Turning back around slowly, I said, “Natalie…Jesus Christ, it’s been years. I can’t even think about how long it’s been, but what the hell are you doing in a raunchy place like this? You were taking classes, making a life for yourself the last we talked.” When she didn’t respond, I said, “I’ve got to get you the hell out of here.”
Natalie shrank away from me, backing up until her shapely calves hit the sofa. She stared in horror at my eyes boring down on her.
I shoved a hand through my hair and paced back and forth like a madman. I had no idea whether I was whispering or yelling, I was so furious.
With her gaze lowered, her long lashes covering her big, beautiful eyes, she walked toward me and pleaded, “Shh. They know me as Natasha here, and I need this gig, Asher. Stop making a scene…please.”
I could still see the younger Natalie somewhere inside the hard woman talking to me. Her long brown hair hung way down her shoulders, heavy bangs sweeping over her eyes, which were decorated with glitter and dark black eyeliner. Underneath all that caked-on shit, my “little doll,” the girl who used play kickball out in the alley and chase after the neighborhood boys, was there.
I threw my hands up in the air. “Nat, I don’t want to hear that you need this job. This isn’t the fucking place for you, babe. You want to strip, come work for me. My girls are respected. You want to do something else, go do it. What you aren’t going to do is work in this shithole, one step away from being a prostitute.”
She shuddered. I felt Natalie’s whole body shiver under my hand, which had found its way to rest on her hip as she faced off with me. It made me want to wrap her up in my arms and carry her out of the mess she was currently wrapped up in.
I completely forgot that I was at the Leop to get a little action. Instead, it looked like I was going to have to rescue the girl like a fucking superhero.
Shit.
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Jules
It was a breezy day in late March. Gray clouds folded over the sky, blocking the sun. The temperature was mild for this time of year in Ohio, and sweat dripped down my back as I beat the living hell out of the wall in front of me.
With the ball, of course.
I’d lost track of how many forehands I’d done. Probably two hundred. My shoulder ached, and my palm was a sweaty mess from gripping the racquet. Tossing the grip into my left hand, I wiped my right hand clean on my shorts before grabbing a loose ball off the ground. Like a robot, I began punishing my other shoulder with one-handed backhands.
“Excuse me, are you going to be using the wall much longer?”
Looking up, I saw a guy. Yuppie, mid-twenties, slim but muscular, brown hair underneath his Ivy League hat, and a worn gray T-shirt.
“I’m actually finished,” I replied, leaning over to snag a few stray balls and my racquet cover from the ground.
“I didn’t mean to make you leave.” His eyes bore down on me—chestnut brown, warm, and inviting.
Kindness radiated from him, which was something I hadn’t experienced much of recently. I didn’t know if I wanted to run from it or snatch it in my grasp and never let go.
“It’s cool. I actually have something I need to do.” I decided on the former. Running felt safer.
Plus, I do have something. Something I don’t want—at least, I don’t think I do. Who knows?
My mind was like that nursery rhyme . . . five little monkeys jumping on the bed, until one fell off and hit his head, or however it went. My ideas pinged and bounced about my brain until eventually they all fell flat like worn-out tennis balls.
“You’re pretty good.” The stranger cocked his head toward the wall, telling me he saw my earlier battle with the concrete slab.
I shrugged. My response wasn’t exactly inviting, but he pushed on.
“I just moved here from Boston. Do you live nearby? We could play one day.”
It was the first conversation I’d had with the opposite sex since the incident. I should have been more exhilarated or frightened, but instead I felt nothing. Standing here talking with this guy, I felt absolutely nothing.
“I’m working for the new tech company close to the university, app development. I haven’t met too many people,” he said, his matching Ivy League long-sleeved T-shirt stretching tightly over his chest. On paper, this guy must have been a catch.
Except my head was as cloudy as the sky. His forthrightness and honesty did nothing for me. Most young women would jump into this white knight’s arms, but I’d learned to be cautious.
“Um, I’m not sure,” was about all I could come up with in the moment.
“No pressure. I go in late on Tuesdays, so I usually come over here and hit. Maybe you’ll be back next week.”
“Maybe. I might be going back to school . . . college,” I offered without further explanation.
“Either way, the invitation stands.”
Mr. Ivy League opened his can of balls, slipped his Prince racquet out of its case, and began stretching. He twisted from side to side at the waist, working out the kinks in his lats, taking his racquet with him.
“See you,” I called out when I caught a glimpse of bare skin above his shorts. Sadly, I didn’t feel a tinge of desire, or anything really.
Walking back to my childhood home, I made a mental note to never hit at the park on Tuesdays. My high school coach had been begging me to come play, to hit a few balls or whatever. His offer was starting to appeal to me. Especially on Tuesdays.
As I walked back into my house, a voice called from inside, “Hurry up, Juliette. The new coach will be here soon, and this isn’t something we can pass up.”
“Okay, Mom. I hear you.”
“I don’t think you do,” she said as she walked down the steps, a cup of tea in her hand and a smile fixed on her face. Genevieve Smith cared about two things: my dead father, and getting me educated and out.
She’d isolated me from my peers most of my life with constant tennis lessons and tutors to ensure I did well in school, all in the hope of getting a scholarship. Then I’d squandered my first one. It was time to forget all that monkey business and move on. That’s what she’d said when she took away my phone and the small life I’d created before it all went to hell. This time around, she meant business.
“I hear you, Mom. Now I need to shower and hurry back down, so if you wouldn’t mind . . .”
With my hair still tied in a messy knot on top of my head, I scrubbed myself clean—showers had become perfunctory—and threw on a burgundy off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and black leggings. I dragged some mascara across my lashes, brushed through my hair, and tossed it back into a messy bun.
I was walking down the stairs when I caught sight of a broad-shouldered figure coming up the walkway. There was a knock at the door as soon as I hit the bottom step.
“Get it, Juliette,” my mom called from the kitchen.
Opening the door, I was met with the exact opposite of the guy I’d just met in the park. This one was wearing dark jeans and a polo, and had longish hair, tanned skin, and the bluest of blue eyes.
“Hi. You must be Juliette. I’m Coach King . . . Drew. I took over at Hafton last season. The tennis program,” he explained, mistaking my immediate crushing and infatuation for confusion.
The words clogged my throat, embarrassment flushed through my veins, and I was sure my cheeks were the color of my hair. It was the basest of attractions, purely physical, something I’d definitely never experienced.
After all, I was only twenty. That was normal, right?
I wasn’t meant to fall like this when I was so young. Who the heck knew? My mom had certainly never prepared me for these things, or helped me navigate them. Her cold, austere parenting style was only warmed by my father when he was alive.
“You were expecting me, right?” The coach cleared his throat and glanced at an oversized watch on his wrist.
Underneath his bad-boys looks was quite a gentleman, no doubt the polished product of a pre
p school. No match for my sheltered suburban-public-school-educated upbringing.
Kind of like California. As if that wasn’t mistake enough—signing up for that West Coast lifestyle—I was falling into some kind of blissful spell over my coach-to-be. We hadn’t even spoken more than a few words to each other, and my body was humming as a result of my indecent thoughts.
“Um, hi,” I said awkwardly, and added a lame little wave.
My mom picked this moment to come striding out of the kitchen, making an entrance.
“Genevieve Smith.” She held out her hand. “And you are?”
“Coach King.”
We were all still crowded around the threshold, the chilly air making its way inside, which was fine because I was hotter than a fire in hell. And I should know. I’d been to hell, and I was pretty certain I didn’t want to go back.
Until now.
“I thought the coach at Hafton was older?” Looking King up and down, my mom inquired about the older coach as if this was all about her. And like everything in my life, it was.
“You mean Ace, Coach Hall? He retired two years ago. I helped him out for a year, and then they gave me the gig full-time. Actually, I was the one who reached out to you. I saw some kick-ass tape of Juliette playing. Pardon my French.”
My mom rolled her eyes at his forthrightness.
I was fascinated with King’s white smile, his biceps, and his not-so-muted attitude. Although he could have been muttering, “Blah, blah, blah,” for all I knew, and I would have been spellbound. Something naughty and oh-so-right was simmering in him, just beneath the surface, clamoring to get out.
“May I come in?” he finally asked.
“Yes, yes. Come into the kitchen,” my mom suggested. She offered cold drinks and left the two of us sitting across from each other at our butcher-block table.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said.
I want to swim in your eyes. I haven’t had a pulse since I left California . . . until now . . . with you seated in front of me.
I felt all of those soul-infused words deep in my belly and slowly rising in my throat. Before they came bubbling out, I tamped them down.
Instead, I said, “Sophomore status when it comes to sports. Tennis player, twenty, failure.”
“Hey.”
The deepness of his voice set off a ripple of lust through me. When his hand settled over mine, I stared at his calloused fingers and insanely sexy forearms. I wanted to run my fingertips along the veins and stroke his calluses with my thumb.
“You’re going to have a second chance, and I’m going to make it happen.”
I nodded, my gaze glued to his hand on mine. When he swiftly pulled back, probably realizing the inappropriateness of his action, I felt barren, empty, dejected. Between the chilly assault in California and my mother’s cold attitude, I was drawn to King’s warmth and kindness like it was a fireplace on a snowy day.
I tried using Jedi mind tricks to make him put his hand back, but he didn’t. He spent the next half hour asking me about how much I’d been playing, and discussing tennis strategy with me. Never once did he bring up the incident at my old school.
“You need to get registered for classes, and I’ll text you when I think would be a good time for you to watch a practice.”
“I don’t text. No cell phone.”
“Then I’ll call you,” he said, standing to leave.
Yes, please.
Read Break Point now!
Read other books by Rachel Blaufeld
These always get too lengthy, and does anyone even read them? Seriously, someone e-mail me and let me know!
In an effort to condense, I will quickly mention a few (hundred) people and give thanks.
Several of my team members have been with me since day one, which says a lot when you’re publishing your ninth book! My heartfelt thanks to:
Pam Berehulke, my editor and trusted right hand in this business.
Sarah Hansen, my cover designer, who makes the package look gorgeous.
Emily and Stacey Tippetts, my formatters, who make sure this e-book works or this paperback is in the correct order.
Maryse Black, the first blogger to take a chance on me, and who has supported me tenderly since then and hosted a beautiful cover reveal for this book.
Queen Virginia Carey, Robin Bateman, Christy Pastore, Fabiola Francisco, and Terilyn Smitsky, who have all held my hand and let me cry on their shoulder at various times in this industry.
Nicole Snyder, my PA and better half. E-mail her first. Always.
And, of course, my family. Xoxoxo.
There are not enough thanks for these beautiful people (after all, they put up with me):
Lisa from TRSOR, a true friend and business sounding board.
Sara Eirew, for the stunning photo on this cover.
My betas, who still love me.
The FTN Crew. Enough said.
Jennifer Dicenzo and Michelle Tan, the fabulous-est gals around.
The After Dark Ladies—Michelle, Yaya, and Grace—who make me smile daily. That’s not easy when dealing with a broody author.
All the bloggers who give tirelessly to this industry despite the constant eruption of chaos. I always try to name all of you and inevitably leave someone off. So, here’s to all of you.
And to YOU, the reader! You’re the most important person around.
Thank you.
Rachel Blaufeld is a bestselling author of Romantic Suspense, New Adult, Coming-of-Age Romance, and Sports Romance. A recent poll of her readers described her as insightful, generous, articulate, and spunky. Originally a social worker, Rachel creates broken yet redeeming characters. She’s been known to turn up the angst like cranking up the heat in the dead of winter.
A devout coffee drinker and doughnut eater, Rachel spends way too many hours in local coffee shops, downing the aforementioned goodies while she plots her ideas. Her tales may all come with a side of angst and naughtiness, but end as lusciously as her treats.
As a side note, Blaufeld, also a long-time blogger and an advocate of woman-run anything, is fearless about sharing her opinion. She captured the ears of stay-at-home and working moms on her blog, BacknGrooveMom, chronicling her adventures in parenting tweens and running a business, often at the same time. To her, work/life/family balance is an urban legend, but she does her best.
Rachel has also blogged for The Huffington Post and Modern Mom. Most recently, her insights can be found in USA TODAY, where she shares conversations at “In Bed with a Romance Author” and reading recommendations at “Happy Ever After.”
Rachel lives around the corner from her childhood home in Pennsylvania with her family and two beagles. Her obsessions include running, coffee, basketball, icing-filled doughnuts, antiheroes, and mighty fine epilogues.
When she isn’t writing, she can be found courtside, tweeting about hoops as her son plays, or walking around the house wearing earplugs while her other son, the drummer, bangs away.
To connect with Rachel, she’s most active in her private reading group, The Electric Readers, where she shares insider information and intimate conversation with her readers:
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Tinged
Copyright © 2017 Rachel Blaufeld
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-0-9970707-6-7
Edited by
Pam Berehulke
www.bulletproofediting.com
Proofread by
Virginia Tesi Carey
Cover design by
© Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, LLC
www.okaycreations.com
Photo by
Sara Eirew Photographer
Interior design an
d formatting by:
www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com
Kindle Edition
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Warning:
Content contains explicit sexual content and crude language, and is intended for mature audiences. Parental/reader discretion advised.
Tinged (The Electric Tunnel Book 3) Page 19
