#playerdown: Players to Men Page 10

  My cell beeped with a text.

  Ila. Don’t forget my gallery showing in a few days.

  I snorted. As if I could. Yes, Friday. I’ll be there bright and early. Or late. I hit send.

  Several rolling eyes emojis appeared, and I laughed.

  Then I recalled something I wanted to do to torment my friends. Smirking now, I Googled the info I needed, scrolling through hundreds of images of the temple, and I finally found the pictures I sought. I picked up my tablet, and grinning like a loon, I started drawing the erotic Kamasutra pose…

  My dry throat and gnawing belly finally had me relenting and stopping work. I saved my raunchy illustration to complete later, crawled off the massive bed, and groaned, my numb legs and ass making their unhappiness known. Grimacing, I stretched my stiff limbs, then pushed my feet into my sneakers, grabbed my novel, and headed downstairs, looking for War.

  He wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room, either, but the smell of something savory with hints of cheese teased my nose.

  More concerned with his whereabouts, I set my book on the couch and crossed to the old wooden table near the panoramic window, and peered through the rustling rain. Surely, he didn’t go back out in this downpour to finish trimming? I knew he wanted to get the massive yard done first.

  No sign of him outside, either.

  Frowning, I snagged a soda from the fridge then made my way back along the corridor to the first door. The room facing the front was empty, not only of War but also of furniture. But whoa! The garish, sickly-sweet blinding pink had me wincing. Good thing it would be painted over soon.

  I peeled back the tab from my cherry cola. The thing popped with a hiss, and I took a much-needed deep gulp, wetting my dry throat, then headed further down the corridor to the open door. I stopped just inside the room.

  Yep. War was here, working on the skirting, his back to me.

  This room was spacious, too, with sliding doors opening onto its own patio. The painted walls resembled the lightest blue of summer showers. I smiled, the artist in me stoked at the whimsical color name. Maybe I was too much of a romantic. Little good it did me.

  Life had a way of not only throwing curveballs at me when down but hauling me up and flinging me into another riptide situation—one that left me feeling as if I swam against the current with no way of saving myself. And all I could do was try and stay afloat.

  Inhaling deeply, I shut out my tumultuous thoughts and stepped into the middle of the room.

  War had his EarPods on, so he didn’t know I was there, observing him paint the sanded skirting boards. His jeans rode low, revealing his charcoal-gray underwear.

  The urge to go over grabbed hold and…and then what?

  I’d agreed to get this itch scratched, but he’d obviously changed his mind.

  I gnawed my lip, not understanding him. As if I ever did.

  War was a contradiction. He appeared the quieter one among his two friends, but apparently, he was a force to be reckoned with on ice, and with a temper to match, or so I’ve heard. More, he was kind and considerate, a side I’d witnessed recently. It still knocked me for a loop that he’d taken me to the amusement park merely because it brought back happy memories of being with my dad.

  He stilled as if sensing he wasn’t alone and glanced over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow when he saw me. His gaze did a quick once-over of me as he rose, removing his earbuds and putting them in his jeans pocket, his other hand still holding onto the small paintbrush. “You’re done?”

  Pale blue paint smeared his fingertips, and a spray speckled one corded forearm, making me want to run my finger over the veins running up his arm to the glimpse of the tattoos on his biceps peeking out from his black t-shirt sleeve.

  Man, I needed to get a grip on myself. “For now.” I waved to the walls. “This is a nice color.”

  “The original shade of purple and me just didn’t get on,” he drawled, making me laugh. “The previous owner must have had kids.”

  “Yes, I figured. I saw the other room.” I wandered to the sliding door and pressed my palm to my chest, trying to get my stupid heart to function and not melt at his off-beat humor. “And he liked his privacy, too, with all these trees.”

  “Yeah.” I heard the smile in his voice. “I put something in the oven for lunch,” he said then. “Should be done in a half hour or so.”

  “Thanks.” I glanced over my shoulder and met his quiet stare. “So, you did all this renovation yourself?”

  “Most of it. I got the pros to do the bathrooms and kitchen. Now I want to get the painting finished and the yard not looking so much like a jungle before hockey season starts,” he said, his attention back on the skirting board still to be painted.

  “So you’ll be traveling for the game?” Duh! Of course, he would.

  “Yeah, when we play out of state. I have some time until the craziness starts,” he said, a faint smile tugging one corner of his mouth.

  Ignoring the dip in my stomach, knowing he would be gone—but it was still several weeks until pre-season started—I made my way to the paint tins. One remained sealed with the smears of blue around the rim and lid, and the open one sported brilliant white. “Can I help?”

  “It won’t get you out of your weeding duty,” he teased.

  I rolled my eyes and picked up a small, clean paintbrush near the tins. “Some boyfriend you are. Where do I start?”

  “There.” He nodded to the sanded-down skirting to the left of him. “You’ll need this.” He poured more white paint in another tray and set it on the tarp covering the floors near me, then he hunkered down on his side and started again.

  I squatted, dipped the small brush in the paint, and glided a lick of white on the smooth wood. “So hockey, huh?” I said, shooting him a quick look over my shoulder. “Always?”

  “Yeah. Too much energy. It had to be spent somehow, and I was introduced to the sport.” Those deep blue eyes shifted to mine. “Do you—did you watch me play?”

  I frowned at the way he answered me. Was introduced, not who introduced him.

  “No, not you. But I did go to one game when I was a junior. Not a huge sports fan, I’m sorry,” I said with a wry smile. “Julian loves the game, though.”

  “Who?”

  “My stepbrother. He tried to bribe me to accompany him a couple of times,” I said, smiling, remembering how Jules would wheedle to get introvert me to leave the house with promises of book binge shopping—my one weakness. “So I caved and went with him once.”

  War’s dark stare pinned me for the longest second, so I shrugged. “I can never understand the game though Julian explained. I mean, all the violence? I’m surprised you still have teeth.”

  He shook his head, his tense features relaxing to one of tolerant amusement. “It’s a fast-moving game and can seem that way to the uninitiated.”

  I snorted and ran more paint over the skirting. “Still risky when that puck is slammed and coming at you at what?” I glanced back at him. “Fifty, sixty miles an hour?”

  “Depending on the power of the hit, sometimes at a hundred, maybe more,” he drawled.

  “Seriously?” I gaped, stifling a shudder. “Ugh, no. Give me books, and I’m happy as a clam in a seabed.”

  And that smile that made my heart trip crept over his lips. “What type of books?”

  “Romance,” I said, waiting for something corny to fly my way.

  Again, he nodded, surprising me.

  “Well, I can’t seem to choose well from the living ones, so I make do with my fictional boyfriends. They’re perfect,” I said with a deep, exaggerated sigh.

  His eyebrows drew together before he dipped his brush in paint and continued with sweeping strokes. “How so?”

  “First off,” I said, running my brush over the wood, turning it to pristine white, “they see the girl, and they just know. Okay, sometimes, it takes a little while, and then that’s it for them. No one else exists.”

  “That’s it?”
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  I glanced back and found he’d stopped painting, forearms resting on muscular thighs, and he was frowning at me.

  “Yes, because then all the other things come naturally, wanting to spoil her—well, they spoil each other—just little things that say, you matter. And they don’t let their dicks guide them,” I muttered, tone hardening.

  After several more frowning seconds, he went back to painting.

  “So, hockey?” I said again, aware he hadn’t answered me. Ugh, my knees were starting to protest my squatting. I shifted and sat cross-legged on the floor. “Who introduced you to the game? Your dad?”

  His mouth tightened as he dipped again. “No. My last foster father.”

  About to coat my brush with more paint, I froze. Those few words said so much—his last foster father.

  Then he was talking again. “I got into fights and always ended in the principal’s or counselor’s office.” He didn’t look at me, but the stiffness of his back, the granite jaw said so much. It hadn’t been a happy time for him. So I didn’t push, even though I badly wanted to know why.

  “If you’re on a break now, from hockey I mean, why do you still train?” I asked instead.

  A wry smile. “I like having a routine. It keeps me focused, and I stay in shape for the game. And during off-season, I prefer to get away from everything, the chaos, the noise, people. It’s why I bought this place. Here, I get to fish and surf whenever I want.” He cast me a smirk, rose, and moved further away to an unpainted section, then lowered on his haunches again. “Tomorrow, we’ll do that, go fishing for a few hours. We’ll leave before sun-up.”

  Whoa—what? “Not if you value your hide.” I gave him a gimlet glare.

  He chuckled. “Not a morning person, are you?”

  “Oh, I do well enough as long as a certain sadist doesn’t drag me from bed at the ungodly hour of four a.m. to pull weeds.”

  He shook his head. “It was six a.m., Blue.”

  Sniffing, I got up for more paint. “How is that any different?”

  Still smiling, he went back to caressing white on the skirting.

  I squatted near the cans behind him, set my empty tray on the floor, and poured more white, making sure not to spill, then lowered the container. As I reached for the tray, War shuffled back, knocking into me.

  “Eeep!” I squealed, tipping forward, hands flying, trying to brace myself from falling face first—

  My palm slammed into my paint tray, splashing white on the plastic covering.

  “Shit!” War cussed and shot to his feet, staring at my dripping hand.

  I jumped up, looking for a cloth, anything to wipe the paint off and not create more mess.

  “You should see your face, Blue.”

  At his laughing quip, I glared at him, but that darn smirk tipped me over. Without thinking, I slapped my hand on his chest, leaving a clear, glossy white handprint on his black t-shirt.

  He stopped laughing, looked at his shirt, then at me, eyes narrowing dangerously. “You didn’t just do that.”

  Smirking now, I leaned closer and stroked his cheek, leaving a trail of white. “There, got most of the paint off.” I grinned and whipped out my phone from my jeans pocket. It was a tad difficult using one hand, but I didn’t care if I got paint on my cell cover. I took a shot of him, looking all riled and utterly gorgeous.

  He stalked me. “Tell me this was an accident, and there’ll be no payback.”

  I snorted because we both knew it wasn’t. “You started it.”

  “Yes, I deliberately shoved my girlfriend into a tray full of paint.”

  The way he said that word had my heart working overtime. I stepped back and shrugged because I knew War bumping me was an accident, and me marking his shirt at the time seemed like the perfect payback. But with him looking like he’d put me over his knees and spank my ass… Oh, hell no, I wasn’t staying around for his reprisal.

  Dammit. He stood in the way of the inside door, making escape impossible. I pivoted, shoving the slightly ajar sliding door open. He growled and came after me.

  Eeep! I darted outside, cleared the patio, and sprinted into the rain and across the enormous backyard, drenched to my skin within seconds. Shit, I skated to a halt in the middle of the yard. Where the fuck was I supposed to hide in this massive open space with trees and shrubs all around us? Climb a tree? Yeah, no. With my luck, I’d probably find a snake hiding there, too.

  I flashed a look over my shoulder, then pivoted, pushing my phone into my back pocket. He wasn’t running but stalking me. “War—” I stuck out my hands, trying to appeal to his caring side.

  Instead, he got out his cell and took a shot of me—to blackmail me? The oaf?

  You did so much more.

  Ugh. “I’m sorry, okay?” I yelled over the shattering rain, moving backward, watching him warily.

  “Too late,” he shot back, slipped his cell into his back pocket, and launched himself at me.

  “Eeek!” I shrieked, wheeled around, and ran, only to slip forward, falling face-down on the soggy ground. He pounced, grabbed me by my hips and straddled my thighs, keeping me locked down.

  “I’m not your damn puck!” I shouted, trying to buck him off me.

  “We don’t tackle the puck, Blue. We whack it.” And he slapped my ass, shocking me motionless. “Like that. But much, much harder. You get my drift?”

  Shit! The damn strike stung a little, but enough to startle me, and I spat out, “You hit me, you bastard!”

  “I sure did.” His big palm smoothed my wet, jean-clad butt. “I can kiss it better if you like.”

  And it wasn’t a question. Gah, I groaned into my arms, the rain pelting me, liking the way his palms moved over my bottom in a slow caress, then a gentle squeeze I felt all the way to my core. My inner muscles clenched, my breath caught—

  He suddenly flipped me to my back on the sodden grass, then bent over me, keeping the rain off my face, but he still kept me locked between his muscled thighs.

  The big sexy jerk. Except, there was this look in his eyes as if he wanted to kiss me. I waited, my breath trapped in my throat as his heated gaze skimmed my face. His head lowered…and he licked my wet cheek instead—smelling of warm, enticing man, rain, and paint.

  If he thought that was payback, he had no idea how turned on I was. “Eww, you didn’t just lick me?”

  “Oh, Blue, I do want lick you everywhere, so damn much, starting from your pretty brow to your cute toes, especially your mouth, tongue, and your…nipples.” His gaze lowered to my chest. Yup, stupid nips were hard and tight. “And then feast on that delicious part between your—”

  I slapped my hand over his mouth. His deep blue eyes crinkled with laughter, and my face burned. He removed my hand and rose.

  I lay there so darn disappointed. The truth was, after that first kiss in his truck days ago—a mere press of lips for my IG pic—a part of me longed for more.

  Exhaling my frustration, I sat up. He dropped down to his haunches, at my side this time, his eyes pinning mine. No teasing laughter in sight. He reached out and gently swiped away the wet strands of hair sticking to my face.

  I blinked, feeling as if I’d been knocked off my feet even though I was sitting. I remained on the wet ground, unable to look away from his intense stare, despite knowing I should scramble up and run to keep my heart safe.

  Yet I couldn’t seem to move.

  His fingers slid to my nape, his mouth lightly brushed mine, and whatever functioning brain cells I still possessed washed away in the falling deluge.

  War drew me to my knees, and then he was kissing me with soft, sensual demands. Every part of our rain-wet bodies aligned, and the heat in him swamped me, those powerful arms wrapping around me, his touch setting me on fire. And I sank into him, into the searing, heady sensation of his mouth moving on mine, where nothing mattered, but him and me. His tongue swept into my mouth, slicking and sliding over mine, claiming me in a kiss of possession.

  My fingers tangle
d in his wet hair as I kissed him back. War groaned, the sound raw, dark, and sexy, amping up my own desire.

  He drew me up, swung me into his arms, and then he was walking, still kissing me. A moment later, he lowered me onto something hard. The sounds of pelting rain had dulled.

  Panting hard, I broke free of his kiss and found myself on the kitchen counter again. He was so close, our mouths a whisper apart.

  I gulped in lungfuls of air, finally coming to my senses. I put a hand on his heaving chest, his heart thumping against my palm. “We can’t, War. This will just complicate things.”

  Slowly, he straightened, didn’t say anything, his dark stare making me uneasy. A faint smell of…burning cheese drifted to me—

  “The food!” I blurted and crawled to the opposite side of the counter and jumped down. I donned the oven gloves he’d tossed on the granite worktop next to the eye-level oven and rescued the dish.

  Lasagna. The edges had crisped to a darker brown, but it looked good enough. Besides, I like the scorched cheesy bits.

  “It doesn’t look too bad.” I set the ceramic pan on the counter, aware he watched me from across the island. “We better change and eat before this gets cold.”

  “You’re running.”

  “I’m not running. I want to get out of these wet things and eat. I’m hungry,” I lied. Heck, that kiss knocked my hunger straight out of the window. And the man could kiss, leaving me wanting more.

  “I like you, Charli, and you like me,” he said softly. “Why can’t we try this, see where it goes?”

  Blood thundered in my ears. My heart careened like a ping pong ball let loose, slamming into my ribs. He wanted this to be real?

  My problem was, as much as I longed to say yes, I was scared. I’d been hurt badly before. And I was the worst judge of men. All of them were nice in the beginning, and then it went to hell fast.

  Or maybe—as painful as it was to admit to myself—I wasn’t as interesting once the first flow of excitement wore off.

  And when I look at my mother, I wonder if love does exist.