Trusting You

by Ketley Allison

  Locke cocks his head. “What if I want it to be? More?”

  His words stun me, but I cover it with a scoff. “You don’t mean that. I know you. I know what you’re like with women—”

  “I haven’t had one chick near me since you came around.”

  “That I’m aware of,” I blurt out.

  My statement seems to hurt him. Or at least cause enough blowback to make him jerk in surprise. “Carter, I haven’t slept with anyone. Dated or spoken to anyone, either.”

  I find invisible lint on the sheets. “You don’t have to sugarcoat anything for me.”

  “I’m not.” Locke shifts closer and crooks a finger under my chin. “You are giving me every chance to let you go, and I’m not taking it. What does that prove to you?”

  “That I live here and you can’t do what you usually do, so you’re improvising.”

  “Oh, honey.” He searches my eyes.

  “And I hope to be a part of Lily’s life for as long as I live. And if I’ve screwed that up, if last night makes it more difficult for you to—”

  “If that’s honestly what you think, I’m more of an asshole than I took credit for. And clearly, I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Just…” I shake my head, avoid his eye. “I’m gone in two weeks. We can’t make this more than what it is.”

  I feel him breathing, and he strokes down my arm before letting go. “I’ll make this whatever you want it to be. You’re in charge.”

  I dare a look at him.

  “I mean it. I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. Then, his gaze takes on new meaning. “If you want to fuck me right now, I’ll let you. If you want to go and make breakfast, go right ahead. If you want to leave in two weeks, I’ll take you to the airport.”

  If I want to leave. As if it were a choice. It’s my turn to search his expression.

  Locke’s giving me the lead, and I shake with the implications. I wonder about satisfying immediate cravings versus dealing with long-term repercussions. I listen for Lily’s cries, hear nothing, and am utterly conscious of the naked Adonis mere inches away, with only a sheet separating us. I’m also thinking of the baby, of what the hell I’m doing with her father, and how it’s not only my life I’m changing the trajectory of.

  But I’m tired, very tired, of always doing the right thing.

  I should be smart and back off. I need logic instead of lust. This will only hurt me, tasting him one more time, being so close to him I can count his breaths and know the instant I’m making him come.

  But I came here so wounded. What are a few more fissures on an already cracked and broken heart?

  I drop the sheet, and his eyes go black with promise.

  Forgive me, Paige.

  We both rise to our knees at the same time and our mouths crash.

  His hands slide down my back and cup my ass, squeezing me closer, sinking me into his skin, my body pliable clay to his deft finger-strokes.

  My head falls back as his tongue trails down, swirling against my clavicle, drawing sinful circles on my nipples, sucking, biting, and I’m wet with desire. If I’m to be honest, I was wet long before his tongue hit my body.

  Locke tips me back to lie on the bed, but I stop him, my soft smile the only communication I need to tell him this is my show, my rules.

  I palm both his shoulders and push him down until I’m straddling him, all of me exposed in the natural sunrise, but I’m not thinking about that, about how I look to a man in high-definition because Locke’s expression says it all: he wants me.

  And boy, do I love being wanted by this man.

  He reaches down, tips his dick up, but doesn’t go further. Though it probably kills him, he waits. For me.

  I lick my lips, still swollen from his kisses last night, and he makes an approving mmm sound at the sight.

  Taking over, I move his hand aside and do the directing myself, but slowly. Ever so excruciatingly, for both of us, his expression an exact copy of mine, because it’s agony not to take all of him in one passionate plunge. But it’s the most delightful torture.

  I see him through half-lidded vision, my lips parting, my chin tipped up enough that he can come up and nip at my jaw, which he does.

  “Vixen,” he rumbles into my ear, and I smile. “May I?”

  I lean back from his face, studying.

  “I want to fuck you against the wall,” he says frankly, but his eyes are twin flames. “And I need your permission to do so since this is your show. So, Carter Jameson, may I fuck you against the wall?”

  I’ve never had any man be so succinct on what he wanted to do to my body. All I can do is nod.

  A smile ghosts his lips, and he lifts us up. My legs wrap around his waist, and he moves us to the sidewall, the instant freeze of the plaster tingling through my spine until it meets the heat at my center.

  Locke sounds out a low grown as he pushes in, my cry in harmony with his until I grit my teeth and pant with each thrust, desire coating my lips. Locke takes his time. Long, hard strokes as he buries his face in my neck and shoulder, exhaling in tandem with his motion. I dig my nails into his shoulder blades, wanting him closer, deeper—always wanting—until there’s more of him left than me.

  “Please,” I find myself saying.

  Locke’s hands tighten on my thighs, and he lifts off my neck so I can see him. His firm grip anchors me to the wall, his movements fervent, directed to one purpose, his upper lip curling at the feat.

  I keep his stare, establish my dominance when I move my hips to meet his. I dig my fingers into his hair, and bring him down for a final, passion-soaked kiss, taking us both over the beautiful, brilliant, jagged edge.

  Lily alerts us to her wakefulness as we’re panting in the aftermath, my feet on solid ground, yet still feeling light as air. Locke’s resting both his arms on either side of me, his head bowed as he catches his breath.

  “What happened to the sports athlete?” I say, laughing quietly.

  “I’ll admit, I’m a little winded.”

  “And your knee?”

  At that, he pushes off the wall. “How ‘bout I tell you when it’s hurting, instead of you asking.”

  I bite my tongue and hesitantly move around him, collecting one of his tees off the floor and throwing it on.

  “I apologize for that,” he says behind me, and I notice he slumped onto the bed, elbows on his knees.

  “It’s a touchy subject,” I say in understanding, then head out of the bedroom. “I’ll get her.”

  “Wait.”

  I stop at the doorframe, one hand on it as I turn.

  “I suck at this. This…” He waves his hand between us. “The after.”

  Laughter bursts from me. “I’m aware.”

  “Can we be together today? Just hang, the three of us?”

  His question surprises me, and I can’t ignore the pleasant warmth, like embers glowing behind my ribcage. “Sure. This morning I have to pop over to Pierce’s, get the check for my painting, but after that, let’s do it.”

  “How about I bring Lily by the coffee shop? I can take a look at your art show.”

  Warmth hits my cheeks. “It’s not…it’s not a gallery or a show or anything like that.”

  He straightens. “It’s your work on display. It’s your art. I want to see it. And I’m no longer waiting for an invite.”

  “Shoot, I should’ve told you to come by sooner.”

  The thought of Locke seeing my paintings, seeing all I have to give to this world, makes my insides curl. His opinion matters, and while he likes one of my paintings, what’s he going to say about the others? I put faces in things, in objects. He might consider it weird and compliment the first painting he saw because he felt he had to.

  It’s annoying, how I constantly feel like an imposter. Like I don’t deserve praise for my work. As if I’m better off crunching numbers for a major corporation to impress a family that makes it clear I’m a mistake, rather than using a paintbrush to bring emotions to l
ife within everyday things.

  And to think, I’d just been crafted into a goddess under Locke’s strokes. Someone else held the paintbrush in his hands, for the first time in my life.

  “It’s been weird with us these past few days,” he says. Lily’s cries are growing louder, so he finishes with, “Later, let’s have dinner or something. You and me, after Lily goes to sleep. We can talk about…”

  “Us?”

  “Yeah.” His lips lift slightly. “Us.”

  “Okay.” I nod as if there could be an us.

  “And maybe…after.” Locke rubs at his scruff.

  “Yes?”

  “You can come to one of my meetings,” he finishes in a rush. His hand’s still on his mouth, and he’s perplexingly bashful, afraid to look me in the eye. “The NA thing.”

  “I’d love that, Locke.”

  “Really?” He brightens. “Awesome. I’ll meet you out there in a sec. I want to text East, see if he’s all right after the fuckery that was last night.”

  “He’s more than all right. He’s famous.”

  Locke’s smile slips. “Exactly what I’m worried about.”

  “Call Ben, too. Astor seemed worried about him last night.”

  Locke frowns, wants to say more, it seems, but Lily’s insistent, so I scoot out of there, out of the after and the duty to discuss it.

  Lily’s peering between the crib’s bars and bounces up and down upon seeing me. She’s shaky, her butt doing most of the heavy lifting with balance, but soon she’ll be wandering these halls same as Locke and me, and that’s crazy to think about.

  I reach for her, lifting and then pressing her soft, wiggly body close to mine, smelling her baby-ness and wondering how much longer I’d have with her until she’s a baby no more.

  “Morning, sunshine,” I say into her hair, those tiny, satin curls of hers tickling my nose.

  “Guh,” she says, then rolls her r’s with a follow-up. “Burrrrrrrrrr.”

  “Yes, exactly,” I say, turning to the changing station. “I think I’m starting to like your daddy, too.”

  I look down at Lily, arms and legs akimbo as she refuses to sit still for a diaper change. Two times, I’ve had to spin her around on her back before she crawls off the changing table’s cliff.

  I change Lily, but my mind is off, back in the room with Locke and the consequences of sleeping in that bed.

  Basking in the pleasure of Locke, that’s easy.

  But dealing with the reality of caring about Lily’s father…that’s a responsibility better left to a girl who doesn’t give a fuck about love.

  28

  Locke

  Carter left a while ago, and I decide it’s too nice a day to stay inside.

  I balance Lily against me with one arm while carrying the stroller down the stairs with the other. I’ve learned—or my knee has told me—to balance one on each side. It’s also reminded me to book a follow-up with my surgeon and physical therapist because this baby shit is not something either had in mind for my recovery.

  Hell, neither did I.

  But Lily’s got a hand on my cheek, scraping along my stubble and grabbing my lower lip when she can. She’s also digging around for what seems like gold whenever she gets a few fingers in my mouth.

  I lower her into her seat, but she’s got a finger fish-hooking into the corner of my lips, and I appear either demented or sloshed because she erupts with a laugh-scream once she gets a load of my pearly whites and all the gums that come with them.

  Yeah, I wouldn’t trade her in for a real recovery for the world.

  We’re strolling the neighborhood, Lily’s arms spreading out as if she’s on the Titanic, gurgling and babbling the entire way.

  I’m meandering, stopping near storefronts and making faces at Lily in our reflections, but I have a certain destination in mind and the closer we get, the more nervous I become.

  Fucking ridiculous. I don’t get nervous. With scouts from NFL watching my games, I’d been desperate to blow off steam, bouncing from foot to foot, breathing heavy out of my nose, but that wasn’t nerves. That was the high of competition and getting noticed. And winning.

  Championship games in UF, same thing. Gunning for success, I channeled every fiber into ramming through all obstacles, including other dudes, until I got to the end zone. All that adrenaline made my jumps higher, my dodges wider, my slamming of that football into the ground all the more earth shattering.

  I’ve been under pressure. I’m the definition of stress, what with one single hit, coupled with a simple disc of cartilage, ruining all I fought for.

  Five seconds. That’s all it took for fate to swipe out my legs from underneath. Literally.

  “Oh, my gosh, who is this cutie? Hi, sweetheart! Hi!”

  I tear my focus from the horizon of buildings and see a woman bending in front of Lily’s stroller, fluttering her fingers.

  Mainly, I redirect my attention to her tits.

  They’re full, wide, and almost spilling out of her sundress, if it weren’t for her lace bra keeping them contained. Her skin’s tanned the right shade of golden, and her eyes are a pretty blue when they stray up to mine and linger there.

  “Hi,” she says to me, but she doesn’t straighten. Lily’s beelined for the rings on her finger.

  “Hey.” I nod.

  She’s hot, no question. Gorgeous long, blonde hair, her face enhanced by makeup she knows how to use, lips and a mouth that could give a quick, satisfying blowie that a guy may or may not jerk off to the memory of later.

  But right now, all I’m thinking about is how annoyed I am she’s touching my kid without asking first.

  “What’s her name?” she asks.

  I low-key roll the stroller closer to me so Lily can’t reach this woman’s hand that easily.

  “Lily,” I say.

  With the space between them, the woman’s queued to rise, so she does, but not without an obvious glance at my left hand. “She’s adorable.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you giving Mom a much-needed break, taking her out?”

  I can’t help but smile at the not-hint. I could really nail it home right now, answering something like, no, because her mother’s dead, but this woman doesn’t deserve that. She’s flirting, and normally I’d happily flirt back, maybe even get her number for a fuck later, but something’s holding me back.

  “It’s just me,” I say instead, except I pull my brows in. It’s not just me. It’s Carter and me, but how do I label her? Roommate? Friend? Adoptive mom?

  Carter means more than all of those labels put together.

  “Oh,” this woman says, a hand fluttering to her chest. Her nails are a bright, bright yellow. “That’s amazing. Single dads are so…” She rests her tongue against her top row of teeth. “You’re a wonderful man to do that.”

  Again, so easy. But I refrain. “It takes a village to raise a kid.”

  “I’m Samantha.” She offers her hand.

  “I have to go.”

  What the fuck am I doing? This chick is giving all the right signals for beneficial, no-commitment sex, and here I am scampering away from it faster than this stroller’s wheels can roll.

  “I…okay,” she says, and any remaining come hither dies out. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.”

  And I’m off, never to see that woman again.

  Because it seems I can’t stop figuring out what to call Carter.

  Lily’s stroller gets stuck in the doorway.

  “I gotcha, there ya go.” Coach Becks holds the double doors open wider, and I navigate the stroller through.

  “Thanks, Coach,” I say, and he claps me on the shoulder.

  The barrel of a man, more shine than hair, adjusts his glasses and fists his hands to his hips. “I’m very glad you came by, Locke. We could use more men like you.”

  “I appreciate you taking the time to entertain a cold call.” I peer down sheepishly. “With a baby in tow.”


  Coach Becks chuckles. “This is a family neighborhood. I don’t expect any less. She’s a great one, though. I didn’t expect her to be so good throughout the interview.”

  “The power of a shoelace,” I say, and Lily’s still playing with the lace I pulled out of my Converse, in desperation to keep her happy when she threw her bunny rabbit across the room and denied any form of a teething cracker. The undignified shriek that followed rattled all of Becks’ trophies in his office.

  I’ve learned that babies are mainly happy with toys that are not toys.

  And with supervision, I doubt even Carter could yell at me for giving Lily a shoelace to dangle around. No need to mention the multiple times she put it in her mouth and chewed on it. I could leave that out of our daily download when I next see Carter.

  “I’m gonna have a talk with the principal, take a second look at the resume you handed over.” Coach scratches under his chin. “But I expect to give you a call in a few days, let you know our decision.”

  “Sure thing,” I say. “And whenever you want me to come by, see how I do with the boys on the field, I’m happy to.”

  “Absolutely, son.” Another pat on the back. “We’ll be seeing you.”

  “Thanks again, Coach.”

  “Thank you, son, for coming by. I saw that video. What a shame.” He shakes his head, and I ignore the longing churn in my gut to rewind my life as easily as the millions who saw my injury rewound to the second my body went crack, over and over.

  “I’m glad to see you wanting to stay in the game, though,” Coach continues. “A sign of a true sportsman.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Bye-bye, honey.” Coach waves at Lily, but as low and gruff as his voice is, he’s incapable of baby talk. I doubt he ever wants to master baby talk.

  I give another salute, then push Lily out to the sidewalk, my right foot making a loose scuffing sound every time I step, considering what ties my shoe down is currently reserved indefinitely by my baby.

  My baby.

  I wonder if, had I not sustained such an insane injury, I would’ve received news of a daughter while still a top athlete. Would I have accepted it as easily? Wanted to father so quickly? I remember facing Carter at that gimmicky fish restaurant, determined to do right. But I’d had nothing. I’d been stripped and was willing to do a whole lot more to acquire some semblance of self again.