Rush (12 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Priscilla

God, I hope my room is not an absolute disaster. I cross to my desk and click on the lamp as Preston closes the door. I return the gaze he’s panning over me—stopping on his legs. Between his shoes rests a pair of lacy teal underwear from yesterday, maybe even the day before. Damn! I dive for them, dropping onto my knees and scrunching the thong into my fist.

“What are you doing?” he asks, squeezing my sides with his calves. I raise my head, ready to spit out some excuse, but sirens screech in my ears and heat scorches my neck. I’m crouched between his legs, looking up at him with wide blow job eyes. He’s going to think I’m trying… I uncurl my fingers and let the lace drop. Better he see my underwear than think I’m a complete fiend.

“Nice,” he says, as I’m backing my ass out from between his legs. I brace my hands on his shins and stand.

“Sorry.” I clear my throat. “I didn’t want you to see my underwear.” I shift an uncomfortable glance to the lacy thong, which is now hanging over his shoe. Well, that’s just perfect.

He bends, hooking it with a finger and dangling it between us. “What made you change your mind?” I’m shifting between his devilish grin and my underwear, considering whether I’m brave enough to admit it.

“I didn’t want you to think I was trying to give you a blow job.” I snatch it from his finger and slingshot it into my hamper. He busts into laughter, wraps his arms around my waist, and falls back on the bed. I land on his body with his arms cradled around me.

“Is that what you think? Girls just drop at my feet?” he asks, capturing my legs with his and rocking us backward.

“Plenty of them would if you let them,” I reply. The long line of his abdominal muscles contracts against my arms as he laughs, and when his laughter settles we’re silent for a moment.

“I have to tell you about my conversation with my coaches,” he says, running a slow hand over my hair, down my back, touching my ass, paving the way for bad news. Oh boy. Here we go.

“I talked to my coaches. They don’t think they can help us.” A wave of sadness moves through me, drowning everything except the feeling of failure. I roll off of him and flop listlessly against the down comforter, staring at the ceiling. Last weekend I missed the first round game of the NCAA qualification matches—sitting on the sidelines as useless as a deflated ball. My biggest contribution to my team is now getting out of their way when they tap out of the game and head to the sidelines.

Thickness builds in my throat. I raise the back of my hand to my forehead, fighting the feeling. I don’t know why I’m getting upset. “I never really expected they would be willing to help,” I whisper, my voice sounding more broken than I intend.

His fingers drum his chest. “They’re worried that if I give my account of what happened that night…”

“It’s fine,” I cut him off, squeeze my eyes closed, and angle my face to the wall, trying to clear the disappointment. At least he tried.

“Priscilla.” He rolls onto his side and hooks a finger through the loophole of my jeans, towing me closer. “Look at me.” I turn reluctantly. “It is not fine, and we are not giving up. There’s still plenty of game time left.”

I didn’t really think he could fix this for me—did I? I exhale a breath. My cell chimes, and I hop off the bed, welcoming the distraction.

“It’s my mom. I really should take this.”

“Go ahead,” he says, balancing his head in his hand and stretching out.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, honey. Are you busy?”

“Sort of. We’re about to celebrate Marcus’s birthday. What’s up?” I ask, leaving out the part about having thirty half-drunk students in our apartment.

“Ben told me about Thanksgiving, and that’s fine with me, under one condition.”

I brighten, feeling a surge of happiness, and Preston’s brows climb.

“What’s the condition?”

“Well, you know my friend from the club, Grace Shepley? Her husband is a family counselor. He said he could see you over Thanksgiving weekend.”

My stomach drops. “Mom,” I whine. “No. I’m not doing that.” I look up at Preston, glaringly conscious of his presence. I’m too embarrassed to yell out, “I don’t need a shrink.” His brows fall when I grip my scalp, and I turn my back. My mom has been insisting for the last year that I have anger issues related to my dad’s sudden disappearance from our lives. The primary thing she uses to support this argument is the fact that I haven’t had a serious boyfriend. Ever.

“I’m bringing someone home with me for Thanksgiving,” I blurt out.

Silence pulses through the phone. “You mean a special someone?” she asks.

I purse my lips and turn back to the Greek god stretched out on my bed, smiling knowingly.
He’s something special all right.

“Yes. I wanted to surprise you.”
Apparently, I wanted to surprise myself, too.

“Oh, dear. Well, that’s wonderful. Is that why you want to have dinner at home? That’s such a lovely thought. Okay, then. I won’t bother you anymore, and I look forward to meeting this special gentleman.” She pauses. “He is a gentleman, right?”

“Yes. Perfect gentleman,” I confirm, returning the said perfect gentleman’s wicked smile. “I just have to check with him…on the time, and I’ll let you know. I’ll be home Wednesday night.” I hang up and let out a long breath.

“You need a partner for Thanksgiving?” he asks, a twinkle in his eyes.

“I actually need a boyfriend, or a partner who’s willing to pretend he’s my boyfriend. My mom’s blackmailing me.”

His big frame curls up from the bed and moves beside me, touching the underside of my jaw with a finger. “So, let me get this straight. You need someone who can convince your mom that he’s fallen for you?”

I nod.

“Someone willing to pretend that he can’t keep his eyes off of you?”

Nod, again.

“Or his hands?”

I slide my bottom lip over the top, feeling the pull of his seductive look. Something about him unsettles me—he hasn’t just disrupted my soccer game, he’s disrupted my ability to process the world the way I used to. When I’m with him, I don’t think the same, I don’t breathe the same…I don’t even hear my name the same, when he speaks it.

“Think you could manage?” I whisper.

“Need a demonstration?” His mouth drops onto mine, and he pulls me in, leaning until my body is molded tight to his. When I feel his tongue, I catch it, sucking it between my lips. He groans, a deep raw sound filled with need. The vibrations ripple down my throat, and my nipples tighten. His hands touch my face, sliding into my hair as his mouth slants, unleashing hungry strokes. My hands are tingling, and I grip his forearms, steadying myself against the dizziness assailing me.

A minute of hot, heavy heat passes between us, and I become vaguely aware of a sharp noise to my left. He continues to hold my face, but his mouth lifts. I open my eyes to the sight of his turned jaw, and when I look, I see Jace standing in the doorway, gaping at us.

I suck in one breath, then another, and stammer. “Geez, Jace…knock much?”

“I’m sorry,” she snaps, in a defensive tone. “I didn’t know you were in here sucking each other’s faces off.”

I reach behind me for a pillow and whip it at her. She catches it with goalie-like precision and whips it back, but before it connects, Preston raises a big hand and snags it midair.

“I was just looking for matches,” she explains. “We’re lighting the candles on Marcus’s cake. Five minutes, love birds.” She closes the door, and I let out a breath. When I turn back to him, his lids are still heavy with sensuality. The tightness lodged in my throat from Jace’s sudden appearance evaporates as I stare at his gentle expression. I wouldn’t admit this to him, but I’ve never been kissed like that. If he can make me feel like that by kissing me, imagine what it would feel like…

“Think your mom will believe it?” His husky words bring me back to reality. It’s pretend. We’re pretending. But hell, yes, she’ll believe it.
I believe it.
I take a deep breath and raise my hands to his chest. I don’t push him away, but I’m holding my ground, trying to extinguish the tantalizing thoughts. I want to listen to him whisper dirty things in my ear. Heat fills my head, and I blink. He’s staring at me with a soft look, and I relax in the frame of his arms, studying the crescent shape of his eyes, the strong brow marked with three faint lines just at the center, the flash of golden stubble over his jaw.
Oh, yeah, I believe it.

The corners of his mouth lift, as if he knows what I’m thinking. I clear my throat, and a thought occurs to me. I tilt my head.

“Do you by chance…know how to make a turkey?”

He nods slowly, and the line at the side of his mouth deepens. “Yes, I do, in fact, know how to make a turkey.”

The. Perfect. Man.

“That is so good to hear,” I say. The thought that I’m going to have to step back from this perfect man in a couple weeks tugs hard at my heart, and the only thing that trumps that thought is the next one. My perfect man is about to meet the most imperfect family on the planet.

Chapter Fourteen

Preston

My truck rolls slowly down our street. I’m staying the night at our duplex to take my mom to a doctor’s appointment in the morning, and I’m getting home later than I expected, but I didn’t feel comfortable leaving Priscilla until the crowd cleared out.

The lights in our living room cast a glow over the front porch. They’re still on even though it’s past midnight. My pulse ticks up. Something must be wrong. Nothing good ever happens in our house after midnight. An anxious feeling builds in my stomach as I park and move fast up the steps and into the living room. I find my mom and Aunt Julia in the kitchen.

“Oh, honey,” my mom says. “Kaja’s been sick, and we’ve been up with her.”

“How bad?”

Aunt Julia gives me the update while my mom heats a plate of stuffed cabbage. The sound of the front door swinging open stops us all. A heavy thud echoes. Something rattles and crashes to the floor.
Shit.
The drunk’s home.

I enter the living room and appraise his skinny frame as it sways. He swings an arm, reaching for the lamp he’s knocked over. My mom and aunt crowd beside me, with disgusted expressions on their exhausted faces.

“What the hell’s goin’ on?” His words slur.

“Kaja’s been sick—we’ve been up with her,” my aunt responds in a flat tone.

He raises a boot too high and takes a hard step, as if he’s just missed the curb. He stumbles, knocks into the coffee table, and collapses on top of it.

I rub a hand over my jaw, watching the pathetic show. “Why don’t the two of you go to bed? I can help him,” I murmur. My uncle pushes unsteadily to his feet.

“You can help me?” he sneers, swaying and catching himself with a shaky step. “Ever since you been here, you messed up this house. You and her.” He jabs a finger toward my mom, and from the corner of my eye I see her flinch. My fists curl. I want to fucking kill him.

Aunt Julia leaps toward him with an outstretched arm. “You do nothing to support this family. They do more for your daughter than you ever have,” she yells. My mom says something to her in Polish and holds a hand out.

I move center, intending to position myself between them, but my uncle lunges, catching my aunt’s arm and jerking her forward. She trips into my mom’s scooter. It pitches right and they tumble into a tangled pile.

A stream of Polish curses erupt, and I fly at my uncle. His legs swing as I lift him into the air, tackling him to the floor. I straddle him, pinning him with an outstretched hand and a fighting glare. He shakes his head, trying to get his bearings as my mom and Aunt Julia untangle themselves.

“Mommy!” A high-pitched cry sears my brain, and my shoulders tighten. Kaja is standing on the stairway in her footie pajamas, Piglet dangling from one hand.
Oh God
. I follow her horrified expression and blanch at the sight of blood trickling down my aunt’s temple. She tries to stop the flow with her fingers, shifting a look between my mom and Kaja, trying to decide who to help first. “Are you dying, Mommy?” Kaja’s pitiful voice rips my heart open.

My aunt leaves my mom on her knees and crosses to Kaja. She scoops her onto her hip with one hand, covering her wound with the other, and climbs the stairs, alternating between hard breaths and soothing words.

My mom is pulling herself up. I step away from my uncle and tip the Zip-Scoot back onto three wheels. She loops her good arm over my shoulder. I lift, and set her back on the seat. She flips a strand of hair off her forehead and sneers at Uncle Eryk. “I never should have let my little sister marry you, you worthless piece of shit.” The scooter sings a loud whistle. She backs up, hits the wall, and zooms away.

Acid burns in my stomach as the image of Kaja’s distraught face flashes in my mind. I step over my uncle and set the side table straight, wanting nothing more than to launch him into the front yard. He knocks his fist against his skull and mumbles. “Can’t let people hit ya’ in the head an’ think nothing’s comin’, dumb football boy. Just ’cause your dad died don’t make you my problem.”

My body seizes up. He’s talking more to himself than me, but I hear every word loud and clear—I have for years. He rolls onto his side, raises his head, and then drops it against his arm—the labored efforts of his movement remind me—he’s a drunk. A sick drunk. I walk to his side and nudge him with my foot until he looks up.

“In about ninety days, this dumb football player is going to have a six-figure contract with an NFL team.” I nudge his ribs again, just to make sure he’s paying attention. “You know what’s going to happen then?”

He wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve and smacks his palm on the worn carpet. “You’re going to buy me a new TV…big screen, damn it.”

I straddle him, grip a handful of his shirt, and haul him up until the violence on my face is all he can see.

“I’m going to pack up this entire family—your wife, your daughter, your sister-in-law, and your dumb nephew. I’m going to move us all into a mansion, and the only problem you’ll have left is you.” I release my grip and his torso hits the floor like a bag of bones.

That day cannot come soon enough.