“Thanks, Bishop. I appreciate you doing me this favor.”
He pauses and looks over his shoulder. “No worries. I owe you one anyway. A favor for a favor, right?”
“Yeah, right. A favor for a favor.”
CHAPTER 17
PAIN-IN-THE-ASS EX
Stevie
Joey shows up less than two minutes after Bishop goes back to his apartment. I hate that Joey has the power to bulldoze himself right back into my life like this. He’s like a burr—clingy, prickly, and impossible to get rid of.
“Hey, baby.” He tries to come in for a hug, but I put my hands out to stop him.
“Don’t call me pet names.”
“Sorry. Old habits die hard.” He gives me what I think is supposed to be a chagrined smile, but it’s about as believable as a magic trick performed by a three-year-old. What did I ever see in this tool?
“Where’s my suitcase?” I ask as he slips past me into my apartment. I glance at Bishop’s door before I close mine, relieved he’s willing to help me out even though it’s stupid drama no one really needs.
“Oh shit, sorry. I knew I forgot something.” He lets out a low whistle. “Wow. This is a sweet pad. How come we didn’t rent a place like this?”
“Because we couldn’t afford a place like this.”
“Is Rook footing the bill or something?”
“Or something.”
He nods. “Cool. Wanna give me the grand tour? I bet the bedrooms in this place are huge. You got a king-size bed?”
“I’m not showing you my bedroom, Joey.”
He holds his hands up. “Whoa. Don’t get so defensive. I’m just trying to break the ice. I know you’re still holding a grudge, but we can get through this.”
I run a palm down my face. I’d really like to tell him to go fuck himself, but it will make this whole gala situation that much more difficult. I promise myself that once this is over and I have my suitcase back, I will tell him my grudge is going to last until the end of time, and possibly even beyond that, so moving on would be smart. “Can we deal with this fundraiser-decorating thing?”
“Yeah. Sure. Let’s get the work out of the way so we can catch up.”
Joey wants to sit on the couch, but I insist it will be easier to do online research at the dining room table. I should know better than to think it’s going to thwart him. He pulls a chair right up beside me and keeps slinging his arm over the back of mine, making comments about how nice my hair smells. Which is bullshit, because I haven’t washed my hair in days.
I get up to pour us glasses of water. His is lukewarm from the tap—I’m not offering him anything that will make him feel welcome—and I need some space from his breathing down my neck, literally. I don’t think it’s been more than twenty minutes, but I fire off a text to Bishop, telling him that anytime he’s ready, I could use an intervention. I’m not even finished filling my own glass when there’s an aggressive knock. I feign surprise and skirt around the counter so I can answer the door. Joey looks totally put out by the interruption.
“Oh! Hi, Bishop! What’s up?” I say loudly.
Earlier when he stopped by, he was wearing sweats and a T-shirt. Now he’s shirtless, with all his perfectly defined muscles on display. He’s wearing a pair of actual shorts, but they look like they’re from the eighties. They show off the bruises coloring the inside of his thigh. They’re no longer black and blue and purple. They’ve faded to yellow green around the edges, the center a mottled purplish pink. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a slight sheen to his skin. Or maybe it’s the lighting.
He arches a brow. “Wow. You should’ve gone into acting.” He brushes by me, using only one crutch, the pizza box in his other hand. “I’m here for my rubdown,” he announces. He tosses the pizza box on the counter and makes a show of being surprised by Joey sitting at the table with his mouth hanging open.
“Oh shit. Did I get the time wrong?” Bishop taps his temple. “I had it in my head that you were gonna work me over for dinner.”
“Bishop Winslow?” Joey’s chair screeches across the floor. He crosses over to where Bishop leans against the counter. Their size difference is almost comical. Joey is maybe five eight or five nine, although he tells everyone he’s five eleven. Bishop is mammoth in comparison.
“Joey Smuck. I’m a huge fan.” Joey wipes his hands on his jeans and holds one out.
Bishop looks at his hand but doesn’t take it. “Your last name is Smuck?”
“Yeah. How do you two know each other?” Joey looks to me and drops his hand. “I didn’t think you hung out with your brother’s teammates.”
“Stevie’s my neighbor. She woke me up in the middle of the night when she moved in here.” Bishop turns his attention to me. “How long ago was it now?”
He doesn’t give me time to respond, which is just as well, because I have no idea where he’s going with this.
“Anyway, she was a beautiful fucking mess, and I was an asshole because she was making one hell of a racket. Now she gets to cause me physical pain on a regular basis, since she’s helping me rehab. It’s endless retribution. Isn’t that right, bae?”
I almost choke on my spit with the bae comment. I cough a couple of times to clear my throat and choose to ignore the pet name. “Uh, yeah. That about sums it up.”
“You’re rehabbing an NHL player? Why didn’t you say anything?” Joey asks.
“Because it’s none of your goddamn business, is it?” Bishop says with a smile, then smacks himself on the forehead. “Oh shit, I’m not supposed to be here for another hour, am I? I totally forgot you had that thing you said you couldn’t get out of. I can start with my stretches while you guys are doing whatever you’re doing. That’s cool, right?”
He struts across my living room and grabs the yoga mat, winking at me as he passes.
“You won’t even know I’m here.” He unrolls the mat in the middle of the living room so we’ll have a perfect view of him from the dining room table.
Joey looks like he wants to argue or help him hold his balls—I’m not sure which is more likely. We settle back in at the table, but I honestly can’t concentrate on anything now, and neither can Joey.
Bishop’s sudden appearance in my apartment means that Joey now thinks he needs to stake a claim on me. He stretches his arm across the back of my chair and moves in even closer, so I slide mine in the opposite direction.
All the while Bishop is warming up less than twenty feet away. However, he’s not doing normal stretches. They’re almost obscene, like he’s warming up for a Magic Mike–style performance. He also keeps groaning, loudly, which is distracting.
Eventually he pushes up from the yoga mat and saunters over, abs flexing, along with every other muscle in his body. “Sorry to interrupt, but can I get your help for a sec, bae?” He’s laying it on super thick.
Joey leans in even closer. I can feel his breath on my cheek. He must’ve eaten something with onions or garlic recently. I elbow him in the ribs, trying to get some space. “Sure.”
I start to push my chair back, but Bishop holds up a hand. “You can stay where you are. I need you to work out a knot. You know exactly how to loosen me up.”
I can feel how red my cheeks are. It’s obvious that Bishop is being intentionally suggestive, and it makes me highly aware that he’s been pretty reserved up to this point despite how antagonistic we are with each other.
He knocks Joey’s arm out of the way and drags the chair away from the table. Rocking it back on two legs, he then spins it around with me still seated. I’m not sure this is recommended for someone with a groin injury. He slips one hand under his knee to help raise his leg and plants a bare foot on the seat of my chair, sliding his toes under my butt to keep it in place.
His package is at eye level, and the fabric of his shorts is shiny, stretching across the front and making everything even more pronounced.
In my periphery Joey looks like his head is about to pop off. I fight to keep a stra
ight face. “Where are you tight?”
I’m still wearing my gross old sweats and my giant, repulsive sweatshirt that I’ve had since my first year of college. I’ve painted in this hoodie. Bishop fingers the material at the sleeve and makes a face. “Are you wearing a T-shirt under this? Can you take this off? You know how sensitive my skin is, and this feels like sandpaper. If you need new hoodies, I can get you some team ones.”
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.” I can’t believe how extra he’s being.
We reach for the hem at the same time, but Bishop gets there first. He pulls it up a couple of inches, the fabric sticking to the shirt underneath and exposing my navel. He separates the layers, his warm fingertips grazing bare skin. Electricity crackles through my veins at the contact, and a wave of goose bumps flashes across my skin.
I hold my tank in place while he lifts my hoodie. I have to release my shirt eventually so he can pull the hoodie over my head. He tosses it on the floor. I’m wearing a tank underneath that reveals a significant amount of cleavage. Which is where Bishop’s eyes go.
“That’s way better,” Bishop says to my boobs.
“Glad you’re more comfortable.” All the snark I mean to channel into that statement comes out as breathy.
“So much more comfortable now that you’re not wearing that stupid hoodie.” He grabs my hand and presses my fingers against a spot about two inches shy of his trouser sausage. “It’s tight right here.”
I have to remind myself that this isn’t Bishop flirting with me. He’s doing me a favor by making it look like there’s more going on between us than there really is. “Here?” I put pressure on the area, and he sucks in a breath.
“Yeah. Not too hard, though. It’s still sore.” He subtly shifts his groin forward, closer to my face.
I keep my eyes on the bruises on the inside of his leg. There’s a purpose for this, and it’s to make Joey uncomfortable.
As I massage the area, Bishop groans, loudly. “Ahh yeah, right there. Fuuuuck, Stevie, that’s it, that’s the spot. Jesus Christ, ah shit, oh Gaaawwwwwd, gentle, gentle, yeah, just like that, uuunnnngggghhhhh.”
I wish my hair was down so I could hide behind it and laugh. I tip my head forward and twist my face so it’s pretty much pressed against the inside of Bishop’s knee. As if he knows what I’m thinking, he tugs at the tie holding my hair up in the horribly messy bun, and it tumbles free, cascading around me in a pale-blue waterfall. It desperately needs to be washed, but at least now I have some cover.
Bishop groans again and grabs the back of the chair, forearms resting lightly on my shoulders as he bows toward me. His stubbly cheek brushes mine, his nose at my ear. “Think I’m making him uncomfortable or horny?”
“Probably both.” My lips almost brush the inside of his leg.
The position we’re in is intensely intimate. I can smell sex and sweat and possibly baby powder, which is . . . strange. I have the urge to part my lips and find out what his skin tastes like, which is really messed up, since my cheater ex-boyfriend is sitting a few feet away, observing this. But then, maybe that’s the point. Bishop knows all about what happened, because I told him, so this intentionally intimate scenario is likely him helping me get even for what I walked in on before I became his neighbor.
His fingers tense against the back of my neck when I accidentally graze his penis. Which is very, very erect. Since we started rehab sessions, I’ve grown accustomed to his semis. I’m constantly touching him in areas proximal to his peen, and I wear running shorts, sports bras, and occasionally tanks when we have sessions because it gets hot working on a guy his size. Besides, he lives in his underwear, so why should I feel uncomfortable? Thus his reaction isn’t unexpected. But the sound that comes out of him—half agony, half desire—sends a shiver down my spine and a zing between my legs. It’s impossible for me not to imagine what his sex noises must be like.
“I should probably go.” Joey’s chair screeches across the hardwood.
My hand is still splayed across the inside of Bishop’s thigh. When I start to move it away, he laces our fingers together, keeping it where it is. Bishop stays curled around me. “You sure, man? Stevie’s almost got the knot loosened up.” His voice is gritty and low.
“It’s cool, bro. I know you need to be on the ice. I’ll see you at work tomorrow, Stevie.” Joey sounds like he’s been huffing helium.
“Okay, see you then.” My voice is muffled and breathy.
Bishop keeps my hand locked against his thigh and his fingers pressed against the back of my neck until my door clicks shut.
We’re both breathing heavily, and my palm is damp against his skin. Generally when we’re doing PT, he makes comments about his discomfort, and I suggest he think about dead things while we take a break and he gets himself under control. Occasionally, he might tell me the spot right under his balls needs to be loosened up, which is often the point where I cause him some physical pain and we go back to being mostly professional. But this is different.
Bishop holds the back of my chair with one hand and uses the other to slowly lower his leg to the floor, with my help. I expect him to step back and give us both some much-needed space, but instead he straddles the chair and takes a seat on my legs, arms draped over the back.
“Uh, Bishop?”
“I need a minute,” he mumbles and drops his forehead to my shoulder.
He’s not resting his full weight on my thighs, but I’m carrying a lot of it right now. His position sort of reminds me of a strip club lap dance—or what I imagine it must be like to have one, since that’s not an experience I’ve had before.
In the past few weeks I’ve spent a lot of time with my hands near his crotch and manipulating his legs. I’ve even had them thrown over my shoulder—one at a time, but still, I’ve had lots of his body parts flush with mine.
What I haven’t been is completely surrounded by him. Bishop is a lot of man. A lot of mostly naked man straddling my lap. It’s overwhelming to have him this close, in this position. I don’t really know what’s happening here. Joey is gone, so he doesn’t need to be all up in my space anymore, and yet he is.
I gently grip his forearms, and the muscles jump beneath my fingers. “Are you okay?” It comes out a cracked whisper.
Bishop makes a noise; it’s more of a grunt than any kind of word I can decipher.
I inhale a slow breath, trying to calm down and frown when the scent coming off his skin registers. I obviously wasn’t imagining things. “Why do you smell like baby powder?”
He snickers, warm breath caressing my collarbone. “I rubbed down with baby oil before I came over.”
I snort a laugh, which seems to break the odd sexual tension taking up all the space around us and sucking the air out of the room.
Bishop pushes off my lap with a groan and takes a wobbly step back. I grab his hips to help steady him. Since I’m sitting and he’s standing, his crotch is once again right in my face, his hard-on extra obvious. When it doesn’t seem like he’s at risk of falling over, or falling back in my lap, I let him go. He moves out of my personal space, and I feel like I can finally breathe again.
“I think mission ‘make Joey uncomfortable enough to leave’ was a success, although I have a feeling I’ll be fielding a lot of questions tomorrow after that performance.” I search for my elastic and find it on the floor. After gathering my hair up, I secure it in a knot on top of my head. “So thanks for that.”
“It was one hundred percent my pleasure. That guy is a douche, and an idiot.”
“Mmm. I think I might share the idiot title for staying with him for an entire year.” I move to step around him, wanting more space and less at the same time.
“Hey.” Bishop’s fingers wrap around my wrist. “Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t own other people’s bad choices and make them yours.”
“I should’ve seen it coming.”
“Sometimes we don’t see what’s right in front of us, though, do we?”
<
br /> I tip my chin up to meet his gaze. There are a whole lot of unspoken words there. Ones that need to remain that way, since I’m reporting to a team of NHL professionals now. It’s a challenge to ignore the chemistry zinging between us, though. I’ve been doing my best to keep it on lockdown for a lot of reasons, one of which just left my apartment.
Not to mention Bishop is an NHL player who is most definitely going to get media attention when he’s back on the ice. It’s not something I want to get caught up in.
My phone buzzes on the table, startling us. I glance at the device and catch Pattie’s name as it flashes across the screen. I’m sure she wants to know how things went with Joey.
“Should I work you over now?” I motion in the general direction of Bishop’s still-bulging crotch.
“Yeah, just go easy on me tonight. That little stunt I pulled was awesome, but now I’m sore.”
“I wondered about that.”
“Totally worth it, though. I wish you could’ve seen his face. He looked like he wanted to maim me.”
I spend the next forty-five minutes with my hands all over Bishop. He’s right about his stunt not being the best idea, based on how much groaning and bitching he does.
I expect him to leave right after, but instead he gets out plates and serves us both cold pizza. Half is the way I like it; the other half has the same meat options but no pineapple or green olives. He also pops the cap on two of the beers he brought over. I’m ridiculously thirsty for some reason, so I drain the first beer quickly and grab a second one.
Bishop stretches out on my couch, commandeers the remote control, and flips channels until he finds Sportsnet. He picks an olive off his slice and flicks it at my plate. “Your disgusting toppings are commingling with mine.”
“It’s not disgusting. It’s delicious.” I take a huge bite and moan my delight. It doesn’t even matter that it’s cold; it’s still awesome, and I haven’t eaten since lunch. I cover my mouth with my hand. “Yours is boring.”
“Three kinds of meat isn’t boring.”
A Favor for a Favor Page 15
