“I’m sorry, man. I should have said it yesterday. I can’t imagine how you’re feeling.”
“Not good.”
He stands and takes his dishes to the sink.
“What are you doing today, if you’re not allowed at practice?”
“Something with Dylan. I don’t really know.”
“Dylan?”
“The girl who handed you your ass yesterday.”
He crosses his long arms over his chest and surveys me.
“You’re seeing her again? You guys a together or something?”
“Nah. Not really. She’s, I don’t know, a preppy rich kid sowing some wild oats. I doubt she sticks around long.”
The words feel wrong in my mouth even before I say them. But just because I have to open up to her, doesn’t mean I want to spill my guts to everyone. It’s better if everyone thinks she is just another girl.
But as usual, Isaiah Brookes is a hard man to fool.
“Normally it’s you that doesn’t stick around long.”
I throw away the empty wrapper for one bar and tear open another. I don’t reply because lie or not . . . he’s right, and I don’t know why this time is different. My deal with Dylan isn’t a relationship . . . I don’t want or know how to have one of those, but I also hope this deal sticks. I have to make it work not just for football, but to keep her around. I can’t think about why that’s important right now, but it is.
“Is she part of this? Whatever mess you’ve got going on?”
“No. God no. She’s just about the only damn thing that’s not part of it.”
The doorbell rings, and I finish scarfing down the last of my breakfast.
“That’s her. Do me a favor? Tell Coach I’m working shit out.”
I’m almost out of the kitchen when he calls out my name.
“Yeah?”
He says, “Be careful.”
“I plan on staying far away from all kinds of trouble.”
“I meant with this girl. I don’t want it to f**k your head up more if it goes south.”
I don’t have a reply to that, so I just nod instead. I stride the last few feet to the front door and pull it open. Dylan pulls off her sunglasses and gives me a small smile. She’s wearing a blue tank top that’s almost the color of her eyes, and her thick hair is pulled back and away from her face. I can see the straps of a sports bra over her shoulders, and it has her tits pushed up and together. A pair of worn, perfectly fit jeans hug her h*ps just right.
She looks comfortable, and she’s not trying to impress me. But I’m impressed anyway. Her eyes scan my own attire, and she asks, “You won’t mind if those clothes get ruined, right?”
“What exactly do you have planned for us today, Pickle?”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m going to get you back for that. Just wait.”
I step out onto the porch and pull the door shut behind me. “I look forward to seeing you try.”
The car she’s parked on the street out by my mailbox is a sleek steel gray number with smooth curves and money written all over it. I glance at my busted old truck in the driveway and decide that our vehicles pretty accurately represent the differences between us.
I can’t help but run a hand along the car in admiration as I round the front to get in the passenger seat. I wouldn’t mind running an appreciative hand over the car’s owner, either, but she’s been careful to keep a few feet between us from the moment we exited the house. When I climb into the car, though, it’s small enough that my elbow touches hers on the middle console.
“So what has Dr. Dylan prescribed for the day?”
She pulls out onto the road and heads away from the university.
“You can’t be mad.”
Not what I want to hear this early in the morning.
“Shit. You’re not taking me to some kind of crappy self-help thing, are you?”
“Not self-help, no. But there is helping involved.”
The mysterious smile she gives me is f**king sexy, and I reach over and trail my finger over her bare shoulder. She shivers, and I shift my hand up to brush across her neck, too.
“You’re going to make me have a wreck.”
I glance out the windshield. “You’re coming up on a red light.”
When she slows to a stop, I lean across the console and kiss the place where her neck meets her shoulder. She shifts away as soon as my lips touch her skin.
“Silas.” Damn. I’ve heard that tone before. I look up, but I don’t move away. If there’s anything I am, it’s stubborn, and I’ve not had nearly enough of her to be done yet. She says, “I’ve not exactly handled this in the best way.”
“Then go back to my place, and we can handle things right. Or pull over, I’m not picky.”
She rolls her eyes, and puts a hand on my shoulder to push me away. I go, but not happily.
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Clearly, I’m attracted to you.” Well, at least she’s admitting it out loud. “But the thing is . . . we’re not dating. And we’re not going to date. So I think it’s better if we keep things between us as platonic as possible.”
“What if ‘platonic as possible’ is not at all platonic?”
“It has to be.”
“I think you’re confusing dating with being in a relationship. Dating can be casual. Dating is low pressure. Dating isn’t off the table.”
Fuck. I have to be addicted to this girl or something because I have never ever actually brought up the idea of dating a chick. Usually, it’s them who brings it up. Or they just assume we’re dating after one hookup. I haven’t even slept with this girl, and I’m already falling all over myself to do something I never do.
“And what happens then? We go on one date. We sleep together. And then you’re done dating me?”
“I told you, Pickle. Once is never going to be enough where you’re concerned.”
“Great. So maybe we see each other a handful of times. That might sound appealing to you, but not to me.” She stumbles over the last words, barely gets them out.
“Why do you always insist on lying to me? It is appealing to you. You just don’t want to admit it.” She looks at me like an animal who has been cornered, like she knows she’s caught.
Then a horn sounds behind us. The stoplight is green, and Dylan rushes to push the gas and direct the wheel.
I don’t give her the opportunity to backtrack or change the subject.