My jaw clenches as I fight turning back around to say something else, which I don’t. Clearly, this girl must think I’m a class-A dick. I appreciate it? What the hell? Was that the best I could do?
Minutes pass, and finally I’ve managed to get everything I can think to buy, minus the trail mix I never did find. On one note, it really pisses me the fuck off. Yet, on another, I’m just ready to get the hell out of here. After a quick check-out, I push my basket toward the exit with the redhead from earlier only inches away from me. At least three obnoxious ploys to fluster the cute young woman come to mind. Grabbing my junk just to give her a thrill is one, but I decide against it when I hear the ping of my cell phone. Instead, I give her a wink and acknowledge her with, “Enjoy your day, sweetheart” in my forced Texan accent. It seems to please her.
Back at the SUV, the hatch raises as I look down at the text from Reese.
Feel like dinner later on?
Fuck no, I don’t feel like dinner.
I don’t respond to his message, my next stop at the cemetery all I can focus on at the minute. As I’m suddenly battling more fury, remorse threatens my eyes, the same familiar ache tugging away at my ribs as drowning long waves of realization wash over me.
Why the fuck can’t I remember?
Confident the pain is stress-related every time my ribs feel like they’re seconds from busting straight through my chest, I’m positive I’m not having a massive heart attack … even though it sure the fuck feels like it.
Chapter Eight
Kass
Light rock plays in the background of the busy salon, and I’m biting my lip hiding a smile as I hear bits and pieces of a conversation playing between Kim and a client. Discussing preferences of boxers or briefs, I know damn well what my closest friend favors. No briefs allowed—ever.
Megan Clark is sitting in my chair, her gaze glued to my facial expression as I twist my mouth and narrow my eyes. Certain she’s already made up her mind, I ask her again. “You sure you want to go this short, Megan? You know I’m game, and you definitely have the natural beauty to pull off short, but I just don’t want you to go fainting on me or anything.”
Colored photos of five different short hairstyles cover my station, and my client chews on her nail with an anxious smile while I stare at each photo, getting a mental vision. In minutes, I decide on three out of the five. The other two short, spiky styles are bold and popular in young and older women and double whammies for someone insisting on making a fashion statement, yet they don’t work with Megan’s facial structure. I quickly sneer at both and give her a small shrug to let her know I’m not crazy about them. All part of the puzzle in what I do. The thing I love the most about being a hair stylist is watching a client walking away with a content smile, feeling beautiful and confident. It gives me a thrill, making me positive I’ve chosen the right career path. The thing is, Megan has a round face, which means I need to be careful not to give her a cut that showcases the shape. We need to leave some hair covering her ears. Otherwise, she’ll walk out of here a very unhappy camper, praying her hair grows out quickly.
“I actually think this would rock on you, Megan.” I point to my favorite photo. “Especially if we add a little bold color.”
“I’m ready, Kass. Let’s do it.”
“Okay, then. Let’s get this party started. Wine?”
Ninety minutes and two glasses of Chardonnay later, Megan walks out of the salon with a big grin and a cool, ice blue-colored asymmetrical bob, leaving me equally giddy with excitement after being given two free tickets to a Dallas Blue Hawks’ game right on the ice.
Half the salon is brightly lit by the sunshine blazing through the mini-blinds, and I find myself squinting, looking toward Darci’s station. She motions me over.
“Kass, come here.” After an embarrassing double-take, I quickly force my blatant stare from the hunky god she’s trimming, who’s glaring my direction, his brilliant blue eyes studying me with piercing scrutiny. One of the small perks in working for an upscale salon in a classy part of the city—the men who walk through the door are ordinarily classy and particular about their looks. The man I’m staring at is definitely no exception.
Sweet Jesus.
“Kass, this is Reese Gentry. Rhett is his younger brother.”
“Hi, Kass.” When he reaches out to shake my hand, his gaze lingers. “I’m guessing I owe you a big apology for my brother.”
Darci spreads a dab of styling gel in his short hair, spiking the top just the smallest bit. The man is smoking-ass hot. He also looks just like the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on: his brother. The resemblance between the two is so unmistakable that I cringe.
“No. No. Not at all. It wasn’t all that bad,” I lie. “He just wasn’t having any part of me touching his hair.” My belly flutters remembering the spine-tingling feel of his fingers against mine for the quick nano-second, along with the way his glare lingered on my lips. And that damn V-trail.
“My apologies, Kass. Rhett’s been through a lot,” Reese says, with a strange, humorless look on his face. “All in all, he’s harmless though.”
Darci starts razoring the back of Reese’s neck and around his ears, and I find myself wondering exactly what Rhett has been through, thoughts of being labeled harmless anything but how I identify with him.
“That’s too bad. I’m sorry to hear that. Really though, no apologies are necessary. Let me know if I can help. Oh!” I add, spinning back around. “I still have your cash in my purse.” Willing Rhett Gentry from my head, I turn toward the breakroom to get the five hundred dollars I haven’t touched and return it to the sex-oozing babe that smells good enough to lick.
“No way, Kass. I know how my brother can be,” he says sternly. “That said, you earned it. The cash is yours.” Once he winks and casts a smile, I cave and somewhat agree with him, though I stare daggers through Darci for a few short seconds. This entire situation is completely off the wall screwy-ass weird.
“Kass, your four o’clock is here.”
All I can do is thank all unholy hell that my appointment is here before I start foaming at the mouth over this strikingly beautiful specimen of man, who reminds me of an insanely sexy, blue-eyed someone else.
“Okay. Thanks,” I tell Leah, the salon’s perky receptionist, who presently rocks deep ebony and bright teal shoulder-length hair, compliments of yours truly. “Tell her I’ll be with her in just a couple of minutes.” Another late night’s in store. These long days at work, along with the short but nice conversation with the well-mannered Reese Gentry, leave me wondering if I should work fewer hours and attempt to have more of a social life. But I’m making nice money, so all in all, I guess it’s what I need to be doing. Of course, men like Reese Gentry would make anyone reconsider.
“It was nice to meet you, Reese. But, please let me give you the cash back. I didn’t do a thing to earn it.”
“Please… Give me the courtesy of keeping it. I’d appreciate it if you would.”
Damn if this man isn’t hot! Anyone with functioning brain cells would be asking Darci what the hell he does for a living and if he’s married. Yet, as good as it all sounds … and looks literally … I know I won’t be asking.
****
“What are those?” Kim asks.
I wave the Blue Hawks tickets in front of Kim, and she grabs them. “Holy shit fire! Are you kidding me? These,” Kim says, “are probably five-hundred-dollar seats. Is your client a season ticket holder? Or just freaking rich?”
“Neither,” I answer. “She works for Neiman Marcus, and one of her regular customers gives her tickets from time to time. Said she had something else to do that night, so they’re ours. I’ve never been to a hockey game. Never even watched one on television.”
“What? Wait! Why? Are you joking?”
Still lost in thought, overthinking about Reese Gentry’s money that he refused to take back and his brother, I finally respond with, “I’ve just never watched much s
ports. Adam used to watch a lot of football, but I usually just read or something.”
“Oh honey.” Kim’s eyebrows lift, her eyes blazing like torches. “Football doesn’t hold a candle to ice hockey. These guys are the epitome of hotness. Ladies love ‘em. Guys wanna be ‘em.” I giggle at that. “Especially the fighters. There’s nothing hotter than watching two hockey players kick the shit out of each other. We definitely need to go early and get a couple of drinks before the game.”
“Okay. Clear your calendar for next weekend, then. I’m assuming you’re going to want to drive?” I question, positive what her response will be. “She gave me a parking pass, too.”
“I’ll absolutely be driving. I’d hate to end up in the ER and miss these prime babies.”
With a quick sarcastic comeback of, “Ha-ha,” I shrug and say, “Cute … and true.”
“Hey, speaking of hot, do you ever hear from Adam anymore?”
The unexpected question has me shrugging my shoulders.
Where did that come from?
“Nope. I haven’t heard from him in months. We pretty much ended it for good last time. There just comes a point when you know things aren’t what they need to be.”
My mind wonders about my ex. Adam’s a good guy, other than being a selfish asshole about a lot of things. I still miss him on occasion, usually at night when I’m having trouble sleeping, or during a storm. After close to two years together, our day-to-day lives had basically turned into a How was your day, Kass? I heard rain’s in the forecast, Kass kind of relationship. Flashbacks flare behind my eyes, and I suddenly feel more alone than ever. Luckily, we ended things still friends, if that was really possible. Whether it was or wasn’t, I was just thrilled that the breakup hadn’t ended with a huge shouting match and a lot of “I hate yous”.
“We need to get you out more, woman.” Kim lifts her eyebrows, and I change the topic.
“Can’t wait for next weekend.”
Chapter Nine
Rhett
Holding on for too long can be a menace to your self-worth.
Daylight returns, and I wake up suddenly, my arms gripping the pillow next to me like I’m afraid to let go. Holding it like it’s a protector, or my salvation. My dick is hard as nails, the sudden need to empty my balls overwhelming and damn right miserable. For minutes, I think about sex and burying myself deep inside the sweet heat of a woman, feminine muscles contracting around me while the sweet scent of musk fills my nostrils. Long pleasure-filled hours until we’re both covered in a light sweat from intense rounds of coming. The concept makes me realize just how lonely I am, and as much as I fight it, a certain beautiful hair stylist suddenly fills my thoughts. Any man with a damn dick and sensible number of brain cells would get hard looking at that. My cock bobs furiously between my legs, the urge to beat off taking over all other aspects of thought.
“Jesus! Fuck!” I toss the pillow aside, the corners of my eyes instantly stinging. I don’t have to jack my own dick. Women and sex are thrown in my face pretty much every time I leave the house. I could be balls deep in a beautiful woman within the hour. So why do I only see those pretty eyes, moist lips, and sensitive smile that’s quite possibly the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, when I know I have nothing to offer her and she’d only end up hurt?
“Get a motherfucking grip,” I whisper to absolutely no one. My breath clenches. It’s been so damn long. Pretty, firm breasts. Dark, erect nipples sensitive from my touch. Soft hair and silky skin brushing across my chest. Sweet, moist lips swollen from my kisses. Eyes blue as the sky, glazed and lust-filled as she opens up wide, pleasure sticky on her thighs. In my mind’s eye, I’m suddenly seeing the pale blue gaze of Kassidy Johnson.
Sexual exasperation that I haven’t felt for long months finally slams me, and I lean back, lowering my boxers. My groin heats, tightening to the point of bitter agony, and I squeeze and start pumping, my eyes screwed shut, my molars grinding.
I don’t want this. I can’t have this woman, or any other. My stiff erection working between my hands, in only short seconds there’s a deep pull in my balls and I’m relishing in the sensation of my release shooting up my dick. With another ragged breath, sweat beading on my nape, I come hard all over my chest and in my hand, soft blue eyes and graceful fingers all I see.
****
Another week has passed. Last night I’d been determined to attempt actual sleep in a real bed, in lieu of an outdoor lawn chair. My entire upper body is tense as fuck. Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea being that I’m still unrested after hours of meaningless dreams and feel like absolute shit as I presently sit outside beside the damn cat. Lindy’s words play through my mind like a broken record.
Follow your heart. Remember the gold.
With a cup of coffee in hand, I’m eyeing what looks like smoke a few miles down the road, when I hear the sound of someone sighing. I turn around to see my brother.
I blink, blowing out a breath. “Jesus, man, how long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.” Reese pushes off the wall. He doesn’t give me time to argue, immediately saying, “You know what? You’ve been living in that damn chair every day—all day, for weeks. Your sweats fucking reek. You need to put on some clean clothes. Shave your damn face … and get the hell out of this place for a while and go somewhere other than that damn depressing hellhole. You, little brother, are doing absolutely everything she wouldn’t want.”
My gaze shoots toward the brother who looks just like me, apart from the short hair and beard that’s trimmed to perfection. I take a minute to let Reese’s words sink in. Was this everything Lindy wouldn’t want? Possibly. Probably.
“And I think you need to go back to your high-powered job. Buy another apartment complex. Rake in another million. Or shit, better yet, pull out that little black book of yours and call some of your twenty-year-old arm candy. Maybe one of those astronaut’s wives that can suck the chrome off a tailpipe. Pound some pussy, Reese. Get your dick sucked. I don’t need your pampering,” I bite out, turning back around to face the pool and avoid my brother’s tension-laced glare.
“You know what, Rhett?” Reese runs a hand across his precisely trimmed shadowed jaw, the heavy strain between us thick enough to stir, giving me a look laced with I’m not stopping until you realize I’m right. Which, of course, he is. “I think you do.” Without giving me time to respond, he adds, “You’re a walking fucking time bomb. Now, either get off your smelly ass and go take a shower so I can take you to get something reasonably good to eat, or get to the rink for tonight’s game.” Reese turns and heads toward the patio door as I somehow recognize his point, but have trouble admitting it. “I’ll watch some television while you get ready. And where is your Vicodin stash? This bullshit ends today, Rhett,” he adds, his jaw visibly tightening.
For ten minutes I stay where I’m at, my brother’s demands hitting a nerve. He’s absolutely right. It is time I get off my ass. I may not feel alive the majority of the time, but unfortunately, I am. And my obligations aren’t going anywhere. As much as I don’t like the concept, I need to file away some of the fucking hard-heartedness and return to being a responsible adult. For weeks and weeks, I’ve done exactly the same thing. Sit outside. Put shit in my body. Allow anger to control my decisions. I get up and go inside.
“Give me fifteen minutes.”
Reese looks up, silent, only giving me a stiff nod before returning to a James Bond movie he’s tuned in to.
Tonight, we play the Predators. It’s only a pre-season game, but Reese is nevertheless spot-on. I absolutely need back on the ice. My salvation, it’s the one place I can actually stop overthinking for ten fucking seconds. Besides, Lindy always hated me missing games. I’ve been gone long enough.
“I’m going to the rink,” I announce, finally breaking my brother’s concentration from a scantily-clad woman making out with a younger Pierce Brosnan. “Now get out of here. Go to work so I can feed myself and get there in time to break
my skates in.”
“I can stay. I’ll fix you something to eat while you go wash the stink off your body.” Suddenly, I’m chomping at the bits to get the hell out of this house, so I give Reese a show of gratitude the only way I’m able—by fucking with him.
“I don’t need you to stay. Unless, that is, you want to wash my smelly ass for me. And ruin your day by seeing who has the bigger dick.” I turn to head to my bedroom, halfway to the hall when I spin back around.
“By the way, the Vicodin is in the kitchen cabinet over the stove.” His gaze returns to mine, and I give him a small nod. “Thanks, Reese.”
With an expression of accomplishment on his face, he returns my nod. “Any time, little brother.”
After months of a diet primarily including only shit food, beer, and Vicodin—a situation I need to refrain from, one I must refrain from if I intend on getting back to work—I shower and change, then fix myself a hearty breakfast loaded with good carbs instead of the fast-acting crap that brings on a serious case of crashing forty-five minutes later. I finish off two bottles of water, three scrambled eggs with shredded cheese, cubed ham, and two slices of whole-grain toast and I’m full for now. Yet, I’ll need another good pre-game meal in a few hours, pasta usually being my choice. Still unable to sleep worth a shit, I need all the help I can muster. That’s if Coach will even let me play.
****
Clad in a navy pinstriped suit to wear to the arena, I pull up my sock, the shine of my solid black wedding ring catching the sun. I lean forward and rest my elbows against my knees, rolling the wide band between my fingers. Stress-filled for days before choosing the black zirconium band with meteorite inlay, she was adamant about finding something unique and special, even after I’d teased her, telling her I didn’t care if it came from Cracker Jacks or a nice blue Tiffany box. I didn’t even know what black zirconium was at the time. And as much as I wanted her to wear a stunning rock on her delicate hand, for me, the cheap ring we purchased in Vegas was perfectly fine.
Waking the Lion Page 4
