I need a little space. Time to think, I add.
Again, silence. No dots. Nothing. I wait for several seconds longer, until I finally decide that’s it. Killer isn’t about waiting. It hurts like a kick to the stomach, but I push on my legs to stand, walking slowly to the bathroom where I’ll brush my teeth, wash my face, do the ritual, prepare for bed…
I’m halfway there when my phone buzzes in my hand, making me jump.
I lift it, and two words glow in the darkness.
I’ll wait.
Thirteen
Cade
I wake up at eight on Saturday for my usual weekend jog through the park. I keep my eyes open for Stone in case she decides to come for a run. The early October air is crisp and the leaves are just starting to turn a golden hue. I’m thankful for the reprieve from the humidity, but disappointed there’s no curvy blonde with a smart mouth in the vicinity.
I stop running near a lake and bend over to catch my breath. I replay what happened between us in the kitchen. I can’t let it get that far next time.
So why am I pulling out my phone and calling her?
I lean against a stone bridge in the park and wait for her to answer.
“Whoever this is…you’ve reached hell. Go away.” Her voice is husky and scratchy from sleep.
“Wake up, Stone.”
I hear a sharp intake of air and scrambling around as if she’s sitting up in bed.
She clears her throat. “Cade? What? Why?”
I grunt. “You’re a mess in the morning.”
“I-I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Ah. Couldn’t stop thinking about Pixie?”
“That and other things.” She pauses and I wonder if I’m the reason she didn’t sleep. “I dreamed I was on a planet ruled by crazy smart monkeys—”
“Planet of the Apes?”
“Yeah. I hate monkeys now.”
I grin for no apparent reason.
“And get this…apparently someone posted the Pixie footage to my mom’s Facebook page. I’m the laughing stock of my entire family.”
I hear the anxiety in her tone. “You can’t control what happened. It’s done. Just move on and be better today. Show the world how talented you are. I believe in you, Stone.”
There’s a pause. “Can you call me every morning for a pep talk?” She laughs softly. “So what’s up?”
I exhale. “I need you. Today.”
“Oh?” Her voice is slightly breathless.
“Yeah.” Then I explain to her what I have in mind, and once she agrees to meet me, I’m flying, my mind jumping with how to work this in her favor.
Professionally. That’s all. Nothing else.
Because she’d asked for space, and I’d said I’d give it to her. Besides, I’m not a fan of rejection. Been there and done that with Maggie Grace.
We make our plans and by ten, I’m showered and in the Escalade on my way to Deadrick High School.
I park my car and jog over to the field where about several players are either running short plays or stretching. It’s recovery day since the Wildcats played the night before. I’d missed it because of work, but Hart had sent me the video early this morning and I’d skimmed through it quickly before my jog.
Hart waves me over to where he’s surrounded by the first string offense as they work on a quarterback sneak. He’s a Goliath of a man with a slightly crooked nose from too many hits. He’s got the biggest heart of anyone I know, which explains why he settled in Houston after retirement to teach in the poorest district he could find. His wife Marquetta is from the area.
He calls out a break and the guys run in all directions.
“Great game last night,” I tell him. “Twenty-four to ten and you beat the best team in the district. I smell state championship.”
“Don’t jinx it, Killer. We’re close, so close.” He grimaces. “These kids need something good. Cheetah’s mom was arrested last week on a drug charge. I don’t know how the kid keeps his shit together.”
“He’s got you.”
Hart shrugs.
He’s telling me about the game just as Cheetah jogs over. A lanky Hispanic quarterback, he’s grinning the entire way and already talking before he reaches us.
“Did you see me throw it in for sixty yards? Did you see the Hail Mary at the end? Dude. It. Was. Sick.” He bounces around me and we bump fists. “I swear, man, it was that tight way you showed me how to throw the ball. Worked. Fu-freaking worked.” His eyes go behind me. “You brought the news with you! Damn, I mean dang, this shiz is real.”
Hart watches as Kevin and Stone walk over from the parking lot. Kevin’s toting the camera and Stone is in front of him, notebook in hand. She waves at us and I grin. Marv can suck it. The school needs the attention, which might result in funding for other things besides athletics. This is a kick ass story, and it doesn’t hurt to get some film in until I decide what to do with it.
Wearing an orange skirt and a tight matching sweater and heels, she makes her way over to us. Judging by how quiet the field is, I get the feeling I’m not the only one appreciating the swish of her hips. Her honey-colored hair is down and swinging around her shoulders.
Seeing her here, my chest automatically expands.
“Is that Rebecca Fieldstone?” Cheetah asks, his eyes wide. “Did you see her tit when that—”
I elbow him hard. “Don’t bring up the monkey.”
He nods. “You like her, huh?”
“I do,” I say almost absently as she comes to a halt in front of us.
“Cade,” she says and smiles. “Thank you for inviting us to come down.” She focuses on Hart, her eyes sweeping over his broad expanse. “You must be Coach Williams. Cade has nothing but great things to say about you.”
“Glad to have you. Maybe we can create some excitement for the school.” He inclines his burly head.
Earlier, I’d called him on the way over to prep him for KHOT doing some field reporting to keep for a later story. He’d been enthusiastically on board.
The other players are back from their break and gathering around us as Hart makes the introductions.
While Cheetah and I head down the field to practice passing, Stone and Kevin set up an interview spot near the sidelines with the ramshackle stadium in the background. I hear the melody of her voice as she talks to Hart. Laughter spills from their direction as she interviews some of the kids. She directs Kevin on angles and they bounce ideas off each other. She’s good at what she does in a genuine way that’s often missing in real news. She’s relatable—obviously. Plus, she’s fucking sexy—
Stop it right there. Nip it.
I’m working with Cheetah on his passing game when the duo make their way over to us. Stone’s eyes are transfixed as I take a few steps back and toss the football down the field. Cheetah mimics me, trying to perfect his pass. Kevin films for about ten minutes as we work. Still…Stone doesn’t take her gaze off me.
I wrap up with Cheetah and walk over to them. Kevin is fiddling with the camera and headed to the van.
“Finally alone,” she murmurs. “Thank you for this. It’s going to be a great story.”
I nod. “You’re welcome. You’re a natural. The kids love you.”
She nods and shifts, fidgeting, her eyes searching mine as if waiting for me to say something, but I don’t.
My phone pings from my shorts, and I pull it out.
Personal crisis. Come over after practice for lunch? It’s not my cancer so don’t worry. It’s about a girl.
What the hell? My brow furrows. Personal crisis? A girl?
I’m intrigued.
“Who’s that?” Stone asks, her tone inquisitive.
I glance up. Damn, she’s pretty. “No one.”
Her eyes narrow. “Is it your ex?”
“Jealous?” I can’t stop my grin.
“No.”
“Liar.”
She pouts and my grin widens into a chuckle. “Don’t worry, gorgeous. It
’s my mom.”
“I’m not worried about your ex! Please.” Concern flits across her face. “Everything okay with your mom?”
I nod. “I think so. She wants me to come over.”
She stares up at me and clears her throat. “Well, thank you for today. It meant a lot just to get me out of the house and back in the swing of things. You’re right. I can’t let anything stop me from doing what I love. If you want, after you see your mom, maybe we can have coffee somewhere—just to talk about the story…”
“The last time we said we were going to have coffee, we ended up in your bed,” I say quietly.
She blushes.
I get another ping.
My mom has sent another text, and it’s a picture of a gorgeous brunette. I study it, confused as hell.
What is going on with Mom?
I need to go.
I glance back up to Stone and she’s watching me, a pensive look on her face.
“Stone? You good?”
She nods.
“Rain check on the coffee? I need to check on Mom. I’ll see you Monday at the station?”
Another nod.
“You got plans tonight?” I ask. My hands clench at the thought of her seeing someone, but that’s utterly ridiculous. Jealousy is for losers.
She blows out a breath. “No. I’ll probably just go home, eat some tacos, and hit the sack early.”
I almost say that I’ll call her later—or stop by—but my brain is determined to keep her at a distance. Give her space.
I nod and walk away, saying my goodbyes to the kids and jogging to my SUV.
Half an hour later, I’m sitting outside on my mom’s patio in the prestigious River Oaks neighborhood.
Petite and soft-spoken with a husky drawl, she’s the single reason I still speak to my father. She still sees good in him, even though she left him a year after the Trent debacle.
She pours me a glass of tea and brings it over to me. I give her new hair that’s just coming back in an affection rub.
“You don’t have to wait on me,” I tell her and she waves me off.
“Don’t be silly. I made you rush over here.”
She positions a plate in front of me with a huge turkey and cheese sandwich with a side of her famous fried green tomatoes.
I arch my brow as she takes the seat across from me. “You’re buttering me up for something. It can’t be too pressing or you would have told me already.”
She takes a sip of her tea. “You’re right. I need a favor.”
“Hmm, so this is more than just planting a clematis outside your kitchen window?”
She squishes up her face as if dreading what’s going to come out of her mouth. “I need you to go to dinner tonight with a friend’s daughter.”
I squint at her. “A blind date? Mom…” My voice is full of dread.
The girl in the photo.
“I know, I know, you hate them. But I really owe this girl’s mom—we were suitemates in college and I may have accidentally stolen one of her boyfriends. It broke her heart, and she’s never let me forget it. She called this morning telling me about her daughter who’s just moved to Houston. Apparently, she’s very lonely and not used to the big city.”
She keeps talking, her voice in a rush as if the faster she talks the quicker she can convince me. “She’s the sweetest thing—
“Great personality?”
Mom half-snorts. “Stop. She’s beautiful. You saw the picture I sent?”
I’d halfway looked at it. I sigh my displeasure. “The game’s tonight and I really want to watch it.”
She smiles. “Please. You and I both know you can DVR that. Come on. I promise I won’t ask you to go out with anyone else—although it sure would be nice to have some grandkids soon. You’re so dang picky, Cade, and you’re not getting any younger.”
“I’m thirty!”
She grins and shrugs. “Also, Maggie Grace called. She seemed so…contrite about what happened between you two. Maybe you two could try again?”
I settle back in the chair. “I’m not calling Maggie Grace.”
She nods. “Well, if that ship has sailed, why not try with someone else?”
Stone?
No. I can’t.
But…
It is Saturday night, and what else did I have to do? What could the harm be? Get in, get out, and then watch the game in bed. Alone.
In retrospect, my life is pretty fucking lame.
I glance at Mom and exhale. “I’ll do the blind date, but don’t do it again. I refuse to be your Get Out Of Jail Free Card just because I’m hot and single.” I wiggle my brows at her.
She claps her hands, a glint of excitement in her eyes. “I’m so excited! You never know, you just might meet your match tonight!”
By the time I leave, I have the digits to a girl named Sissy from Oklahoma in my phone and I’m meeting her at Paulette’s, a fancy French bistro. I try to get myself stoked.
You just might meet your match.
Right. I’m pretty sure that’s already happened.
I’m pleasantly surprised when I walk in and find Sissy at the bar. She’s pretty with long brown hair and big eyes. Wearing a short green dress with a plunging neckline, she stands as I approach and throws her arms around me.
As far as blind dates go, I've hit the fucking lottery. I can do this.
“Nice to meet you. I hear our moms are dear friends,” I say.
She flutters long lashes and gushes. “Thank goodness. I don't know the first thing about Houston and meeting you is such a treat. I'm a huge college football fan—went to OU.”
Then she sings the fight song.
“I’m Sooner born and Sooner bred and when I die, I’ll be Sooner dead! Rah Oklahoma! Rah Oklahoma! OU! Boomer Sooner! Boomer Sooner…”
I wince. It’s not that I don’t like enthusiasm, but I’m a Longhorn and the Sooners are our number two rival behind the Aggies. Also, she’s a bit shrill.
The maître d’ finally escorts us to our seats near the back of the restaurant. I pull out her chair, and she smiles up at me. “I love this place. It’s so romantic—like marriage proposal romantic.” She sighs.
My entire body draws up. “Uh, yeah. If you say so.”
We settle in with the menus while she talks about growing up in a large family with four brothers. She's the youngest and spends her free time knitting hats and blankets for her local orphanage. Nice.
Our waiter arrives, a young man who sweeps appreciative eyes over Sissy. I request a Jameson on the rocks.
“And for you, miss?”
Sissy sends him a blinding smile. "What do you recommend?"
He grins, clearly liking her attention. “We have an excellent lemon martini. Our customers rave about it.”
“Sold! I’ll have it—make it a double please with sugar on the rim. Also, I’d love a shot of Silver Patron. Cade, you interested in celebrating with me? It’s not often I get away from work to go on a real date.”
“I’ll celebrate with my Jameson.”
Shots make me think of Stone. I focus back on Sissy.
I turn back to her as the waiter scurries off. “So what brings you to Houston?”
“I'm a worm poop girl.” She giggles.
“Oh?”
“Well, the scientific term is vermiculturist.”
“Fascinating.” I keep my face impassive.
Our drinks arrive and she throws back the tequila and then starts with the martini. “It’s okay. Most people have never heard of it, but I thought maybe you’d done your research on me like I did you.”
My stalker radar is up and tuned in.
“I Googled you.” She wiggles her fingers at me. “Number One Bachelor in the city according to the Houston Herald. And now that I’ve met you in person, I agree.” Her gaze drifts over my face. “Any interest in settling down soon?”
I cough. “No.” I take a big drink of whiskey. “So…tell me about the worms.”
“Lem
me get another shot first.” She waves at the waiter and points at her empty shot glass. She clears her throat as if settling in for a long talk. “A vermiculturist is someone who manages worms to convert waste products, such as uneaten food, grass clippings, and spoiled fruit and vegetables into healthy, nutrient-rich soil and organic fertilizer.” She smiles prettily. “I know that sounds all scientific, but basically, worm poop is gold. Plus, it’s on trend. Everyone’s eating organic. Farmers love it. Moms love it.”
She chews on a breadstick, but all I see are worms in my head.
I search for a topic change, but she’s still talking.
“ …and Red Wigglers, the big fat ones are unparalleled as soil excavators. They spend their lives ingesting, grinding, digesting, and excreting soil—”
“Mind blowing,” I say, interrupting her as the waiter drops off her shot. “What else are you interested in?”
It’s like she doesn’t hear me.
“Here look at this.” She shoves her phone in my face and shows me a picture. It's a blurry image of a reddish brown blob.
“What am I looking at?”
“That's Wally! He was my first worm—dead now. Their life span is only a few months.” A tear shimmers in her eyes.
What the fuck.
“Do you need to compose yourself?” Like in the restroom—far away from me.
She shakes her head and smiles. “No, it’s fine. It’s just…he started the company and now we’re the most successful worm farmers in the Southwest. We owe him everything.” She munches on another breadstick. “People get squeamish about worms, but to me, they’re like people who sacrifice themselves for the greater good.”
“Uh-huh. How’s the knitting going—for the orphanage? Do you make hats or blankets?”
But it’s too late. She’s in full-on worm mode.
“…slime is what we call their secretions, which is nitrogen, an important plant food…”
I think about the game. I consider dashing to the restroom to check the score.
“…best thing to feed them is kitchen scraps. Amazing, right?”
“Totally,” I murmur.
Where the hell is the waiter? I’m waving at him.
The Right Stud Page 29
