Rush

by Samantha Towle

  Maybe they should be.

  Not with him, of course.

  And not anytime soon. Relationships are not something I’m interested in. Staying sober is.

  “So…” His eyes finally land back on mine, and I give him an irritated look due to him blatantly checking me out. The bastard doesn’t even have the courtesy to look embarrassed. He just smiles and shrugs his big shoulders. “This might be a crazy question”—his lips are now twitching with amusement—“but who are you? And why were you bent over and shirtless in here?”

  “I, um…look, do you mind if I put my shirt back on?” I take a step back, angling down to look at my shirt, which is still on the floor in a damp heap.

  “No. Go ahead.” He gestures a hand in my direction but makes no move to give me any privacy. He just stands there, watching me with his blazing eyes burning right through me. The color reminds me of a flame when it’s reached its hottest temperature.

  “Could you turn around?” I give him a pointed look, tightening my arms over my chest.

  Shaking his head, he rumbles out a chuckle, which makes the muscles in my stomach clench. “Sure,” he says. “I’ve already seen everything…”

  His eyes drop to my chest before slowly lifting back to mine. The heat in them is undeniable. And so is the sudden throbbing occurring between my thighs. It’s been a while since I’ve had sex. That’s why I’m responding like this. It’s all it can be.

  “But I can be a gentleman.”

  “Wow. Lucky me,” I mutter sarcastically as he turns away.

  I hear him laugh again.

  And I experience another stomach clench.

  I bend to retrieve my shirt and quickly pull it on, wincing at the feel of the wet fabric against my now-dry skin. I fasten the buttons, starting at the top and working my way down.

  “You can turn around,” I tell him as I fasten the last button.

  “So…” he says, turning to face me. A smile lifts his lips. It’s a smug look.

  His thick arms fold over his massive chest. I can see the veins running beneath his golden skin.

  I have a thing about men’s arms and veins. I find them incredibly hot. On the right man, of course.

  Weird, I know.

  “So…” I echo.

  The smile widens. “I hate to tell you this. But I can still see as much as I could before you put the shirt on. Well, more now since your arms aren’t in the way, blocking the view.”

  My eyes drop. “Shit!” I bark out, arms covering my chest again.

  I forgot it was totally see-through.

  “Wet shirt,” he says. “Rain outside. I’m guessing you got caught in the downpour.”

  “You’re right,” I grind out.

  He’s starting to annoy me a little.

  His arms unfurl, and those bright eyes of his darken. I’m not sure what with.

  Then, he starts toward me, those long legs eating up the space between us. My heart starts to beat in staccato.

  He stops a few feet away.

  Sweet Jesus, he’s huge.

  And I’m small.

  Ridiculously small. Five feet one to be exact. And I don’t currently have my heels on for the added height. I stupidly took them off.

  Ares is well over six feet tall. Probably closer to six and a half.

  I am a dwarf, standing in front of him.

  His eyes stare down at me, probing. I feel like he can see every part of me. Even the bad parts.

  “Still doesn’t explain who you are or why you stripped off and decided to do your morning stretches in my locker room.” His voice is lower, deeper. The sound rushes over my skin, like a cold breeze on a hot day, making my skin cover in goose bumps.

  I have to hold back a shiver.

  “Your locker room?” I question, lifting a brow.

  “Are you a football groupie?”

  “No!” I bark out a laugh.

  “Because, if you broke in here, I’ll have your ass hauled out with one phone call,” he continues, clearly ignoring me.

  I slam my hands on my hips, momentarily forgetting I need them to cover the girls, and then I put them back over my chest.

  He smirks at me.

  Asshole.

  “Look, I’m not a groupie, okay? It’s my first day here. I got caught in the rain. I came in here, looking to borrow a shirt, as I can’t wear this one. You caught me about to change into one.”

  “And you were bent over for the fun of it?”

  “No, I was doing yoga.”

  “Yoga?” He looks at me like I’m mental.

  He wouldn’t be wrong.

  “I was stressed about my shitty start to the day, and I practice yoga to de-stress. I thought I was alone. I was literally just doing the one pose to help clear my mind, and then I was going to put on a shirt and get out of here.”

  “And which shirt were you putting on?” He glances over at his changing spot and then back at me, brows raised.

  “Uh…” I’m stumbling. Deep breath. “Okay, I was going to borrow one of yours. But I was going to find another to put in its place.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Okay?” My brows draw together as I look up at him.

  “Yep. It sounds plausible. Weird as fuck. But plausible.”

  I can’t help but laugh at that. He laughs, too.

  “I’m going to go.” Freeing one arm, I stand my heels up and slip my feet into them, appreciating the extra height they give me, but I still look like a child next to him.

  “Don’t you need a shirt to wear?” he says.

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Here.” He reaches over and grabs a white dress shirt from one of the hangers. “Wear this. It’ll be big on you, so you’ll have to roll up the sleeves, but it’s better than a team shirt.”

  “Thank you.” I smile genuinely. “I appreciate it. I’ll wash it tonight and bring it back tomorrow.”

  “No rush,” he tells me.

  “Thank you,” I say again.

  I start to walk past him when he says, “I’m Ares, by the way.”

  I stop and slide my eyes up to his. I feel a jolt at the visual contact. “I know who you are, quarterback.”

  He smiles at that. “You said it was your first day.”

  “Yes,” I say slowly, my mouth suddenly drying.

  “I didn’t know we had a new staff member starting.”

  So, my dad hasn’t told any of the players that I’ll be working here. Great.

  “What will you be doing?” he asks.

  “Oh, this and that,” I reply.

  He laughs. “You don’t give much away, do you?”

  I shrug.

  His eyes glitter with amusement and challenge. “Do I get your name at least?”

  I take a deep breath. “Ari. Arianna…Petrelli.”

  I watch as my name filters in, and realization dawns on him.

  The light fades out of his eyes. His expression shuts down.

  And my stomach suddenly feels very empty.

  He steps away, putting a good amount of distance between us. His arms fold over his chest, like a barrier. Jaw gritting. “You’re Coach’s daughter.”

  I swallow past the dryness in my throat. “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know you’d be working here.”

  “I…it…” I lift my hands, unsure of what to say.

  There’s a beat of silence. A moment of nothing. Neither of us says anything.

  Then, he abruptly turns to his changing station, giving me his back.

  Wow. Okay.

  I’m used to people looking at me like shit. But not this kind of reaction. Like I have an infectious disease.

  I take a deep breath and find my voice. “Is…is there a problem?”

  “Nope.” He pulls a team shirt off a hanger.

  I stand here, knowing full well there is a problem, but not really knowing how to handle his adverse reaction to me.

  He glances over his shoulder at me. There’s none of th
e warmth or humor from before. His eyes are blank and narrowed, looking at me like I’m an inconvenience. I’m gum on the sole of his new shoes.

  “I need to change,” he states, voice cold.

  “Sorry.” I step back, holding his shirt to my chest.

  His eyes drop to it with a flash of something akin to anger, and for a moment, I wonder if I should offer to give him his shirt back.

  But I don’t. I keep my mouth shut, turn on my heel, and head for the door.

  Before I reach it, I pause and turn back to him. “Ares?”

  His eyes flash over to mine. His expression is tight.

  I take a small step forward. “Could I ask a favor?”

  He blinks slowly and exhales a harsh breath. “What is it?” His voice is irritated.

  “I just wanted to ask…could you not mention this to my dad…that you saw me in here—”

  “Without your top on.”

  My face heats. “Yes. It’s just…I…” How do I say this? “It’s just that I…” Don’t want to disappoint him again.

  “I won’t say anything,” he growls and then turns back to his station. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Thank you,” I say softly.

  He huffs out a brittle laugh, shaking his head, and I feel like I’m missing something.

  I want to ask why he’s so pissed off by me. But I’m too chickenshit to do it.

  So, I once again keep my mouth shut and head for the door.

  “Arianna.”

  I stop and glance back over my shoulder. He’s facing me now, the same stoic expression on his countenance.

  “What?” I say.

  “I want the shirt back tomorrow. Clean.”

  Something in the way he says clean pokes at me.

  He thinks I’m a dirty drunk.

  I inhale through my nose.

  I am not that person anymore.

  I’m clean and sober.

  And I don’t need his stupid shirt. I’d rather walk around with my boobs on show than wear his clothes.

  I lift my chin and walk back over to him.

  When I’m a foot away, I toss the shirt back to him. He catches it with a single hand, eyes not moving from mine.

  “Turns out, I don’t need to borrow your shirt after all.” Then, I spin around and walk out of there.

  I step inside my apartment and close the door behind me, locking it.

  I cast a glance toward the corner of my room where my paints and easel are set up. I stare at the blank canvas sitting there, on the easel, praying that I’ll feel something. Anything. Even a spark of interest or inspiration would be a start. I’d be grateful for that.

  But nothing.

  I haven’t painted in six months.

  Not since I’ve been sober.

  Painting is all I’ve ever known. All I’ve ever done.

  I’m an artist who can’t paint.

  It feels like I’ve lost a limb.

  Since I quit drinking, I can’t bring myself to put brush to canvas.

  There has been only one other time in my life when I stopped painting. After my mother killed herself.

  I was the one who found her. Hanging from the clothes rail in her and my dad’s walk-in closet. It was a high rail. The one my dad used to hang his shirts on. My dad’s tall. Six feet three. My mom was small. Like I am. I look like her, too. I sometimes wonder if that’s part of the problem. That I remind my dad of her.

  She had used her vanity stool to stand on.

  I had come home after studying for a test at a friend’s house. My dad was away with the team.

  She had known it would be me who found her.

  And she hadn’t cared.

  I took my first drink of alcohol on the day of her funeral.

  I was fifteen. My uncle, my mom’s brother, handed me a glass of brown liquid. He told me it was brandy and to go ahead and drink it, that it was good for shock, that it would help me get through the day.

  He was right.

  That single glass of brandy got me through her funeral.

  And, when I woke up the next day and everything felt difficult, even just getting out of bed, I had another glass of brandy to help me get through the day.

  And where was my dad, you might ask? Well, he was at work. Back with his team. His real family. He’d left me a note tacked to the fridge, saying he wouldn’t be long.

  And I was left home alone, in the house where my mother had killed herself only five days ago.

  Alcohol was my comfort through a difficult time, and it helped me get back to painting. I felt alive and inspired when I drank.

  It made everything easier.

  And, now that I no longer have that…I’m blank.

  Like the canvas that’s sitting there, waiting for me.

  Sighing, I kick off my shoes. I put my bag on the kitchen counter as I pass. Then, I tug off the shirt I borrowed from my dad as I pad down my tiny hallway. I stop by the bathroom and toss the shirt in my laundry hamper. I take off my bra and my jeans, followed by my panties, and toss them in the hamper, too.

  I take a quick shower. Leaving my hair wet, I dress in clean panties, an old college sweater, and shorts.

  I head for the kitchen and grab a glass from the cupboard. Go to the tap and fill it with water.

  Leaning back against the counter, I take a sip.

  My apartment is so quiet. Too quiet.

  Peace isn’t good for me. Too much time to think.

  I take another sip of my water, my eyes closing on a blink as I do.

  I swallow slowly, letting the water run down my throat.

  My mind drifts…

  Vodka.

  Sliding down my throat.

  The burn of the alcohol.

  You remember how good it felt, Ari.

  The feel of it coursing through your body, taking the pain away. Freeing you—

  Stop!

  I flash open my eyes, turn, and pour out the water into the sink, setting the glass in it.

  I grip the edge of the counter and swallow in a lungful of air.

  Breathe, Ari. Slow and deep.

  I take a breath in through my nose and let it out through my dry mouth.

  Dry from the need to drink.

  No.

  My grip on the counter increases. My arms start to tremble from the force, but I don’t let go. Because I’m afraid of what will happen if I do.

  I don’t have alcohol in the apartment, but I’m within a ten-minute radius of pubs and bars. Five minutes if I run.

  And I’m afraid that, if I let go of this counter, I’ll start running.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and slowly count to ten.

  I don’t need to drink.

  I am in control of my life.

  Six months, Ari. Six months sober.

  Don’t blow it now.

  You’ve gotten through the worst.

  Detox was the most horrific experience of my life. I don’t ever want to go through it again.

  And, if I have even one drink, I’ll be right back where I started.

  I can’t go there.

  I won’t go there.

  I was what is called a high-functioning alcoholic. I used alcohol as a coping mechanism. I would find any reason to drink. I would drink alone at home. Too much, too often. I could drink a couple of bottles of wine at home or go out and party like it was 1999 and wake with no hangover and head into work. Some people might think that was a good thing—being able to drink with no hangover. But it really wasn’t. It meant that I’d built a tolerance over the years. I’d been drinking too much, for too long.

  I couldn’t go a day without a drink, and even then, I still didn’t know I had a problem. If someone had asked me seven months ago if I could stop drinking, I would’ve answered yes without hesitation.

  It wasn’t until it was too late when I realized I had a problem.

  No, it’s not too late.

  I made a terrible mistake because of the disease I have.

  And t
hat’s what alcoholism is; it’s a disease.

  But I’m getting better. Every day, I’m getting stronger and stronger.

  It will not defeat me.

  I want a life. I want to be able to paint again. I want to have a career as a professional artist. Maybe even get married one day and have children of my own.

  But, to have all of those things, I need to stay sober.

  My count is up to fifty when I feel able to actually let go of the counter.

  I get my cell from my bag and sit down on my kitchen floor. I open up my music app and press play on my relaxation music. I adopt the lotus position and close my eyes.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting like this when my cell starts to ring with an incoming call.

  I open one eye, glancing at the caller display, and see it’s my dad.

  I really don’t feel like talking to him at the moment, especially not after my little episode. And it’s hard, feeling like a disappointment all the time. Not that he says so. I can just hear it in his voice.

  But I know, if I don’t answer, he’ll just keep calling.

  So, I pick up my cell and swipe to accept the call. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hey. How are you doing?”

  Oh, I’m currently sitting on my kitchen floor in the lotus position after a bad moment, but aside from that, peachy.

  “I’m good,” I say. I stretch my legs out and lean back against the cupboard door. “I was just going to start thinking about what to have for dinner.”

  “We could have had dinner together,” he says. “I thought you might have come to see me after you finished work. I was gonna give you a ride home, so we could grab dinner together in the city.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize.” If you’d told me, I would’ve known though. “I wasn’t sure where in the building you were”—lie—“and I had to rush to catch my bus.” Another lie. “Maybe tomorrow?” I suggest.

  “I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got a late meeting with Bill.”

  Bill is the owner of the team.

  “The day after,” I suggest.

  “Sure.” Pause. “So, how did you get on today?”

  “Okay. It was…good.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get to spend much time with you today. I was busy with—”

  “It’s fine, Dad.” I’m used to it. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but like usual, I don’t say them.

  My therapist in rehab told me that I should air my grievances with my dad, tell him how I’ve felt like second best all these years. The resentment that I feel toward him for never being around to help with Mom when she was still alive.