No Touch Zone (Saints of Love Book 2)

by Elizabeth Perry

  I toss my phone down and roll over in my bed. Sleep comes easily, but so do my dreams. And for some unforsaken reason, Jude stars in every damn one of them.

  As much as I want to forget that he exists, I can’t seem to get the guy out of my head. And it’s becoming a real issue.

  “Willow.” Wyatt slides a piece of paper with his chicken scratch writing all over it across the countertop towards me. “If you go to the store today, can you grab a few things?”

  A few things is an understatement. Every single line on the paper is filled, and there is even a backside completed. This isn’t grabbing a few things. This is buying the entire damn store. I study the front side of the paper, and immediately grimace.

  “What do you need two gallons of vodka for?” Asking a question that I already know the answer to is really just wasting my breath. Wyatt only buys this much booze when he’s planning to throw a party. It’s a Tuesday night, mind you. Normal people in this world don’t throw a party that requires an entire grocery list of booze on the second worknight of the week. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, my brother is definitely not most people. This is his normal off season show, and unfortunately, I am going to get a front row seat to tonight’s performance.

  “It’s Masters’ birthday today.” He looks as though he’s shocked that I don’t know this bit of information about his best friend. “He deserves one hell of a party to celebrate.”

  A party, while I may not like it, I can at least handle. The idea of having to watch Jude celebrate his birthday with multiple half naked women in my own house is another thing completely. I want to feel the normal irritation that I typically do whenever I think about Jude and whenever I suffer through one of Wyatt’s parties. However, today, that feeling just doesn’t come. I just feel ill over the idea.

  “Thanks, sis.” Wyatt smacks a kiss on my cheek and then heads towards the staircase. “I’m going to try to get a little nap in. I’m planning on hardly getting any sleep tonight.”

  You and me both.

  I glare at my brother’s retreating figure, as anger pulsates through me. I love my brother, I swear to you, I absolutely do. He’s the epitome of what every big brother should be. I’ve never had to worry about him having my back in any situation. It just comes naturally to him to protect me at all costs.

  After our baby brother died, and our parents split, our lives consisted of getting passed back and forth between two grown adults who acted more like children than we did. They fought all of the time, sending snarky messages to each other via the two of us. Neither one was ever really present as parents when we were with them, since after losing Weston, they let their grief swallow them whole, and managed to forget that they still had two children who needed them. After a few years of living that way, Wyatt took control, our dad stepped out of the picture, and from that moment on, I always had him to lean on. He’s always been there for me, regardless of what life chose to throw at me. And when I decided to go to medical school, he opened his doors to me, allowing me to move into his mansion in the hills, completely rent free.

  And that’s not even where his generosity stopped, either. He’s paid for my schooling, in full. He purchased a safer car for me to drive, slapped a credit card in my wallet that has no limit, and has given me the opportunity to have all of my time to focus on schooling. I know that I’m blessed, trust me, I do. But every blessing, at least, in my life, comes with a catch.

  That being, the part where I am Wyatt’s own personal bitch. I’m his errand girl, his dinner maker, his party supply buyer, and sometimes, I have to be his mom. None of those things I mind, because, frankly, I owe the guy. But being stuck living in this house during the party nights, is the worst part of the entire gig.

  I’ve never been big on parties, but if I had, I could guarantee you that I would have never been the kind of woman that he invites here. Those women, good God. They make women everywhere look bad. Their clothing, if they come in any clothing at all that is, leaves nothing to the imagination. They come here, to this house that I have to live in, with only one thing on their minds.

  Fucking a football player.

  They don’t know these guys, aside from what they do for a living. All that they need to know, is that they have money and fame. They don’t care if the guys are married, if they have children at home, and I dare say, they don’t even care if they’re clean.

  I’ve seen far too much, and frankly, I’m a bit scarred.

  I really want to believe that I’m this irritated because my leisurely Tuesday night is about to be ruined, but even I can’t convince myself of that. My hand is shaking, clutching Wyatt’s list so hard that it tears, all because of who this party is for.

  Jude Masters. The king of whores, the life of every party.

  The same guy who left an ache between my legs that humiliates me. The same guy that now knows firsthand, the sounds that I make when I lose myself. The man who has made me see myself in a completely different light, and trust me when I say, that light is not flattering.

  I am no better than any of the women who will be showing up here tonight, and that is the part that sucks the most.

  7

  Jude

  The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and as I make my way up the cobblestone front path, I take a moment and thank God for giving me such a beautiful day to enjoy my birth. It’s almost sixty degrees today, which is insanely hot for a random Tuesday in the middle of February. At least, here in Minnesota, it is. But I’ll take it.

  The sunshine is needed, dammit, and it lightens my mood immediately. I feel like a little kid today, full of excitement and hope for what today is about to bring. Birthdays are for celebrating, after all, and I am ready.

  I pull open the front door, and as my eyes adjust from the bright sunshine outside, to the even brighter light in this room, every inch of me pulses with adrenaline.

  “Jude.” The sound of her voice causes every hair on my body to stand on end. If she ever decided to give up being a sports agent, she could make a killing as a dirty phone call operator. As she crosses the room to me, her spiky heels clicking with every step, my face relaxes into a full blown smile. Her long, blond hair is tied into a tight bun on the top of her head, making her look every bit of the naughty librarian that is every young boys’ fantasy. Her tight, white blouse is opened enough at the top to give a sneak peek at what I am guessing is an awesome rack. As she stops in front of me, she smirks, as if reading my mind completely.

  “Come with me, hot stuff.” She knows exactly how to ruffle my feathers. Thank you, Ciara. She motions towards the back of the room, with one, long, red fingernail. “I need you, desperately.” She’s totally full of shit, and I know it. But I appreciate the fact that she plays around like this with me. It makes our relationship that much more exciting.

  “I’ve been waiting three years to hear you say that, Ciara.” As I wink at her, she rolls her eyes, her perfect mouth curving into a sexy smile. “Well played, waiting until my birthday to tell me that you’re finally ready to let me turn you. It’s the perfect birthday present.”

  She leans towards me, giving me an even better view of the luscious mounds of milky white flesh damn near falling out of her top at this point.

  “I only eat pussy, Jude.” She gives me the sexiest wink that I’ve ever had thrown my way. “And I only let someone with a pussy eat mine.”

  “I’m a great spectator.” I lie, to which, I’m just met with another eyeroll. “I could sit in the corner and be quiet as a mouse.”

  “Lies.” She smirks. “You’d try to join in, with your penis in hand. It would be embarrassing for all of us. Now, seriously, cut the crap. There are at least twenty women waiting for you in that room, and things are getting pretty heated. They need your presence, before a cat fight starts.”

  Happy Birthday to me.

  “Ladies.” I hold my hands up, my voice reaching a level that even I’m not comfortable with. “You all need to stop talking and l
isten for a minute.” Twenty sets of eyes turn to me, each one of them glaring.

  “Irma.” I stare at the four and a half foot tall, dark haired beauty, who is standing on her chair and was just a moment ago, threatening to punch little old Martha’s lights out. “This is a violence free zone. You can’t threaten people like that.”

  “She stole him!” Her arms flap at her sides. “You should have seen the things that she did to get his attention, Jude! She showed him her titties!”

  I immediately make a note to give Jose a raise. When I hired him a few months ago, nowhere in his job description did it list having to become the fantasy man of these women, and it sure as hell didn’t list getting flashed.

  A hush falls over the room, and all eyes land on Martha. I tilt my head and stare at her, until finally, she looks up at me.

  “She’s just jealous, Jude. Don’t let her fool you. She wishes that she had a rack like mine. Itty bitty titty Irma.”

  Irma swats her across the head, which knocks Martha’s wig off. My clipboard drops to the floor, as I sprint across the room, throwing myself in between them, right before Martha makes contact with the chair that Irma is standing on.

  “That’s enough!” My voice ricochets off of the ceiling with such force that even Ciara, who has been standing in the corner, laughing so hard that tears have been falling from her eyes, finally takes me seriously.

  “Irma, get down off of the chair. Now!”

  “A little help, JuJu.” The sweet old woman is back. “I’m not even sure how I got up here in the first place.”

  I pick her up and set her back on the ground and then turn my attention to Martha.

  “You were going to kick out her chair out from underneath her, Martha. She could have fallen and broken a hip. That is not how we treat each other here.”

  “I suppose I’m sorry, too.” She cranes her neck around me and narrows her eyes at Irma. “That’s all that I’m sorry for, though. Jose enjoyed seeing my rack.”

  “He didn’t.” I’m hanging on by a thread, here. “Martha, he didn’t enjoy it. He’s married with two little children at home. He does not need to see any breasts, alright? Flashing people here is against the rules!”

  “I’m sticking by it, Jude.” She shrugs. “He liked it. I’d be happy to show you what I showed him…”

  “No!” I throw my hands up. I’ve been in this room for less than five minutes, and already, our meeting has gone to shit. “No more boobs, and I mean it. No more threats, and no more of this arguing! We are all a family. You all need to start acting like it.”

  The door to the meeting room opens, and Grandma Gwen pops her head in.

  “Sorry I’m late. Happy birthday, sweet Jude.” Ciara rushes to the door and holds it open so that she can make it in with her walker. “What’d I miss?”

  “Did she really flash Jose?” Grandma Gwen, or Gigi, as I like to call her, sips her tea, looking across the table at me with humor in her eyes.

  “Yes, I guess.” I run my hand down my face. “I mean, I haven’t had a chance to confirm it with Jose yet, but, yeah. I’d guess that it’s true.

  “The man is a fox.” Gigi winks at me, which only makes me frown. “He’s not as foxy as you are, dear, but the man still has a certain sparkle to him.”

  I immediately cringe, both for myself, and for Jose. Being referred to as having a certain sparkle is a surefire way to cripple a man’s self-image. I promise myself to never repeat those words outside of these four walls.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I tell her honestly. “All you women do is fight, and I end up being stuck smack dab in the middle of it, every single time. Something has to give, here. I’m about to lose my mind.”

  At that, Gigi covers my hand in hers, and squeezes it tightly.

  “Oh, Jude. We all appreciate you, honey. None of us want to give you a hard time, but this is just what families do. They fight.”

  I have no experience in that department, so basically, I can’t relate. My mother died when I was just a baby. She was addicted to drugs and overdosed on heroin in the backseat of a cab, with me sitting right next to her. I was three months old.

  My father was some nameless guy who my mom had slept with in order to get a fix, and I didn’t have any siblings. After she died, I went to live with my only remaining family member, my sweet Grandma Jo.

  It was always just the two of us, since my grandfather had passed away a few years before I was born, from cancer. According to my grandmother, his death had caused my mom’s occasional drug habit to spiral into an addiction that essentially took her life. I bought that when I was little, but as I grew older, I found it really hard to sympathize with her. I mean, for fuck’s sake. Giving birth to me should have been what made her turn her life around, but I guess she just didn’t love me enough. Either way, Grandma Jo loved me, and she loved me hard.

  Losing her five years ago devastated me, but meeting Gigi gave me a newfound purpose. I met her by complete accident, but even I know that some accidents are made possible by an angel. I have no doubt that Grandma Jo sent me Grandma Gwen, even if she sent her in the form of a screaming fan, who was more than ready to put me right in my place.

  “What in the hell kind of performance was that?” Those were the first words spoken to me by the woman that I now adore. “Did you rub your gloves down with Vaseline before today’s game? Or do you just need some damn glasses?”

  I was immediately irritated. You see, after every single game, I am my own worst critic. I can play one hell of game on the field, and even still, the whole way home, I’ll curse myself for the parts where I sucked it up. If I make a great catch and run the ball, I’ll kick myself in the ass for not running further. If I make a touchdown, I’ll beat myself up over the fact that I only managed one. So, after that particular game in question, where I missed one of the easiest passes in the history of my career, I was already beating myself to a pulp.

  Cue in the very poor timing of a sweet older woman.

  At first, I thought that I was hearing things. The tiny woman with white hair, standing in front of me looked sweet as hell, but I was about to find out that she had a sassy side and was ready to put me right into my place.

  The same way that my Grandma Jo always did.

  “I actually bet money on this game, and now, I’m going to have to pay up. If you would have caught that pass, you could have scored. I mean, damn, son! The field was wide open! If you could have gotten control of those damn butter fingers of yours, I’d be rolling in the dough right about now. Instead, I’ve got to do the walk of shame when I get home. And, if that’s not bad enough, I’m out fifty bucks. I’m on a fixed income, you know. Fifty bucks is a lot of money to me, but my pride is worth even more. You’re the reason that I’m going to go home and look like a joke.”

  In that moment, I had a choice to make. I could have told her that gambling on sports was a bad idea, and then walked in the other direction. I could have opened my wallet, and handed her a fifty, and then kept it moving. Instead, I surprised even myself, when I looked down at her, sporting an oversized Saints jersey and beanie, and immediately fell in love.

  “How about I buy you a drink?”

  “Yeah, alright.” The smart mouthed little woman had snorted at me. “You can buy me some dinner, too. But fair warning, I don’t put out on the first date, there, hot shot.”

  Words like that have become the story of my life for the last three years.

  I learned really quickly that Gwen was a diehard Saints fan. I also learned that she ran a gambling ring at her local assisted living center, and that in her days there, she’d made an awful lot of money betting on me. That fact took away some of the guilt that I felt over costing her fifty dollars, (which I ended up giving to her that day, by the way).

  While her mouth was a bit crass, and she dropped sexual innuendos to me like a woman half her age, I still found her hard to resist. I ended up driving her home that afternoon, and upon her insistence, I walked her
inside so that I could meet her girlfriends.

  That moment, that very first encounter of walking into her living facility, is what set in motion the plans that I have carried out, leading me here today.

  I still remember the smell of the place. It sunk into my nostrils and stayed there, and no matter what I did, I couldn’t seem to shake it. I remember some of the blank stares that the other residents gave me, the drooling elderly people sitting in wheelchairs, stuck in their own filth. I’d honestly never seen anything like it, nor is it something that I would ever care to see again. It broke my heart more than I care to admit.

  Every chance that I got, I whisked Grandma Gwen out of that place. As more time passed, I began taking her girlfriends along with us.

  Gwen was never married and never had any children of her own. Many of her friends were in the exact same boat, basically just living out their last days, all alone except for each other, too weak to be in their own homes, yet way too functional to be living where they were.

  That’s exactly why I built this place.

  It’s a small community of tiny homes, with a clubhouse built directly in the middle of it. They each have their own living spaces, and their own privacy, yet are still under the watchful care of the staff that I’ve hired, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Their meals are all prepared and eaten in the clubhouse. They take trips to the beauty salon every other Wednesday. During the football season, they have season passes and their own press box, and are transported to the games by a Greyhound bus. I’ve created a safe place for them, and in return, I’ve finally found a family.

  The only problem with this family of mine, is that twenty elderly women is a fucking lot to handle. And most days, they drive me insane.