No Breaking My Heart (2 page)

Halo pulled in, cut the engine. Then jumped out and shut the door. He flagged down the man, grabbed his wallet, and gave him fifty dollars. “Sorry, dude,” he said. “Game show, and we're late.”

The man stared at him. Recognition prompted his smile. “Halo Todd?” he asked.

Halo nodded, feeling uneasy. He'd hoped to enter the building, change into his costume, without any witnesses. Richmond was baseball central. The Rogues were visible in the community. He valued his fans. They paid his salary.

The man riffled through a stack of papers on the passenger seat. He passed Halo a blank envelope. “Can I get a quick autograph?” he requested.

Halo signed,
Thanks for the parking place
, along with his name. The man was pleased. “There are spots for compact cars near handicapped parking,” he said. The man gave him a salute and headed in that direction.

The chicken was struggling to get out of his Hummer. She'd gotten in with a high hop, but it was a long step down in a bulky costume. He went to her. His hands at her waist, he lifted her to the pavement. She was a lightweight. He released her.

“Here,” she said, handing him the rooster suit. “There are backstage dressing rooms inside.”

He followed her into the building. Chickie walked with a purpose. Lady had wiggle. She sneezed every other step. She left a trail of tail feathers. A sign for the game show pointed toward a side door. The dressing rooms were at the end of a long hallway. Men's and Women's.

A pirate exited just as Halo entered. He dipped his head, not wanting to be spotted a second time. It dawned on him then that the chicken hadn't recognized him. Perhaps she couldn't clearly see him through her eye slits. That was a possibility. Or perhaps she didn't follow sports. A sin in his eyes. Baseball was All-American.

What did it matter? They were a couple for one hour. No more. No less. They had no plans to see each other after the show. Still, he wondered what she looked like without her costume. Male curiosity. He might never know. That bothered him a little.

A row of lockers lined the back wall in the room. He didn't need a locker. He would put on the costume over his clothes. A Henley pullover and jeans. He heel-toed his Nikes, slipped off his socks, then stepped into the white jumpsuit. Jerked it up. Grunted. It was lined and bulky. Cotton didn't stretch. He was six foot two and weighed two-fifteen. The rooster suit was too damn tight. The back zipper gapped several inches. Shit.

Off came the costume, followed by his clothes. He was fully exposed. That's when the door opened, and the chicken called in. “You ready? We only have ten minutes.”

He clenched his back teeth. There was no point in her rushing him; he was going as fast as he could. “Almost there,” he growled.

“No, you're not.” She walked right in, inhaled sharply, but didn't avert her gaze. “You're standing there . . . naked.”

That he was. Locker rooms were like home to him. Players frequently walked around in stages of undress. Nudity was as natural to him as breathing. Despite that, the moment turned awkward. His muscles flexed defensively. “The costume's snug,” he grated. “I'm down to skin.”

* * *

He looked good in his skin. Alyn Jayne's breath caught. She couldn't take her eyes off him. He was standing in profile to her. He was huge. Jacked diesel. Muscled shoulders and arms. Thick chest. Tight butt. Athletic legs. Big feet.

He turned slightly, and she saw the tattoo on his abdomen. Nothing small for this man. It read
Caution: Hard and Hot
in bold script. An accurate description. His sex was shadowed on his inner thigh. Impressive. He didn't have a shy or modest bone in his body.

She had no idea who he was. She hadn't asked his name or gotten a good look at him on the sidewalk. It was dark and her eye slits were narrow.

She wasn't always good at reading people, but seeing him now, he defined confidence. Arrogance. Heart-breaker. Rule breaker. Badass. She intuitively knew that wherever he went, he would dominate. Own the moment. Belong.

He had a sexy mouth. His lower lip was a little fuller than the upper. Sculpted for kissing. Women would fall fast and land horizontal. Men would envy him.

He made her nervous. So much so, she stammered, “I-I'll wait for you outside.”

He smiled then. Slow and sinful. His voice was as deep as his dimples when he said, “No need to leave. You're my girlfriend, remember? Naked comes with my territory.”

His gaze held hers as he gave his costume a second try. He got it up his legs, over his hips, then tucked his junk. He still looked ballsy. He worked the rooster suit across his chest. Then fitted his arms in the sleeves, and fought with the shoulder seams. His smile soon left him. “I can't fuckin' breathe. There's no way I can sit down. I'd bust an ass seam.”

“We'll be in the back,” she assured him. “There aren't any chairs in the last row. We'll be standing.” She crossed to him, and forced up the zipper. She swore the seams moaned.

“You look like Foghorn Leghorn on steroids,” she noted, referring to the rooster cartoon character.

“I can't bend over to put on the red-and-white stockings and orange shoe covers,” he complained.

Achoo
. She hunkered down, and yellow feathers followed her to the floor. She drew on his stockings. His calves were thick, and the stockings didn't reach his knees. He then slid his feet into his untied Nikes. She hurriedly double-knotted the long laces on his shoes, then secured his orange polyfoam shoe covers, fastening them behind his ankles with Velcro strips. She struggled to get up, staggered sideways. He hooked his hand under her arm, steadying her.

They stood so close, she poked him in the chest with her beak. Her feathered roundness brushed his abdomen. He set her away from him, and made one final male adjustment. His red rooster mitts barely covered his palms. His mask also came up short. It left his lower lip and stubbled chin exposed. His too-long black hair showed in the back. He blew out a disgusted breath, and his red comb and black rubber beak bobbed.

She scooped up his clothes, passed them to him. He stuffed them in the locker, removed the key, placing it in a small pocket over his left hip. “Let's do this before I change my mind,” he threatened.

She beat him to the door. The hallway was empty. They made fast tracks to the stage entrance. A red light blinked a warning that the show was about to start. Alyn produced their tickets, and a security guard motioned them inside. A woman with a clipboard was making identification tags. She held a black magic marker. “Name?” she asked, ready to write.

“Alyn,” she was quick to say.

The rooster hesitated. “Ha-rold,” he said.

Alyn blinked. The man didn't look like a Harold. More like a Kane or Hudson. Ryker or Sutter. Did his friends call him Harry? She would never know. Still, she wondered.

The lady stuck their tags to their chests, stating, “Back row, standing room only. You're at the top of the roost,” she joked.

Alyn smiled. Harold did not.

They took their places among the costumed contestants. Her game-show boyfriend was on her right; King Kong, on her left. The ape wasn't as big as her rooster, but he was more active. Kong bumped her every time he raised his arms and beat his chest. His partner was dressed as a sock monkey. A retro and nostalgic toy. Her cream jumpsuit had a knit-stitch print. A long stuffed tail.

Anticipation put everyone on edge. The air buzzed with craziness. Participants needed to be noticed. To be picked for the challenges. To win the grand prizes.

Alyn's heart raced. She slapped her palms against her thighs. Antsy. She lost a few more feathers. Cameras panned the crowd. Contestants were bouncing, screaming, waving their banners and signs.

She raised her voice, said, “I wish we had a sign.”

“I'm glad we don't.” Harold's tone was flat. He slumped over, tucked his head to his chest. Tried to make himself small, which was difficult for a man his size.

She jabbed him with her elbow. “Stand up straight. We need to draw attention to ourselves. Maybe you could crow at the top of your lungs.”

He snorted. “Or maybe not.”

“It's a game show. You need to participate.”

The corner of his mouth that was visible curled. “I'm here, what more do you want?”

“Go big or go home,” she reminded him.

The stage manager hand-signaled the start of the show. Applause signs flashed on both sides of the stage, and heart-pounding intro music bounced off the walls. The audience welcomed their host Alex Xander with an insanity that blew her mind. The curtains parted, and he walked out. A tall man with short brown hair and thick eyebrows. He wore a dark blue suit, bowtie, and wide smile.

“Welcome!” Alex shouted into his microphone. “Impress me!” He began walking the aisles, the cameraman close behind.

A belly dancer in a sexy red chiffon top and sheer pants stepped into the aisle, drawing the host's attention. The gold-tone coins and beads sewed into the outfit sparkled beneath the overhead lights. Alex gave her a thumbs-up.

Harold admired her, too. “Nice hips.”

Not to be outdone, a ballerina in a pink leotard and rainbow tutu pirouetted one row above the belly dancer. She whirled about on one ballet slipper for so long Alyn got dizzy.

A roaring twenties couple joined the mix. They broke into the Charleston. The flapper's fringe swung wildly and her partner in a black-and-white Zoot suit lost his black fedora. Alex Xander picked it up, and put it on his head. Finders keepers. It was his now.

A moment later, a costumed king and queen waltzed down their row. A couple dressed as glittery as a disco ball did the hustle. An entire row of contestants connected for the Bunny Hop. Bugs Bunny led the line. Jessica Rabbit brought up the rear.

Harold looked down his rubber beak at the action below. “It's a dance off,” he grumbled.

Alyn's mind raced. They had to participate. They needed to get noticed. She came up with, “Chicken dance?”

“Seriously?”

“Shake a tail feather.”

She wiggled past him, and her hip pressed his package. She heard his sharp intake of breath, then air hissing through his teeth, right before he poked her. Harold had a hard-on.

An erection at a game show? Unbelievable. Now was not the time. She missed the top step and stumbled, colliding with Alex Xander. She was quick to apologize. The host was gracious. The rooster with a boner slowly joined them. Bowlegged and walking stiff.

The host raised an eyebrow at Harold, then went on to challenge Alyn, “Go big or go home.”

Alyn chicken danced for him. She imagined the music, went with the beat. She held her arms up in front of her, pinching her fingers and thumbs together, forming beaks. She opened and closed the beaks four times. She then put her thumbs in her armpits and flapped her elbows. Again to the four-count. Bending her knees, she wiggled her hips four more times, getting her backside as close to the ground as possible. All the while she stretched her arms and hands behind her like tail feathers.

Harold followed her lead, then improvised. Raw and masculine. The man had moves. The crowd loved him. Men clapped and women whistled. He threw back his head and crowed. Deep-throated and sexy.

Alyn held her breath, afraid his butt seam would split when he waggled down. The cameras captured the twist of his hips on the televised screen above the stage. Harold had a very tight ass. Fortunately the seam held. Just barely.

Straightening, they next faced each other, and clapped four times. Then joining hands, they skipped around in a circle. Which was no easy feat. They bumped and jarred each other. They reversed their direction once, then ended the dance.

Harold still held her hand, and he raised it high. They both took a bow. The game show host nodded his approval. “Nice going.”

Alex's gaze swept the audience, settling on the back row. On King Kong and the sock monkey. His grin flashed when he announced, “Barnyard versus the jungle, let's do it!”

Barnyard. Rooster and chicken. That would be them. Alyn was so stunned, she couldn't move. She'd hoped to get picked, prayed on it even, but to land the first matchup was beyond her wildest dreams. Should they win, they would progress to round two. Then on to three, for the grand prizes.

“On the stage,” Alex directed. “Let's get acquainted.”

The ape and monkey raced by, beating them down the stairs. Harold took her by the arm when she again tripped on the slanted walkway. “You up for this?” he asked her as they neared the stage.

Alyn knew the routine. One she now dreaded. Meeting the contestants. A Q&A. She knew nothing about her boyfriend. Other than the color of his hair and eyes. That he was built, had a major tattoo, and got hard in a heartbeat. At the most inopportune times.

Panic set in. Stage fright gripped her. She hadn't fully thought this through. There was a huge difference between daydreaming about the show and living the reality. She was here. The moment was now. The cameras were on her. The show was being taped. Late afternoon viewers would witness her attempt to win prizes. Her possible failure. She rubbed her throat, gagged, about to hyperventilate.

“Chicken?” Harold questioned her. “The stage.”

She tried to take a step, but her body locked up. She sneezed. Six consecutive times.

“What the fuck?” Harold placed his big rooster body between her and the cameras. He gripped her shoulders, shook her. Hard enough to get her attention. His competitive tone chased away her fear. “You wanted this. You got it. So get it together. I can't carry you. We have to do this as a couple.”