Hard Knocks

by Ruby Lang

  This was good right? He was teasing her, his eyes warm and ... relieved?

  They’d run out of the conference room together, through to the lobby, to the street. It was pouring outside, and they were both soaked through by the time they managed to find a cab.

  She shivered, and they stared at each other.

  “Towels,” he said. “I should get towels. And something hot to drink. Then we talk. But for the record, I’m sorry, too.”

  They stared at each other for another moment. Then he went off to the closet, and she headed for the kitchen, leaving a trail of water behind her.

  “Would you rather have Ginger Jamz or Peppermint Posset?” she called, surveying his cabinets.

  “You’re making me drink herbal tea?”

  “You’re the one with the collection.”

  He came up behind her and rubbed her hair gently with the towel. He moved down to her shoulders, her breasts, and back. Then he handed her the towel and moved away carefully. “I’ll go get us some clothing to change into,” he said, looking down at his ruined suit.

  She took a deep breath and stifled her disappointment. Maybe he wasn’t ready to be with her. Maybe he wanted to tell her that he was moving to another team? That he was running off with Serge to Yukon territory to pan for gold? But why would he bundle her out of the hotel and bring her here if it was over? Unless he was just going to hand her the things she’d left in his apartment. That’s why she was here: She was going to receive a shoebox filled with torn underwear and old issues of the New England Journal of Medicine and a toothbrush.

  She brought the tea out to the living room and found a pile of dry clothing on the couch. Quickly, she stripped off her wet things, donned a huge sweatshirt, and went to put her stuff in the dryer. It looked like Adam was going to be stuck with her for at least half an hour.

  When she came back, he was stretched out on the couch with his leg propped up and he was holding the tea.

  She cleared her throat and sat down on the opposite end.

  “I’ve talked to my supervisor, Weber, about changing my focus and joining the research on parkinsonism at the hospital. I thought it would be a—uh—more productive way of using my energy. I’m also going to get counseling.”

  She paused. “I gave up on my dad too early—or maybe in the wrong ways. I was so focused on myself and my feelings. Maybe I need someone who can just listen to me vent and worry. And with the research, maybe I’ll make a difference this way. But even if I don’t, I have to live with it. So, I’m doing this for me because I need to, but I’m also hoping that—well, I’m also doing it for us. If there is an us anymore.”

  Adam nodded, still staring at his mug. Helen held her breath.

  “Helen, I love you. I don’t want a life without you. I’ve decided that I’m going to finish out this season and keep working with Janel, learning the business side. She’s made noises about quitting Molotov, starting her own firm. I was thinking of asking her if I could join. And I’m going to go to school part time. Now that you’re here—that we’re here together—I know that it’s the right decision.

  “I thought about playing more because I liked the idea of going out with a better record. For so long in my life, I was focused on it. I liked the idea of showing people I was some kind of winner—showing you.”

  “Adam.”

  “It’s hard to get out of that way of thinking, you know. It’s hard to assume that not everyone believes that. But when it came down to it, the game hasn’t been the same for me. The travel is getting to me. Serge is gone. I’m taking longer to heal from injuries.”

  “The other night when I saw you, you were really good,” she said, her tears clogging her throat. “It was powerful. But you’re right, even though I could admit that you were good, it’s not how I think. You don’t need to win that kind of game for me. There’s no shame in changing your mind about what you want to do in life. You never needed to redeem yourself.”

  He shrugged. “I know that now. But I worry because money and fame and success are knotted together for me, and I’m just beginning to untie it. I don’t want to be one of those guys who blow through their earnings the minute they stop playing. I’ve met those guys. So I think of the future, too. I worry—not the same way you do, but it’s there. But maybe I need to trust you to keep me grounded.”

  “You can trust yourself to keep you grounded,” she said softly.

  “We need each other,” he said. “That’s become clearer and clearer to me. I need you to be around. I want to start a new life, and sometimes that’s going to be weird for me. But I want you to be my constant.”

  He looked up from his side of the sofa and their eyes held, but he still hadn’t touched her.

  Lightning slashed the room, followed by the crack and boom of thunder. They both turned to the window, and Helen released herself to walk toward the violent sheets of water. “We should talk more,” she said.

  They needed to. But she couldn’t—not just yet, not right now while they still believed in each other. Her whole body felt heavy with all the apologies and kisses and love she needed to drop on him. and she was afraid it would burst out in a messy torrent, unintelligible. She clenched her fists.

  “People will be able to see you,” Adam murmured, coming up behind her again.

  “No one will see us in this rain,” she said, turning and slipping her palms down his back.

  She traced every muscled ridge back to his stomach. She wriggled her fingers through his wiry chest hair and plucked gently at the tiny curls, admiring how they sprang back. He was beautiful, but so human and so warm. She leaned toward him and rubbed her cheek on him, and she felt his arms come around her.

  She was not going to move; they were going to stay right here. She was not going to let him go anywhere. Not while she was alive. And right now, she felt the blood rushing through her veins, the bass beat of her heart, and the trilling of her pulse. She felt her nerve endings twanging, and she knew she was going to fight tonight—with him and with herself.

  He stripped the sweatshirt off of her and threw it down to the floor. But with his body rubbing against hers, his hands rubbing her naked back, touching her flanks and smoothing her belly, she felt so warm. She tipped her head back, and his hot mouth descended on hers.

  He backed her to the window, and as soon as her back touched the cold glass, she cringed forward into him. He put one warm hand between her and the surface and, with the other, gripped her breast.

  They were kissing each other with their eyes open. She didn’t want to look away from him. She loved seeing the shock of his dark pupils against his icy irises, his careful, slow blink as her hand, and tongue, and body slid over his surfaces.

  Another lightning strike and another crash of thunder filled them. He pressed her against the glass again, and she almost screamed at the cold on her ass and shoulder blades.

  Her pulse was racing, from the stimulation of his fingers, from the chill of the window, from the crash of water as the rain continued to pound behind her. It felt dangerous and uncomfortable and arousing all at the same time. He hoisted her more firmly this time and entered her in a deep thrust that she felt up her ribs and spine, almost up to her throat, and she finally closed her eyes just as another crackle of lightning and thunder tore through the air.

  They were not smooth or pretty. Within minutes, her back began to warm; the mixture of condensation and sweat made her thighs slide dangerously on his hips. It was precarious, but it also pushed him deeper into her, and she felt him tighten his grip. His eyes looked wild, but she was not going to fall, not while he held her. He was searching her face as if trying to find confirmation that she was with him. She was. She hissed and adjusted her slippery legs around him, changing the angle, changing the pressure, and she bucked against him with everything in her, choking and gasping his name.

  He was silent, as if concentrating on the pleasure coming from her body to his, his to hers, on standing and holding her and keepin
g her body in his embrace. The glass was going to crack under the force of his pounding. Someone on the street below or in the opposite buildings would see their wild fucking outlined by the lightning. Or the storm would strike the building, earthquakes would rumble. They would plunge down into the cold, wet night, and they would still be wracked with joy. They would go, screaming each other’s names, but she was beyond caring.

  She gave a final cry as he spasmed into her, his torso suddenly wild with strength.

  She felt herself sliding, sliding down as he flooded her with a hot rush, and her body kept pulling him in, drinking him.

  She closed her eyes. For several moments, there was nothing except the rain and the darkness and their sticky, aching limbs.

  They were on the floor, his head against her breasts, her legs tangled under his arms. “Come on,” he said after a long while. “Let’s get some ice, and then let’s go to bed.”

  “Damn it, your knee,” she said, scrambling up to help him as he moved himself gingerly.

  “I feel great,” he said.

  Later, while they lay in bed, Adam asked her why she’d been at the press conference. Helen thought, then laughed. “Serge called my office. He said that when—when—I talked about him to you in the future, I was to refer to him as the Love Coach. What’s that about?”

  Adam laughed. “That’s Serge’s idea of a second career.”

  He kissed her and laughed, and it was a beautiful sound. “I guess we’ll both be pretty busy with these new roles.”

  He started to run his hands down her back. His nose was in her hair. His breath tickled her neck, and it was the best feeling in the world.

  “Maybe we could think about moving in together,” she said. “You know, maximize our time. Save money.”

  “You sweet talker,” he said.

  “I just want us to keep the sex window.”

  “Is that what we’re calling it now? Sex window?”

  “It seems appropriate, if a bit on the nose.”

  She kissed him on that appendage. But he looked serious. “So to be clear, even though I went off about how I want to be with you and even though we’re talking about this big step, things are going to be changing for me and I’m going to have to ask you to let me figure things out for a while.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t exactly have it together over here, either.” Her eyes filled with unexpected tears. Again. To cover them up, she ducked and kissed his hard shoulder, his jaw. “Are you wearing Icy Hot?” She sniffled. “That stuff is spicy.”

  She rubbed her forehead against his chest.

  “Sure, it is. You know, for someone who’s such a hard driver, you’re also kind of weepy.”

  “I’m going to sob all over one of your jazzy scarves if you aren’t careful.”

  He held her close.

  “So we’re really doing this. Together,” she said, her voice muffled.

  He swallowed and touched his lips to her hair. “Yeah.”

  “You know we’re all wrong for each other.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  She nodded. “As long as you know.”

  Acknowledgments

  This book (and my previous one!) would not exist without the efforts the sharp, dedicated, and frighteningly efficient folks at Crimson: Jessica Verdi, Tara Gelsomino, and Julie Sturgeon.

  Galois Cohen, you’ll never know how much I appreciate your willingness to slog through those early stages with me. To my husband, thank you for putting up with my inability to wield commas correctly.

  And all the lovely Toasties who answered my questions, shared your smarts, and gave unstintingly your support, you’ve changed my life.

  More from This Author

  Acute Reactions

  Ruby Lang

  The man with allergies never got the girl, at least in the movies Ian Zamora had seen, and Ian had watched enough of these films to last a lifetime. The man with the allergies couldn’t enjoy life because he was busy sneezing in his soup or looking for tissues. He was fussy. He was hapless. He was the one who the girl always dumped after she met the hero. Well, Ian was going to be the hero this time. He certainly had the other credentials. When they weren’t itchy and watering, his brown eyes glinted with steel. He could run a mile in seven and a half minutes (okay, eight) and use a belt sander. He looked good in jeans. Ian Zamora did not hunt for goddamn tissues—usually. Most of all, Ian was determined to get the girl, so the only solution was to get rid of his allergies.

  If only his doctor would turn up.

  The office of Dr. Petra Lale was completely empty that Tuesday afternoon. There was no receptionist in the waiting room and no one to greet Ian after he had climbed the stairs from the busy Portland street. The room was silent. At least it was clean, he thought, taking a step inside. Three magazines sat on a square coffee table, and the reception desk was clear of everything except a colorful paperback. In fact, except for a vague antiseptic tang in the air, there was no indication that any testing, checking, or healing was taking place at all in the white-walled office. Ian glanced at the door again. Petra Lale, MD, Allergist, it said, in shiny new lettering. He nodded to himself, of course—who else was there to acknowledge him?—and sat gingerly in one of the shiny plastic chairs. It glistened like a gummy bear. At least it was comfortable.

  Okay, so he didn’t really want to be here.

  He wasn’t scared of doctors, or blood. He could bear needles with a minimum of flinching. Still, the idea of being tested for itches, then returning week after week for more jabs, just so that he could coexist with Danielle’s cat—well, it wasn’t his idea of the best time in the world. But he was determined to make a go of it with his new girlfriend and he was willing to think of the long game. That meant accommodating Snuffmaster Six—Snuffy for short. And because Ian preferred to live his life clear-eyed and clean-nosed—and his colleagues at the restaurant liked him that way, too—allergy shots were the order of business.

  This relationship had better work out.

  Just think of a cozy, domestic future, Ian told himself, squaring his shoulders. Danielle was smart and optimistic. She smelled like a cupcake. She was just the kind of woman he needed. For some sort of stable relationship, he was ready to endure a hundred thousand pricks of the needle.

  At least.

  Probably more.

  The doctor had probably just stepped out for a moment. Or maybe she had been called away on an allergy emergency. Maybe some teenager had ingested too much pollen on a dare. Flowers: the natural high. All the kids were doing them. They’d have to license and regulate all the florists, hire extra security at the botanical gardens.

  Where the fuck had that come from? Maybe he was scared of needles.

  This was ridiculous. He had spent half his life in mining towns all around the world, crawling under fences, getting mud all over himself, learning how to use Swiss Army knives, and getting splinters while making lean-tos. He had a scar between his thumb and forefinger from the time he had accidentally grabbed some barbed wire while trying to help his friend retrieve a soccer ball. Hell, he was comfortable with drills and axes, and he worked around knives now. A couple of thin, stainless-steel needles administered by some chilly old woman in a lab coat would hardly hurt him.

  He called out an irritated “hello,” and stood up. In the restaurant business, you didn’t keep people waiting. There was always something to offer: a glass of wine, a basket of bread, a refolded napkin, new silverware, a lighted candle. Professionals knew how to distract before they struck. He liked to train his wait staff as if they were assassins. Each little gift, each inquiry, each movement was part of a master plan.

  Evidently, someone had heard him, though. After a thump and a muffled curse, the doctor finally swept open the door to the inner office. Ian pressed his lips together, ready to face a cranky old woman who didn’t know or care about the state of her waiting room. He was going to march in, get poked, and march out. It would be easy.

&nb
sp; A woman strode through and looked right at him.

  Wow, he thought for a dazed minute. Wow.

  She was definitely not old. In fact, she looked a lot younger than his thirty-two years, a fact emphasized by her elfin features, her pointy little nose, tawny skin, and short, dark hair. He shook his head to clear his addled brain. This small, vivacious woman with the sharp gray eyes was the doctor, he reminded himself. Suddenly, the thought of receiving a thousand hurts from her hands was nothing compared to the way her eyes flashed when she caught sight of him.

  Then he remembered. He was beginning something meaningful with a great, wonderful woman. He certainly wasn’t attracted in any way to a disorganized, jumpy-looking allergist—his doctor, for heaven’s sake. He was here for shots to smooth his way to move in with his girlfriend and her damned cat and live happily ever after. His time in this office was sure to be unpleasant, and full of stabbing and bleeding and itching. As she approached, he told himself that Dr. Lale smelled nothing like baked goods. She probably had chilly fingers and cleaned her skin with alcohol swabs. She probably wore latex gloves to bed.

  Dammit, he was not picturing the allergist’s lithe little body in bed, was he?

  Eyes on the prize, he reminded himself. Eyes on the prize.

  He thought of his plans for the future and gave the doctor a dark glower for making him forget.

  • • •

  Wow, Petra thought, taking in her new patient’s dangerous glare, this guy really doesn’t like me.

  Granted, she was supposed to stick him with a bunch of tiny needles today, and some of those pricks were bound to itch. But he was one of the first patients in her new office, and she needed all the allergy-ridden bodies she could bring in to keep her fledgling practice afloat. She needed him to like her or, at least, return.

  Petra led him into her office and stifled a sigh. She hadn’t honestly thought that attracting people to her practice would be so difficult. She was already a worrier, and her puny patient base was making her desperate. She wasn’t asking for much, just enough money to keep her in sensible shoes and make regular contributions to her retirement fund. She was fascinated by the immune system and all the little signals and subtleties that made it go haywire. But she admitted that she also thought allergy and immunology would afford her some measure of comfort and serenity. She would have regular hours. Patients would come by for shots, maybe a panel or a breathing test. Sometimes she would deal with a patient’s asthma, but, for the most part, no shrieking at nurses in the ER, no crazy hours, no loonies, no nonsense.