“I’ll be okay,” I said to Hayden, sounding like I at least half meant it. “I’m just tired.”
Hayden laid her hand on my forearm, urging me to turn and look at her. “So, something is wrong?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I still have moments where I’m upset over Nellie, but that wouldn’t make me ill. Vodka makes me ill. The extra skating and school work are catching up to me—and Julian…” I pushed my hair from my face, sighing. “I need a minute to breathe, that’s all. I’m having a bad week.”
Hayden let it go, her lips pursed like she wanted to argue her case further, but then deciding it wouldn’t make any difference. “Come stay at my house this weekend. We’ll watch a movie, eat greasy takeout from the container and make cocktails.”
My stomach lashed out at the threat of alcohol and I raced back into the bathroom stall, throwing up remnants of last night before I even had a chance to close the door behind me.
“Okay,” Hayden said loudly, “make that a Shirley Temple for you,”
At home, I stripped down to my underwear. My eyes and my head were sore from three hours studying at the library and too much exposure to my laptop. Under the light from the stove’s extractor fan, I opened one of the drawers and took out a bottle of aspirin. I tipped two pills into the palm of my hand and chased them down with a glass of water that tasted like it had been pumped straight from the sewer. I poured it out, scrubbed the taste away with my toothbrush and then climbed into bed.
My eyes were closing as my phone chimed next to my head. I snatched it up and answered, killing the awful noise.
“Hello?” I missed the caller ID in my haste to silence the ringing.
“Did I wake you?”
Julian.
I rolled onto my side, snuggling into my pillows with my phone to my ear. “I was falling asleep, yeah. But you caught me.”
“At a good time?”
Suspicion crept into my voice. “Why?”
Julian’s puppy yapped a couple times in the background. Short, sharp barks that demanded attention. Julian must’ve given it to him because the noise came to a grinding halt. “You know my agent, Scott?”
“I don’t know him, but I know who you mean. What about him?”
“He wants to know if you’ll do a Sports Illustrated photo shoot with me.” Long pause. “And interview.”
I gave my own long pause. “He already made the deal, didn’t he?” I’d met Scott Hilton three times, and during those three times he’d let his pushy, controlling personality shine bright. There were no airs and graces on my behalf. Him requesting me for an interview with Julian and revealing myself to the public was a bold contradiction to the sneers and shady glances I’d caught him sliding my way. I guessed where money was involved, he could stand to tolerate me if it promised to pay his bills; keep him behind the leather wheel of an Italian limited-edition convertible.
“He can’t make the decision for you. Sports Illustrated are getting my interview, but they want you as well.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re gorgeous. People want to know who you are. Look, you know I don’t give just anyone my time. But Scott says I need to be more accessible, and Sports Illustrated is the right way to go. Doing this with you grounds me. Apparently. Scott’s words, not mine.”
“Scott’s an asshole.”
“They’ll pay you, fly you out here. The shoot and interview will take a day, and I get you for the night. I’ll have you back in Los Angeles for your Wednesday afternoon classes if that’s what you want. Tuesday’s my only full day off, so we’ll have to work around that.”
“What kinds of questions will I be asked?”
“None that you won’t screen first. It’s mostly going to be about us, your skating, my career. How we make it work. All that boring shit. Nothing too personal and nothing you don’t want to talk about. You’re in control.”
“And the shoot?”
“Standard pictures. We didn’t get into specifics. Scott will handle the details.”
I rubbed the skin above my eyes. “I don’t know. Can I think about this? It’s late and I’m hungover.”
“Sure.” It was clear from Julian’s tone I hadn’t steered this conversation in the right direction. He sounded how I felt: fed up. “Let me know when you’ve decided. I need to get back to Scott by Friday.”
“I will,” I said, an eye-watering yawn following. A yawn that Julian took to mean I was bored by him.
“I won’t keep you up. Sweet dreams, Angel.”
“Julian—”
Too late. He’d already hung up. And not just the phone. I got the feeling he’d hung up on me.
My Monday night five-hour flight to Miami was in one word: horrific. The turbulence was mild, but I’d thrown up into a sick bag since I wasn’t allowed out of my seat to use the toilet, and then graciously apologized to the dismayed man sitting in the seat beside me, who could only look ahead while I filled the brown bag with the tuna salad I’d eaten for lunch.
Looking back, I blamed the tuna. The smell and taste when it made its re-entrance was so extreme, I might never eat canned fish again.
I bypassed baggage claim, carrying my pink sports bag. It was a short one-and-a-half day stay and Julian assured me Sports Illustrated would be taking care of wardrobe, and I didn’t need to bring anything but myself.
Not spotting Julian anywhere at arrivals, I headed outside into the evening heat. A humid blanket clinging to my skin like an invisible mold as I walked through the doors of Miami International Airport.
There, outside the terminal, pulled up to the curb and leaning against the white Range Rover’s passenger door, stood Julian. Simply dressed in an open black hoodie and black shorts and tee, but no less impressive than if he were dripping in expensive threads. His black snapback was flipped the wrong way and I wondered if his time in Miami meant he’d steadily acclimatized to the oppressive heat. It was a strange sensation, standing on Julian’s turf, and for one of the first times since he’d uprooted for his football career, physically seeing with my own eyes that this was his home now. Sunny Miami, Florida. Not Seasonal Boston, Massachusetts. Where leaves and snow fell, and the winters turned bitterly cold.
He pulled his hands from his pockets, an inert, closed-mouth smile tugging up one side of his mouth. I smiled back, crossing the airport road, hurrying when a yellow taxi pulled out into the lane. I dropped my bag and Julian caught it by the handles before it hit the asphalt. He narrowed one eye as he tossed my bag over his shoulder. “Bad flight?” he asked.
“No. Why?” I said, remembering the tuna incident too late.
“You look sick.”
“I was sick.” Julian let me into the car, and I finished my story when he was behind the wheel. “I threw up my lunch during a patch of turbulence.”
“Nasty. So, you aren’t hungry?”
“I’m starving,” I said with a sheepish grin.
Julian followed the signs for the exit, and I stared out my window during the ride, taking in my first glimpses of Miami. “Did you just finish practice?”
“Yeah, and weight training. Our O-line coach wants to switch up the plays for the game on Sunday, so the meeting ran about two hours over. I already ate dinner with the team, but I’ll pick you something up.”
“Do you have food at your place?” Fast food didn’t sound appealing in the slightest. I was craving something plain and homemade. Nothing too fussy.
Julian glanced at me, maneuvering the Range Rover through the streets with the ease and familiarity only a local possessed. “Yeah, I’ve got stuff. What do you feel like and I’ll make it?”
“I can do it. You must be tired.”
“Not too tired for you.”
“This feels weird,” I blurted. “Sitting here with you, it’s like a first date. I feel like someone carved out the inside of my stomach and filled it full of flurries.”
Julian frowned, one eyebrow raising, and I didn’t blame him. I barely made sen
se to myself. “What?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head with a light smile. “It’s just strange. Being apart and then together again. It makes it seem like we’re strangers… do you get that feeling?”
“I don’t know. Describe it to me.” Julian drove us onto more civilized streets, a line of palm trees along the sidewalk reminiscent of my home back in Los Angeles. I liked it here; the heat, the natural beauty among manmade extensions—being so close to the ocean.
I scratched my eyebrow with my nail, smiling at the smirk on Julian’s face. “I don’t know… like… seeing you for the first first time. Getting those feelings all over again.”
“I feel like that every time I look at you. I never needed this distance between us.”
I rolled my eyes, warmth hugging me from inside and the loose flurries swirling up a storm. “You’re saying that because you never had to witness me bringing up tuna mush.”
“You could vomit cow shit and I’d still feel that way.”
We slowed down at the intersection on a residential street, taking the first left turn into an underground parking garage. White light illuminated the garage and Julian carried my bags to the elevator. A fancy mirrored elevator with an actual couch.
We got off on the highest floor, Julian’s condominium to the left of the elevator with views that looked out over sandy beaches and thriving streets I idled behind, looking through the stretch of glass. “I love where you live. It’s beautiful.”
“Sure. It’s okay.”
“Just okay?” I questioned.
Julian unlocked the door and let me into his condo first. He looked down at me as I slid inside, under his arm that held the door open. “I’m from Boston. What do you want me to say?”
I stood in the middle of the open living room. Julian flipped a switch and the ceiling spotlights came on. I turned around, looking at everything—all the space. The sprawling white leather sectional, the adjoining kitchen and stand-out staircase to the second level.
“Everything’s white,” I said, stating the obvious. “And where’s your puppy?” I looked around for the dog, but the only signs that Julian owned one were two ceramic bowls sitting side by side on the white marble floor beside the kitchen bar.
“Probably cowering under my bed.”
“Cowering?”
“That’s what he does. Sometimes I forget he was abused. He needs full time care, not a half-assed owner who’s never home most of the day.”
“Can I go see him?”
“Go up. I’ll bring your bag.”
I climbed the stairs. Julian’s bedroom was visible from the living room, the condo designed with entirely wide-open space. Julian’s king size bed with the whitest sheets known to man took up center stage. See-through curtains hung at the floor-to ceiling windows, and his dresser was covered with the usual suspects. Deodorant cans, moisturizer, phone charger, electric razor, and a Bluetooth speaker. If not for those necessities, this room would be immaculately minimal.
I wandered over to the bed, bending at the waist to see underneath. I got down on my knees, tipping my head to the side so my hair dusted the floor, and I peered into the darkness.
“Hey, boy,” I said, looking back at a set of drooping black glassy eyes. “I won’t hurt you.” I reached under the bed, rubbing my fingertips together so he would come to me. Fluffy paws lay stretched out in front of the puppy, his chin on the floor. His ears perked up and his nose twitched, sniffing out the danger. “You can trust me.”
“Try this.”
I looked over my shoulder, at Julian standing behind me with a doggy bone in his hand.
I took it, waving it at the perimeter of the bed, where darkness met light. Torturously slowly, Dog eventually crept forward, until his nose was at the bone and I inched it toward me, enticing the puppy to come out a little more. He stretched out, arching his back against the frame as he came out from under the bed. I stroked his back and he slumped beside me like a lazy lump, gnawing on the bone, head wriggling from side to side while his paws secured the meaty bone in his possession.
I smiled at Julian, my hand stroking the buttery soft fur on Dog’s back. “I think I’m in love.
Julian sat on the edge of the bed, reaching down a hand between his spread knees to rub behind Dog’s ear, his dark blue eyes on me. “Me, too.”
My gaze skimmed over Julian’s serious face and I swallowed, standing up and walking to the staircase, checking to see if Dog was following me. He was. Head bowed, the bone locked between his teeth and his bushy tail swishing behind him.
“Do you want me to make you something to eat?” I asked Julian, halfway down the stairs. He’d already eaten dinner, but his appetite wasn’t the same size as an ordinary human’s. He ate well and he ate a lot.
“If you’re cooking anyway.”
I heated a pan of brown rice and took a pack of shrimps from the freezer. Julian pulled out a stool at the kitchen bar and watched me as I cooked, holding a half-drunk bottle of Gatorade in front of him. I heated canola oil in a pan and dropped in the diced red pepper and garlic, stirring them before leaving to soften. While the the rice simmered, I turned off the burners and walked around to Julian’s side of the counter. Pushed his knee so he was facing me and then sat down on it, one hand sliding behind his neck as I reached up to kiss him.
“Mm, tuna.” Julian smirked, his lips still touching mine.
I laughed, wrapping my other arm around his neck and lifting the snapback from his head. I tossed it over his Gatorade and let my fingers wander up into his short strands of hair. Julian leaned down, claiming my mouth in a kiss that was as rough as it was soft, and then he was up out of the stool, scooping me into his arms and carrying me across the living room and up the stairs.
He lay me down on the bed and shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. His t-shirt suffered the same treatment and I ran my fingers over his smooth, defined stomach, grabbing him at his waist until he was on top of me, muscled arms braced either side of my head, crushing the mattress below us. His head dipped and I felt his warm breath below my mouth, whispering over my neck as his lips landed on my collarbone, my tank top preventing any further skin on skin contact.
That would have to change.
I brought my knees up, bracketing Julian’s suspended body. Fingers dipped into the waistband of my leggings, tugging them down, and I arched my back to give him more room to work. In my French cut panties and tank top, I couldn’t wait for clothes to be shed any longer. I pushed Julian’s shorts over his hips enough to get what I wanted, driven by desperate impatience that had stemmed and blossomed from nowhere. He pulled my panties to the side, guiding himself inside me in one smooth motion, sliding all the way in to the hitch of my silent gasp. Careful lovemaking turned into rugged, unrefined thrusts, Julian grabbing me by my knees, pressing my legs into my chest while he held on, sinking into me like he’d never be given the opportunity again.
Eight a.m. the next morning, I was sitting in a canvas chair getting my hair curled and makeup applied for the photo shoot.
Lara, the hairstylist, teased out my warm curls, combing them into manageable, shiny waves with a conditioning serum rubbed into her fingers. Nude and rose tones highlighted my lips and cheek bones. Sooty mascara and charcoal eyeliner creating smoky eyes, and this was hands down the most makeup I’d ever had on my face.
I changed into my first outfit of the day—a freakishly tight pair of imitation Miami dolphins football pants. The white Lycra plastered to my skin, leaving nothing to the imagination, and better still, there was no shirt for this part of the shoot. Julian had only induced an agreement from me because he was the only one who’d ultimately see anything.
“I’ll take you through.” Keely, personal assistant to Sports Illustrateds’ photographer, Robert London, handed me a towel to cover my naked chest and walked me to a large room with a white backdrop, where standing LED lights streamed candescent, artificial light. Julian stood off to the side, a woman in fr
ont of him reaching up to apply strips of eye-black to his cheekbones with a makeup sponge. He was dressed in full football uniform, including pads and cleats. White football pants and teal jersey—white helmet tucked under his arm. Day old scruff shadowed his chiseled jaw, and he winked when he saw me watching him.
“Okay, right over here.” I followed Keely’s instruction as she led me to center floor, and I met Julian in the middle. Robert, the photographer, showed Julian where he wanted him; lying on the floor with one leg stretched out in front of him and the other leg bent at the knee, his weight propped up on his right forearm and his left arm draped over his left knee. His helmet sat on the floor between his right arm and his side, and Robert told me to stand in front of Julian with my back to the camera. He put a football in my left hand, which I held out in front of me at an angle it could be seen from camera view. I fixed my other hand to my hip, balancing in teal Christian Louboutin stilettos that made my ankles hurt.
“Keely,” Rob called from behind the camera lens, “take Angel’s towel.”
My eyes rounded and Keely gingerly prized my towel from me, my right arm replacing the material until she’d walked out of sight. I was not comfortable with nudity, not in a room full of people I'd known less than two hours.
“Julian, look up at Angel—into her eyes. Like you couldn’t care less she’s half naked. Like you don’t even notice it, you’re that much in love,” Rob exaggerated.
I snickered, and Julian flashed a disobedient glance at my breasts before licking his lips and looking up into my eyes, the traces of his smile surrendering to a heated look that sent my pulse wild. The camera snapped up a frenzy and I held back a smile, staring down at Julian. Trying to act like the expression on his face that told me he wouldn’t mind eating me for dinner wasn’t making my thighs quiver and clench.
Losing Seven (Falling for Seven Book 2) Page 10
