Rough & Ready

by Tracy Wolff

  She clears her throat then, fiddles with the curl that’s worked its way out of her topknot. And it occurs to me for the first time that she might be nervous. “I’m sorry about that, by the way. I freaked out, let my temper get the best of me. It was a shit thing to do and I apologize.”

  “You already apologized.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t really mean it then. I do now. I was a total—”

  “Don’t,” I tell her, grabbing her hand and stopping her in the middle of the hallway. She stops, but when her crazy violet eyes meet mine there’s a reticence there I haven’t seen before. A look of near shame that doesn’t belong in this brave, balls-to-the-wall woman’s gaze.

  “I’m serious,” I tell her, looking her straight in the eyes so that she knows I mean it. “It’s no big deal—”

  “I broke into your locker room and screamed at you in front of the entire O line.”

  I shrug. “I was looking for a way to bond the returning guys with the rookies. You gave it to me all tied up in a bow.”

  Her lips turn up at the corners, just a little. “Let me guess. Making fun of you for having your ass handed to you by a woman?”

  “I’m not sure making fun of is a strong enough description for the shit they’ve been handing me all week, but basically, yeah.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No worries, girl. My ego’s secure enough that I can take a little trash talk.” I reach up slowly, making sure she has time to back away if she doesn’t want me touching her. When she doesn’t move, just stands there watching me with wide eyes, I gently, carefully, tuck the wayward curl behind her ear. “Besides, if you hadn’t stormed the locker room, I never would have…known about…this place, and that’d be a shame.”

  I almost said that I never would have met her, but it seems totally cliché. Plus, she’s finally talking to me instead of screaming at me or trying to get away from me. I don’t want to push too hard and send Elara running in the opposite direction.

  Not when I’m growing more and more certain that I want to know things about this woman. Maybe I even want to know everything.

  “So, no more apologies, okay? Just give me a kickass tour of this place and we’ll call it even.”

  “I can do that. And if, at the end of it, you want to yell at me in front of the kids, I’ll—”

  “Hand me my ass all over again,” I tell her with a laugh.

  She joins in. “Yeah, probably.”

  “No probably about it. That’s exactly what you’d do and we both know it.”

  She makes a face at me. “In the interest of keeping the peace, I’m going to go with no comment.”

  “Yeah, for the first time in your life,” I tell her with a snort.

  She rolls her eyes then, even as she smacks me gently on the chest with her free hand. “So, you want that tour or are you going to stand around making fun of me all day?”

  “I want the tour. But, I’ve got to tell you, the two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting that about you.” She starts walking down the hall fast enough that I’ve got to stretch my legs to catch up to her. It’s seriously sexy, especially since I’ve spent my whole life adjusting my stride so that others don’t have to run to keep up with me.

  “The second floor is mostly classrooms,” she says, pointing to a few as we go by. “But we do have a library and a dark room at the other end of the hall.”

  “A dark room? Seriously?”

  “Seriously. We’ve also got a soundproofed room with various backgrounds and a couple of serious cameras so the kids can film for their YouTube channels.”

  “Jesus. You really have thought of everything.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m just getting started. There’s so much more I want to do.”

  “Like what?” I ask because I like hearing her talk about this place, and because I really do want to know.

  “Like start a full-time lunch program during the summer, so kids who get free and reduced lunches at school have some place to get them when school isn’t in session. I also want to add some graphic design equipment and software to the art studio, so my kids can learn another way to make art that might be more marketable for them later in life. Replace the worn-out sports equipment. Add a bunch of weight and workout machines in the empty room across from the exercise room to turn it into a gym. And sometime next year I want to hire a career/college counselor to be here a couple afternoons a week to help them understand their options and apply for scholarships. I do what I can, but it’s more a hit-and-miss thing because I’m pulled in so many directions. I want this to be consistent.”

  Jesus. She makes what I do with the foundation look like nothing, even though I’ve spent years getting it to the point it’s at now, where we sponsor neighborhood football programs for disadvantaged youth in every state in the country. What we do is important, I know that, because football is what gave me an outlet when things went bad for my family and it’s what’s given me the means to take care of my sisters and help them build lives for themselves.

  But Elara’s talking about reaching all kinds of kids with all kinds of interests, and giving all of them the tools they need to succeed not just in one specific area, but in life. And she could be doing so much more, if only Jack Reilly had followed through with the money he’d promised her.

  It’s not my fault, and my foundation can do a lot of good with the money, but I still feel bad that Rebound has to suffer for our good fortune. Which makes me wonder what else I can do for this place. I gave a sizable donation this morning, but there’s more to be done. I wonder if I can direct some of the guys this way, get them to donate time or money to help take Rebound to the next level.

  “So, what kind of classes do you offer?” I ask, wanting to get a better feel for what she does before I start hitting people up for cash.

  “As many as we can,” she answers, unlocking the door to the room we’re closest to and pushing it open. I glance in, surprised when I see huge mats spread all over the floor, with ropes hanging from the ceiling in each corner.

  “This is our self-defense and exercise room.” She points to a couple of large, rolling bins near the windows. “All our equipment is in there. Yoga blocks, tae kwon do helmets, sparring clubs, that kind of thing.”

  “You teach self-defense?” I ask, surprised. “I was thinking more along the line of art classes or something like that.”

  “We do that, too. Across the hall.” She closes the door again, locks it. “But, yeah. The self-defense classes are a must in my opinion. I try to get every kid who comes through the door to sign up for one, even the tough guys who don’t think they need it.”

  We continue down the hallway and she shows me the art studio that comes equipped with its own kiln and a bunch of other supplies I have no idea what to do with. There’s also a music room with a bunch of instruments, a couple of traditional-looking classrooms where they teach everything from driver’s ed to SAT prep, and a library equipped with a dozen laptops that are available to be checked out.

  By the end of the tour, I’m awed—seriously awed—by the amount of time and consideration she’s put into this place. I mean, you look around the commons room and it’s obvious the kids love it here. But Elara’s done more than give them a safe space they can hang in. She’s given them a place that will let them explore their interests, and classes that will help them prepare for whatever future they can dream of.

  It’s impressive as fuck and I’m dying to spread the word, dying to get as many donors for this place as I possibly can. Because Elara’s vision is brilliant and she deserves a chance to make all the different parts of it come true.

  “Ready for that coffee?” she asks when we get to the end of the hallway.

  I glance at my watch, make sure I’m not going to be late for Tina. “Yeah, I’ve got about
half an hour.”

  She takes me down the stairs at this end of the hallway and into a fairly well-equipped kitchen.

  “Grab a seat,” she says as she pulls a bag of coffee beans out of the freezer and starts grinding them.

  My surprise must show on my face, because she laughs. “It’s my own private stash. I keep it for special occasions.”

  “Oh, yeah? This is a special occasion, huh?”

  “I’m showing a donor around the school. I’d say that was pretty special.” The grinding noise finally cuts off and I watch as she gets the coffeemaker ready.

  “Yeah, me, too.” I’m not talking about being a donor, and from the look on her face I think she gets that.

  “Do you like cookies?” she asks, disappearing into the pantry.

  “What kind of question is that? Who doesn’t like cookies?”

  “You’d be surprised.” She comes back out with a fancy white bakery box. “Josie’s mom works at the most amazing bakery in San Diego. Once a week she sends me a box of the cookies that aren’t quite perfect enough to sell.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Right? This job comes with all kinds of perks people don’t think about.”

  “Like free cookies?”

  “Yes. Plus the love and respect of all these kids. My family always says they’re worried about how much I give to this place, but they don’t get it. They don’t understand that—”

  “You get way more from the kids than you give.”

  “Yes. Exactly. I don’t know how they don’t get that.” Elara deposits the box on the counter in front of me. “Let’s see if we can figure out what this week’s stash is.”

  She pops open the lid, her eyes widening in delight. “Mini snickerdoodles.”

  “Snickerdoodles?” I repeat. “Are you making that name up?”

  She looks horrified. “You’ve never had a snickerdoodle?”

  “Never had one. Never even heard of them before.” I turn the box around, peer inside. “They’re not chocolate.”

  “No, they’re better than chocolate.”

  I give her a look. “There’s no such thing as better than chocolate.”

  “You only say that because you haven’t had one of Josie’s mom’s snickerdoodles.” She reaches into the box, pulls out one of the small cookies and holds it out to me. “Here, try one.”

  It smells good—like cinnamon and a couple of other spices I can’t quite place—so I lean forward, open my mouth. And wait for her to feed me.

  Elara’s eyes go wide and for a second I think I’ve made a tactical error. But then she lifts the cookie to my lips and pops it inside.

  She watches as I chew, her gaze locked with mine. “Good?” she asks.

  “Good,” I tell her, hoping I can talk her into feeding me another one.

  But she’s on to me, sliding the box across the counter until it’s right in front of me. “Have as many as you want.” And then she hightails it across the kitchen to get the coffee.

  I can’t take my eyes off her as she putters around, grabbing cups out of one cupboard, spoons out of a drawer, half-and-half from the fridge. Her red pants show off the generous curves of her ass and hips and, not for the first time, I wonder what it would be like to grab on to that ass. To grab on to her and hold tight, as I slide inside her pussy. As I make her come again and again and again.

  It’s more than that, though. Strange as it is considering I’ve just met her, but there’s a part of me that wants to see her do this again—but in my kitchen instead of here at Rebound. I can all but see her puttering around the space, dressed in nothing but one of my old T-shirts with her hair down and those glorious eyes of hers still dazed with sleep…or pleasure. Or both.

  Yeah, I’d like to see that a lot.

  “So, how do you take your coffee?” she asks, once she’s got everything assembled on the counter in front of her.

  Beats the hell out of me, since I normally don’t touch the stuff. “Cream and sugar,” I finally say, because I figure if I put enough crap in it I won’t be able to taste the actual coffee.

  “One spoon or two?”

  “Three.”

  She glances at me over her shoulder, eyebrows raised, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she finishes doctoring up the coffee before carrying the cups over my way.

  But when she goes to put my mug on the counter in front of me, her hand slips and the hot coffee splashes all over her thumb.

  She gasps, shakes it off, but not before I see a pained grimace cross her face.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, fine.” But she’s rubbing her index finger over her thumb again and again. I reach for my cup to test the temperature of the coffee and nearly curse at how hot the ceramic is.

  “What the hell?” I demand, gently grabbing on to her wrist and guiding her toward the sink. “Does your coffeemaker flash boil the stuff or what?”

  “Something like that.” She tugs on her hand, tries to pull it away. “I’m fine, honestly.”

  But I can already see the beginnings of a blister forming right above her knuckle. “You need to put some water on it.”

  “It’s not a big deal.” Again she tries to pull her hand away and again I hold on to it.

  “I know it’s not a big deal, but I also know it hurts. A couple of minutes under the water and it’ll feel better.” I switch on the tap and make sure the water’s cold before sliding her hand underneath it.

  She squirms when the water hits the blister, tries to pull away again. “That hurts,” she tells me, her voice very close to a pout when I hold her in place.

  “I know, but just chill out and give it a little time to work. It’ll start to feel better any second.”

  “Says you.”

  “Yes, says me.” I get the feeling Elara hasn’t run up against very many people strong enough to hold her when she’s trying to get free, and I’m not sure what she’s thinking now that she’s found out that I can. “From the time she was little, my sister Imani has loved to cook. But she’s also incredibly clumsy, so she’s had her share of burns and blisters. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

  Elara doesn’t complain again, and she’s stopped squirming, as well. Hoping that means the water has stopped stinging and started to help, I take a chance and turn the tap up a little more. When she still doesn’t protest, I figure she’ll stay put so I finally let go of her wrist, start to move away.

  She surprises me by sagging against me a little, her back pressing against my front. Not for the first time it hits me just how perfectly proportioned she is—and how well her body fits with mine.

  I put a hand on her waist and pull her a little closer. I’m slow and careful, waiting for any sign that she wants me to back off. She doesn’t give one, so I shut off the tap and take her injured hand in my free one. Then I bring her thumb to my lips, press a gentle kiss right above the blister.

  She sighs, then turns her head to look at me. She’s close, so close, her full, pink lips right there for the taking. And maybe a better man would be able to resist, but I can’t. Not when looking at me like that, her luscious body pressed so close to mine.

  I lean forward, slowly, slowly, slowly, once again giving her every chance to pull away. When she doesn’t, I close the final inch and softly, carefully, brush Elara’s lips with mine.

  She gasps, but not in a bad way, so I stay where I am. Pressing our lips together, once, twice, before oh-so-gently tugging her bottom lip between my teeth.

  She gasps again, stiffens, and I expect her to push me away. Instead her uninjured hand comes up to tangle in my shirt and pull me closer…just as my cellphone goes off, Tina’s distinctive ringtone blasting through the silent kitchen.

  Fuck.

  I pull away, then shove a hand in my pocket and grab the stupid th
ing. I swipe decline, then realize that she’s texted me three times in the last ten minutes telling me that she’s done. Shit.

  “I’ve got to go,” I tell Elara, regret crawling through me as I watch her pull back into herself. “I promised my sister Tina that I’d give her a ride when she finished with her study group.”

  “Oh, right. Of course.” She steps back, holds up her thumb to show me. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. You fixed it.”

  “Good.” I slowly drop my hand from her waist and move back as well. “Can I call you?”

  “Oh.” Her startled eyes meet mine. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “It is.”

  Her eyebrows go up then, a little of her usual cockiness returning. “Oh, really?”

  “Yes. You should listen to me on this one. I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Maybe you do,” she agrees. “But maybe I want you to work for it a little bit.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it—being around Elara makes me happy in a way that nothing has in a long time. “Work for it, huh? I can do that.”

  “I bet you can.”

  And fuck, when she sounds like that—when she looks like that—all I really want to do is pull her into my arms and give her a real kiss, one that’s a hell of a lot more intimate than a brush of our lips against each other. But that’ll have to wait, because I have to go. And something tells me that once I start kissing Elara, I’m never going to want to stop.

  I fire off an answer to Tina, then shove my phone back in my pocket. “Thanks for the tour—and the coffee.”

  She glances over at the counter where we abandoned our cups when she burned herself. “I’m sorry. You never got your coffee.”

  I laugh. “Wanna know a secret?”

  She narrows her eyes. “Maybe?”

  “I really, really hate coffee.” I lean forward, then and drop a kiss on her cheek before turning and walking straight out the door.

  Chapter 9

  Less than ten minutes later, I’m pulling up at the house where I dropped Tina a few hours ago. She’s outside when I get there and spends the whole ride home going on and on about some guy in her study group who annoys her. I commit his name—Rodrigo—to memory, because something tells me I’ll be hearing more about him. And not necessarily in a negative context.