Slow and Steady Rush (24 page)

Robbie’s hand squeezed her elbow to the point of pain. She forced her face to stay neutral. “No one. I drove up, and they had Robbie surrounded. My headlights scared them off.”

Robbie’s hand relaxed.

“Do you know who the boys might be?” she asked.

“No,” Rick said.

She and Rick held gazes. He was lying. But, then again, so was she. They both recognized the truth in the other. The implications flooded her already overloaded senses.

Logan ripped the curtain open, holding a sheaf of papers. “There you are, cuz. Dalt’s been officially discharged.” He stopped short, his gaze bouncing between Rick and Darcy.

“Is that all, Rick? Are we free to go?” she asked.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, did you?” He closed his notebook. “I’ll catch up with Dalt tomorrow when he’s more coherent.”

Logan waited for the clang of the far door. “Everything cool?”

Darcy said, “I’m not sure. That was weird. Can we just get out of here?”

Logan tossed her a bottle of pain medication, and between the two of them, they maneuvered Robbie to a wheelchair and into Logan’s truck. He was still conscious, but glassy eyes followed her movements as she buckled his seatbelt.

Logan climbed behind the wheel.

“You’re so damn sexy. I had plans to make a huge dent in that box of condoms tonight.” Robbie’s words rumbled together. He wrapped a hand around her neck and tugged her closer.

Logan choked out an embarrassed sounding laugh. “Hands off, lover boy. You’re in no fit state to make good.”

Darcy disentangled Robbie’s hand from her hair, his fingers lax and unhelpful. His head lolled on the truck seat. She followed Logan’s truck in her car. After being prodded awake, Robbie stumbled up the steps, his arm around Logan’s shoulders. They managed to get Robbie’s bloodied pants off, leaving him in his boxer briefs.

From his crouch on the floor, Logan shot her a half-disgruntled smile. “I was wooing a rather attractive woman when you called. Undressing another man is not how I envisioned the evening ending.”

Her laugh squashed the remnants of her worry. She walked Logan outside once Robbie was on his back in bed.

“I’ll get Robbie’s truck home. I assume you’re going to spend the night.” At her nod, he kicked at a loose board on the edge of the porch. “You and Dalt getting serious?”

A lump clogged her throat, and her voice turned brittle. “We agreed to keep it casual since I’ll eventually be heading back to Atlanta. You know, have fun for the season.”

“Yeah, tonight was a real gut-buster. Literally,” Logan said dryly. “You for sure going back? Seems to me like you’ve settled back down in Falcon pretty well.”

“I have a job waiting. I have …” What else did she have? She bit the inside of her mouth and looked toward the river, away from Logan’s probing eyes. “Falcon is different than I remember.”

“You were a kid when you left.”

The simple statement reverberated in her head. Darcy leaned her head against the rough wood and closed her eyes.

Logan pulled her in for a half-hug. “You don’t have to figure things out tonight. For tonight, take care of him.”

She mumbled her thanks into his shoulder and then watched his taillights disappear.

One of Robbie’s old T-shirts acted as a nightgown, the edge falling to her mid-thigh. She checked his wounds for blood, his forehead for fever, and put the pain meds within arm’s reach. Climbing in beside him, she laid a hand over his to reassure herself he was there.

Chapter 18

Robbie jerked awake. An assortment of areas on his body throbbed, but the epicenter of the most intense pain was his side. Had a sniper hit him? He lay motionless and assessed the situation. No dust clogged his mouth. No sun beat down on him. There was only the soft hum of an air-conditioner and the smell of the green earth of Alabama. The events of the evening rolled back and with them a sense of desolation.

Based on the angle of the moonlight on the wall, he put the time at one or two in the morning. The drugs fuzzed his reality, but the effect was diminishing. A soft, feminine sigh wove through the room. Slowly, as if he might spook the cause of it, he turned his head. Darcy was in his bed, cuddled under his covers, her hands tucked under the pillow. A spark drove the loneliness back, filled the hollowness.

He flexed his injured arm. Sore, but useable. A heated poker burned his left side, but he forced himself over anyway, careful not to lay his arm against the stitches. Instead, he reached for her with his wounded arm.

She hummed and nuzzled her cheek into his hand much like Avery did when he sought affection. He lifted the covers back. One of his thinnest, oldest white T-shirts outlined the curve of her hip, riding high on her thighs. Having her in his bed felt … natural and satisfying.

His side hurt too much to move, so instead, he tugged on her arm until she woke enough to scoot closer.

Her sleep-roughened words emerged haltingly, “Are you hurting? I have medicine.”

He stopped her from turning away. “I’m fine.” Not exactly true—everything hurt like hell—but her soft curves alleviated the pain, or at least distracted him from focusing on it.

Her free hand fluttered over his body and landed on his hip. He drew her leg between his, notching his pelvis into her thighs and driving the T-shirt higher. In spite of the drugs and pain, his dick twitched. The temporarily thwarted anticipation that had burned through him all day came back to roost.

“We can’t. You need to rest. You’re injured.”

“Not that injured. I’ll let you do all the work on top. Tell me you brought the condoms,” he whispered, his hand trailing down to squeeze her ass.

Her head popped up and smacked him in the chin. He cursed. She sat up and pushed him to his back with one hand, compressing a visceral moan from his lungs.

“You horndog. Getting laid wasn’t even in the recesses of my thoughts tonight. What if …” Her voice trailed into nothingness. She’d rolled herself into a ball like a turtle protecting its soft underbelly, her arms clasped around legs, and her face pressed into her knees.

He wanted to wrap her in his arms and offer his own protection, but the pain shooting through his body wouldn’t allow it. His words hitched with doubt. “You sound like you care.”

“You can be such an idiot, Robbie Dalton. Of course, I care. Even your mutt has grown on me.” Her sigh was gusty and exasperated.

His eyelids dropped, and he swallowed hard, at a loss for words.

She continued, “I know we’re keeping things casual, and I don’t have any expectations, don’t worry. But we are … messing around … and I can’t help but … I mean, I don’t usually just mess around, okay? You’re going to have to deal with the fact that I’m going to worry about you if you get freaking stabbed.”

She turned to crouch over him on her knees and whipped back the covers. After flipping on the bedside lamp, she probed around the bandages. “No blood. I assume that’s a good sign. It’s time for more pain meds.”

She shook a white pill into her palm.

“They gave me weird dreams.” He clamped his mouth shut.

Holding a small glass of water in one hand, she waggled the pill between her thumb and forefinger close to his mouth. “Does wittle Wobbie need a kiss after being a big boy and taking his pill?”

Laughter welled from his belly. He opened his mouth, and she dropped the pill on his tongue. He took a swig of water. She switched off the light and covered them with the blankets. He startled when she ran her hand over his forehead and into his hair.

“No fever, so that’s good.” She played in his hair and massaged his scalp, turning his bones to warm liquid. Or maybe the pill was kicking in. Either way, he floated in pleasurable sensation.

“No one’s ever taken care of me before.” He barely recognized his dreamy voice.

“You must have gotten sick a few times as a child.” His silence darkened her tone. “Robbie, were your parents not very nice? You always change the subject when I’ve asked before.”

The whirling blades of the fan cast hypnotic moonlit shadows across the ceiling. “Didn’t know them. I entered the system before I turned one.”

“The system?”

“Foster care.”

Her sigh brushed along his cheek. “I’m so sorry. No wonder you were giving me hell about Ada.”

“I guess I came on kind of strong, but I would have killed to have had a Miss Ada. Someone, anyone, who wanted me.” Her hand continued to soothe him, and he closed his eyes. The pill numbed his extremities, pain a diminishing memory.

“You have her now.” She mimicked Ada’s high Southern drawl. “Dalt mowed and Dalt weeded and Dalt fixed the door. Dalt’s such a nice boy … yadda, yadda … I thought you’d be sporting a halo.”

“I’ll be last in line to receive sainthood,” he said with a huffing laugh.

“I wouldn’t be too sure. You’ve helped a lot of people around here.”

The quiet surety and smile in her voice injected his heart with cold reality. He didn’t reply and turned his face away, but his withdrawal didn’t faze her. She continued to caress him, soothe him, weaken his defenses.

“What was your foster family like?”

There were probably wonderful, caring foster families out there, but his wasn’t one of them. The discipline had started with spankings and progressed to slaps and kicks and eventually punches. How could he describe the building dread on the school bus home, the terror of stepping off and walking to his front door, the shame of crying and hiding under his bed? How could he confess his blistering anger even now when he saw a kid being yanked around or spanked in a store?

Safer not to answer, but her caresses and the drugs loosened the stranglehold he kept on his tongue. “Mean as hell. They took me in for the government assistance. I learned pretty quick how to defend myself, but there’s only so much a kid can do against a grown man.”

“What happened?”

“Lots of shit, but my foster father finally broke my arm when I was thirteen. The family insisted I fell off my bike. I was too afraid to tell the doctor the truth. I wasn’t taken away, but my file had been red-flagged. My freshman year in high school, my coach noticed some bruising. He reported it, and I moved to a different family.”

Along with the hand she threaded through his hair, her lips brushed his cheek and temple. “Did things get better?”

“Yeah, but the damage had been done. I was a pissed-off teenager. Football helped. Coach helped. I was a beast on the field. My goal was to take off the quarterback’s head every down. Coach took me hunting, had me over for dinner with his wife, showed me what a normal life looked like.”

“He cared about you.”

“He was an absolute bastard on the field.” He sighed and turned his face toward her, seeking more. She obliged, running her fingertips lightly over his jaw.

“Where is he?”

“He died when I was in college. At his funeral, I planned to get up and tell everyone what he did for me. But you know what? There were a dozen guys there with similar stories about him. He gave me a chance at life, and I wanted to show him I could be a better man. His death ripped me apart.”

“He’d be so proud of you, Robbie.”

A lassitude invaded his body. Maybe it was the painkillers, maybe it was sheer exhaustion, but he thought it might have something to do with the few bags he’d unloaded from his heart. The part of his brain that had protected him for so long screamed, but with Darcy at his side, the warnings were easy to ignore.

“Will you stay with me?” he asked, his mind already drifting into limbo.

“Just to sleep, right?”

He hummed and silently swore to stash another box of condoms at his place—ASAP.

#

He woke at dawn, his sleep cut short as the painkillers wore off. Horror at his confessions the night before slithered through him, making him wish for the oblivion of unconsciousness. The last thing he wanted was to face Darcy in the light of day. Face her pity.

Thank God he hadn’t told her the worst of it. Maybe he could slip out of bed without waking her. His involuntary grunt of pain startled her awake. He froze, not sure what to say, not sure what she expected.

It seemed she didn’t expect anything. She crouched over his side and crooned his name. Red dotted the white bandage. She went to work, pulling the tape and gauze away. Her brow crunched, and she bit hard on her bottom lip as if that would counteract his pain.

Pillow creases marred the skin of her face, and her hair hung in a tangled mess around her shoulders. In his ratty white T-shirt and without makeup, she was the prettiest, sweetest thing he’d ever seen. Without direction from his brain, his hand brushed her hair back and settled around her nape. This was bad—very, very bad.

His earlier mortification morphed into something warm that squeezed his heart. The feelings seemed out of his control, which grew his unease in equal measure. He directed his thoughts onto something safer. Avery.

She started to wrap gauze around the wound on his arm, but he stilled her hand with the brush of his finger. “Leave it. My sleeve will cover the stitches. I don’t want to go advertising I was jumped.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that secrets in Falcon are impossible to keep. I’m surprised your phone hasn’t blown up with calls and texts from concerned citizens. The team has to win, you know,” she said lightly, but dark sarcasm underlay the words.

“My phone got smashed last night. Could you call Dr. Martin? Tell him I’ll be there after practice.” He eased his legs over the side of the bed. The initial pain made his stomach turn, but every movement loosened his stiff muscles and became easier.

“Sure.” She stood in a shaft of sunlight, every line of her body glowing seductively through thin cotton, clutching her phone between her breasts. “You can call in sick, you know. I think this would qualify.”

“Nope. I have classes to teach and practice this afternoon.” He gingerly pulled on clothes.

“Do you want me to come with you?” She caught his hand and forced him to stop.

The uncomfortable yearning in his chest grew. Her eyes had gone soft and understanding, and the slightest of smiles curled her lips. He wanted to take her in his arms.