Losing Seven (Falling for Seven Book 2)

by T. A Richards Neville

  “You cut me out of your life. Said you loved me and let me go. It was so easy for you.”

  “Angel, I couldn’t cut you out of my life if I carved open my chest and offered my heart as a donor.”

  Julian reached for his clothes. Stood and pulled on his boxers and slacks and tucked in his creased shirt, one side hanging out. He sat at the foot of the bed and laced up his shoes, slung his jacket over his shoulder and slid his arm under the blanket keeping me warm. The touch of his cold fingers and brittle shirtsleeve sent ice swarming over my skin, stealing my heat and replacing it with tender goose bumps. My nipples tightened and my breasts swelled as his hand lay low and heavy on my stomach. My thighs wantonly itched to part, my back resisting the need to push higher up the chair. He knew all too well what he was doing, he always knew. There were no accidents with Julian. He was too conniving.

  His hand inched down to the valley of my thighs, hitching to the right over the meaty part of my leg, squeezing muscle and skin and I clenched in torment. Closed my eyes and hid the torture while my body ached for more touches, more caresses—more pressure.

  “I’ll go,” he said in my ear, the grit in his voice traveling through the canal and straight to my ovaries. I extended my neck when his soft lips sloped over my jaw and the scruff on his chin prickled my skin. The blanket came loose in my fist and fell to his hand on my stomach, air rushing to greet me in contact so excruciatingly physical. He dragged my hair behind my shoulder—shoved his hand below the blanket, grabbing my mouth with his as he grabbed me with his hand, dousing my cries with his tongue and possessiveness.

  Watching Julian’s Mercedes reverse out of the drive and tear off toward the highway—from the bay window where his hands had just been all over me, inside of me—was easier than the last time I had to watch him leave. I stood at that window for an unreasonable length of the morning, Julian’s cologne clinging to my body, holding me in place like he was still here.

  J orge’s pink one story house swung into view. I parked in the narrow alley cluttered with empty boxes and sun-bleached yard toys and flipped down the glove box on the passenger side, grabbed what I was looking for and stepped down from the Range Rover. Dog stuffed the length of his body through the two front seats and sprang to the ground with a slobbering tongue, tracking the spicy aroma of food.

  I clicked the locks and bundled my keys into my jacket pocket, opening the metal gate for Dog, who was sniffing at the latch. New, white awnings had been fixed above the box windows at the front of the house, and the tackling equipment I’d dropped off for Jorge protruded from the lawn at the side of the house.

  The front door careened inward, screaming on its hinges. “Julian, ¡Eres tu!” Jorge turned the lock on the outer screen door and let me inside.

  “It’s me,” I said, bumping his fist with mine as I wiped my sneakers on the entrance mat. Dog bolted ahead, hot on the trail of his next meal. “How’s it going, J? Something smells good.”

  “That’s lunch. Mom’s making pasteles. You want some, Julian?” Jorge used my name as a beginning and end to most questions and answers.

  “If Dog doesn’t get to it first.” I dwarfed Cecilia and Joseph’s compact living room, breaking down the ten or so feet to the kitchen to make my presence known to at least one parent. Dog skidded around the linoleum floor and Cecilia held a silver bowl over the sink facing the window, water running from the faucet. She dipped her fingers into the stream, checked the temperature and then filled the bowl.

  “Hi, Cecilia.”

  Turning to beam at me—cheeks flushed from cooking in the tiny, steaming kitchen—Cecilia bent to place the dish of water on the floor for Dog and wiped her hands on the apron tied at her waist. “Julian, aquí, try this.” She crossed to the stove and lifted the lid on the biggest pot. Steam billowed up to the ceiling. “Pasteles en hoja. Mm, smell that.”

  I leaned over the pot, Cecilia wafting the rising steam straight into my face with her asbestos hands. The floating oblongs reminded me of tamales. Except what Cecelia picked out of the water with tongs was green, tied up with string.

  “Leaves?” I asked.

  “Sí. Plátano. Are you hungry?”

  Not really. “A little.”

  “Mamá.” Jorge appeared from behind me, Cecilia hushing him with the flap of a dish towel. He groaned and tossed his head back. Rolled his eyes and folded his arms to rest his elbows on the kitchen counter. He put his head on is forearms, turned to look at me and blew out another sigh.

  Cecilia untied the steaming package, unfolding what was inside. Picked up a knife and fork and cut through the top corner of masa. “Careful, it’s very hot.” She held the fork up to my mouth, her other hand acting as a safety net. Like there was a chance the food could end up on the floor, and I wasn’t a grown adult capable of getting it all in my mouth on the first bite.

  I leaned in and took the food from the fork with my mouth. Just like a tamale, but better. “It’s good,” I told Cecilia. “Don’t give Dog any. It’s a waste of your cooking.”

  As she did with Jorge, she waved off my advice, air-pushing me out of her kitchen. “I’ll mash him some up, anyway. I have those doggy biscuits he loves so much in the pantry. You boys go play while I clean up in here.”

  I ducked my head and coughed into my fist over the laughter. If I wasn’t training, prepping my body for the new season, I was here with Jorge. Helping Joseph with maintenance work around the house or just chilling in the yard with a beer. The Cortez’s treated me like my own family would, and I’d discovered when I moved down to Miami that the party life wasn’t for me. That recklessness was fine in college when I was dealing with shit, but random, willing women and wild nights weren’t forecast for my future. Ironic how living my dream in southern Florida left cravings for what I’d left back in Boston.

  I’d even betting to know Jorge’s older sisters, Daylin and Camilla. Jorge’s flighty aunty Nola had once suggested during a barbeque that Camilla, who was coming up on her nineteenth birthday, would be the ideal match for me. Purely because she was a woman and I had a dick. Joseph and Cecilia had quickly stamped on that suggestion and asked Nola not to meddle in my ‘relations’ again. Nola had winked at me from across the yard as she sipped her sangria in her deck chair, as if we were in on some secret we’d return to later—when Cecilia and Joseph weren’t around.

  Fifteen-year-old Daylin pussy-footed around me most of the time, still too shy to do more than smile and say hello. And when her friends were over, I’d catch them huddled at her bedroom window between the nets watching me. Or hear my name thrown into conversations excitedly switching between English and Spanish.

  From the elastic waistband at the back of my athletic pants, I tugged out the game I’d been sent from EA. Gave it to Jorge and chuckled to myself when he clutched the case in two hands and screamed ohmygod enough times I wouldn’t have been surprised if the ceiling opened to a halo of white light.

  “Oh, man, this is so awesome.” He flipped the game frontside. “Jesus. You’re even on the freaking cover. How’d you get this? It’s two months early.”

  “Perks of being star of the game.”

  “I’m gonna show my dad this.”

  “He’s around? I didn’t see his car.”

  “He’s in the shed fixing the lawnmower.”

  We left through the front of the house, not to disturb Cecilia cleaning the kitchen floor, and Joseph was bent over a rickety looking lawnmower. A manual one.

  “Where did you find that?” I asked, admiring the muck-crusted frame. “Your childhood?”

  Joseph pulled back his newspaper cap. “This is my spare. She’s a beauty, huh?”

  “She sure is. Your regular mower’s busted?”

  “Thieves took the blades and the wire. Now I’m tasked with taking the shell to the dump and wasting my own gas. Damn adolescentes.”

  “Papá, look what Julian brought me. It’s an early early release.” Jorge thrust the Madden game under his dad’s nose �
�Look at it.”

  “Sí, sí. ¡Muy bien!”

  Jorge spun to me, prizing the game from Joseph’s sight. “Can I go play it now, Julian?”

  “It’s yours. Load it up.”

  Running inside the house, the screen door clattered on closing, the front door next to bang shut. “You’re too kind to him, Julian.”

  “No such thing.”

  “Well…” Joseph carried the Victorian lawnmower to the shed, leaning it up against the splintered planks. “Work calls. I should probably get cleaned up now.” Dusting his grass-stained hands off on his work shorts, Joseph closed in. All five-and-a-half-feet of him. “How’s that lady of yours?”

  “I said I’d give her time, and that’s what I’m doing. Feels like my watch has stopped if I’m honest.”

  “Just don’t give her too much and risk her thinking you don’t care. She chased your crazy dog around Miami. I’d say she’s worth putting a little extra fight in. Listen to me, Julian. I’m wiser than I look.”

  “What are you saying I should do?”

  Burgeoning passion zinged across his face. “Go after her. Enough waiting. Prove you’re serious now before it’s too late.”

  Comprehending Joseph’s words, it didn’t take long for Angel tunnel vision to close in like darkness. Dumb luck wouldn’t bring her back, but neither would forcing her. I couldn’t not try, though, this late in the game. I hated losing with a passion. Doubly so when the trophy was so lucrative.

  “You’re right. This is absolute horseshit.” She’d had since March. More than three months to figure out my place in her life, or if I still had one. I’d sat around and I’d waited. Losing hope wasn’t next on the list. I was Rookie of the Year for fuck’s sake. Waiting around for my reward had never been my MO—I fought my ass off for it.

  Joseph’s shrewd brown eyes narrowed to analytical slits, reading the watch face on the inside of his wrist against the sun’s glare. He sighed, squared his shoulders and straightened his spine. “I like you, son, but stop being an imbecile now. ¿Convenido? Go and get her, Julian. Before someone beats you to it.”

  Joseph left for to pick up a fare from the airport and I left for home, Jorge immersed in the birth of his career battle to the NFL Superbowl. Taj was on the nine o’ clock flight from Boston, and I wanted to be at MIA early. At least an hour. The condo was tidy, I’d managed to get rid of Rebecca for now, and the fridge was stocked with the snacks Taj liked to eat. Having him here was a big deal to me, and the goal was for his first visit not to turn into his last. Withdrawn from integration into a society he didn’t have experience dealing with, his turn around was massive.

  I couldn’t be prouder of the kid. Driven by sport, I understood how skating and hockey powered him—motivated him to achieve—and I would be supporting him all the way, didn’t matter what state I was in.

  Ten minutes before picking him up, I hustled Dog outside for a sprint around the nearest field, topped up his water bowl and kept him occupied with a fresh marrow bone.

  On the street below, a horn blared, the unfluctuating noise traveling through the treble glazing. I grabbed my keys and phone, took a quick slash because airport bathrooms gave me the shivers, and jogged down the stairs. I’d get Taj, give him a couple days to settle in, and then he’d be on another flight with me to claim our girl. Picturing Angel’s stubborn face thawed me all the way through.

  I opened the door, moved to step into the hall and came up short. I glanced between the two figures twenty-five feet ahead, shortest to tallest, and circled back. It still got me, seeing Taj wearing headphones, but it got me even harder when he was walking next to the girl of my goddamn dreams.

  Angel wheeled her luggage at her side, her gait purposefully slow. Taj grinned and slid his wireless headphones over his dirty blonde hair, so they were around his neck. I blinked, but they were both still coming my way. Two real, solid shapes. Then Angel moved faster, black sneakers scuffing marble in tiny squeaks. Making it one step beyond my doorway, Angel deserted her suitcase, feet kicking up into a run, her long ponytail bouncing over her shoulder.

  I broke stride and tore down the distance in a second flat, wrapped her in my arms and swept her off the ground. “Fucking hell,” I said. You came.”

  Her eyes shimmered like glass, trapping facets of streaming sunlight, melting umber to honey. Happy tears, I hoped. Her hand grazed the side of my face, sloping up into my hair. “Locusts couldn’t keep me away. Joseph picked us up. We were booked on the earlier flight. Surprise!”

  I laughed against her lips, ensnared the tip of her lower lip between my teeth. “That smarmy bastard.” I kissed away the bite. I’d thank Joseph later. Probably with a new lawnmower. One he could power up the engine and ride on.

  Angel’s smile destroyed me. “I ordered him personally.”

  During the anarchy, Dog had designed his escape and was pawing at Angel’s legs locked around my waist. She hedged to one side, reaching down to pet under his chin. He lapped it up, licked her fingers and widened his jaws to get her hand in there for a playful nibble.

  I carried her to fetch her suitcase, letting her go the last thing on my mind. “I missed you,” I mumbled in the thick of her kisses.

  “Put him down, you don’t know where he’s been.”

  “Hey!” I hooked Taj by the collar of his polo shirt. He’d grown more than an inch since the wedding, breaching Angel by nearly half a foot. “It’s good to see you.”

  He shook me off, a side smile flooding his cheeks with a rosy hue. “Yeah,” he said, wheeling his suitcase by me into the condo. “Cool,” he muttered to himself.

  Dog’s interest u-turned, hiking after and sniffing the heels of Taj’s Air Jordans. Angel slid from my body to the floor when we joined them inside, gazing around as if she hadn’t seen my place before now.

  Like a dying fish, Taj flopped onto the sectional on his back. “Can we get pizza? I’m starving.”

  “I don’t keep menus. We’ll drive out and pick one up.”

  His head rolled to the side, hands folding behind his head. “And see the beach?”

  “And see the beach,” I said, part-signing. “You and Mom settling into the new crib?” Dorchester was no more and knowing that thrilled me.

  Yeah. And I’m friends with Beau Kessler now. You know, the hockey player? He’s got my phone number, Taj signed, using his voice only as an aid. His speech was coming so natural now, it was easy to forget he still had a long stretch ahead.

  I bagged the tail-end of Angel’s passive smile as she looked away. “Something else I can thank her for?”

  Taj nodded, his smile pure innocence.

  “What’s this I hear about Beau Kessler?” I said to Angel. I was well aware they’d kept up a friendship. But getting under her skin was a favorite pastime of mine. Maybe if she didn’t make it so easy, I’d let up.

  “I’m his wingwoman,” she said confidently.

  “Wingwoman?” I laughed. Probably too much. “How’s that working for you both?” I said more seriously.

  “Just fine, thank you. He’s actually a really close friend now.”

  I uncovered from the tone used that she was telling the truth. I remembered when she’d tried to friend-zone me in college. Then I remembered how she’d succeeded.

  “And how’s Rebecca working out for you?” she asked, the smile frozen on her face like she already knew. And I’m sure she did. She talked with my mom on the phone regularly, and her and Taj had network minutes exclusively for each other.

  “She’s taken over my house.” And that was phrasing it lightly.

  Angel crossed her arms and ankles, staring at me over the teasing distance that had kept us separated for months. “I think your relationship with her is awesome, even if you’re still adjusting.”

  The next three hours rolled by as quick as they did slow. After inhaling five slices of a stone-baked Hawaiian, Taj went from sitting engrossed in subtitled Family Guy, to snoring from the drooling black hole that was his mout
h. I prodded him awake and took him up to his room next to mine.

  The living room sat empty when I came downstairs, the television playing to no one. I switched it off and slid open the glass balcony door, finding Angel curled up in one of the lounge chairs. She’d taken out her ponytail and she looked tired. Relaxed, but wary. Her legs were bare, a white t-shirt to her thighs with a crinkled print of Barbie in a pink bikini across the front.

  I stood with my back to the street. Leaned into the glass rail and dug my hands into my pockets. I’d left my t-shirt upstairs, assuming Taj wouldn’t be the only one turning in for the night. Not to sleep, of course. There was a different kind of catching up to be had.

  “We didn’t get much of a chance to talk earlier, but I was coming to LA to get you.”

  Fiddling with the pillow in her arms, Angel looked up at me with those sultry bedroom eyes and seductive, pouty mouth. “You did the grand gesture already and look how that worked out.”

  “Guess you’re right.” I’d gone big before I got drafted and squandered my winnings. The last trick up my sleeve was… honesty, and I was getting to it. “So.” I grinned. “Do you like yourself yet? I’ll start the ball rolling and give you a solid five.”

  Angel gave me a fishy look. “Out of?”

  “Ten. Obviously.” Her mouth pursed. “I’m playing with you. You’re a twenty all day long.”

  Eyes peeking up from where her fingers plucked at the pillow’s micro threads, she asked, “You were coming to get me, huh?”

  “I’ll always come for you. There’s something in here—” In two long strides I was kneeling in front of her. Capturing her hand and flattening it to the top left of my chest, my hand bracketing hers. “Right here, connecting us.” I added pressure to her hand. “Feel that? Because I do.”