Time of Possession (Seattle Lumberjacks #5)

by Jami Davenport

  They’d stayed together all night, making love and talking. She’d told him about Richard’s embezzlement and his father’s role in all of it.

  He’d held back telling her his secrets and that disturbed her, but she pushed it out of her mind, and they finally fell into a deep sleep after they fucked each other’s brains out. She almost smiled. Brett’s breathing had been strong and steady. In fact, the sounds he made while sleeping comforted her.

  If only she found her confused thoughts comforting. She shouldn’t be so confused after what they’d just experienced together, and her uncertainty frustrated her even more. She walked on air last night until the reality of daylight laid its heavy hand on her heart.

  She’d slept with him. She’d touched his naked body, ran her hands over his bare ass, taken his hard penis in her mouth. And she’d loved every single damn thing they did together.

  Yet…

  She already knew that this thing with Brett would be messy and out of her control. She wouldn’t be able to lead him around by his dick or force him into a neat, tidy little corner of her life. She’d thought she’d done that with Richard and look where that got her. Richard had secrets she’d never suspected. Last night proved a point. Brett had secrets, too—dangerous, damaging, messy secrets. Uncontrollable and unpredictable didn’t fit into her ordered life, even if it was in temporary disorder.

  The most profound part of all of it was that she was going to fuck him again. She couldn’t resist, couldn’t stop. No twelve-step process would cure her addiction because she didn’t want a cure, even if the eventual withdrawals would be a bitch.

  She’d see Brett tonight. She’d even volunteered to cook dinner, like the domesticated couple that they weren’t.

  Part of Estie was flooded with self-doubts, the part that craved something unplanned and chaotic. It begged to be released over and over like a bad chant in an away game gone very wrong. She didn’t want a relationship. She’d just gotten out of one. She’d break Brett’s heart in the process. He so did not deserve that. He needed a woman who would always be there for him, put him first in her life, and be the best wife and mother.

  Rubbing her face with her hands, Estie sighed deeply. She picked up her phone and tapped out a message to Sylvia. A couple hours later, she walked in the door of the pet rescue. Her friend took one look at her and pushed her down to sit in a plastic chair. Sylvia sat across from her.

  “Okay, spill it. And don’t leave out any details.” Once again her friend had read Estie’s mind. Before Estie could do a brain dump of all her troubles, she spotted a forlorn Humphrey huddled in a dog bed across the room.

  “He still hasn’t snapped out of it?”

  “No, not yet. He needs a foster home, and no one wants such a big dog, even on a temporary basis.”

  “I have two dogs, or I’d take him.”

  “I know. That’s the story of the poor guy’s life. I just wish he’d eat something. I’m really concerned.” Sylvia rubbed her temple and sighed. She turned back to Estie. “But you didn’t come here to talk about this guy. I think you came here because of a different guy—the two-legged variety, perhaps?”

  “It’s always about the two-legged guys, isn’t it?”

  “It seems to be for both of us.” Her friend looked away, but not before Estie caught the sadness in her eyes. Someone had once broken Syl’s heart, but she never talked about it.

  “Syl, I’m in trouble. Deep trouble.”

  “And you just figured this out now? Girl, you’ve been ass-deep in shit since I met you.”

  “I know. I just hide it well.”

  “You bring it on yourself with all your OCD behavior.” Sylvia softened her voice, but the effect was just as powerful as if she’d shouted.

  “You think?” Estie stopped herself from lining up pens on the scarred desk and stared out the large window at the dreary, gray day as a fine drizzle coated everything.

  “I know, and the problem has to be a man.”

  “Two men.”

  “You poor sorry female. Two men. I can’t deal with one of the bastards, let alone two.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “So give me all the sordid deets.” Sylvia paused to watch a tall African-American delivery man walk up to the reception desk. He caught her staring and nodded at her. She smiled back. He almost tripped over his own feet as he looked over his shoulder at her. Sylvia laughed. “That man has one fine ass.”

  Estie nodded in agreement, as she watched the gray-haired volunteer at the reception desk literally fall all over her support hose to get his attention.

  “I might have to get his number next time he makes a delivery.” Sylvia turned back to her. “Back to your problem. Something happened with our sexy backup quarterback.”

  “Starting quarterback,” Estie corrected.

  Sylvia smiled, showing straight white teeth, and tossed her long hair over her shoulder. She winked at the delivery man and heaved a sad sigh when he walked out the door. Finally, she focused her attention on her friend. “You and Brett screwed like chinchilla rabbits.”

  “Chinchilla rabbits?”

  “You should see them. A friend of mine just got a pair—you’d love their fur—and those horny little creatures are doing it all the time.”

  “We aren’t doing it all the time.”

  “Ah ha, but you’ve done it some of the time.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How was he? Was I right about his big hands and feet…?”

  “Sylvia. Really.”

  “Well, was I? I bet he’s hung.”

  Estie rolled her eyes. “Yes, he’s hung.”

  Sylvia slapped her thigh. “I knew it. I can tell. Besides, he wasn’t overcompensating for a small dick by being a dick like Richard, so I figured that wasn’t an issue.”

  Estie almost choked on the water she was sipping. She wiped her lips with her napkin.

  Sylvia gave Estie a sly look. “Richard does have a small dick, doesn’t he?”

  “Well, compared to Brett’s that would be a yes.”

  “I knew it. I tell you, I have sixth sense about penis size.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a marketable skill.”

  Sylvia rubbed her chin, as if considering the possibilities for a moment. “I could write a book, share my secrets: How to Assess the Size of a Man’s Penis before Getting Him Naked. So was he good?”

  “Yeah, really good.”

  “I’m not surprised. What are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know. There’s more. A lot more.” Estie held up her ring hand, and Sylvia actually gasped.

  “Okay, let’s hear it, and don’t leave out any details.”

  Almost an hour later, Sylvia knew every crappy and fantastic detail of Estie’s last couple of days.

  “I am so screwed.” Estie crumpled a half-full water bottle in her hand and some of it squirted out onto her face.

  Sylvia laughed, looking sheepish, and handed Estie a towel. “You have some serious issues, woman, and I told you life has a way of throwing a wrench into the most carefully laid plans.”

  “Brett thinks I should go to vet school.”

  “Brett Gunnels is one helluva smart man.”

  Estie couldn’t agree more and damned if she knew what to do about it. This was unchartered territory for her.

  * * * * *

  Brett stared at the game film. The images ran across the screen but didn’t register in his brain. He shook his head, trying to clear it of memories of a naked Estie Harris writhing underneath him, her face flushed, her body sweaty, and her eyes full of desire—and something scary good that planted false hope inside him.

  “What the fuck is up with you?”

  Brett snapped out of the bedroom and into the film room. “I—uh—”

  Harris glared at him with those laser-blue eyes that never missed a damn thing. “You got laid last night.” The rat bastard made the statement with absolute confidence.

  The heat tra
velled up Brett’s neck, lapping at his ears and rendering him speechless. Harris couldn’t know. He just couldn’t.

  A sly, knowing smile crossed the jerk’s face. “Oh, yeah, you did. I know that look. I wear it myself ninety percent of the time.” Harris tapped him very annoyingly on the bicep. “Your problem is that you don’t get laid enough so when you do, you can’t stop thinking about it. This is football, man. Nothing interferes with football. Not even the best fucking mind-blowing sex you’ve had in years.”

  Brett nodded slowly. Since Harris hadn’t beaten the crap out of him, he couldn’t possibly know the mind-blowing sex had been with Harris’s own sister. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  Harris puffed up a little. The fucker loved it when Brett acknowledged he was right. “I know guys who claim they can’t have sex during the season in order to concentrate on the game. That’s bullshit. Ask Derek. Ask Zach. Hell, ask your buddy, Bruiser. You’ve held out too long, Gun. Physical guys like us need it every night. And it helps your game if you fuck on a regular basis.”

  Brett couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Unknowingly, Harris had just given him his blessing to keep sleeping with Estie just to improve his game.

  “Ask Bruiser what?” Bruiser stuck his head between the two men, a shit-eating grin on his face, the same one he’d been sporting since he and Mac got together. It was disgusting. In fact, the entire group of men that Brett hung out with were disgustingly happy with their women and their sex lives.

  God, Brett wanted that.

  “What are you two talking about?” Bruiser pressed for the answer.

  “Brett got laid, and now he can’t concentrate on game film. I told him he needed to get laid more than once a year so it didn’t fuck with him when he finally did.”

  “You did? With who?” Bruiser studied his buddy, and Brett looked away, not wanting Bruiser to figure it out. After all, he’d been at Thanksgiving dinner. He was a smart guy.

  “No one you guys know.”

  Bruiser rubbed the stubble on his chin, deep in thought. Harris didn’t seem to notice. Hyper as he was, he’d already grown bored with the conversation and was debating with Derek and Zach on the merits of certain play schemes to use against the Packers.

  Bruiser raised one eyebrow and shot Brett one of those Bruiser looks, full of hidden meaning. “You’re playing with fire, buddy.”

  “No shit.” Oh, yeah, Bruiser knew. How long before the others would figure it out—including Harris/?

  “He’s not going to be happy for so many reasons,” Bruiser kept his voice low and jerked his thumb in Harris’s direction.

  “Good thing he’s injured. It’ll make it harder for him to beat the crap out of me without causing damage to that knee.”

  Bruiser snorted. “Yeah, lucky you. If he finds out you’re banging his sister, he’s devious enough to use other means to dispose of you.”

  Brett nodded. Harris could be formidable. He scared the crap out of each new crop of rookies, but Brett had worked with him long enough to know the guy was mostly talk. Buried under all the asshole bullshit lurked a heart of gold. Hell, the guy worked with disabled veterans on a regular basis and did tons of other charity work. And he had a spoiled rotten, fat-assed cat. The cat alone said a lot about Harris.

  You gotta respect a man who loved cats, despite his other faults.

  Harris plopped down into the seat next to Brett. “Quit wasting my fucking time. Let’s get back to work. Do you think I do this for my own good? Fuck no. This is for the team.” Harris started the film again in slow motion, pointing out the Packers’ defensive strategy on one particular play.

  Brett forced himself to concentrate on the film, wrapping his brain around the plays and how to see the things Harris saw. He’d always prided himself on having a pretty good eye. After all, he’d spent most of his NFL career watching the game instead of playing it. But viewing the field standing behind center with a pack of rabid linebackers and defensive ends bearing down on you was a completely different animal than standing on the sidelines safe and sound and making notes on a clipboard.

  Time to get to work and concentrate. He had a job to do.

  Tonight would be for Estie, but the rest of his day was for football.

  And damn it, the team counted on him to give it everything he had, while he wasn’t sure Estie counted on him at all. Not like he counted on her.

  * * * * *

  By the time Brett dragged his weary body out of the facility, the night janitorial staff had all gone home. A couple player vehicles still sat in the parking lot. It looked like Brett was not the only dedicated teammate in the facility, a fact that made him feel good and a sign the guys hadn’t given up hope after all. At least not all of them.

  Throughout the evening, Brett had texted Estie three times, apologizing, and each time she said she understood perfectly. He guessed she probably did, being Harris’s sister and all. No one worked harder than Harris when it came to coming in early or staying late. Brett knew, because he’d been here most of the time, too. Except tonight Harris left early, something about a hot date with a hot blonde.

  Brett was tired, cranky, and itching for a good fight. Harris had been all over his ass tonight, grilling him like fresh Chinook salmon. He’d passed every test Harris put to him, but he still found it a demeaning that the asshole quarterback treated Brett like a pupil while Harris was the pompous professor.

  Brett rounded the corner of the building and started across the lot for his car when he heard guys talking, mentioning his name. He backed out of sight behind a tall shrub. He should’ve walked right up to the guys, but a bit of the old insecurity stopped him in his tracks. He wanted to hear what they said behind his back.

  “Gun has a great eye for offensive schemes. He knows what defense works well against most of them.” Brett recognized the voice of Steve Costa, the team’s rookie tight end. Erratic but talented, Brett had spent a lot of time in training camp working with the kid, as had their selfless All-Pro tight end, Spin Statler.

  “Of course, he does. He spends all his time watching the game instead of playing in it.” This came from Lamar Williams, another rookie, a defensive end who wore his cocky attitude like a medal of honor. Both guys laughed.

  “We’re in deep shit,” Steve lowered his voice.

  “Yeah, when Harris went down, this became a fucking throwaway season.”

  If it was a throwaway season why were they here after oh-dark-thirty studying game film? Time to put their rookie, size-fourteen feet to the fire. Taking a deep breath, Brett strode from the shadows into the glow of the overhead lights. Both men turned to him, guilty looks plastered on their faces.

  “Gentlemen.” Brett nodded at each one of them, actually enjoying their obvious discomfort—maybe a bit of Harris was rubbing off on him after all. The chickenshit tight end took a step back and let his defensive teammate take over.

  “Hey, man, how’s it going?” Lamar swallowed and offered up a nervous smile. At least the guy had the decency to look contrite.

  “You two have an issue with me? Tell it to me straight.” Brett squared his shoulders and got into Lamar’s space.

  Steve shuffled back another step and stared at his hands, staying out of it.

  “No, man, no issue. We’re with you every step of the way,” Lamar attempted his trademark engaging grin but it fell flat.

  “I appreciate that, and I’ll hold you to it.” He sized each of them up for a moment, not giving a shit how nervous it made them. “You guys are here late.”

  “Uh, yeah, watching film like everyone else.”

  “We’ll need it. We have a tough opponent coming up.”

  Both heads nodded quickly in unison like bobblehead dolls in the back window of a 1960 Buick sedan.

  “Have a good evening.” Brett inserted just the right amount of steel into his voice.

  The two players beat cleats out of there. Brett watched for a moment then headed for his car.

  “Hey, man, wait up.�
��

  Damn, not another one. Brett paused and waited for Zach to jog up to him. The entire fucking team must have been burning the midnight oil tonight.

  “What was all that about?” Zach pointed toward their retreating teammates.

  “Bonding with the young guys.”

  Zach raised one eyebrow and chuckled. “Gotta keep those kids in line.”

  “Yeah.” Brett shoved his hands in his pockets and continued his short walk to his SUV, eager to get home to his “kids” and Estie.

  Zach matched him stride for stride. “Harris was a little hard on you tonight. The guy’s an asshole. We all know that. Hell, he brags about it.”

  Brett nodded, wondering where this was going. Zach wasn’t the touchy-feely type so he doubted Zach had approached him just to offer sympathy.

  “I want you to know I’ve got your back.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  Zach sobered and shot Brett his steely glare. “You won’t need it, but my support is there anyway.”

  “You sure I won’t need it?” Brett forced a teasing smile, but Zach remained stone-faced, as if he didn’t buy into the bullshit.

  “Nah. You’re a damn good quarterback, and this is your time.” Zach paused. “And mine.” He glanced down at Brett’s hand. “You never wear those two rings of yours, and I’m sure I know why. Let’s get this thing done and each earn a ring we’ll be damn proud to wear.”

  “That’s my plan.”

  “Mine, too.” Zach nodded, staring long and hard at Brett. With a satisfied nod, he left Brett staring after him in the parking lot.

  * * * * *

  Estie never quite dazzled with her skills in the kitchen, but she was a passable cook, and tonight she outdid herself with garlic chicken, parmesan Yukon Gold potatoes, and a Caesar salad. Not necessarily fancy, and she suspected Brett would love a can of chili as long as she cooked it.

  As soon as he texted that he was on his way, she started cooking the meal she painstakingly prepped earlier in the afternoon. Dozer watched her with one eye open from his dog bed in front of the fire. Marilyn sat nearby waiting to pick up crumbs should any fall her way. Risky settled on the dog bed against Dozer, his new best buddy and security blanket. Blackjack, being old and cranky, stayed downstairs asleep on Brett’s bed. Across the room, Spock and Jim harassed Bongo, eyeing him from their perches on the back of the coach and recliner. Bongo took exception to the cats and erupted into a litany of curses against the cats and all felines in general.