Rush

by Samantha Towle

“’Kay…” he mutters, eyes still closed.

  I grab the blanket off my chair, and when I turn back to him, he’s shifted. Head on the arm of the sofa, long legs dangling off the other end, and he’s already snoring lightly.

  I smile and then cover him with my blanket.

  I make sure the front door is locked and put the chain on. I flick the light off and then head into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

  When I’m done, I get changed into my pajamas and then climb into my bed, content in the knowledge that, for the first time in a long time, I’m not alone.

  I wake to the sound of someone inside my apartment, and my heart stills.

  Shit.

  Then, I remember that Ares crashed on the sofa last night, and I relax.

  I reach over to my phone and check the time. Half past six.

  A smile tugs at my lips. I slept right through the night.

  I haven’t done that since before I was sober.

  I guess having Ares in my apartment helped.

  I clamber out of bed to go see him. I open my bedroom door and step into my little hall, and Ares is there.

  Inside my hallway closet, which is filled with my paintings.

  And he’s looking at them.

  “I was looking for the bathroom,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder at me.

  And he doesn’t look guilty at being caught.

  Asshat.

  His clothes are wrinkled from sleep. His hair is all mussed up. His eyes are bright. And I would be thinking about how handsome he looks right now if I hadn’t just caught him snooping through my paintings.

  “I thought it was just a hobby?” he says.

  “I thought it was none of your business,” I throw back at him.

  He laughs a deep, rumbling sound that affects me in a way I don’t want to examine right now.

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to snoop through people’s things?” I place my hand on my hip, and my oversize bed tee slips off my shoulder.

  He turns, holding one of my paintings in his hand, and I see his eyes go to the bare skin there. Scorching hot, they trail over my chest, and then they move up to my face.

  A burst of heat explodes inside me, like he’s just lit me.

  “Technically, it wasn’t snooping. It was an accidental discovery,” he says.

  His jaw is tight, but I’m getting the impression he’s not angry. Well, he might not be, but I am.

  “Oh, well, that’s all right then.” I fold my arms over my chest. And then I remember I’m not wearing a bra.

  Christ on a cracker.

  I close my eyes on a groan.

  He chuckles a dark sound. “Don’t worry, Jailbird; it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  My eyes flash open, accusing.

  “Locker room. Your bra didn’t exactly cover all the goods.”

  He slowly runs his eyes down to my chest and then back up, and I can see the memory of that moment in his eyes.

  He looked at me like he wanted me back then. Before he knew who I was.

  The crazy thing is…he’s looking at me in the exact same way right now.

  And I’m dying. From a blazing inferno of embarrassment and something that has my thighs clenching and my nipples pebbling.

  I tighten my arms over my chest.

  “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

  “And you are where you’re not wanted.”

  I go to grab the painting out of his hand, but he’s faster, and he holds it out of my reach. Then, I remember…nipples, and I clamp my arms back over my chest.

  He’s holding the painting I did of a ballerina a year ago. A teenage girl, facing away, a tutu on and her ballet slippers hanging over her shoulder, and on her feet are a pair of pink Dr. Martens.

  I got the inspiration when I saw a teenage girl entering a ballet studio, close to the gallery I used to work at. She was all dressed up in her ballet garb, hair up in a bun, her ballet shoes hanging over her shoulder with bright pink Dr. Martens on her feet.

  I thought she looked amazing. Perfectly made up with a hint of the rebel inside of her only visible on her feet.

  I went home and worked through the night on that painting. It took me two days. And then I went out and bought myself a pair of pink Dr. Martens. Later that night, I wore them when I went out to a bar with Kyle where I got totally trashed, and he puked on one of my new boots.

  We had a fight about it. Then, Kyle took off, leaving me in the middle of a street alone.

  I had to walk home, as there were no cabs to be seen. And I scrubbed my boot clean when I got home.

  He turned up the next day with flowers, a bottle of wine, and a lame-ass apology. And I forgave him.

  “Why did you tell me it was just a hobby?” Ares says. “It’s clearly so much more than just that.”

  “Again, none of your business.”

  “Did you study art?”

  I realize that he’s not going to stop asking questions until I at least give him an answer.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re incredibly talented.”

  “I’m okay,” I say in response.

  “Okay?” he repeats, brows furrowing. “So, that’s your thing.”

  “What is? Painting?”

  “No. Putting yourself down.”

  Ah.

  I bite my lip, sucking it into my mouth, and turn my eyes from his.

  I hear him putting the painting down, and the next thing I know, he’s standing before me, and his fingers are holding my chin, turning my eyes to his.

  I stare up at him, holding all my pain inside of me. Pain that is begging to escape.

  “You shouldn’t hide your talent away like that,” he says gently.

  A dry laugh escapes me. “And why would I have them out on display when all they do is remind me of what I can no longer do?”

  Shit.

  His brows come together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  Christ. Me and my big mouth.

  “Why do you even care?” I toss at him. “You still hated me this time yesterday.”

  Confusion turns to anger. “I never hated you, Ari. But this isn’t about me. So, don’t try to distract us from the issue. Tell me what you meant by that.”

  “I can’t paint anymore, okay!” I push his hand away from my face. Stepping back, I bump into the wall. “I stopped drinking, and now, I can’t paint anymore. Happy?”

  “No, I’m not happy.” He leans against the opposite wall, eyes watching me. “Why can’t you paint?”

  “Weren’t you just listening?”

  “I was listening. I just think it’s bullshit.”

  “Fuck you.”

  The bastard smirks. “There she is. Foulmouthed little Jailbird.”

  “Stop calling me that!” I yell, my hands going into my hair and making two fists. “God, you’re so infuriating!”

  He laughs this time, and I want to take a fist from my hair and use it to punch him right in his perfect jaw.

  “I’m glad my life is a joke to you.”

  His humor disappears, replaced with irritation. “Trust me; the last thing I think you are is a joke.”

  What the hell is that supposed to mean?

  “Tell me the real reason you can’t paint.”

  “Because the alcohol made me good. I don’t drink anymore; ergo, I can no longer paint.”

  “How long have you been painting?”

  “Since I was a kid.”

  “When did you start drinking?”

  “When I was a kid.”

  He frowns. The look in his eyes makes me want to shrink in on myself. Disgust laced with consternation.

  “I was fifteen,” I add quietly, my eyes lowering.

  It takes a good minute before he speaks again. I wonder for a time if he’s actually going to say nothing and just walk out of my apartment. I wouldn’t blame him.

  “But I’m guessing you started painting before you were fifteen. A gift like tha
t, it’s always in you, right?”

  “Yes…” I say, slowly looking back up at him. “I’ve always painted. Since I was small.”

  “Then, you still can. You just think you can’t. But your talent is still in there.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Do me a favor. Stop punishing yourself with the blank canvas out there.”

  “I am not—”

  He holds a hand up, stopping me, giving me a look.

  Am I punishing myself? I thought it was to try to inspire myself. But wouldn’t I have the paintings where I could see them to remind me of what I could do…what I might be able to do again? Not the blank canvas.

  “Hang the paintings up. Remind yourself of what you’re capable of. Of what you’re good at. What you love. Well, all of them, except for this one.” He reaches for the ballerina painting, picking it up. “I want this one.”

  “Why?”

  “My niece is obsessed with ballet. She’d love this.”

  “I didn’t know you were an uncle.”

  “Two nieces. They’re Zeus’s kids. Gigi is five and ballet-obsessed. And Thea is only six weeks old.”

  “Cute,” I say.

  “Ridiculously so.”

  “I bet you spoil them rotten.”

  He gives me a look. “All the damn time. Case in point.” He nods down at my painting. “So, can I buy this from you? It doesn’t matter what it costs.”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “Ari—”

  “Take it. Call it a gift for, you know, your help last night.”

  “You don’t owe me for that.”

  I shrug. “Whatever. I still want you to have it. Well, your niece.”

  “You have to let me give you something for it. I can’t just take it. It doesn’t feel right.”

  “Honestly, I don’t want anything, but if it bothers you that much, make a donation to a charity instead.”

  “Okay. I can do that.” He nods. “Which charity?”

  “American Foundation for Suicide Prevention,” I say without thinking.

  He’s wordlessly watching me. Like he’s trying to fit all the pieces of me together, but he’s coming up short.

  “Okay.” His voice is rough. “I’ll make the donation today.”

  “Thank you,” I say softly.

  We’re quiet a moment. All of the unspoken words hanging silently between us.

  He’s the first to speak, “Well, I guess I should take off.”

  “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

  I follow him into my living room and watch quietly while he puts his shoes on.

  Then, I follow him to the front door. He unlocks and opens it, stepping through, my painting in his hand.

  “So…thanks again for the save last night.”

  He shakes his head in silent reproach. “You don’t need to thank me, Jailbird. I did what any guy would.”

  “Well, not any guy. I don’t think Kyle would threaten you to save my ass.”

  “Good point,” he says.

  I chuckle.

  “Don’t forget I’m driving you in the morning.”

  I tap two fingers to my head and salute. “Why do you get there so early anyway?”

  He’s always there first before all the other players, and he is always the last to leave.

  “I like to do cardio before training starts.”

  “And after? You stay way later than the other players.”

  “Weights. Sometimes, I have a massage. And I like to spend time watching tape.”

  “Geek,” I say.

  He laughs.

  “Well, at least I know why my dad thinks you’re the shit. You’re certainly his most dedicated player.”

  “You don’t think I’m the shit?”

  “Nope.” I smirk. “I think you are shit.”

  “Low, Jailbird.” He slaps a hand to his chest. “You almost hurt my feelings.” He steps back. “Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock. Be ready to go.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “And don’t go watching Dexter without me,” he throws over his shoulder as he heads for the stairs.

  Does this mean he wants to come back? Not just to drive me to work, but to watch TV with me? Maybe be my friend?

  I feel a little glow inside of me at the thought.

  “Got it. But you don’t need to worry. I wouldn’t dare watch it alone. Seriously. I’d shit if I did.”

  That earns me a laugh. “Later, Jailbird.”

  “See ya, Mr. Perfect.”

  I shut the door on the sound of his deep chuckle and lean against it, feeling a little lighter and a lot happier.

  It’s Friday. I’m in a great mood. It’s been a good week.

  Ares has been giving me a ride into work every day and dropping me home, just like he said he would.

  He even walks me up to my apartment when he takes me home, like he thinks Kyle is going to jump out from behind the wall and get me.

  There’s also been no sign of Kyle since that night, which is a good thing.

  Ares and I are getting along well. No more sniping or shitty comments from him.

  We’re actually talking like normal people. And I’m finding that we have more in common than I would’ve thought.

  Well, not tons in common. But we like a lot of the same movies and music.

  Okay, so that’s it. But I like him. I like what he has to say. I like listening to him talk.

  I find that I look forward to our chats in the car.

  And I haven’t had a bad moment once this week. Don’t get me wrong; the need for alcohol is always there, in the back of my mind. It’s just not been as strong.

  Ares hasn’t once mentioned us watching Dexter together again though. And I don’t want to be the one to ask him. I don’t want to push a friendship onto someone who doesn’t want it. So, the ball is in his court.

  Although I am dying to watch more episodes of Dexter, and I’m wondering if I should just watch it alone. During the daytime, of course.

  I’ve seen Missy a few times this week, which has been fun. I like her a lot.

  We had lunch together on Sunday. She had called a few hours after Ares left to invite me to lunch. We met at a cute little café in Times Square. She apologized for missing the cinema, which I told her she didn’t have to. I mean, her friend was having a baby; that was way more important. She told me that her friend, Amanda, had a boy called Freddie. Missy showed me a picture of the baby on her phone. So freaking adorable.

  Then, she asked me about Kyle. She said that Ares had told her. I mean, I’d asked him not to tell my dad, which he hasn’t, but I hadn’t thought about other people. I guess Missy knowing isn’t a problem, and she told me that he’d only told her because she was staying with him at the moment, and she’d just gotten home from the hospital early in the morning when he came in from being at mine.

  After that, I focused the conversation toward her. She talked about her nieces, Gigi and Thea. She practically glowed about them, clearly a besotted aunt. She showed me photos of them, too. I swear, I had baby fever by the end of that lunch.

  Missy never mentioned the painting that I gave Ares for Gigi though, so there’s something he did keep to himself. And I’m grateful for that. I don’t want to talk about my art with anyone right now—or the lack of it.

  Missy also told me that she was a psych major at Dartmouth. She’s home for the summer, staying with Ares, like she always does. She told me that her twin brother, Lo, is currently in Europe, traveling with his buddies. He’s at Penn State, earning a law degree.

  She told me tons of stuff.

  One thing I noticed she never mentioned was her parents. And I never asked.

  I don’t want her asking about my mom, so I’m not going to ask her questions about her parents.

  But I do know that Ares pays for hers and Lo’s college tuition, as my dad once told me that. So, either their parents aren’t financially able to help toward their education or they’re not around.

>   Something tells me it might be the latter.

  Missy and I also finally went to the cinema together on Tuesday evening. Just me and her, no Ares this time. We went to see The Greatest Showman again. Well, again for me, first time for Missy. But I was more than happy to watch it for a second time.

  I’ve had quite a busy week, by my standards, and it’s been really good.

  I’m on my way to the players’ meeting room right now to set up for the weekly team meeting.

  The meeting room is on the other side of the gym.

  I’m just walking by there when I hear my name—well, a variation of it—being said, and I stop near the partially open door.

  “So, Kincaid…you and Coach Petrelli’s daughter.”

  I don’t recognize the voice, but it’s one of the players on the team. They’re the only ones who use the gym.

  “Me and Ari, what?” That voice I do know. It’s the one I’ve grown to like listening to in his car every morning and evening.

  “Oh, Ari,” the voice singsongs. “So, you’re on a first-name basis with her. I guess you should be when you’re screwing her.”

  What?

  “I’m not screwing her, dick face. And I don’t refer to her as Coach Petrelli’s daughter because she has a fucking name—Ari.”

  It was only a week ago that he referred to me as Jailbird. He still does from time to time, but I now take it as something that changed from a barb to cheeky.

  “Hey, man, I wouldn’t blame you if you were. She’s hot as hell.”

  “I’m sure your wife would love to hear you say that.”

  “Hey, I might be married, but I’m not fucking blind. And Arianna Petrelli is rocking some serious curves.” A pause then. “You don’t think she’s hot?”

  “She’s okay, I guess. If you like that kind of thing.”

  “If you like that kind of thing.”

  Wow. Thanks, quarterback.

  “Um…pretty face, great ass. Sure, her rack’s not huge, but there’s a definite handful there.”

  “You have issues. Like, seriously, you should talk to a doctor.”

  A chuckle. “Look, all I heard is that she’s been seen in your car a lot this past week, and if I’m hearing, so is Coach.”

  “So? All I’m doing is giving her a ride home.”

  “Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?”

  It’s Ares’s turn to laugh. “Don’t be a dick, Thompson.” Ah, so it’s the fullback he’s in there with. “Ari doesn’t have her license anymore, and she was taking the bus. I live in the city, not far from her, so I offered to drive her.”