It took a long time, I know—I think I know—for the guys to get me out of that hole.
Depression is no joke, especially coupled with the discovery that pills can make tough days foggier, forgettable.
Right now, this now, everything is too clear. My actions too culpable. I shouldn’t have gone after Carter today and been such an ass, but that didn’t stop the need-monster inside from doing it anyway. The need to make people around me feel as shitty as I do. The craving to bring them down to my level so I can maintain a miserable existence.
I hid it well this past week, when Carter moved in when Lily became my new reality. But as real-life resettles its broken, rotting crow’s wings around me, I’m reminded that nothing stays perfect.
Not people, not actions, not dreams.
Do I have the strength to carry on like this for my daughter? Sure I do. I can maintain a level head. But when night comes, when those black feathers begin to fall, it’s tempting to remember who I really am. Who I’ve become.
Carter has the annoying habit of making me want to explain myself. Like at dinner tonight, when she was sulking at the table, I wanted to lower my head and explain that my dissing her paintings had nothing to do with her talent. It had to do with her future, and it was simple: she had one. A passion she pursues, a dream alive and rampant in her head.
I don’t know what that’s like anymore.
Every time I open my laptop, I blindly scroll through the classifieds in a futile attempt to figure out what my next steps should be, now that there’s a child relying on my life skills. Lily. I can’t live off my rookie contract forever, no matter how frugal I’ve become. The two-bedroom apartment I leased in TriBeCa, new construction, luxury building? Gone. The BMW 550? Gone. Spending two-a-days on the field, fire licking at my calves as I flew—not ran—by the yard? Bye-bye.
Pride?
Still motherfucking there.
I glance at the wall separating me from Carter again. She can never know how far I’ve fallen from grace. Why she can’t, I’m still figuring that out. I remember her from UF, how she, among many other faceless, nameless girls, scoped me out. She caught my attention because of her innocent seduction, and I knew if I took her then, I’d break her. Carter walked in during that party, she landed on me, and her eyes went wow. There he is. The football king, the perfect guy.
These past few days, I’ve seen that wow go to irritated, annoyed, sometimes bemused. And today, I saw it go to pity.
Fuck, I wish I smoked. I’d light up right now, staring at that wall through vaporous clouds and would probably look a helluva lot sexier than the one almost huddled in an agonized fetal position as my leg throbs.
That college man is long gone, and Carter knows it. I think I hate that realization the most.
To consider Lily might one day look at me like that….no. Fuck, no.
The pills are singing a siren song.
I turned my face into the pillow, alternately punching and roaring into it.
Two things could get rid of this tightness in my chest, the crushing angst. The Oxy I’ve hidden or having Carter’s naked body underneath me, mine to control, to stroke into ecstasy. I’d lose focus on anything else. Watch her eyes go half-lidded, see those crimson lips—were they still innocent?—parting, for my tongue, for my cock, then lowering, driving into her, clenching my hands on those milky soft thighs….
“God. Damn it!” I roar into the pillow.
I didn’t grow into adulthood as a screwup. But it seems I’m settling into it just fine.
My head pounds, and I’m not hungover.
Don’t think so, anyway, except my mouth feels like dry cake batter and my bones creak like someone tipped me upside down to drink out of a keg last night.
But nope, it’s just me, excruciatingly sober, sitting up in bed, scratching my morning beard, hiking my boxers down to disguise a morning stiffy, and padding out of my bedroom and into the bathroom to—
Oh, hey.
“Locke!” Carter screeches before slamming the door in my face.
I blink. Rub at my eyes. Remember who’s living with me and that I’m sore because of lifting and carrying my daughter everywhere yesterday.
Still a mind-fuck.
I turn to the kitchen instead and come across Lily, munching on a more expensive veggie version of Cheerios on the floor.
“Speak of the devil,” I say and lift her up, kiss her baby-soft hair, and focus entirely on forgetting what just greeted me in the bathroom two seconds ago.
A naked Carter.
Well, not entirely naked, I muse as I accept some puffed cereal being mashed into my mouth by Lily’s eager hand. Carter was in the midst of folding a towel around that very fine, very toned body of hers, flashing me enough that my morning half-chub turned into a full boner upon my eyes meeting her breasts.
They’d still been wet from the shower, offering a liquid shine, practically a beacon drawing my mouth forward. They were big enough to palm and squeeze—
“Bahbah!” Lily screeches into my ear.
Literally. In my ear.
I mouth CHRIST as exaggeratedly as I can, since I definitely can’t shout it, and find an empty, clean bottle of Lily’s. She decides to help by grabbing for anything I lift up with my free hand.
“You’re only adding time between you and this bottle in your mouth,” I say to no avail.
“Abah.”
“No. Not yours,” I respond and start mixing formula. “Yet, anyway.”
“Sorry I screamed.”
“Oh, it’s okay, I only need one eardrum to function, anyway,” I say to Lily.
“Locke? It’s me talking.”
I look over my shoulder at Carter, her hair damp from a shower, fully clothed in one of those things girls wear that has a shirt attached to the shorts. A green one. I tell myself not to stare at her legs, and my attention strays to her chest before I can stop it. She folds her arms.
“I knew it was you talking,” I say.
I didn’t really. Mornings put me on autopilot, and my sister swears I hallucinate.
“I debated dropping Lily on top of you while I showered, but when I went in, I couldn’t even rouse you,” she said.
I turn to her, shaking the bottle. “Did you tickle my feet?”
She looks at me like it’s a creeptastic fetish I have.
“It’s a trick Astor uses,” I elaborate. “To wake me up.”
“Lily was fine with me on the bathroom floor, anyway.” Carter shrugs then moves around me to grab a pitcher of orange juice and pours herself a glass. “Until she escaped briefly and found a tub of puffs, I see.”
“Another Hayes trait, I’m afraid. We’re gluttons for food. Even kernels found on the floor. Perhaps we were city pigeons in a past life.”
Carter leans a hip on the counter as she drinks. “Are you okay? You don’t look like you slept much.”
“Slept just fine, thank you.” I give Lily her bottle and put her on the floor so she can drink it herself. “As your inability to wake me proves.”
“Mm.”
“I figure I’ll take Lily to the park today. Want to come?”
Carter’s expression smooths like she understands I’m changing the subject. “Can’t. I’m going to help Pierce hang my paintings.”
I have to think back, rely on Carter’s previous nuggets of information, to remember who the fuck Pierce is. I still don’t. “Pierce?”
“The owner and manager of the cafe where I’m being displayed.”
Unintentionally, I stray to her cleavage again.
“My art, Locke.”
“Obviously,” I scoff, then pretend deep interest in how Lily’s tilting her bottle.
“It might take all day. I’m sorry I can’t be here to help.”
When Carter looks at Lily, it’s as if Lily just set off the most brilliant sunset. Even doing the simplest tasks, like drinking her breakfast, Carter can never look at Lily like she’s bored.
It grounds me, tha
t look. So matured, yet timeless. One I hope I’ll earn enough to emulate.
“Don’t worry about it. Lily and I’ll be fine. Right, Lil?”
Lily tilts her head almost backwards to peer at me through her forehead.
“Right,” I agree with myself. “And it’s good practice. For when I can no longer rely on you.”
If Lily causes sunsets in Carter, I fling blackouts.
“Yeah.” Carter sets her empty glass in the sink behind me.
“Carter, I didn’t mean…”
“No, of course not!” she says with forced cheer. “You’re totally right. And I’m going out with your sister tonight, anyway, so today’s a true test for you.”
Carter bends down and smooches Lily on the cheek. Then, as if on impulse, she does the same to my scruff.
“Good luck,” she says.
Carter strides to her paintings, which I only now notice have been stacked near the front door.
“Can you carry all that?” I ask. I need a few seconds to get over the stupor of having her lips on my face. “Gimme five to put on a shirt and pants—”
“No worries, Pierce is coming to give me a hand.”
“Pierce, huh?” I say before thinking.
Carter eyes me through her lashes. “Yes. Pierce. The manager. We’ve discussed this.”
“Uh-huh.” I lean against the fridge, Lily still pumping that milk into her system at my feet.
Carter blinks, and her suspicion is gone. In its place is a strange sort of glee. “By the way, there’s a reason I’ve wished you luck.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“She pooped!” Carter says brightly before swinging open the front door. “Enjoy!”
“She what?” I look down at the cute nugget, whose size should not be emitting the kind of smell that’s reaching my nostrils right now.
“You said it yourself, you need the practice. And you’ve been strangely absent whenever she’s had a really full diaper.”
“Wait!” My palm’s out as if mental force alone can stop Carter from disappearing into the hallway.
“You left your paintings!” I try next, even though she’s already shut the door. “I can destroy them!”
“I’m coming back later to get them!” her muffled voice replies. “With Pierce.”
Though Carter can’t see it, my lip curls into a sneer on the name. When I land back on Lily, it turns into a grimace.
“Dear God, woman. Whose side of the family does that come from?”
I lift, then hold her at arm’s length as we toddle to her nursery.
Lily looks at me with milk dribbling down the corners of her lips and grins.
17
Carter
I’m nervous.
I’m so anxious my fingers are giving out during every attempt to lift my artwork from the floor and hand it to Pierce, a lean, salt-and-pepper styled, happily-married father of three.
But I’m not telling Locke that.
The way Locke responded to my saying I’m receiving help from another man—oh, the horror—with his brows ramming down and the tendons of his forearms standing out as he crossed them, his feet splaying out all caveman style. He might as well have lifted one leg and sprayed his scent all over me.
What is Locke thinking? He doesn’t own me. He hasn’t even kissed me. So, what, I live with him. I’m helping him adjust to a baby daughter. None of that gives him the right to lay claim like I’m some boon he found on his woodland travels that he now wants to clonk on the head and drag back to his lair.
But…and I’m ashamed to admit it, if Paige were here, she’d for sure smack me between the eyes…but…
It makes me feel kinda sexy.
And now I imagine what else I can do to make Locke jealous. What can unleash the beast that had to be in there for him to succeed in dominating football since high school? Oh, I want to know.
The place between my legs wants to know.
And, thanks to all that, my nerves are coated with sexual angst in addition to the fear of displaying my work for strangers to critique.
No, not simply strangers. New Yorkers.
“Dude, what a way to pop your cherry.”
I hear Paige’s ghostly whisper like she’s right beside me, and I have to stop myself from asking aloud, Do you mean Locke or my paintings?
“They’ll either tear your canvas to shreds or make you go viral,” Paige answers for me.
I nod. Paige has never been more correct.
“That’s the last of it,” Pierce says as he rubs his hands together. His black T-shirt is covered in that weird paper dust that all cardboard boxes bring. I’m sure my dark green romper looks the same.
“Thanks for your help,” I say, hands on my hips as I study the bare brick walls, painted a distressed white, where my art will hang. Six faded spots where other artists have tried, maybe succeeded, maybe failed, to begin imprinting their names into unknown minds.
“I’ll hang each in the spare areas you see,” Pierce continues, pointing for effect. “Below, I’ll display your name, the price, and your QR code.”
“My QR code?”
His pale green eyes take me in, and he cocks a hand on his hip. “Do not tell me what I think you’re about to tell me.”
“Uh…”
He holds up a finger. “Don’t. Don’t do it.”
“What’s a QR code?”
“Lord Almighty,” he sighs to the ceiling. “Behold, I’ve met my first millennial who doesn’t know what the internet is.”
“I know what the web is.”
“You just called it a web.”
“Isn’t that what it is?” I splay out my hands. “Websites?”
“Good lord. Come here.” He ushers me to a table and calls to the coffee bar, “Cameron, we’re going to need two double espressos, stat.”
I plop into a seat. “I haven’t had much time to stay in touch with whatever’s trending.”
“Clearly.”
I sigh but accept the double espresso Cameron, cute in a red plaid shirt, black slacks and suspenders, places in front of me.
“Thanks, hun,” Pierce says to him.
I glance between the two of them, notice they each wear wedding rings and make the deduction.
Even better to tease Locke with.
But I can’t be thinking of Locke at the moment, or how he saw me half-naked. Or how close I came to dropping the towel entirely if it weren’t for Lily making noises nearby.
Instead, I must focus on what a QR code is.
“It’s a quick response code,” Pierce says, reading my mind. “You know, the square barcodes you see everywhere on ads and products? Can be captured by people’s phone cameras? That sort of thing. It immediately takes them to your website so you can grab their info. Sell your stuff via the internet, because no one does face-to-face persuasion these days.” He leans back. “In my day, we exchanged cash and checks. By hand.”
“Oh. I know what that is. I’ve seen it.” I pull out my phone. “I don’t have a website, but I have an Instagram account; I just haven’t used it in a long while. Could that work?”
“It’s something, at least.” Pierce sips his espresso, his eyes drawing shut as he tastes. “Perfect, as usual. Go on, drink. Cameron drops some cream in for people he likes.”
I smile and do as he asks. Pierce is right. I’ll never have espresso without a dollop of cream again.
“Back to business,” Pierce continues. “Now that we’ve discovered you have a business. Or at least the start of one, so people can tag you even if they choose not to buy. Social media is all the rage for advertising because it’s free.”
I listen intently to Pierce, but internally wonder why it took me this long to make the first move. And like the traitor it usually is, my mind lists all the logical conclusions as to why I haven’t jumped into the deep end.
Money.
Job security.
Paige.
Lily.
Cancer.
“My
chance has finally arrived,” I say aloud. “I’m ready for this.”
“Good,” Pierce says. “I’m no city art gallery, but this is a start. And I’ll begin by taking a fifteen percent commission on anything you sell. Usually, I also charge a flat fee for the artist to display for four weeks, but I’ll make an exception for you. Your work…it really is stunning.” His tone rises at the end like he’s truly surprised my generation can put paintbrush to canvas and create such beauty.
I hadn’t expected he’d go so low. “That’s…that’d be great.”
Pierce’s eyes soften. “There’s something about you, kid. A sweet eagerness that this city would devour the minute the sun sets behind these buildings. Many people would, in fact, eat you for dinner, forget about breakfast. But not me. I’m from Alabama.” Pierce tips his head to include Cameron, whose dark curls are bent as he crafts lattes. “He’s from Louisiana. We’re small-town boys chasing big dreams.” He pauses for another drink and says over the rim, “Like recognizes like.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, other than to become a regular patron and buy double espressos on the regular.”
Pierce laughs. “And to have the excuse to watch people look at your work, see how you’re coming across. I know the moves.”
I shrug. “I live next door almost. It’ll be tempting.”
“If you bring that golden chunk of man in every now and again, I won’t tell.”
We share a grin. Then I shake my head and attempt to hide behind my mug, except it’s a ceramic toy made for baby hands.
“There’s no hiding your blush, dear one.”
“We’re just…”
“Don’t patronize me with your ‘just friends’ talk. This neighborhood notices things, including a small child this golden man is now carting around that you must have something do with.”
“Oh, she’s not…I’m not…” I hate denying Lily as my own, as my heart beats truly for her. But it’s impossible to ignore the facts, considering I have to leave her behind.
“I’m not her mom,” I finish.
Pierce sees more than he lets on. He allows silence to hang in the air between us, a subtle gesture asking me to keep going, but when I don’t, he doesn’t press.
Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection) Page 13
