by Kristy Marie
Almost.
But Barbie interrupts me. “I bet you’ll be so happy to get your own place.”
My eyes scan for something to throw at her, but I see Theo shake his head.
Whatever. I don’t need this kind of negativity in my life.
I forge down the hall and act like she isn’t shirtless and stroking my man’s leg like she’s about to pounce.
No siree.
I march my petty ass straight into our shared bathroom and grab a pair of panties—not the crime scene ones—and a bottle of perfume, and head into Von Bremen’s room where I proceed to spritz the ever-loving fuck out of his navy sheets.
And when I think I have them completely saturated, I shove my undies under his pillow for good measure.
Two can play this game, Barbie.
He will be relieved to have his own place, my toned ass.
You have no idea the shit I do for this man.
No. Idea.
Do not think I am his annoying little sister.
Do not think I didn’t feel his fingers slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants that were covering my ass.
Do not think I was asleep.
Do not think I didn’t feel him lift me and carry me to my room before laying me down and kissing my lips.
Do not think he minds living with me!
Deep breath, Anniston.
Deep fucking breath.
You know he likes to do this.
You know he retreats anytime feelings come into play.
You know this.
Right. I know this.
Barbie is one of a million. Well, not a million. Hopefully, he kept it under twenty-five. The point is, Barbie is no one. She’s not a threat to me.
She’s a distraction.
I’m the foundation of his thoughts.
Me.
Just me.
I just have to figure out a way to get him to admit it and make a move. We’ve messed around with this “friends” shit long enough.
Seeing his phone on his dresser, I decide to be extra petty and take it, swiping up and punching in his passcode. STRIKE. So unoriginal, but I doubt he gives a fuck who hacks into his phone. Theo doesn’t have a filter. He’s relatively an open book.
Except with me.
With me, he likes to keep shit to himself and hum noncommittal answers when I ask him a personal question he doesn’t want to answer.
But that’s okay though.
I’m good at figuring Von Bremen out.
I close out a few game apps he has running until I get to what I need.
His contact list.
Last time I thinned out the S’s and R’s. I think tonight I’ll take on the T’s and hope Barbie’s last name is Thomas.
Tucking it into my right hand, so the happy couple on the couch won’t see, I hustle back down the hall, the perfume wafting out from behind me.
Fuck.
I didn’t put it back in the bathroom.
Oh well. It’s too late now. Maybe he won’t notice. I leave shit in his room all the time.
“Carry on,” I say with an Oscar-worthy fakeness.
I hear Theo chuckle.
“We’ll take it to my bedroom,” he says with a grin.
I shrug. “Whatever.”
Good luck not tasting the amount of perfume I sprayed in there.
I smile sugary sweet. “Goodnight, Teddy.”
I don’t spare the Barbie on his crotch even a look.
Once I’m back in my room, I make it a point to clean out not only the T’s but the M’s as well. Even though I can’t hear her giggle anymore, I still know she’s here. I haven’t heard the front door open.
He probably has her mouth busy.
Ugh.
Maybe I’ll thin out the P’s too.
“I’ll call you,” I hear from the living room. My door is cracked as usual, and I can see her squeezing him longer than necessary.
Go, girl. Don’t look desperate.
“You have my number, right?” Her sexy voice makes me cringe.
“I do.”
He did. Hopefully, I deleted it tonight.
If you’re disappointed in me, don’t be. Theo has 1,825 contacts. Losing five hundred or so is like spitting in the ocean.
He won’t notice.
Trust me.
With a long and drawn-out kiss, the woman finally leaves. For a moment, Theo stands at the closed door, his head dropped to his chest. He sighs before flipping the lock and running a hand through his hair and turning and heading toward my door.
Quickly, I push his phone under my pillow and pretend I’m asleep.
I hear the door creak.
“I know you’re not asleep,” he says in an amused tone.
I’m not ashamed.
I roll over and see him just inside my door, legs crossed, arms folded over his chest.
“Did what’s-her-name leave already?”
He smirks, pushing off the wall and coming to sit on the edge of my bed.
“Yeah, she did. Somehow your perfume bottle spilled all over my sheets.” His eyebrow arches nearly to his hairline.
I shrug. “Maybe you knocked it over,” I offer.
He shakes his head, his finger going to his lips before he slips it into his mouth and bites his nail. “And your underwear?” he accuses, pulling my purple panties out of his pocket and tossing them with the skill of a pitcher in the hamper.
Again, I don’t cower. “Must have been from when I did the laundry.” I shrug, burrowing down in the covers. “It happens when you have a roommate.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, standing. “Sure it does.” He reaches behind him and grabs the neck of his shirt, leaning over and pulling it over his head. When did he put on a shirt? “Scoot over,” he orders, tossing his shirt in my hamper and unbuttoning his jeans.
“What are you doing?” I ask, panicking on what I am going to do with his damn phone.
Both of his eyebrows arch in an “Are you serious?” way. The denim slides down his muscular thighs with such perfection that if he ever threw out his arm, he could easily have a job at a strip club. Women would pay a fortune to have him pop out of a cake or some shit and shake those narrow hips while killing the Happy Birthday song with his horrible singing.
“Well,” he drawls, pulling a leg out, “since I can’t breathe in my room—” He cuts me an “I know what you did” look. “—I’m sleeping here tonight so it can air out.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.” I sniff the air. “Okay, maybe it’s a little strong.”
He laughs, shaking his head as if he doesn’t know what to do with me. “I want the right side,” he demands, tipping his chin so I move over.
“I don’t like the left side,” I argue.
“I don’t like blue balls. Move over.”
He’s got a point. I scoot over, taking my pillow—and his phone—with me. Holding open the blankets, he slides in, punches my pillows, and rolls to the side before slipping an arm around me and pulling me to him.
A big, stupid smile adorns my face.
Well, until he says, “Give me my phone so I can set the alarm. I have an early practice tomorrow.”
“It’s inflamed.”
No shit.
“It’ll be fine,” I argue, ignoring Coach Anderson’s stern look. Really. I’ve had a sore shoulder before. No need in getting dramatic about it just because I can barely move today. What happened to the “rub some dirt on it and you’ll be fine” approach?
“You need a shot of cortisone and ice.”
I disagree with Dr. Phelps’s assessment wholeheartedly. I’ve had a cortisone shot in my elbow before, and it was like liquid fire being shot into my arm. I nearly cried. I’m man enough to admit it. The shit hurt, and I never want another one.
“I’ll take the ice and pain reliever.”
Coach Anderson lets out a deep, deep sigh. I don’t see why he’s so frustrated with me saving the team money. Cortisone shots
cost a hell of a lot more than ice and pain relievers. I could take both of those at home and save the team even more money. How’s that for being a team player? Bet the school never saw that kind of dedication coming when they offered me a scholarship.
“Theo.” Coach’s voice is tired. “Dr. Phelps’s medical opinion is to take down the inflammation immediately. Ice and Tylenol will take time.”
I don’t see how that’s an issue. Time means riding the pine—or bench, whatever you want to call it. What I call it is a fucking vacation.
“I can live with that.” I shrug before cringing when the pain zaps through me. I definitely need a pain killer. Pronto.
“You can live with the possibility of your AAA contract being revoked by an injury?”
Goddammit. No, I fucking can’t. Thanks for reminding me of my responsibilities, Coach Anderson.
No contract with a minor league team means staying here and working for my father in the insurance business. No matter how much I want to stay with Anniston, I won’t work for my father. Computers and uncomfortable desk chairs are not for me. Fucking in a desk chair maybe.
But not working.
Don’t be a pussy, Theo. Do what you gotta do. Take it like a man.
“Fine, but I need to make a call first.”
I’m taking it like a man, but not alone. Judge me if you want, but until you’ve seen the size of this needle and experienced the medicine within it, you have no idea of the whining I’m about to do. Anniston McCallister is going to have one rough night. She owes me anyway.
Coach hands me my phone because my shoulder had to reiterate the fact it’s fucking useless at the moment, and I press the ridiculous icon selfie of Anniston eating a motherfucking Popsicle in my car. She knew it would piss me off when she sent it. But my irritation was quickly extinguished and replaced by pure lust as I analyzed every muscle in her tongue working that yellow Popsicle down to an abnormal shape. The picture had me fifteen minutes late getting to the car. I whacked off more times than I care to admit to that stupid Popsicle picture. Hence the reason it’s her contact icon.
She answers on the third ring.
“Do you want healthy or a side of healthy with fat as our main course?”
Dear God, can I keep her?
I smile into the phone.
“I say we go heavy on the carbs and high fat content tonight,” I supply.
“I couldn’t agree more. Okay, I grabbed more Mountain Dew for you. Can you think of anything else you want while I’m at the store?”
Her. Naked. Maybe tied up with a bow?
“Nah. That’s all.” I hear squeaking from a shitty buggy I’m positive she refused to swap out and cringe before adding, “Hey, do you think you could swing by the clubhouse after you finish?”
That doesn’t sound too desperate, does it?
There’s a pregnant pause before she says softly, “What’s wrong?”
Her voice is shaky, and I feel slightly guilty I cannot, in fact, take this like a man.
I try smiling so she doesn’t get the desperation in my tone over the phone. “It’s no big deal…,” I lie. “Just a little inflammation in my shoulder. Dr. Phelps wants to give me a shot of cortisone—”
She doesn’t give me a chance to finish.
“I’m on my way.”
Thank God I didn’t have to sound like a whiny bitch and tell her I needed a distraction while they did it.
“Thanks, Ans,” I mutter, intently aware Coach and Dr. Phelps have gone quiet next to me.
I hear Anniston apologize to someone at the store, but I don’t feel bad they have to put back her items. Shit happens. And my girl always puts me first. Deal with it.
We say our goodbyes to each other, and I hang up, already pulling up a social media app. “She’ll be here soon, and then you can piss me off for the rest of the night,” I say into the treatment room, directing my comment to either of them.
Someone sighs, but I don’t look up. One, I’m a teensy bit embarrassed. And two, I don’t give a fuck how long they have to stay after work. They knew I was a diva when they offered me the scholarship to pitch for them.
“Be sure to tell security she’ll need to be let in,” I add at the last minute.
Coach mutters, “I’m sure that wouldn’t stop her anyway.”
I chuckle. Anniston loves to give Coach Anderson hell, but deep down, they both respect each other.
“It won’t, but it’ll save him a headache and an incident report later.”
Thirty minutes later, security buzzes the treatment room and announces Anniston’s arrival. Coach grumbles but labors to the door and lets her in. Anniston McCallister breezes through the threshold smelling all kinds of edible and pins me with a concerned look.
I try to shrug but grimace instead.
“It’s not a big deal. I just need to be able to pitch in a few days.”
I can tell she wants to argue, but she knows the lengths I will go not to work for my father.
“Don’t lie to me, Von Bremen.”
“Anniston,” Coach soothes, stepping in and putting a hand on her shoulder before we fight in front of them.
I love verbally sparring with McCallister. Someone always ends up heaving and sweating in anger—her—and it does epic things to her tits.
Coach pulls her to the side so Dr. Phelps can fill her in on the condition of my shoulder. Every once in a while, she looks back at me and frowns.
We gotta do what we gotta do, baby, I send her way in the form of a sad smile.
When she’s up to date, Dr. Phelps retreats into the medicine room and Anniston and Coach move toward the table where I’m still perched like a hood ornament, a bag of ice strapped to my shoulder.
Here goes my manhood.
Anniston’s hand reaches for my hair, and I feel my eyes drift shut with each pull of her fingers. “Are you sure about this?”
What I wouldn’t give to skip this and go home…
“No, but I need to pitch,” I answer softly, opening my eyes long enough to see her frown.
She nods in understanding, even though I know it pains her to do so. Anniston is very much a believer in conservative medicine. I bet she would have suggested ice and Tylenol too.
“Okay.”
Her consent doesn’t mean she’s happy about it, but regardless, her hands rake through my hair gently, each stroke pulling me closer and closer to her chest. By the time Dr. Phelps returns, bearing a gift of pain, I’m somewhat relaxed.
“All right, Theo, let’s get you feeling better.”
Technically, a blow job would have me feeling better much faster than this shot, but I don’t argue with the good doctor. I doubt he’s had an epic blow job in years.
Someone slides the bag off my shoulder, and I suck in a breath. Anticipation is the worst, and Anniston doesn’t miss my reaction.
“I’m thinking pizza and porn tonight,” she says all innocently. “The pizza will make me feel better and, well, the porn will help you and the unfortunate souls who will reap the aftermath of your next few shitty days. Maybe you’ll go easy on them if you aren’t so pent up.”
A choking sound and an audible gasp can’t mask the sound of my laughter. Does my girl know me or what?
“I think you’re on to something, McCallister.” Except no one will suffer my wrath but you, I want to say. “Maybe porn will put me in a more forgiving mood.”
The rest of my comments die off as I feel Dr. Phelps drying my shoulder and promptly cleaning it.
“Try to relax, Theo,” he attempts to soothe me.
Not a fucking chance. My body is locked up tight, preparing for the hell that is soon to take place.
“I’m relaxed,” I lie.
Anniston makes a noise in her chest like maybe she swallowed wrong or thinks Dr. Phelps is a moron. I know she wouldn’t be masking a disbelieving scoff. Now would not be the appropriate time to be a smart-ass.
“Try and relax your shoulders,” he tries again. “Lean into Ann
iston.”
Now that’s something I can do.
Without any further instruction, I bury my face into Anniston’s soft tits and almost groan. Almost. I don’t want to make it weird, but seriously, her tits are so fucking warm. With a little alcohol, I think I could get away with her letting me motorboat them. But alas, no beer. Or tequila. Tequila really gets her going…
Lost in the daydreams of her pink nipples, I feel Dr. Phelps at my back. Immediately, I’m tense again. It’s a fucking big-ass needle. I do not need to explain why I can’t relax here.
“You know what I’m looking forward to learning from watching porn tonight?” Anniston’s breath feathers against my ear, and chills break out along my arms.
“What?” I whisper back, acutely aware I’m going to be stabbed at any minute.
“I want to…” The warmth of her tongue is what I notice first. Slow and languid, it drifts across my neck, stopping just at my jaw. Instinctively, my hands clench her hips as I try securing her in place. No one needs her darting off when things are just getting interesting.
I swallow. “Don’t stop.”
For the love of God, don’t fucking stop.
With my plea, Anniston’s glorious tongue is on the move again. Tempting. Torturous. Until it reaches my lips, and Dr. Phelps jams the fucking needle in my shoulder, and I suck in a harsh breath.
Fuck.
My chest is tight, and all the oxygen feels like it’s caught in my throat, but when I finally manage out a groan, Anniston’s lips descend on mine and the pain doesn’t seem as excruciating anymore.
She’s kissing me.
Anniston McCallister is kissing me.
Sure, we’ve kissed before, but not like this.
Not opened mouthed with my hands inching up her ribs, my thumb daring to slide beneath the underwire of her bra.
Keep going on my shoulder, Doc. Whatever you do, don’t let this moment end.
I have a feeling it won’t happen again.
“Almost done, Theo. You’re doing great.”
I barely register his praise. All I can think is: Anniston McCallister is the best fucking kiss I’ve ever had. Her tongue moves in tandem with mine. Fighting. Clashing. But yielding when she recognizes I run the oral game. She wins the distraction, but I own this goddamned kiss.
