by Alexa Martin
His body starts bouncing beneath me even though I don’t think I said anything funny.
“Oh yeah, Donny left me a very detailed voicemail telling me about the two guys.”
“Are you laughing at me?” I slap his arm before he can answer.
“Marlee’s my girl,” TK informs me somewhat mysteriously. “She caused so many problems in the stands, Gavin started buying the tickets directly surrounding her seats since she refuses to sit in a box. You yelling at those guys? You’re not the only girlfriend to do it. And I think it’s hot.”
Oh.
Well then.
“Hot or not, I can’t yell at strangers in front of Ace!” My voice rises. “That’s a terrible example to set for him. Plus, you know I can’t fight. One day I’m gonna get slapped and then what?”
“You won’t get slapped,” TK says, his body bouncing again.
“You don’t know that!” I yell at him, hoping these walls are as thick as I think they are.
TK stops laughing and moves one hand to my ass and the other one up to my hair, tugging it lightly to force my eyes to his. “Just come to one more game. Ace loves it and I’ve never, not in my NFL career, had the feeling I had running onto the field tonight knowing my girl and son were in the stands.”
Dammit.
My insides melt at his words and the determination I’ve been clinging to fades away.
“Fine,” I agree, but not happy about it. “One more game.”
His eyes go warm, crinkling at the corners.
“Thank you,” he whispers, dropping a quick kiss onto my forehead.
Then, without warning, he flips me on my back, spreads my legs open, and shows me just how thankful he is.
A couple of orgasms later, I’m pretty sure I’ll agree to anything.
Thirty-two
“Love you!” I yell to Ace’s back as he hurries into school, no doubt trying to pretend he doesn’t know who I am. “Have the best day ever and learn stuff!”
He breaks into a run.
Yup.
Definitely denying sharing my DNA today.
Whatever.
Embarrassing your kid is a privilege all moms have. It’s in the Mom Handbook or something.
I pull my knit cardigan a little tighter across my chest and start my walk home. I don’t know if this is going to be one of the Colorado falls where the chill comes early and doesn’t leave until well into spring, or if this is a one-off and it’s just too early for even the sun to do its job, but it’s chilly.
Talking and laughing with Ace as he moaned and groaned about having to write in cursive this year and filled me in on the latest tales of fourth-grade gossip distracted me from the way my body still felt on fire from last night. But now, all alone with my thoughts and—holy freaking hell—memories, it’s all I notice. I don’t know if, after the way TK nipped and teased them last night, my nipples are still hard from that, the weather, or just thinking about TK. Or maybe it was the way TK made both Ace and me breakfast and woke me up by whispering in my ear and dropping a sweet kiss on my lips before he had to leave to get checked out, go to meetings, and watch film.
All are valid guesses.
Maybe it’s a combination of them all.
My hips ache, my thighs feel as though I spent the day in the gym squatting and lunging, and even my back hurts.
My back has never hurt after sex.
But I’ve also never had so much sex in so many different positions as I did last night. Each step closer to my house is a feat and I decide to reward myself for walking Ace to school (even though he’s convinced he’s too old for an escort) with a hot bath using the Lush bath bomb I’ve been saving for the last couple of months.
Then, when I get out of the bath, I’m going to look up yoga classes. I’m thinking it would be beneficial for this new, sexy, bendy stage of my life.
I round the corner to my block and wave to Cole as he pulls into his driveway. He waves back, but it’s terse and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s still friendly and we chat every now and again during soccer practice, but it’s been different since that day at the park with TK.
Not that I mind. He’s not touchy anymore and stopped sending right-on-the-verge-of-creepy messages through his kid, so that’s a plus.
With my purple shutters and fence in sight and my teeth starting to chatter a bit, I speed up my pace.
I pull open my gate, which, thanks to TK, not only is a bright, fresh white but also no longer creaks when it opens. I don’t know if it was part of TK’s plan, but every time I open it, I think about him and smile.
I still can’t quite believe the way things have happened, but I’d be a damn liar if I said I was upset about any of it.
Yeah, the flowers were creepy, but nothing has happened since and it got TK in my bed every night, which means orgasms every night and his beard against my face when he kisses me each morning. It’s dinner with my family, Ace calling him Dad, lounging in the living room, laughing and creating memories. Every. Single. Day.
And I love it.
He hasn’t talked about making it permanent or what the next steps are going to be. And I’m okay with that. I know what I signed up for and I’m not going to push for more. Plus, even if I tried, there’s no way I’d ever move to Parker . . . ever. Saying I’m not your typical suburban housewife/stay-at-home mom is the understatement of the century. And I highly doubt TK is down for leaving his mansion to live in my tiny bungalow in the kinda hood.
I push open the front door and enter in the password, disarming and then arming the alarm system, and toss my sweater on the couch and leave my shoes sprawled out in the small entryway. I know it’s easy enough take them back to my room, but since I’m wearing them to work in a couple of hours, it feels like a waste of time.
I walk into the kitchen, turn on the coffee machine, and measure out double the amount I would normally use. A night filled with lots of acrobatics and not much sleep calls for it.
Again, not that I’m complaining.
At. All.
I push the button for the coffee to brew, and as soon as I hear the wonderful humming as it gets down to business, my doorbell rings.
“What in the world?” I ask aloud.
Because when coffee time is interrupted and you can still feel aching between your legs, talking to yourself is totally acceptable.
I walk to the monitor mounted on the wall outside my kitchen to see who is outside.
“What the fuck?” I ask again, but louder and with some profanity this time. Because years might’ve passed since I’ve seen her and she might be slightly distorted from the doorbell camera, but one does not easily forget the face of a person who destroyed their life, broke their heart, or crushed their dreams.
And for me, Lydia Moore did all three.
So one more time for the people in the back—what the fuck?
Then, before I can fully process what’s happening and what will happen if I let her in, she rings the bell again and then starts pounding on my door.
This, for some unknown reason, pisses me off.
Like, a lot.
And because of that, I stomp my way to my front door, punch in the alarm code, throw my shoes across the living room, swing open the door without thinking, and ask, “Why are you at my house?”
“Poppy, dear.” She aims a condescending lip snarl I think is supposed to be a smile my way. “I see you’re just as lovely as ever.”
Then, like I won’t hesitate to slap an old lady (okay, I’d never slap an old lady, but still), she pushes past me and into my house!
“Hmmm.” She looks around my living room, scrunching her nose like she smells something funny. “How . . . quaint.”
Okay.
She’s really making me reconsider my “no slapping old people” policy.
I ignore her.
“What are you doing here?” I try asking again.
“TK isn’t answering my phone calls,” she says, as if that explains everything.
I stare at her, needing a little more information and a lot more movement . . . movement that moves her out of my house.
“He wasn’t at his home either.” She continues on. “I called Donny and he told me he was staying with you and sent over your address.”
Donny. I’m gonna let him know about himself. And in doing so, there’s a chance even he may cower from what’s running through my head right now.
She’s still talking when I stop thinking of the ways I’m gonna cuss Donny out.
“I thought he must’ve been mistaken when I started driving through the neighborhood and pulled up to this . . . house . . . but . . .” She pauses, not catching on to or fazed by the homicidal vibes I’m emitting. “I guess he was right.”
I wait for her to get in another insult, but she stops talking.
Finally.
“That’s all fine and dandy, Lydia,” I say, not missing the way the vein in her frozen forehead jumps hearing me call her by her first name. “But that still doesn’t explain why you are at my house.”
“Because of you, my son is not speaking to me.”
So I guess she’s just gonna ignore my question.
Also, really?
“You’re the reason your son isn’t speaking to you, not me.” I step into her space, noting that besides a few grays she missed touching up her dye job, she looks nearly identical to the last time I saw her. Tall and lean (TK is not an anomaly in his family) with stunning green eyes and chiseled cheekbones. I might hate the woman, but I can’t deny that even with the addition of too much Botox, she’s beautiful. Her hair is still pulled into her signature chignon, though I did note when she spun around to judge my house, it’s more modern than the one she rocked ten years ago. She looks perfectly polished in a crisp, white button-up blouse, a beige cardigan, and wide-legged jeans cuffed at the bottom. The diamond tennis necklace Mr. Moore bought her for their fifteenth anniversary accentuates her slim neck, and pointy leopard-print flats make her long legs look even longer.
It might look casual, but I know.
She came dressed for war.
And here I am, Frumpy McFrumperson, standing barefoot in leggings (with bright purple flowers scattered across them) I bought from a mom at Ace’s school for a fund-raiser last year and a scoop-neck tee with a paint stain on my boob.
Awesome.
“You most certainly are.” She steps in, looking down her nose at me. “We had a lovely relationship until you showed up, meddling and lying, just as you behaved all those years ago.”
“Lydia.” I look up at her, refusing to be intimidated in my own home. A home that now contains touches of TK everywhere I look. “I don’t know how that whacked-out brain of yours works, but what’s going on between you and TK has nothing to do with me.”
Her head snaps back like she can’t believe I’d dare talk to her in such a manner before her eyes narrow on me.
“I saved him all those years ago when you tried to stop him.” She jams a pale pink nail into my shoulder. “You tried to prevent him from achieving what I always knew he was destined for. And then, all these years later, you crawl out of the gutter you’ve been hiding in and try to bring him down again.” She leans over me more and I curse my short legs. “I stopped you once and I’ll stop you again.”
I count to ten before I respond. Squaring off with angry, bitter mothers isn’t something I specialize in. I’m not one hundred percent sure how to handle this. The only thing I know for sure is I can’t let her see she’s getting to me.
“That was a nice villain speech and all,” I say, once I’m sure I won’t just scream in her face. “But you’re fighting a fight that doesn’t exist. In my mind, hell, in my life, you don’t exist. TK not only knows about Ace, but he loves him. And I might think you are quacked all the way out, but I know you love TK. You know how much a parent loves their child. And I know you know you can’t win.” I gentle my tone, trying to get in somewhere I know is impossible to penetrate. “You’re TK’s mom and he loves you, but he adores Ace and nothing you say or do will change that. If you were smart, instead of coming here and being a bitch, the move you should be making would be one to get to know your grandson.”
“You are the same conniving little gold digger you always were.”
Okay, so maybe calling her a bitch wasn’t the best way to extend an olive branch, but this seems like an extreme response to what was actually good advice.
“Lydia,” I sigh, already sick of this ride. “You really need—”
“Don’t you dare tell me what I need,” she says, cutting me off. “You have no clue what I need.”
The adrenaline and anger I felt seeing her at my door are gone and I still haven’t had my coffee.
In other words, I’m over this.
So I let her know.
“Think and do what you want. Your son kept me up way too late doing things I’m certain no mother wants to hear about and I have to go to work soon.” I take secret joy in the way her eyes bulge out of her head and her mouth falls open. “I still haven’t had my coffee and I want to take a long bath, so if we’re done here, I’d like to get my day started.”
“You little bitch!” she shrieks. Her face is cherry red and her knuckles are white. “How dare you! Just wait! TK has always been too good for you and now he’s too good for that bastard son you’re trying to pawn off on him!”
Oh, hey, adrenaline, welcome back.
My back goes straight and my claws come out. Say what you want about me, but mention my son one time and I will not hesitate to mess a bitch up.
But unfortunately for me, before I can get close enough to her to wrap my hands around her neck, my front door bursts open and slams against the wall so hard, not even the springy door stop can prevent the knob from going straight through the drywall. Then TK is in the doorway, his angry presence filling every inch of my house.
It’s the freaking best.
Lydia retreats.
“Get out,” TK growls.
“Honey, I was just— I—” Lydia stutters, but can’t finish before TK is in her face, cutting her off.
“Don’t care what you were doing, Mother,” he says. “Told you I needed space. Told you to give me that if you wanted back in my life. You couldn’t do it.”
“But I watched the game last night. I saw you get injured and you still wouldn’t answer my calls.” Her voice quivers and tears fall down her cheeks.
I watch, not at all moved by her waterworks.
And neither is TK.
“So because I still needed time and wasn’t talking to you, you figure the way back in my good graces is to come and harass the woman I love?” he says, and any color remaining in her already pale face drains. “To call my son, who I missed nine years with because of you, a bastard?” He leans in closer to her now trembling frame and roars, “Are you nuts!”
I figure this is a rhetorical question because clearly she is, and has always been, nuts. Starting when she lied and tried to trick me into an abortion ten years ago.
But as much as I hate her, I love TK.
And I know TK loves his mom and will regret this.
So I decide to stop it.
I cross the small space and step in between him and his mom, placing both of my hands on his chest and moving him back a step.
“Enough,” I whisper.
“But she—” he starts, his eyes still focused on Lydia, but this time, I do the interrupting.
“I know,” I tell him, still whispering. “But I think she gets it, and if you keep going, you’ll regret it.”
His eyes finally move to mine. We don’t say anything, but we don’t need to. He nods once before
shifting his attention back to Lydia. “Get out now and I’ll think about returning your calls sometimes.” He takes a deep breath, his body vibrating with anger under my touch. “But stay and fight this, and I promise I’ll be nothing but a memory to you.”
I don’t look at Lydia while this is happening. Seconds pass in complete silence before I hear footsteps moving around us and then, finally, Lydia leaves my house.
I go to hug him, relieved this is over, but instead, TK’s hands move under my arms and lift me away from him.
“TK—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“No.” His green eyes, which are always lit with humor, are hard and angry.
My eyebrows knit together and chills go up my arms. “What’s wrong?”
His mouth opens and his eyes screw shut, but he doesn’t answer. Looking at the expression on his face breaks my heart. He looks so confused and angry. He looks crushed.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
It’s like he doesn’t hear me. He’s in his head and the struggle raging in his eyes tells me it’s a horrible place for him to be. But instead of talking to me, he turns around, and as fast as he was here, he’s gone.
The door slamming shut causes me to jump. I move to go after him, but before I can, I hear tires screeching. When I get outside, all I see is TK’s Range Rover speeding down the street.
* * *
• • •
I CALL BRYNN when I go back inside, asking if I can come in a little later and early tomorrow.
Brynn being Brynn—meaning she’s the shit—says yes.
Then I plant my butt in front of the TV and don’t watch it.
This angry, unable-to-control-his-emotions TK is new to me.
When we were teenagers, it didn’t matter what happened, TK never lost his temper. Not ever. He was always the rational one who’d calm me down when I’d been pushed too far. Now I’ve seen him snap a few times, and as much as I try to fit the pieces together to try to understand how he’s angrier now, nothing makes sense.
And I don’t stop thinking about it until I hear a car door close almost two hours later.
