“Chase…” She bites her lip and looks toward the door. “Our sex lessons are really fun. But we have to keep it at just that. I don’t want to…” She swallows and shakes her head. “We just have to keep it strictly physical. Because in less than a week, I’m going on a date with Peter Chapman, who could potentially be a nice, long-term guy for me. And you—” She forces a laugh and twists a strand of chocolate-colored hair. “You can go back to being Chase Kennedy—All-Pro quarterback and renowned king of the…rail and bail, as I believe you’ve called it?”
I look down at the black sheets and try to figure out how I’ll ever want another woman in this bed after last night.
Well, shit. I guess I read something wrong. It was still just fun physical stuff for her. Something sharp twists in my gut as words tumble out of my mouth. “And then what? With, like…us?”
She narrows her eyes, and I swear she’s fighting tears. “We’re friends, Six. We’ll barely even remember all this in a few months.”
Okay, we both know that’s a fat lie. As if the image of her giant brown eyes exploding with reckless pleasure while she rode my dick like a fucking Harley isn’t going to be burned into my mind forever.
I don’t want to push her, and I definitely don’t want to ever hurt her. And if I really am that fuckboy heartbreaker everyone thinks I am, then that’s a very real possibility. “True that, Nit Whit.” The words taste wrong.
“Bye, Six,” she sings playfully as she bounces out the door, leaving me with a whirlwind of questions and a mix of emotions I’ve spent twenty-eight years trying to avoid.
I don’t love Whitney. I mean, I do. In, like, a best friend way, of course. There’s no way I love her, because I’m not capable of love. Whitney wants a husband and a lifelong commitment and a poster family behind a white picket fence. Whitney is capable of love. She’s capable of everything.
Even if I do maybe love her, it doesn’t fucking matter. She’ll never see past my sleazy history and the fact that I’ve banged my way through a line of NFL groupies and never gave a second thought to anyone’s…feelings. That’s who I am to her. That’s who I am to everyone.
I press my palms into my forehead and sink back into the bed.
That’s just who I am.
It was all only physical. That’s all it’s been, ever since I proposed this insane idea that I show her the ropes in bed. I’m still trying to decide if that’s the best or worst idea I’ve ever had.
I know one thing for sure. I’m not done. Nothing is going to make sense until I make love to her again. I mean, have sex with her. Plow her. Whatever.
So what if it’s strictly physical? I need it. I need her. In so many weird, confusing, and incredible ways. I need her.
Twenty-six
Whitney
I resent you, tear. Stupid hot useless drop of saltwater falling down my cheek for absolutely no definable reason. Go away.
I fumble with the keys in the ignition and take a long, deep breath. I can’t be falling for Chase. But, shit, I can’t help falling for Chase. Every inch of him is pure, unadulterated magic.
Why does it feel like so much more than just sex? It twists my gut to think of how on point Melody’s prediction was. I totally dismissed it, assuming there was absolutely no way I could ever develop feelings for Chase Kennedy.
I whip out of the parking garage in his apartment building and curse my painfully naïve past self.
Among the dizzying, messy blur that surrounds these past few weeks with Chase, I try to force myself to see clearly and remember exactly why I agreed to this absurdity in the first place. Do I really want to be prepared for the dating world and impress Peter if and when we get intimate?
Or was I just subconsciously trying to finally get into bed with the man I’ve been in love with for twenty years?
“Shit,” I whisper as I accelerate onto the highway. The sky is a rare gray overcast, and the streets of South Florida seem to lack their usual sparkling, sunny warmth.
The drive home is slow, and I don’t even bother turning on the radio. There’s no way to escape this confusing mess of feelings and get back on track to exactly who I am and what I want. And who I want.
Well, there’s one way. I need to get Chase off my mind.
As I pull into Melody’s townhouse complex, I park in a spot in front of our unit and take my phone out of my bag. There’s a text from Melody that she sent last night, but I didn’t see it until now. Sorry, Mel. I was a little busy.
Remember, cuz. STAY STRONG!
She followed it with a series of colorful emojis, including a man lifting weights and an arm with a flexed bicep.
I blow out an exasperated sigh and shake my head, remembering why I took my phone out in the first place.
I tap on the phone button, scanning through my recent calls, trying not to notice how many of them are from Chase, and find Peter’s UK number.
My thumb hovers over the screen while I quickly attempt to do some math and figure out what time it is in London.
Screw it.
I hit call. The ringing sound gets my heart skipping and a nervous tightness rising in my chest. I lean forward in the driver’s seat and press the phone to my ear, not sure what I want more: his voice or no answer.
“This is Peter Chapman.” His deep voice makes me jump slightly, and his professional and hurried tone makes me massively regret calling.
“Hey, Peter, you’re probably totally busy. I just thought I’d try you. It’s Whitney,” I add quickly with a pathetically awkward laugh.
“Whitney,” he draws my name out, and I can practically hear a slow smile coming across his handsome face.
I feel a slight wash of relief. “How’s London?” My tone comes out high-pitched and cheery, ringing fake in my own ears.
“Oh, you know. Multimillion-dollar contracts and angry investors. Par for the course, as usual. The city is quite special, although I’ve grown so accustomed to it that I really just want to get back to the States in a few days.”
I force a smile onto my face even though I know he can’t see me. “Well, South Florida misses you. And I can’t wait for our date! I keep thinking about it.”
He chuckles, and I hear people chatting in the background. He must be outside or something. “Is that so, Whitney Cooper?”
“Oh yeah.” I lean against the steering wheel and run my hand through my hair. “It’s what’s getting me through some of these brutal twelve-hour shifts at the ER.” I silently try to convince myself that’s not a lie. That Peter is the guy of my dreams. Because he is. He checks every single box. Whereas freaking Six…he laughs and rips up the list of criteria. And then screws me so good I can’t think straight.
“I’m glad to hear that. I’m really looking forward to it, as well. It will be an absolute privilege to get to know you better and see where things could go.”
“Yes, me, too.” I make a conscious effort to sound mature and sophisticated, like some high-class socialite woman who would catch the eye of someone like Peter Hedge Fund Manager Chapman.
“Well, Miss Cooper, it was an absolute pleasure to hear from you. But I do have to run. Investors meeting awaits,” he says.
“Of course! Have fun investing.” I add a self-deprecating laugh, still really unsure of what exactly his job consists of. I suppose that will be clarified on our date.
“Bye, Whitney. Can’t wait to see you again.” He hangs up the phone, and I drop my forehead onto the top of the steering wheel, letting out a defeated groan.
I’m not really sure what I was trying to accomplish by calling Peter, but I don’t feel a whole lot better.
It must be because he’s so far away. It must be because we’ve actually hung out and talked in person only one time at that silly party, and I’m forgetting how strong our connection was that night.
Right?
It’ll all come back when we go out on our nice, fancy, classy-ass dinner date, and I’ll remember why I got into this whole mess in the first place,
and any shred of a crush or feelings or…love for Chase will completely disappear.
Because Peter is the right guy for me. He’s steady and mature and ready for commitment. Chase is…I mean, Christ, he’s Chase! He’s reckless and wild and cocky and my asshole of a best friend. Letting myself fall for Chase would be the biggest risk of heartbreak imaginable.
I don’t want heartbreak. I want forever. And I don’t think any amount of mind-blowing sex or inside jokes or deep conversations could convince Chase Kennedy that forever is even an option.
Twenty-seven
Chase
“So it’s a fake handoff to Danes and then a delayed long pass to Sterling through the slot?” Matt McKenzie squints and holds a hand up to shield his eyes from the blazing sun.
I nod and wipe a drop of sweat from my forehead. “Yeah. And don’t get your ass sacked. Which goes without saying, but, you know. You think you can handle pressure, and then you’re out there.”
Practice today is longer and hotter than usual, and running through offenses with my bright-eyed potential replacement isn’t my favorite activity. Still, the rookie kid is kinda growing on me. A little bit. He respects me and sees me as more than just the obnoxiously arrogant playboy quarterback. He looks up to me, and I like that.
“Okay, cool. I think I got it.” Matt nods enthusiastically. “Thanks, Kennedy.”
I smack his helmet. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Bring it in!” Coach Watson blows his whistle and bellows the order from down the field.
Thank fuck. It’s hotter than the devil’s sack out here, and my mood isn’t exactly peachy. I can’t stop thinking about that weird, gritty emptiness I felt when Whitney left yesterday morning. The way she so casually mentioned me going back to my old ways. I mean, my normal ways. I should be stoked.
I’m not.
“I owe you another thanks.” Matt jogs to catch up with me as we head into the locker room.
I pull off my helmet and shake out my hair. “And what would that be for, Junior?”
“You know.” He nods and lowers his voice, like we have some kind of boys club secret. “The other night.”
“Oh right. The actress. Abigail whatever.”
“Arabella.” Matt’s eyes widen when he says her name.
“What, did she take your virginity or something?” I roll my eyes as we swing the door open and walk to our lockers.
“No, asshole,” he says through a chuckle. “I was a college QB, remember?”
I chug a bottle of Gatorade and give Matt a rough pat on the shoulder. “I’m just fucking with you. Glad you had a good time.”
“Yeah. A damn good time.” We stand in front of our lockers, which, of fucking course, are right next to each other since we play the same position. I really can’t escape the rookie puppy dog, can I?
“Good thing you have a girlfriend.” Matt swings open his locker and nods at me. “Or you definitely would not have gifted me such a golden slam opportunity.”
“I have a gir—” The word literally sticks in my throat. “A what?”
“Your girlfriend…” Matt angles his head toward me and furrows his brow. “The hot nurse you’re always laughing with? I saw her waiting outside the tunnel for you after the last home game. She’s not your girl?”
My chest feels tight, and an unpleasant whirlwind of confusion rips through my brain. “Whitney’s my best friend, dipshit. I don’t have a fucking girlfriend.”
“Shit, man.” Matt holds up his hands defensively. “My bad. You two just seem to have that connect-y thing. That couple thing. The way you look at her. I thought that’s why you were being my wingman and giving me some single-life tips. Kinda passing on all the knowledge from your glory days.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to identify the feeling stabbing into my gut. A part of me wants to deck Junior right in his baby face. But a weird sense of hope twists through my head.
I turn back to my locker and yank off my practice jersey, leaning my palm against the cold metal and clenching my jaw. I look at Matt, already in shock from the words that are about to come out of my mouth. “You think I could have a girlfriend?”
Who the fuck am I?
Matt frowns and laughs in confusion. “Uh, yeah? I for sure thought you did.”
“Huh. Well, we’re just friends, Whit and me,” I say, my words slow and unconvincing.
Best friends. Who are banging. Sleeping together. Making love.
Jesus Christ, Kennedy.
“Thought you said it was complicated,” Dylan interjects, walking up to us with a practice jersey slung over his bare shoulder.
“Don’t you have a soccer ball to go kick around, Rivera?”
He rolls his eyes and dismisses my comment, turning to Matt. “Listen, McKenzie. You think you know Chase, but you don’t. You know what you’ve heard and the little bit you’ve seen of him since you got drafted. But our No. 6 here is truly the most soulless motherfucker to ever walk the earth.” They both laugh. “Kennedy will have a committed girlfriend the day we play the Super Bowl on the moon. And even then, he’d rather find some hot alien to smash and never talk to again.”
Matt shakes his head in awe and sits on the bench. “Damn, dude. Sounds like you’re even more of a legend than I originally thought.”
I drop onto the bench next to him and lean down to untie the laces on my cleats. I keep my gaze fixed on the floor, unsure why Dylan’s description of me is pissing me off so much. He’s spot-on. That’s exactly who I’ve always been.
But yesterday, when Whit left, I didn’t feel like that guy. I didn’t feel like me. I wanted to be something else…something more.
Dylan leans against the bench across from us and checks his phone, giving me a quizzical look. Other than Whitney, Dylan can read me faster and more accurately than anyone else. “You good, bro?”
“It is complicated,” I blurt out without a second thought. “With Whitney. It’s really confusing, and I feel…I feel some shit. It’s fucked up.”
“‘I feel some shit. It’s fucked up,’” Dylan repeats through a hearty laugh. “Is this the Chase Kennedy way of admitting you like her?”
Dylan moves over and sits closer so he, Matt, and I are in a small circle, and no one can hear our conversation. Leo and Elliot can’t hear this. They’ll get way too excited and take me ring shopping or some shit.
“All right, assholes. Here’s the deal. She and I have been fooling around.”
“This doesn’t shock me,” Dylan says flatly.
“Right. Well, I’ve been kind of…helping her. Teaching her, I guess. How to do everything and be more adventurous in the sack.”
Matt’s jaw drops. “That’s hot as fuck.”
“Cram it, Junior. Point is, I feel like it’s getting to be more than that. And I’ve never done more than that, or felt more than that, or even come close to being more than that with anyone. Ever.”
“Do you want to, like, be with her?” Dylan leans forward. “Are you even capable of that?”
I swallow, knowing his jab was just a joke, but feeling the truth hit my gut hard. “Honestly? I don’t fucking know.”
“How much have you guys been banging?” Matt asks.
“Only once.” I run a hand through my hair, realizing how bizarre this is going to sound to my teammates. “We’ve been sort of…working up to it. Baby steps, I guess.”
Dylan chokes on a surprised laugh. “The man who regularly has three-ways with cheerleaders and rotates a roster of supermodels is taking baby steps?”
I kick him in the shin. “Fuck off. She’s different. She’s still my best friend.”
I hope. It sure didn’t feel like it when she left yesterday.
Matt shrugs. “There’s only one obvious way to figure out what the hell is going on.”
“All right, wise one.” I turn to him. “Enlighten me.”
He and Dylan share a look, as if this is something stupidly apparent that I’m just missing. “You have to pipe her again. Maybe i
t was just a mixed-up thing because you guys have always been so close, and now getting physical is making it confusing,” Matt says, shrouded in a weird level of maturity.
“Or…” Dylan points a finger at me. “She’s the one. And you just didn’t realize it until now.”
“Christ, not that bullshit again,” I groan.
“The one?” Matt chuckles.
“Everybody has a one,” Dylan says with his charming, sweet-boy smile.
“You idiots might have a point.” I run my thumb across my jawline and stand up. “I guess sex could clarify some shit.”
Besides, I can’t say I’m terribly opposed to repeating the most explosive and passionate and sinfully hot lay I’ve ever had. Only problem is, I don’t know if Whit will jump back into my sex sheets with zero hesitation.
“Holy shit.” Matt stands up and turns back to his locker. “I just gave Chase Kennedy advice.”
I slam my locker door shut and turn to him. “Don’t jerk yourself off too hard yet, Junior. If my situation gets even more screwed up because of you, I’m gonna beat your ass.”
I tighten and stretch my right shoulder, which is basically better. There’s only a tiny little twinge of pain at certain angles now, but I better ask Whitney to come over tonight and make sure it’s okay.
Just in case.
Twenty-eight
Whitney
“So, tonight’s the big night. Hedge Fund Guy.” Melody digs her toes into the sand as the ocean crashes in front of us and the sun beats down onto my skin.
I take a deep breath of the salty beach air and lean my hands into the soft warmth of the ground. “His name is Peter, not Hedge Fund Guy. And yes, he got back from London this morning, and we’re going to dinner. It’s not an enormous deal.”
She lifts her bedazzled sunglasses onto her head and gives me some serious side-eye. “Cuz, you’ve literally been planning this for a month. A freaking month. You’re so jazzed about this guy you asked Chase Kennedy for sex lessons and…” She turns back to the ocean, suddenly realizing that notion isn’t as humorous and lighthearted as it was originally. “Well, anyway. I’m excited for you.”
Easy Ride (South Florida Riders Book 3) Page 14
