One Way or Another_A Friends to Lovers Contemporary Romance

by Mary J. Williams

  "Jack," she said. Damn, it was hard to sound seductive when your voice squeaked. "Jack." That was better, lower, and slightly husky. She'd read somewhere that guys liked husky voices.

  "Rose."

  "Yes?"

  "Nothing, I just thought we were saying each other's names." He put his lips next to her ear. "I like the way you say mine."

  "Jack." Good Lord, she had to stop repeating his name. "I need a favor, Jack. A big one." Or should she say, she hoped he had a big one. Rose groaned to herself. At least she hadn't said that aloud.

  "I'll help if I can."

  "You're the only one who can help." She took another deep breath. "I need you to take me home and screw my brains out."

  AFTER THE RAIN

  (ONE PASS AWAY BOOK ONE)

  PROLOGUE

  LOGAN. LOGAN. LOGAN.

  Logan Price closed his eyes, taking it all in.

  "Hear that, kid?" Starting quarterback Gaige Benson slapped him on the back. "Two games under your belt and you're a star. Now let's go out there and add super to the front of it."

  The announcer for the team set them in motion down the tunnel with his familiar introduction.

  "And now, let's hear it for your division champion SEATTLE KNIGHTS."

  The roar of the crowd. There was nothing like it. A packed stadium. Fans chanting his name. Few people would ever experience what it was like to take the field in a professional football game.

  Logan Price had been working for this his entire life. He could still remember in exact detail the first game he ever saw. Too small to climb onto the stool in his father's bar by himself, his old man had lifted him onto the seat.

  Stay and be quiet.

  Not an easy order to follow for an active, inquisitive little boy. One look at the game and for once, Logan had no problem following his father's command. The old TV transported him to a foreign world filled with bright lights and shiny helmeted warriors. Logan didn't know what he was watching. He did know he wanted to be one of those men.

  A Sunday afternoon in rural Oklahoma. Lefty's Pub was filled with after-church drinkers who figured they had done their duty to God and family. The rest of the day was their time. A beer. Or two. Or six. Cronies who understood a man's need to unwind before the start of another workweek.

  And football.

  If the Friday night high school game was their true religion, the Sunday afternoon games were a close second. As Oklahoma boys, they hated anything Texas. The men of Denville gathered every week to root for whichever team was playing the Dallas Cowboys.

  No matter how the games ended. Whether the crowd was happy or disgruntled. It meant more drinking. Hours later, husbands, boyfriends, and sons would stumble out, pile into beat-up trucks, and weave their way home to frustrated wives, girlfriends, and mothers.

  As he grew older, Logan's view changed. He moved from the stool to behind the bar. And he promised himself one thing. He would never become one of those men. He wouldn't spend the week at a job he hated. His home wouldn't be a semi-wide trailer filled with hand-me-down furniture and a wife to whom he couldn't face going home.

  His Sundays were going to be spent playing football, not watching it.

  "Ready to take down this vaunted Arizona defense?" Gaige yelled at him, butting helmets.

  Vaunted. Good word, Logan thought. His QB liked to use what his granny called highfalutin talk. Must have been that Ivy League education. He knew that Gaige Benson didn't grow up with a silver spoon in his mouth. He came from the mean streets of Brooklyn. He had the scars to prove it.

  Like Logan, Gaige had vowed to get out of the life into which he was born. In the process, he polished himself up like a new penny. He took advantage of his full-ride scholarship to Yale. He didn't spend all his time on the football field. Fancy vocabulary. Fancy clothes. Fancy women. They were all part of the package Gaige purposefully fashioned for himself.

  Seventeen years after clawing his way out of the tenement that he grew up in, very little of that borough-rat remained. Until game time. No one was tougher than Gaige Benson. Three-time league MVP. Considered one of the best ever to play the game. No one stood in his way when he was playing the game. He had the scars to prove it.

  "Gather round."

  Knights head coach Harry Coleman gathered the team close. He had to yell over the crowd, but he had the voice to do it. Booming was putting it mildly. The first time Logan heard it, he stood right beside the man. The ringing in his ears didn't go away for three days.

  "Divisional game. If I have to say any more than that, you shouldn't be out here. Go kick some ass."

  The defense took the field to start the game. Arizona had a rookie quarterback drafted in the second round from a small college in the Midwest. The only reason he was out there was because the regular starter suffered a concussion in last week's game and the regular backup had food poisoning. Thrown into action at the last minute, Logan swore he could see the guy’s hands shaking before he took the first snap. When the ball went sailing between his legs, Logan shook his head.

  The moment was too big for some people. For Logan, it wasn't big enough. He aimed for the biggest stage of all. The Super Bowl. It wasn't a matter of if he would get there, but when.

  "Three and out." Gaige grinned, pulling on his helmet. "Come on, kid. Let's go show them how it's done."

  Logan ran onto the field. Kid. He shook his head, grinning. From the first day of training camp, Gaige had hung that moniker on him. Ironic since he was almost twenty-five, a good two years older than most of the other rookies. However, he supposed when someone had been in the league as long as Gaige, all the new guys seemed like kids.

  "We're starting on the ground," Gaige instructed them in the huddle. "Sweep out left. Basic. Got it?"

  Lining up as he had a thousand other times, Logan checked the defense. He knew he was fast. One of the fastest in the game. What set him apart was his anticipation. He had the uncanny ability to read the guy covering him. He knew when to fake left or when to fake right. Stutter step or flat out, in your face, catch me if you can.

  His speed got him out of Denville, Oklahoma. His brains and determination got him to the NFL.

  The sounds of the game were as familiar to Logan as the back of his own hand. The call from scrimmage. Each quarterback had his own unique cadence. Gaige was a master of mixing his up. Study him all you want. Good luck figuring it out. His teammates knew. A signal just before they broke the huddle.

  Pay attention, you were golden. Slack off even once? Gaige could ream a guy out with the best of them. And he had no problem doing it in the middle of the game.

  An entire YouTube channel had been devoted to Gaige and his rants. They were as legendary as the man himself. With a ball in his hand, he was cool as ice. The rest of the time, watch out.

  No one would ever accuse Logan of lacking focus. Today was no exception. They were driving down the field. First and ten from the Arizona twenty-yard line. He already had three carries of thirty-five yards. It was going to be a good day.

  "Ready to take it in?" Gaige asked.

  "Always."

  "Then show them what you've got."

  A quick snap later, Gaige handed the ball to Logan. The offensive line created a seam. Not a big one. Just big enough. Using the push of his powerful legs, Logan surged through. One more step. They wouldn't catch him. No one could.

  Like everything connected with the game, Logan heard the snap of the bone with total clarity. The agony that surged through his body was so intense he almost passed out. In the next few minutes, he was going to wish he had.

  "Get back." Logan heard Gaige through the haze of pain. "Goddamn it. Move the hell off."

  The three-hundred-and-fifty-pound linebacker didn't get off by standing. He rolled. Crushing Logan's broken leg as he went. He would never know if the move had been deliberate. Now, it was the last thing on his mind. He only cared about two things. How bad was the injury
and when would he be able to play again.

  "Hold on, kid." Gaige took his hand. "They're bringing the stretcher."

  The team doctor checked his eyes. Logan knew he was asked some questions. What they were and how he answered, he would never remember. By the time they carted him off the field, Logan knew the break was bad.

  "Gaige." Logan reached for him.

  "I'm here, kid."

  "Is it over?"

  "The game?" Gaige walked with him, his head bent toward Logan. "No. But I promise we're going to win the bastard."

  They loaded him onto the open cart. They had him secured and the vehicle rolled away before Logan had his answer. He wasn't wondering about the game. It was his career.

  To no one in particular, he whispered the question again.

  "Is it over?"

  WITH ONE MORE LOOK AT YOU

  CHAPTER ONE

  "GET UP. WE'RE leaving."

  Sophie kept her eyes closed, pretending she was actually asleep. In truth, it was too hot. The air in the tiny motel room was thick with humidity, stale cigarettes, and mildew. Sweat drenched her body, soaking through the scratchy sheet. She could barely breathe, let alone hope for a decent night's sleep. However, when her mother kicked the bed for the second time, Sophie didn't stir.

  "If your ass isn't in the car by the time I've loaded our suitcases, I won't wait," Joy Lipton threw their meager possessions into a bag. "You can stay in this shithole of a town and fend for yourself."

  When Sophie was younger, that used to sound like a threat. More and more, calling her mother's bluff sounded like a fine idea. Maybe this time, Joy would do both of them a favor and actually leave.

  For all intents and purposes, Sophie took care of herself. With what little money Joy provided, she bought groceries. Every time they checked into a motel, she would ask the manager if he had any odd jobs that needed to be done. Cheap labor—paid under the table. That kind of work wasn't hard to find, and it provided Sophie with a little extra spending cash.

  Sophie learned fast to keep her stash hidden. Joy had no problem stealing from her daughter. And no shame when caught red-handed. It was little enough payment for all she had sacrificed—both personally and financially. Sophie had rolled her eyes at the outrageous claim. That little gesture had earned her a slap across the face. Sophie didn't know which of them had been more surprised. For all her failings as a mother, Joy didn't hit. Verbal abuse was her specialty.

  The slap was never repeated. Sophie didn't dwell on the incident. There was no point. She was fifteen years old and looked at her life with a pragmatic attitude. For now, she was legally bound to a woman who ninety percent of the time treated her as though she were invisible. The other ten—filled with rants and crying fits—Sophie had learned to tune out. If Joy had a reason for keeping her daughter around, she wasn't sharing.

  "What did I say?" Sophie's only pair of jeans landed on her head. "Move. Now!"

  The little voice tempting Sophie to tell Joy to go to hell wasn't a match for the sliver of fear. Bravery was easy—in her head. In reality? The unknown was scarier than following her mother to another town. Sophie was a voracious reader. Since they moved so much, attending school was hit and miss. Books, magazines, newspapers. They had taught her most of what she knew—and provided her with a vivid imagination.

  The stories—both fact and fiction—led Sophie to an indisputable conclusion. The world wasn't kind to fifteen-year-old girls on their own. No matter how smart she thought she was. Or how much savvy she possessed. Without some kind of protection—even the barely there sort her mother provided—things almost never turned out well.

  Picturing herself in tattered clothes, freezing to death—quite a feat considering the mid-July heatwave—Sophie climbed out of bed. Chances were slim that she would perish as some kind of modern-day Little Match Girl. The perverts and/or murderers would probably get her first.

  "Finally." Joy shut the last suitcase. "Take a pee and get dressed. We're out of here in under five."

  Grabbing a pair of clean underwear and a t-shirt, Sophie took her jeans and shuffled to the bathroom. "What's the hurry?"

  As if Sophie didn't know. They typically high-tailed it in the middle of the night for one of two reasons. Either Joy had pissed off her latest boyfriend—and Sophie used the term lightly—or they couldn't pay the bill. More times than she could count, it was both.

  "There is only one reason that matters." Joy tossed her long, chemically enhanced red hair over her shoulder. "I'm your mother."

  Sophie was glad she had her back to her mother. The expression on her face—major eye roll—might have earned her another slap. Joy trotted out the 'I'm your mother' crap from time to time as if it actually meant something. The days of Sophie wanting Joy's love and approval were long gone. The spark of hope wasn't completely dead. However, she would need more than the occasional smile and a pat on the head for it to bloom into a full-fledged flame.

  There was so much about her mother that Sophie didn't understand. One second, she seemed like the dimmest bulb in the box. The next, her mind was sharp as a tack. It changed depending on the situation—and Joy's level of interest. Men were the highest priority. Other women, not so much. Sophie did know one thing. Her mother wanted to be the center of attention. The best way to get information was to act as if she didn't care.

  "Whatever," Sophie said with a shrug.

  Perfectly mimicking Joy's hair flip, Sophie nonchalantly closed the bathroom door. She barely had the cap off the toothpaste when like clockwork, she heard Joy's raised voice.

  "I've finally landed the big fish."

  Bigger than the plywood salesman in Topeka? Or the guy in Scottsdale who made a living selling bathroom fixtures? Sophie spat into the sink. They had been nice enough—that was her impression from the short amount of time she spent in their company. She could say the same about most of the guys Joy hooked up with. Every man was the one—until he wasn't.

  These once-in-a-lifetime relationships rarely lasted six months. Once, Joy actually managed to last a year before going off the rails. Sometimes things ended with a whimper. Mostly with a bang. But either way, end they did. Inevitably as the sun came up in the east.

  Sophie used the toilet. Washed her hands and face. Combed her shoulder-length dark hair. All the while, Joy waxed on and on about her latest and greatest conquest. Her mother was like a battery-operated bunny. Once she started, she went on and on and on.

  "We met at The Tremont."

  The first thing Joy would do when they hit a new town was scope out every bar. The dives were for fun, the classier ones for business. Hotel watering holes were the best. Sophie had never been inside, but she knew The Tremont was the most expensive place in the area.

  Technically, Joy wasn't a prostitute. Yes. Sex was involved. And money. But almost never on the first date. The random hand job. Oral when priming the pump became absolutely necessary.

  The fact that Sophie knew all of this was disturbing on so many levels. That it no longer bothered her was just plain sad.

  "His name is Newt. Newton Branson, to be exact. The edges are a little rough, but he is class all the way. Expensive champagne. Top-shelf whiskey. Do you know that he didn't even blink when I ordered the lobster?"

  In Joy's world, not grousing over the dinner bill was a certified stamp of approval. Though she never ate more than a bite or two of her meal—a girl had to watch her figure—she liked when it cost as much as possible.

  Joy Lipton was beautiful. Head to toe, she had the kind of looks that attracted attention. Male attention. The only thing average about her was her height. High cheekbones. Full lips. Wide eyes the color of dark chocolate. Sophie had seen her draw a man with nothing but a smile. Curvy and buxom, if she wasn't vigilant, her body tended to run toward fat. Petrified of gaining a single pound, Joy lived on little more than coffee and cigarettes. Add alcohol when somebody else was paying.

  Personality wise, Sophie a
nd Joy were miles apart. Physically, the difference was even greater. Other than their cheekbones and the color of their eyes, any resemblance between mother and daughter was harder to find than Waldo.

  Sophie was a stick. That wasn't an insult, it was a fact. Tall—at fifteen she already topped Joy by a good four inches—and skinny without a trace of her mother's curves. Though she wasn't terribly worried that her breasts were non-existent. And her hips? Well, she didn't have hips. Or a waist for that matter. Her body was pretty much a straight line from top to bottom. As long as she remained healthy and able to stand on her own two feet, Sophie didn't care about the rest.

  Leaving the bathroom, Sophie retrieved the paper bag she had saved from last night's takeout. When Joy saw what Sophie was doing, she stopped her glowing commentary of Newt Branson's stellar qualities long enough to shake her head.

  "Forget that crap."

  Without a pause, Sophie filled the bag with various toiletries strewn around the bathroom. The almost-empty toothpaste. The bottle of shampoo she had purchased the day before. The counter was filled with potions, and lotions Joy didn't think she wanted. In a day or two, she would change her tune. From experience, Sophie knew if anything was left behind, the fault would fall on her shoulders.

  Ignoring the look of disgust, Sophie added the bag to the two suitcases sitting at the foot of the bed she and her mother shared.

  "If you've found Mr. Wonderful, why the sudden need to leave?"

  "Newt is headed back to his ranch in… I don't remember." Joy made a dismissive movement with her hand. "Somewhere west. He wants us to go with him."

  "Us?"

  By Sophie's calculations, the romance of the century wasn't much more than a weekend old. Joy never confessed that she had a daughter until much further into the relationship and only when it was absolutely unavoidable.

  "Naturally. We're a team."

  That wasn't how Sophie would have put it. A team conjured images of them working together toward a single goal. If Joy had an endgame in mind to their perpetual trek from one end of the country to the other, she certainly hadn't shared what it was. Sophie wasn't a player in the game. She was a reluctant observer. At best, an afterthought. At worst? Who knew? Though they had scraped rock bottom a time or two, Sophie had the feeling they had yet to hit it. If that day ever came, she had no doubt it would be every woman for herself.