in my ear.

Nodding, I say to the rest of the men, “Nice meeting all of you.”

Lincoln grabs my hand, and we walk toward the pool and the larger crowd of people. Music is blaring, and the smell of grilled burgers fills the air. It’s like a party straight from a movie scene. The kind I always dreamed about as a little girl.

“They’re huge,” I say looking up to Lincoln.

“They need to be.”

“Trust me, I know. I remember exactly why. They have to be huge brutes to break the offensive line and get to the quarterback.”

He gives my hand a squeeze. “Damn, my little student does listen to me.”

“I soak up every word you speak.”

“I see, little grasshopper.”

Clutching his hand tighter, I beg, “Lincoln, don’t leave my side tonight.”

He stops us from going any further. “Oakley, I promise you that I’m not leaving your side tonight.”

“Okay.” His words calm me a bit, but I’m still nervous as hell.

We make our way up to a very large crowd. Lincoln has no problems making his way to the front. Everyone parts ways as he walks through, and as promised, he doesn’t let go of me.

“Lincoln,” a voice yells.

“’Sup, Monica,” he coolly replies, and instantly I despise her from her looks down to her annoying voice.

“What can I get you to drink?”

“I’ll take a Coke,” he answers and then turns to me. “What do you want, Oakley?”

“Water is fine.”

A brunette standing next to this Monica broad pipes up, “You’re not a player, hun. You can drink whatever you want. Beer or whisky, what do you want?”

“Um, water is still fine. Thank you.”

“Ladies, I want to introduce you to someone.”

The five or six girls behind the makeshift bar turn to look at me. Their stares bore holes into me, and the same thought plasters all their faces. “She can’t be his.”

Lincoln is oblivious to their hostility. “This is my girl, Oakley. Oakley this is Monica, Heather, Sarah, Carrie, and Jamie, and that’s Jessica, Abby, and Lisa on the other end, serving.”

“Hi.” I wave.

“Hey,” they all repeat in unison.

I notice the one he called Monica definitely looks beyond pissed off at the announcement.

“Here’s your water,” Carrie says.

Reaching out, I grab the bottle of water from her and watch as her eyes glimpse my scarred palm.

“What’s that?” she sneers.

My hearts stops, and memories of torture and jokes being made about the hideous scar come flooding back to me. I drop the bottle of water, turning to run. Lincoln tightens his grip on my hand and swings me straight in front of him. He’s making me face them with him solid against my back.

“Where the fuck is my drink?” he growls, grabbing me a fresh bottle of water.

The girls sense his anger and don’t dare question him. A blonde passes over his drink. By this time all their names have escaped me, except Monica’s. She seems to be on a down and dirty mission to be cruel.

She has no idea how easily adaptable I am to mean girls like her. They can wield knives, shovels, and the cruelest words and not affect me an ounce.

“You okay?” Lincoln asks as we walk closer to the pool.

“Fine.”

“Stop.”

I try to keep walking, trying like hell to avoid my feelings.

“I said stop,” Lincoln says, pulling me to a complete halt.

“Are. You. Okay?” he says very slowly, emphasizing each word.

“I’m fine. Please don’t make a big deal of it.”

“I won’t, but you seem pissed. I’m sorry she asked you that.”

“I just don’t belong here, and I’m trying because I want to be with you, Lincoln, but it’s not working…”

His hands grab each side of my face, and he forces me to look up at him. “Oakley Ann, knock it off. I’ll haul your ass to the truck right now if you don’t want to be here. We’ll order Chinese and eat in your room. Your choice.”

I giggle at the mention of Ann. Lincoln gave me a middle name the other night. He’d asked if I had one, and I lied and said I didn’t. He was mystified and said it wasn’t fair, because he wouldn’t have a good name to holler at me when he was pissed.

“I’m trying, and does this mean you’re pissed because you just dropped my fake middle name?”

“No, it means I’m trying to get your damn attention,” he says, leaning down and placing a kiss on the tip of my nose.

“You have my complete attention. I just don’t belong, nor am I enough for you. I’m not running. I’m here,” I reply, and then kiss the tip of his nose.

“Oakley Ann, I love you,” Lincoln says, and then immediately clenches my face tight.

Panic covers his face at the words that just escaped his lips.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, so sorry. I know you’re not ready for that, but Jesus Christ, I do love you. Shit, I said it again, and I...”

“Lincoln, stop. Pizza. I’m here and not running. Stop.”

My lips cover his before he has a chance to respond, and I take lead with my lips like he has taught me. We’ve had lots of practice lately, and Lincoln is a damn good teacher.

The noise from the crowd goes wild when I lay one on Lincoln, and I tense up a bit and cut the kiss short.

“So, fake middle names are used when professing love, too?” I ask.

“Yes, they are, Oakley Ann.”

We stand in the middle of the crowd swaying to a Luke Bryan song blasting over the speakers. The only reason I know the song and the name of the artist is because I love listening to Lincoln’s iPod at night. I found it in his truck the other night when we were driving for pizza. He was embarrassed by all the sweat stains on the ear buds. Secretly, I fucking love those stains and the faint smell of him on the rubberized cord. The iPod is filled with tons and tons of songs, from bang your head death jam rock to the sweetest romantic country tunes. Lincoln must have gotten the clue, because the other night he brought the iPod to the door, and I instantly nabbed it out of his hands. So now every night he brings it, and we listen to music in the background. I noticed last night he has a playlist titled Oakley, but I haven’t been brave enough to click on it.

Lincoln steps forward and points to another group of people, and I recognize pretty boy standing in the middle providing the entertainment. When Lincoln talks about his friends, he refers to them as the wolf pack, and my gut tells me I’m about to walk into their den.

“Wolf pack?”

“Damn, my girl is getting an A-plus.”

Laughing, I slap him on the ass. I gasp at my outward display of affection, and then blush a little. Lincoln notices my reaction and laughs.

“You ass, you have me acting like some stupid college girl in heat,” I accuse, trying to mask my embarrassment.

“Nothing wrong with that, Oakley.”

Mid-step, Lincoln stops, drops my hand, and moves to my other side to pick up my other hand. The scarred hand everyone loves to look at. Over the last year, I’ve had to develop thick skin while waiting tables, but then Lincoln came into my life and started wiping the ugly away one touch at a time.

“I don’t do this, Lincoln. Not one ounce of it. Not relationships, not feeling good about myself, and definitely not pizza, but here I stand with you. Thank you,” I murmur.

“I’ll do you,” he replies with a wink.

With those words, I know he heard every single one of my hidden messages. He’s become the pro at not pushing me too far and accepting everything I give him, even if it’s not enough for his desires. Call me selfish, but it’s the perfect fit for me. I know he wants all of me, but is willing to wait for all of my being to be ready to dive in with him. Again, my heart wants him and everything that comes with being Lincoln Wilks’ girl, but my brain keeps sending messages reminding me of all the hurt and pain waiting to drag me down.

Lincoln pulls me toward the wolf pack while holding my scarred hand, which now feels like the most beautiful piece of art compared to feeling like a piece of used trash ten seconds ago. Lincoln. He’s all I need to have in my life.

“Well, fuck, look who the cat dragged in.”

“He doesn’t turn into a fucking pumpkin after six o’clock practice.”

“My God, he’s out of the pussy cage.”

Lincoln raises his free hand in mock surrender. “Enough, you assholes. I told you’d I’d be coming and I’m here.”

“Does she have a name?” A tall brunette hollers over Rhiannon.

“Yeah, Alstott, she does. Wolf pack, this is Oakley, and Oakley this is the crew I’ve been schooling you on.”

Sink or survive. Break or bust. Dive into the deep end. Now is the moment. I take the plunge. “That must be Mike the badass fullback who runs like a freight train over any and all defenses, and you’ll never admit it, but you’re damn fucking happy you don’t have to defend against a beast like that.”

Lincoln’s chest swells with pride while the others’ jaws drop in amazement.

Turning to face my man, I ask, “Want me to continue, honey?”

“Nah, you’re good. Gentlemen, you just met my badass mother-trucking girlfriend, Oakley, and yes, she’s the one who has me magnetized to her. Any more shit you want to fling at me?” he asks while flipping his hat backward and crossing his arms.

“Nope, we give up,” Mike says and holds out a seat.

Lincoln steps forward to take the offered seat, but Mike bumps him aside. “Back off, bitch. This seat is for the queen.”

The whole wolf pack erupts in laughter and cheers. My guts turn at their praise, and my flesh doesn’t even try to flush. It’s the strangest sensation, and I can only compare it to a baby taking her first steps and feeling her wobbly legs halfway work underneath her. Sure but not steady, but absolutely willing to try for more.

“Thanks, Mike, but my king better sit first.”

Not letting go of my hand, Lincoln sits in the flimsy white plastic lawn chair and drags me into his lap.

“The perfect throne for a queen,” Lincoln announces.

That’s when all the hoots and hollers really come, and even some smartass remarks that only make Lincoln puff his chest out even further.

“Talk about pussy whipped,” comes from one direction.

And then, “Man, she owns your balls.”

We all laugh at the remarks and slowly blend into the crowd like the rest. I listen to the chatter and realize it’s like Lincoln talking to me in my apartment. It’s all about football, plays, and the love of the game. His brother’s name comes up a couple of times, and he just shrugs it off. Nobody in the group quite knows how painful the four-letter word is to Lincoln. It’s everything he’s not and never will be, because he refuses to mold to the expectations of his father. He refuses to be perfect just for family’s sake. Not one of his teammates picks up on that, and it hurts my heart.

In many parts of the conversation I could jump in and add a line or two, but that’s only because of everything Lincoln has shared over the past few weeks. I’m desperately dying to inform the wide receiver named Jerron Olsen he’d make a better cornerback dropping balls than a wide receiver, but internally know that would be an immediate party foul and direct marching orders from the pack.