Breaking Defenses

by JB Salsbury

  I meet Carey at my car with a box in his hand. “Are you ready to get your whip back on the road?” His grin is contagious, or maybe I’m smiling because he seems in a much better mood than he did when we parted on campus earlier today.

  “I am. What can I do to help?”

  I follow him around to the back of his truck and he drops the tailgate. “Hold this.” He hands me the starter and makes pulling a heavy jack stand out of the bed look easy. I make sure he doesn’t catch me staring at his arms as they swell and flex with the movement.

  “Is that it? Don’t you need a tool or something?”

  He smirks and mutters, “So cute.” He reaches over into the chromed-out storage boxes on the back of his truck. He unlocks them, flips the lid, and reveals a treasure trove of every tool I could ever imagine and a bunch I never knew existed. He searches through, grabs what he needs, and then heads to the hood of my Jetta.

  I pop the hood and then sit back and watch him work his way around the vehicle as if he’s done it a million times before and could do it in his sleep. He jacks the driver’s side front up off the ground and starts tinkering inside, unhooking the battery and pulling at electrical.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

  He grins up at me, both hands buried deep inside the engine as he unscrews…something. “Keep me company.”

  I sit on the grass that lines the drive. “Okay, so… tell me, why football?”

  He stays focused on what he’s doing, a light sheen of sweat begins to form on his face. “My dad played. His dad played. Just made sense.”

  “Are you good at it?”

  He aims his hazel eyes on me and they sparkle with sexy confidence. “You’ve never seen me play.”

  “No.” I unfold my legs and put them out in front of me suddenly feeling small and needing to appear bigger. “Do I need to remind you that I wasn’t exactly popular in high school? I didn’t have a lot of friends and the ones I did have weren’t interested in school games or dances.”

  He frowns but seems to try and hide it behind the hood of my car. “You should come watch us play sometime.”

  There’s no way I could afford a ticket, and I’d hate to go alone, but I don’t tell him that. “Yeah, maybe I will.”

  He kneels and drops to his back under the car and I wonder how a man his size can move so easily, as if his big muscles and bones don’t hinder his gracefulness. His blue t-shirt rides up on his stomach showcasing one and a half of what is sure to be six-pack abs and the beginning of the vee muscle that disappears beneath his jeans. He’s wearing light jeans with a black leather-type belt, and I can see the elastic band of his underwear. My entire face flames but with him hidden under the car I stare shamelessly. His skin is tan, making me think he must work out without a shirt on. I wonder if I could spy on him doing that, might make the trek to his side of campus worth it.

  “What about you?” his voice sounds muffled coming from under the car. “Why accounting?”

  “I was always good with numbers. I like the fact that there was only one right answer to an equation. I find that comforting.”

  “Your parents as smart as you? Are you the spawn of CPAs and financial advisors?”

  “No, actually. My mom is a cashier at the mini-mart on 56th. I never knew my dad, but my stepdad worked a million different jobs, none of them he could keep.”

  “Hold on.” He slides out from under the car. “Your mom is Helen at QuickSnacks?”

  “Yeah, you know her?”

  “Know her? We used to…” He slams his lips together. “Never mind.” He moves to tuck back under the car.

  “What? Tell me!”

  “It’s nothing, I’m sorry. I might not even be thinking of the right person.”

  He’s lying. I crawl to his legs and pull on his shirt. “Carey, tell me. What did you used to do?”

  He sighs and scoots out from under the car. He runs a hand through his dark hair, smearing black grease on his temple. “It’s not a big deal.”

  I lift my brows, waiting.

  He holds my gaze when he says, “We paid her to sell booze to us.”

  “How much?” I ask in a whisper.

  “A hundred bucks—”

  “One hundred dollars?!”

  He simply nods.

  “You’re telling me you guys had that kind of cash…” Of course he did. He was raised in a big mansion, probably had access to all the money in the world. My mom sold booze to teenagers so she could feed us. I shouldn’t be surprised. With my stepdad gambling away her paychecks, she probably found lots of creative ways to earn cash on the side.

  “It was fucked up to ask. We were idiots in high school.” It’s nice of him to try and blame himself, but my mom was the adult and she knew better. I have to believe she didn’t have any other choice.

  “No, I get it.” I scoot back to my spot on the grass. “But it’s safe to say I did not get my GPA genes from my mom.”

  “Four point five?” He frowns. “Then why do you live all the way out here and work three jobs? Bear State University should be paying you to attend their college.”

  From one humiliation to another.

  “They offered. Full academic scholarship.”

  “Why didn’t you take it?”

  “I did. Then I got caught cheating and lost my scholarship.”

  His expression falls and I swear his face pales.

  “I had to retake the final to graduate, but not until after the actual graduation so I didn’t get to walk. Not that I cared all that much. Although my mom and stepdad made my life hell all summer. Anyway, I worked as much as I could, got some grants, finally made it out to LA two months into the first semester. I’ve been working my ass off to stay here ever since.”

  He’s not looking at me, but his eyes seemed fixed on the house behind me. I look over only to see a gray wall, then turn back.

  “I’m boring you. Let’s change the subject. What are your plans for Christmas?”

  He clears his throat and ducks back under the car. “My sister and her husband live down in Encinitas. I’ll go hang out with them since I have the final and then the bowl game right after.” He grunts, tinkers, and then comes out holding the old, dirty starter. “You going home after your done with me?” He smiles, but it’s weak and I can’t help but think our earlier conversation tainted his view of me. Tarnished my tutor credentials.

  “Nah.” I pick at the grass. “I haven’t been home since I moved here. I have no desire to go back to Vegas.”

  “Your mom come visit you?”

  I laugh and shake my head. “Not unless she needs money.”

  His jaw gets tight and his cheek pulses. He goes back to working on the car. “So uh…” He grunts and his impressive muscles flex under ink. “Do you have Christmas plans?”

  “For the last two years I’ve served meals at the homeless shelter.”

  He turns his head, eyeing me from under the hood. “Sounds lonely.”

  “Have you ever been to a homeless shelter? It’s far from lonely.” I continue to pick at the grass. “I do it because it makes me feel less lonely actually. And everyone is so grateful, it’s a good place to spend a holiday. And, bonus, free meal.” I laugh but the sound is awkward even in my own ears.

  He frowns and goes back to working on the starter and we slip into companionable silence. I try hard not to sneak ogling peeks at him as he moves effortlessly around the car. My inner sixteen-year-old self is freaking out that the Carey Slade is elbows deep in my engine. Now I’m smiling because there’s a dirty joke in there somewhere but my twenty-one-year-old self refuses to acknowledge it.

  “That should be it.” He’s wiping his hands on a rag he must’ve brought along. His hairline is damp with sweat and he has a smudge of black oil on his shirt just above his left pec. Only Carey could manage to be sexy when dirty and sweaty. “Start her up.”

  I hop to my feet and into the driver's seat and turn the key. The engine purrs to life i
mmediately. “You did it!”

  He swipes his forehead with his forearm. “Of course I did.” His grin is wide, his dimple making his severely handsome face seem more boyish.

  I shut the engine off and feel like I should shake his hand or, I don’t know, give him a hug? I look up at him while waffling between the two options. “Thank you.” I shove my hand forward only to have him glare at it. Eventually he takes my hand and says, “You’re welcome.” Without warning he pulls me to his chest and wraps me in a hug.

  My cheek rests in the gap between his pectoral muscles. His shirt is a little damp, but he smells amazing. Like allspice and fresh cut wood.

  “Sorry, I’m sweaty.” He releases me and I step back reluctantly. His mouth lifts in a half smile. “About that dinner.”

  “Right. What time do you want me?”

  His brows rise.

  “Over! I mean, what time do you want me to come?”

  He turns into his shoulder to hide his smile and fails. Miserably.

  My face flames and I clarify. “Come. Over.”

  “I knew what you meant the first time.” He’s still smiling when he crosses his arms at his chest and settles in to watch me melt in a pool of my own humiliation. “Just come when you’re ready.”

  And why do those words spoken in his deep, husky voice do funny things to my body? I can feel my pulse in my neck and feel tingles in places I’m too embarrassed to even admit to myself.

  I tuck my hair behind my ear and wish I could hide my face. “Great. I’ll hit the store and then be over. But I’ll need your address.”

  “I’ll text it to you.” He drops the hood and bends over to grab his tools. I wish I could say I didn’t check out his ass for the millionth time, but that would be a lie. “I need to warn you though,” he says and I pretend to be interested in my headlight to avoid being caught staring at his round backside. “I live with four guys so I can’t guarantee they won’t be around driving you crazy.”

  “I’m sure I’ll survive,” I say as casually as I can.

  Even as my hands shake with nerves.

  Chapter Seven

  Carey

  “I told you, it’s not a date.”

  I’ve repeated the same seven words to Kaipo for the last twenty minutes. Ever since he came downstairs to find me mopping the kitchen floor.

  “You’re cleaning for a woman who is coming to our house to make you a nice dinner.”

  I shake my head and continue scrubbing the tile with the mop.

  “What part of that is not a date?”

  I shove the mop in the bucket and stare at him. “The part where she’s my tutor and I have no desire to fuck her.” I frown when the words leave my lips because that’s not exactly true. I do have the desire to get Rowan naked in a million different ways, but I won’t. We’re friends. Ew. Even my brain rejects that word.

  Kaipo’s grin widens. “The sexy redhead?”

  The way he says it has me glaring at the fucker as he sits on the countertop wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants.

  His wide shoulders bounce with laughter. “Bro, don’t get all huffy. The girl is fine as fuck. You’d have to be gay to not want to hit that.” He squints and scratches his jaw. “Naw, I take that back. I think even a gay guy would want to play with her naked. What’s her name? Rowanda?”

  “Rowan,” I say, my jaw hard. “And please, don’t hit on her, okay? She’s not like the girls we’re used to. I don’t want you scaring her off with the whole dick sign language thing.”

  “Chicks love it when my dick communicates in sign language.” He jumps off the countertop and wiggles his hips making his junk bounce behind the gray cotton. “My dick just told you to fuck off.”

  I pour out the dirty mop water and rinse the mop in the sink. “Just stay out of her way, alright? Rowan is the ticket to me playing in our bowl game. Please, don’t piss her off.”

  “Fine.” He swigs from his water bottle. “But I’m not the one you have to worry about. I overheard Mac talking to Loren about your ‘hot tutor’ and how he was thinking of asking her out.”

  “Mac said that?” I know Rowan liked Mac, but I hoped I talked her out of that. If she knew he was into her, well… fuck.

  “He did. Loren told him not to make a move until after she was done being your tutor.”

  Maybe I’ll just keep her as my tutor for the rest of the year, maybe even longer. I shake my head because that’s ridiculous. Rowan deserves to be happy, and Mac is a good guy. An image of them together flashes through my mind's eye, his hands in her hair, his tongue in her mouth… The sound of Kaipo’s laughter makes me realize I’m shaking my head.

  “Sure it’s not a date, asshole.” He laughs all the way upstairs and to his room.

  I wipe down the countertops one more time, and then hear Rowan’s Jetta pull into our driveway. I throw the rag in the sink and on my way to the door see my roommate Spider on the couch playing a video game. I’m about to ask him to continue that shit in his room, but the doorbell rings and I don’t get a chance.

  Rowan is standing at the door with two arms worth of grocery bags.

  “Let me help you.” I take the bags with one hand and when I do I nearly catch my breath at what she’s wearing. A skirt showcasing her long, pale legs, and a white sweater that is tight enough to outline the round globes of her breasts. Her hair is down and falls over her boobs in enticingly soft waves. I step back. “Come in.”

  When she does, I watch her immediately scan the foyer.

  “Did you find it okay?” I motion for her to follow me to the back where the kitchen is.

  She follows, but her gaze continues to scan, and suddenly I feel like I’m under a microscope of judgment. She spots Spider. He looks up at her, then back to his game, but quickly jerks his gaze back to her and says, “Hey.”

  “Rowan, this is Spider.”

  “Spider?”

  He sets down his controller and stands to greet her. Her eyes widen as she looks up at him. “Theodore Weber, shortened to Web, lengthened to Spider.”

  “Oh, nice to meet you,” she says to the guy who is not so subtly checking her out.

  I hook her around the shoulders and steer her toward the kitchen, glaring at my roommate who’s staring at her bare legs as we walk away. Fucker.

  “I wondered what kind of house five football players could possibly fit into.” Her chin tilts back to look up at the high ceilings and staircase. “I didn’t expect it to be so clean,” she says when we enter the kitchen.

  I release her to set down the four bags of groceries. “We lucked out. The house is owned by a friend of our coach. We take care of it because we know if we don’t coach would have our asses.”

  “This kitchen is amazing,” she says in awe.

  I follow her gaze as she looks around the space, trying to see what she sees. The four burner Viking stovetop, sub-Z fridge, and the butcher block island that seats eight. A kitchen made for giants.

  I give her a quick tour of the space, showing her where everything she might need lives.

  “I’m going to run up and take a shower, you’ll be okay?”

  Her expression is excited, even more excited than she looked when I finally nailed the future value of a stream of equal payments formula. “More than okay.” She pulls items from the grocery bags. “Take your time.”

  As much as I’d love to grab a beer and watch her cook, I never did get a shower since fixing her car so I run upstairs for a wash and make it fast before my dumbass friends scare her off.

  Rowan

  I can’t get over the gorgeousness of Carey’s house. I would’ve sworn I had the wrong house when I pulled into the affluent Los Angeles neighborhood, and when I drove up to the driveway I would’ve double checked the address if I hadn’t seen his charcoal gray pickup truck in the driveway.

  The two-story yellow house with white trim appeared like a giant dollhouse from the outside, such a contrast to the heaps of masculinity I know to live inside. And once
I was let in, it was more of the same. Overstuffed couches, ornate lighting, and a farmhouse style kitchen like I’ve seen on the Food Network cooking shows. Not at all what I would expect a houseful of testosterone-laden athletes to live.

  I’m pounding the chicken breasts and seasoning them, getting them ready for the warming grill pan when I hear footsteps behind me.

  “I hope you’re hungry. I got enough chicken to…” My words die on my lips when I see Levi smiling at me appreciatively from his leaned position on the island.

  “Rowan Campbell, what are you doing cooking in my kitchen?” His accent seems thicker, his voice deeper.

  My cheeks get hot. “Hey, Levi. I’m cooking Carey dinner, my way of saying thank you for fixing my car.” I wipe my hands on a paper towel feeling like a bug under a microscope as he studies me.

  “Kiss the cook, huh?” he says, with a knowing grin.

  Stupid apron. I scramble to get it off. “I found it in a drawer. I didn’t want to splatter my sweater in chicken juice.” I ball it up and toss it aside then instantly regret it when I catch him looking at my boobs.

  “Yo, Mac! What the fuck did you do with—whoa, sorry.” Another big guy, this one more Carey’s size with height and width, skids to a stop in the kitchen, his eyes on me. He has blonde, shaggy hair, and bright blue eyes. “Hello there.” He has a similar accent to Levi’s, maybe less pronounced.

  “Rowan.” I hold up my hands. “I’d shake your hand, but raw chicken.”

  “Loren.” He angles his head to Levi. “Friend of yours?”

  “No, she’s cooking for Carey.” Levi looks slightly annoyed by the interruption but shakes it off and grins. “Loren is my older brother. He plays with Carey.”

  “Oh, alright. Nice to meet you.”

  Levi jerks his head my way. “Rowan is Carey’s tutor.”

  Loren’s blue eyes sparkle with recognition. “Ahh, okay.” He looks like he wants to say more but decides against it. He hooks his little brother by the bicep and tugs. “We’ll get out of your way then. Nice meeting you.”