by Zoe Dawson
“Being a triplet sucks,” Pirate groused.
“I’m decompressing,” Pitbull answered.
“Okay…what does that mean?” Hood asked, his voice tense and delving.
“It means I’m chilling out. Geez, I didn’t know I needed extra moms.”
“We should come over and kick your ass for that comment alone,” Pirate said.
“Then you might want to bring Mom to kiss all your boo boos.”
“Fuck you!” Hood and Pirate said in stereo.
“Oh, what a shame. I have to go. Someone is at the door.”
“You liar! We’re going to come over—”
Pitbull hung up on them and stood. He was more sober than he thought. He went into the kitchen, snapped open a bottle of water and drained the whole thing, the cool water feeling good against his throat.
Throwing the empty bottle into the recycling, he walked through his bedroom and into his bathroom. He faced himself in the mirror. He needed a haircut or at least to comb his hair. Two day’s growth of beard darkened his jaw, and his eyes were bloodshot. God, he looked rough.
He rubbed his hand over his face and sighed. If Fast Lane saw him like this, Pitbull would have to explain. He squirmed inside thinking about having to tell his commanding officer, whom he admired greatly, what had happened. He’d fucked a buddy’s wife and gotten her pregnant. One of Speed’s kids was his. Geezus. All this time and he didn’t know. She was seven for God’s sake. To top it off, he was trying to avoid the whole unsavory mess by drinking himself into a stupor.
He turned and pushed the shower curtain aside and started the water, letting it heat. He was going to take a shower, get something to eat, then he was going to think this thing through. He straightened abruptly, then turned the water off.
Instead, he went into his bedroom and pulled off his dirty jeans, then compression shorts under a pair of shorts and socks. He grabbed his Navy T-shirt and pulled it over his head. At the front door, he bent over and slipped into his running shoes. Grabbing his keys and another bottle of water, he headed out.
An hour later, he was feeling like he’d been beaten by baseball bats and left to die. He was stone-cold sober and had run through the obstacle course three times. Now he was on his fourth, but as he hit the climbing wall, his stomach spasmed and he ran off to the side and fell to his knees, puking out his guts.
“How’s it going, marshmallow?”
Pitbull figured he couldn’t feel any worse. He turned his head and eyed his teammate. “Go fuck yourself, Max.”
Max laughed and crouched down. “What do you think, Jugs?” He pretended like he was listening to the Malinois who was sitting beside him. “Doucheloaf?” He turned to look at Pitbull who was about to heave again. “Naw, this guy isn’t even a baguette.”
“Max—”
“I know. Go fuck myself.” He rose and offered his hand. “Come on, Sally. If Jugs can scale that wall, you can, too.” Pitbull slapped his hand away and stood on his own.
“I don’t mind getting beat by your dog. It’s you I can’t stand.”
The corner of Max’s mouth lifted. “You just got to get to know me.” Pitbull turned away and started for the wall again. “But you don’t want to do that, do you, marshmallow? That might require…oh, I don’t know…opening yourself up to new guys that you have to care about.”
“Shut up and leave me alone.”
“No can do, boss. The brotherhood sticks together no matter what.” Max headed for the course, and Pitbull watched as Jugs trotted away, then stopped and eyed him as if in challenge.
Pitbull huffed out a laugh. “Damn dog,” he growled.
Jugs came back and nudged him with his muzzle. He heard Max chuckle. “Come on, marshmallow, we don’t have all day.”
“Do you know you’d make a good drill sergeant,” he said to Jugs, who barked and nudged him again. “All right. All right. I’m coming.”
Pitbull wasn’t going to give Max’s words one thought. He wasn’t even going to let that shit enter his brain. He had enough rolling around in there as it was.
He backed a few feet away, then attacked the wall as Jugs took off. The dog scaled the wall easily as Pitbull, his biceps bulging, his feet scrabbling for purchase, pushed his way up. Jugs sat tauntingly at the top of the wall and looked down at him.
“Show off,” he said as he came up to the top and Jugs dropped off the other side and headed for the next obstacle. Pitbull fumbled down, and Max was right behind him.
“Pick up your feet, Sally,” Max called as he passed him. Pitbull wasn’t going to be undone by a guy who was slower than he was usually and had at least fifty pounds on him. He passed Max as they reached the tires and he high-stepped through them, then under the logs and barbwire, up and down several more obstacles to reach the monkey bars, then rope climb, and finally he reached the finish.
His chest heaved as Max came up to him. Jugs was already sitting by his feet. “Damn, that was fast. Even hungover you are a badass.”
Max reached out his hand, and Pitbull gritted his teeth. He lifted his hand and they shook.
“See you around…Sally.” He walked off the course and Pitbull growled low in his throat. Fucker.
After his fifth time through the course, drenched, his T-shirt sticking to him, his energy depleted, he figured he’d had enough self-ass-kicking and dragged himself home. He stopped and picked up some food, the customers in the local grocery giving him a wide berth.
When he got home, he made a massive salad and cut up fruit. He started off with a gallon of water, then ate, hoping it would stay down.
Then it was back to the bathroom. He still looked like hell, but he didn’t feel as if he was going die at any moment.
Which meant he started thinking again. This time it was about Helen and how beautiful she still looked. He stood against the wall and leaned his head back. He’d been devastated when she went back to Justin, like his advice, his support wasn’t worth a damn. Like he wasn’t worth a damn. But that wasn’t true. She was under a lot of pressure from her family. They didn’t seem to understand that Justin was a monster and they were pushing her toward him like a lamb to the slaughter.
Speed hadn’t really changed much, but it seemed that he had stopped hurting Helen as often as he had before. Pitbull couldn’t be certain though. There were other ways to wound someone that didn’t include physical pain. Speed thought she’d had two children with him. But one of them was Pitbull’s. He folded down onto the floor, not allowing that thought to be pushed away from him.
His vision blurred, and he couldn’t get Samantha’s face out of his mind. The thought of her not knowing scarred him with pain, marked him with sorrow. His sorrow spilled over, and he covered his face with his hand. Helen had done that to him, and it had nothing to do with Speed’s death.
Dammit, he was a Midwestern boy with values about family and fatherhood. He leaned his head back and sniffed. Did he confront her about Samantha and cause immeasurable pain for Helen and her children, showing her family she’d cheated during her marriage to Speed? Or did he suck up every emotion he had about being what was natural and his right to Samantha—her dad. But he would have to break down people who she loved, her mother and father. And, how would she feel about that? Would she hate him for it? Then he wouldn’t have her in his life at all.
He rose, feeling more than dirty as he climbed into the shower. He turned the water to hotter to burn against his skin. God, he was so tired. Maybe tonight he would get some sleep. He pressed his palms against the tile and let the water pound down on his neck and shoulders. Every muscle in his body protested. He scrubbed himself and washed his hair thoroughly. Feeling almost human, he shut off the taps and dried off, sliding the towel around his waist.
He grabbed his razor and shaved, then towel dried his hair. Walking buck naked to the laundry room, he found a pair of cotton shorts and slipped them on.
There was a tentative knock on the door, then a stronger one.
Dammit, if that was Flynn and Robin…
He marched to the door and flung it open. Then he froze. Helen Myerson stood there.
“Errol? Is this a bad time?”
He wanted to laugh, but not in a ha-ha way, more in a sad clown way. Bad time? No, I’m not having a breakdown. I swear.
“I need to talk to you.”
Maybe this was a good thing. Maybe he could get it all out in the open. Maybe that would feel better. Right…he was a fucking sad clown.
“No, I’m free.”
She came into the room looking as young as she did eight years ago. He remembered how ravenous she was for him. Maybe she’d been trying too hard to escape reality, and he was the fantasy world. But there was nothing now but hard, cold truth.
“Let me grab a shirt,” he said as he went back into the laundry room and snagged a white T-shirt and pulled it on. She had seated herself on the couch and he said, “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you. I need to explain about Samantha.”
He closed his eyes and took a breath. “You do, because I took one look at her baby picture and knew she was mine.”
“I didn’t know…I…I…couldn’t be sure. I convinced myself that she was Justin’s because I was scared of him, of it coming out to my family. You have to understand. I was trapped in that marriage with him. I had so much pressure.”
He came closer to her. “I was there for you, Helen. I would have helped you.”
“You would have committed career suicide, and we both know it.” She bit her lip. “I don’t know what Justin would have done. I couldn’t take that chance. I was pregnant, and he wasn’t stable. You know that.”
“If you slept with me exclusively, how could you think it was his?”
The torment in her dark eyes kicked off another twist of guilt. “Errol. I was having second thoughts about divorcing him. You and I were headed in a permanent direction, and I wanted that. I did.” She moved closer to him and touched his chest, gazing up at him with that soft look that did him in. “I was in love with you, but that night I left you I had every intention of going back to him. The risk to both of us was just too high. Justin and I had sex that night.”
He closed his eyes as the pain filtered through him. She’d loved him? He hadn’t known, and all these years, he’d wondered.
She slipped her hand behind his neck, her thumb caressing his jaw. “Can’t we put everything behind us? Just let the past go?”
He clasped her upper arms, the memory of her skin slamming into him with storm-force winds. He dragged her closer. “She’s my daughter.”
“That’s why I listed you as their guardian if something happens to me. I know you’ll take care of them.”
“Me? What about your parents?”
“No, my parents didn’t do a good job raising me. I don’t want them raising my children. I’m sorry, so sorry about everything.” She urged him closer, and before he knew what was happening, her mouth brushed his. A tremor coursed through her, and Helen slipped her arms around his neck, the shift intimately and fully aligning her body against his. Pitbull drew an unsteady breath and angled her head back, making a low, indistinguishable sound as he covered her mouth in a kiss that was raw with regret, governed by the need to comfort and reassure. Helen went still. Then, with a soft exhalation, she clutched him and yielded to his deep, comforting kiss.
Her hands delved under his shirt, and she pressed him back against the couch, dragging at his shorts, her hand sliding over his dick like she’d been doing it for years. He reached for her hand to stop her. “Helen, protection.” Quickly undressing, she straddled him. “I’m protected. My tubes were tied.” She stroked him, and he almost came out of his skin. Another tremor shuddered through her. “You are the most beautiful man I have ever met.” She rose up, then lowered her weight on him, taking him deep inside her.
Pitbull clenched his jaw, exhausted, confused, and overwhelmed by everything. This was easy, had always been easy, the feel of her electrifying. His shoulders came off the couch as she moved once, twice against him. His heartbeat a frenzy in his chest, his pulse thick and heavy, he clasped his fingers through hers in a white-knuckle grip, turning his head against the couch pillow. Her breasts grazed his chest.
“I’ve never stopped wanting you,” she whispered brokenly. Another shudder coursed through her, and she clenched his shoulders, her breath catching as she flexed her hips, her hot, wet tightness gripping him, stroking him, drawing him closer and closer.
An agony of sensation shot through him, and he rolled his head again, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth. He had no idea if this was right, but the hard, swelling need in him crashed over him when she moved again, taking him ever deeper inside her, and he went under, the fever claiming him. He groaned and flexed beneath her, driving inside her.
11
Frustration bordering on anger churned in Dragon’s gut, and he jerked open the shower door and stepped inside. He had no idea how far to take this with Jo. He knew he wanted a relationship with Ceri, but Jo was trickier. It didn’t help that he still felt like a bastard for cutting out on her the way he had—but she was just too vulnerable after he’d saved her from drowning. He was feeling a little too raw himself. It had cost her big time to confront the past the way she had, and the way she had just turned him on had set off feelings he’d had for her six years ago before he’d left.
He needed this shower to put things back into perspective because sex always messed with his brain, and sex with Jo was going to be something special, not something that just happened.
But there were things he couldn’t ignore when he stripped down and stepped inside the shower enclosure. Like the fact that he was fully aroused, that his pulse rate had nothing to do with being scared out of his mind, that his lungs kept trying to seize up. He braced his arms on the tiled surface and closed his eyes, letting the hot water pour over him. He tried like hell to shut down, but all the things he hadn’t dealt with were breaking through that cracked wall. Especially the way he felt about Jo, making his pulse run thick and heavy. Gritting his teeth against another pulsating rush, he clenched his hands into fists, trying to stop the response. He didn’t want to feel as if his skin was rubbed raw every time he took a breath.
He’d thought he’d had everything under control until she’d led him into her bedroom. He was ready to get in and take his shower, didn’t dare let his thoughts stray. It had taken all his control to walk away from her.
But the way she’d looked at him had made all hell break loose. His mind, his body—it was as if someone had pulled a plug, and suddenly the erotic memories came pouring in. His jaw clenched, his whole body primed and throbbing. And he remembered—in absolute living detail—what it had been like when he was twenty years old, and he was deep inside her.
Realizing he was only making matters worse, Dragon swore and roughly adjusted the temperature setting, the shock of straight cold water doing little to ease the throbbing heaviness between his thighs. Feeling as if he was going to lose it, he turned off the water, then dragged his hand down his face. This was getting him nowhere. There wasn’t enough cold water in the world to wash away what he was feeling.
He pushed open the door and snagged the towel off the rack, roughly drying himself. Then he swore to himself. He’d forgotten to get clothes.
He smacked himself in the forehead and wrapped the damp towel around his waist, making sure to knot it tight over his engorged dick to keep it close to his body.
He went to her door and opened it. He could hear the three of them in the kitchen, but his problem was that he had to cross in front of it to get to his clothes.
There was no way for him to avoid walking through the room with just his towel. His hair dripping water onto the back of his neck, he walked into the hall, then stepped out of the shadows into the bright light from the kitchen. Conversation ceased and he turned his head to find all three of them staring at him. His mom’s face was stern, Ceri was just happy
to see him, but when he looked at Jo…all hell broke loose again.
“Forgot my clothes,” he murmured. “Sorry, Mom.”
He walked into the living room and rummaged around in his duffel. He put on a gray button shirt with a mandarin collar, leaving it open as he pulled on a pair of black boxer briefs beneath the towel, then a pair of faded blue jeans. He buttoned the shirt, then settled the loose tails over the front placket of his jeans. He towel-dried his hair, then ran his hands through it, thick strands curling across his forehead.
Dinner was subdued and fast as Ceri kept nodding off. Finally, Dragon gathered her up and carried her to her room. “I’m not tired,” she mumbled.
“You have school tomorrow.”
“But I want a story.”
“Not tonight, sweetie.”
She grumped but leaned in and kissed Dragon on the cheek. He didn’t think he could love anyone more than he loved this child. “Good night, Ceri.”
“Thank you for saving Mom. Thanks for being a great dad,” she murmured as he set her down on the mattress and pulled the covers over her.
Jo, who was next to him, bent down and kissed her.
As they turned away, she said, sleepily, “I get two stories tomorrow.” Then she yawned.
“You’re an audience of one,” Jo said, nudging him, then giggled.
“She could turn granite to mush,” he whispered.
“Yeah, that’s why she’s a challenge. It’s easy to want to give in to her requests.”
“Are you saying I’m a pushover?”
“Hmm, let’s see. We went to the zoo where we fed elephants peanuts, then to the ducks feeding them oats…that you provided.” She poked him in the chest. “Nice dad touch, though. Then to the carousel where she got cotton candy and finally ice cream.”
“Okay, I’m a freaking amateur. I’ve got a lot to learn, but I remember something about dads being fun.”
She closed the door on their sleeping daughter, and they found themselves in the dim hall again. “Dads are fun, but they have to be responsible too.” She poked him, and he captured her hand and brought it to his mouth.
